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ceilidho · 1 month ago

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Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen.

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet.

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper.

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold.

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed.

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation.

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave.

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out.

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different.

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer.

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up.

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver.

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave.

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it.

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down.

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen.

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again.

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch.

When the door opens, it startles you awake.

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you.

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water.

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink.

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room.

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you.

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip.

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers.

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking.

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer.

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side.

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss.

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you.

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you.

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear.

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place.

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered.

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck.

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind.

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus.

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth.

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead.

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat.

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright.

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum.

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices.

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap.

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject.

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again.

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned.

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so.

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything.

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes.

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest.

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed.

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold.

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh.

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in.

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous.

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping.

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up.

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt.

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat.

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard.

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon.

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—”

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit.

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out.

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth.

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak.

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard.

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts.

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue.

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think.

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby.

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift.

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him.

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow.

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x reader

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luna-azzurra · 4 months ago

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Emotionally reserved characters

Instead of openly sharing their emotions with others, they keep their feelings locked inside, letting their inner thoughts do all the talking. You get a glimpse into their mind, where a storm of conflicts, doubts, and desires brews quietly beneath a calm exterior. This internal monologue allows readers to understand what’s going on inside their head, even if they don’t show it on the outside. It’s like seeing the world through their eyes, where every little thing stirs up a wave of emotions that they never express out loud.

For these characters, actions speak louder than words, but even their actions are restrained. They communicate their emotions through the smallest of gestures—a slight tightening of the jaw when they’re angry or hurt, a brief flicker in their eyes when they’re surprised, or a controlled change in posture when something makes them uncomfortable. These tiny, almost imperceptible movements can say so much more than an outburst ever could, hinting at feelings they would never openly share. It’s about what they don’t do as much as what they do.

When they do speak, every word is carefully chosen. Emotionally reserved characters don’t ramble or spill their feelings in a flood of words. Instead, they speak in a measured and controlled manner, always keeping their emotions in check. Their sentences are concise, sometimes even vague or indirect, leaving others guessing about what they’re really thinking. It’s not that they don’t feel deeply, they just prefer to keep those feelings close to the chest, hidden behind a mask of calm and composure.

For these characters, what they do is often more telling than what they say. They might not say “I care about you” outright, but you’ll see it in the way they go out of their way to help, the quiet ways they show up for the people they love. Their actions reveal their emotions—whether it’s a protective gesture, a silent sacrifice, or a kind deed done without expectation of recognition. It’s these unspoken acts of kindness that show their true feelings, even if they never say them out loud.

They often have strong personal boundaries. They keep their private lives just that - private. They don’t open up easily and are cautious about who they let into their inner circle. They might deflect conversations away from themselves or avoid sharing personal details altogether. It’s not that they don’t want to connect, it’s just that they find it hard to lower their walls and let others in, fearing vulnerability or judgment.

When they do show vulnerability, it’s in small, controlled doses. These characters may have moments where they let their guard down, but only in private or with someone they deeply trust.

Sometimes, emotionally reserved characters express their feelings through objects that hold special significance to them. Maybe it’s a worn-out book they keep close, a piece of jewelry they never take off, or an old letter tucked away in a drawer. These symbolic objects are like anchors, holding memories and emotions they can’t express in words. They serve as tangible reminders of their inner world, representing feelings they keep buried deep inside.

When these characters communicate, there’s often more to their words than meets the eye. They speak in subtext, using irony, implication, or ambiguity to convey what they really mean without saying it outright. Their conversations are filled with hidden meanings and unspoken truths, creating layers of depth in their interactions with others. You have to read between the lines to understand what they’re really saying because what they leave unsaid is just as important as what they do say.

Despite their calm demeanor, there are certain things that can break through their emotional reserve. Specific triggers - like a painful memory, a deep-seated fear, or a personal loss - can elicit a strong emotional response, revealing the depth of their feelings. These moments of intensity are rare but powerful, showing that even the most reserved characters have a breaking point.

Over time, emotionally reserved characters can evolve, gradually revealing more about themselves as they grow and change. Maybe they start to trust more, opening up to those around them, or perhaps they experience something that challenges their emotional barriers, forcing them to confront their feelings head-on.

#writing #writer on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing tips #character development #writing advice #oc character #writing help #writer tumblr #writblr #creative writers #wrtblr

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sheepispink · 6 days ago

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thinking about sleeping next to simon thanks to @thatsamericasass24

“What’re you doing up this late?” His gruff voice rang out, empty bottle in hand coming to fill it in the sink here, but all rationality seemed to run to waste when he saw your state.

For some reason, you cant sleep in your bed tonight whether that’s because of a giant spider, a nightmare scaring you or your bed entirely breaking mid sleep. Either way, you’re shaking in the common room, hands wrapped around a warm mug as you recount the previous events like a broken tape playing the same part.

With that, he had ushered you into his bedroom, knowing he couldnt just leave you to tremble any longer on that couch. He never planned to sleep beside you, no, he would only lay next to you, make sure that shiver stopped. He settles in the bed first, making sure to be on the edge before patting the space next to him in the dark room, only the small lamplight glowing up the untouched sheets.

You let out a soft breath of relief as you shuffle beneath the covers beside him, only to tense up immediately when your leg collides with his. “Sorry!” You squeak out, shuffling forward only to meet your tipping point, your hand gripping the bedframe to stop you from completely falling off the mattress. You were seconds away from falling off altogether but you couldn’t fathom complaining so you just lay there, squashed into yourself to avoid touching him once more— your hands still holding on desperately so you dont fall off the bed altogether.

His teeth grit as he watches the situation unfold, clearly having underestimated just how large he was. Of course his own bed was more than sufficient for himself— he didnt really think twice when his arm fell off the bed in the mornings. so he figured the same would apply to you. Now he could only watch as you lay stiffly, trying your best not to be ungrateful for his help but it was a little difficult when you felt more on edge than before. Literally.

He taps your shoulder and motions for you to face him, which you do, rolling over when your shoulder brushes his arm once more, a flush on your cheek.. Looking down between you two, there’s only an inch of space at best, and even so, he’s not even in a comfortable position. “Sorry— i’ll just go back to mine-“ You begin but he shakes his head, settling himself properly in the bed until his arms bump yours.

“Hold onto me.” You blink in surprise and instinctively follow his instructions, reaching an arm out before he guides your hand to settle over the expanse his chest. He would’ve wrapped you up tightly with his own arms, keeping you safe in his strong grip. However, the last thing he’d want is to scare you off by being his usually rough self. This way you could choose what you wanted to do, without feeling pressured to comply.

And you do, your hand snug over his chest as your body slowly pushes more against his, right in the crook of him. “I think my arm is too short.” He loves the way your lips quirk up into a nervous grin, afraid yet still finding entertainment in the silliness of this situation. He shuffles onto his side instead, every inch of him pressing against your body as he moves. “You gonna keep being cheeky or can i hold you properly?” He knew what you were implying but it was best to be sure, especially from how shaken up you were earlier. “The latter, please.”

You let out a soft squeal as he wraps his large arm around you, his forearm pressing against your back as he tucks your head into his neck. “ ‘m not gonna let you fall off. Close yer eyes.” He squeezes you a little, forcing the breath you’ve been holding in the corner of your lungs for hours now to finally release. Your eyes flitter, the warm skin of his neck bringing colour back to your cheeks. The panic from before dissipates now, sleepy eyes drifting close as your hand reaches around, only landing on his side at best. “Night, Si.” You squeeze him just as tight, your nose nudging his neck and he chuckles, never having thought he’d ever be able to hold you like this.

“Night, sweetheart.”

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weltraum-vaquero · 11 days ago

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A pillar, familiar

Jayce Talis x Gender Neutral Reader

[Part 1] (not necessary for context) -> [Part 2]

Summary: You pick up the pieces of what is left of Jayce. Mending them, however, is another thing entirely.

Word count: 9k

NSFW UNDER THE CUT. MDNI

Tags: hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, shame, past Jayvik x reader. Jayce getting washed like a dirty stinky puppy. Handjobs. Panic attacks. Traumatized Jayce.

Notes: This would not leave my brain. I need to hold him. This takes place after episode 6. Enjoy.

“It’s done.”

It startles you out of your skin, the tone of his voice, the way he’s braced against the doorframe to avoid toppling over the moment you open.

There are a million questions flashing through your head, but the buzz of them goes quiet when faced with the sight of Jayce, somehow worse for wear than before.

So you reach for his wrist — the one belonging to the hand he’s bracing his weight with, fingers wrapping gently around paler skin, the tan lines of where his beloved bracelet used to sit—

Oh.

The inside of his wrist is warmer than the rest of him, feels vaguely charged, tingly under your fingertips, akin to a soft electric current. There is something… hard and shiny embedded into his skin, his soft skin now ribbed with something—

“Don’t,” Jayce breathes.

So you let go. Try to linger at his palm or fingers instead, but he escapes your touch and sends a marked message with it.

“Are you hungry?” You offer instead.

That seems to be a step in the right direction. Jayce nods.

“Can’t… remember the last time I wasn’t.”

—

Jayce, tender, loving, sweet Jayce, Jayce who chased touch and chased your hands and chased your warmth, flinches under it now.

Flinches away when you set your hand on his shoulder along with the plate of warmed up leftovers on the table in front of him.

And he eats like a starving man. He’d always been quick with his food, eager, but this is a new, horrifying layer of desperation. Jayce devours the warm leftovers in rabid silence, scrapes the plate clean with his spoon, damn near close to licking it, before you offer seconds.

Those, he’s a tad slower about. Swallows them down at a vaguely more paced rate than before, and by the time he’s near done with them, Jayce has stopped altogether, nudges what remains of the food with his spoon.

That’s not an unusual sight either. It wasn’t rare to have Jayce and Viktor deep in thought after dinner at your shared table. You used to nudge his leg with your foot, or tangle your pinky with Viktor’s — to snap them out of it. It used to make them smile in spite of it all.

Right now, you don’t dare do either of those things.

“I feel… disgusting,” he confesses after another few moments of silence. Something in his voice is equal parts meek and angry.

Your heart aches. The old Jayce would have been nuzzling into a hug by now, and though you ache to scoop him up into one all the same, hold him until the burdens he bears so quietly soak up into you instead, he needs a different kind of tenderness now. And above all else, he needs tending to.

“I could run you a bath,” you suggest, and he scoffs at it like it’s a silly idea.

“I wish a bath could fix…” Jayce goes quiet. Settles the spoon on the plate, settles his elbows on the table, and shoves his face into his bandaged hands.

“It can’t make it any worse,” you argue, and that seems convincing enough.

“Okay.” His voice comes muffled from behind his hands. You expect he’ll lift his face after he sighs, but he keeps himself hidden, and it strikes you then that he hadn’t looked in your eyes once. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

—

“Don’t say anything.” He utters it when you slide his coat, lovely white-gilded thing now ratty and torn and ragged, off his shoulders, and reveal an array of new scars on his arms. Even more await you below the grey undershirt he lets you lift up and off him. At your silence, Jayce insists: “Please.”

You know the look of battle scars on him. You’ve tended to the one on his back and just shy of his neck — deep and lacerated and sawed into him — yourself. But these look unlike the usual kind — nicks, bruises, scrapes, cuts, as though he’s been crawling through hell, rather than fighting. Whatever Jayce has been through, he has not brawled near as much as he has survived. The scar on his back remains the only one of its magnitude and size, his fingernails are worn raw and dirty, and the different skin you’d felt on his wrist is a dark, horrifying purple webbed around the crystal of his bracelet, now burnt into his skin.

And he stinks, too. You do your damndest not to wrinkle your nose. It’s not his fault.

Jayce shrinks under your gaze further.

“I won’t,” you promise, realizing you’ve been far too quiet for far too long. He flinches when you take his hands in yours, but doesn’t pull away this time around, so you count it as a small victory, before you point him to the closed toilet right behind him. “Have a seat, Jayce.”

With a fatigued grunt, and shifting his weight off the leg with the brace, he does so slowly. Every movement of his is sluggish with the weight of his fatigue, and it makes you ache all over in sympathy when he finally settles on the ceramic lid with a small whimper.

You kneel in front of him, near eye level with the brace that spans his entire left leg.

It’s… in his signature colours — red, golden, tattered white, and it makes you wonder…

“I’ve got it,” he interrupts your train of thought as if aware of what you’re thinking, starting to work on the contrived latches and belts that barely hold it together. The mechanics of it are intimately familiar to him, and you realize it’s not just because he’s built it with his own two hands, but because it’s like Viktor’s was. Before it fused to his leg. Recognizable metal on unrecognizable flesh. There’s no doubting it.

“Did you… make this out of your hammer?” You ask.

That makes him stop. Hesitate.

“…yeah.”

“Resourceful,” you praise in spite of the obvious shame he carries because of it. And with your words, some of the tension he holds so tightly in his joints dissipates. Jayce lets you slide the brace off his leg once it’s undone, winces a little when he has to shift his hips to facilitate it.

You know what comes next, and so does he. Yet, when you reach for the waistband of his pants, Jayce squeezes his eyes shut; not with reluctance, but pure dread.

You’re horrified of what you might find below.

“It’s okay,” you coo, as though comforting a spooked animal. “I promised I wouldn’t ask.”

Jayce nods. Braces himself on weary arms and lifts his hips off the toilet lid so you can get them down to his thighs. Off his knees, where they’re torn and sticky with blood and almost embedded into his skin (no doubt about it, he’d spent a long time crawling), down to his ankles.

You have to eat your promise at the newly revealed sight. His left calf is half scarred, half infected, skin colored unnaturally (greens, reds, purples, yellows) in webbed patterns like the ones on his wrist. It’s still leaking with both blood and what looks to be lymph, but more saturated in color, and somehow near iridescent, like an oil slick. Something about the placement and integrity of his shinbone is… not as it should be.

It’s making something in your stomach squeeze with nausea. You’re not up for the task of treating something like this — frankly, you doubt anyone in Piltover is. Jayce must have lived with this… anomaly, this corrupting and unnatural something on his body for months.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, cupping the part of his calf that’s still his own.

Jayce’s eyes fall lidded at the question, hiding a line of fresh tears under thick lashes. The question must have caught him off guard.

“Not… um, not as much as… when it happened.” His voice is warbled, the way you know it sounds when his vocal chords go tight right before a first sniffle breaks him. But now, he simply wipes at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and suppresses.

Oh, your poor, sweet, Jayce.

You slip his pants off his ankles.

Jayce swallows something thick and nervous when you return to his waist, now covered only by his boxers. Embarrassment is an old sight on him — he hadn’t been embarrassed around you, in front of you, since… since… god, you can’t even remember. But the image of him hesitating the first time you got to see him in all his naked glory, wide-eyed and puppylike, offers a semblance of comfort. You’d coaxed him out of his shell then, you will coax him out again.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you reassure.

“I know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and leans back on his hands to be able to raise his hips off the lid. “Go ahead.”

You make quick work of taking his boxers off, because his thighs (the soft, jiggly padding you’d grown to adore now shrunken) start shaking with the effort of holding himself up after just a few seconds. Once they’re past his knees, Jayce plops back down with a pained groan.

“Tub’s full and hot.” Your voice makes his eyes snap open, and a shadow of terror passes his face, as though he’s only now remembering where he is. You offer him your hands and a smile, because there isn’t much else you can give. “Any takers?”

Your weak attempt at a joke earns you not a smile, but something deeper and far more poignant in Jayce’s eyes. His waterline glistens with held back tears, he takes you in with all the desperation of a man who has lost, and will lose again.

And then he reluctantly puts his hands in yours.

Jayce was never light, and that hasn’t changed, but he feels undoubtedly lighter as he uses you to rise back to his feet, clinging to you. You’d braced his weight before, oftentimes when he’d thrown up (a sensitive stomach and sensitive feelings made him quite prone to it), and it’d been much more of a daunting task.

It comes instinctively to you, once he grabs onto your shoulder rather than your arm, to hold his middle instead. Startled with the touch, Jayce flinches as though burnt, and it makes something heavy and painful in your gut sink, your palm hovering above warm skin.

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. Doesn’t say anything else, but puts his hand over yours, and presses it to his side.

The short way to the bathtub is made long and difficult by Jayce’s limp. There were times when you’d helped Viktor cross small distances in this same apartment when he didn’t have a mobility aid at hand for whatever reason — but those instances had been incomparable to this. Viktor, having lived with his condition his whole life, had gained a certain sense of tact when it came to moving his weight like this. Jayce has not — the wound is fresh, unfamiliar torture.

Still, you somehow make it to the edge of the bathtub with him, sliding your hand from his back to below his elbow while he steadies himself against the wall and sits on the edge of the tub.

You linger close, ready to catch him, when he lifs his right foot off the ground and crosses over into the tub, now straddling its edge, before he reluctantly follows with his left leg. Nearly, Jayce topples, but finds purchase on the tile against all odds, and ultimately makes it where he intends.

His arms — thinner now, just like the rest of him — still house enough strength for him to lower the rest of himself into the tub. The damp white tile is grey-brown where he’s touched it.

All of him shivers once he settles, accompanied by a little sniffle, before he finally, finally looks at you. Genuinely; raw and broken and gathering what little he has left of himself to meekly ask:

“Could you help me?”

Like the answer to that would ever be anything but yes.

You take your spot at his side on the edge of the bathtub, and uncertain of where to lay your hands, you instead reach for the steel pitcher Viktor used for his baths. You and Jayce had always been the type to shower; quicker, easier, no prep required. But Viktor — especially when it came to washing his hair, preferred to make a small ritual out of it. Rubbing the shampoo into his scalp until it tingled, or letting you or Jayce do it for him, before he would dip the pitcher into the tub and rinse it off.

Since he’s been gone, since Jayce has been gone, you’ve picked up the habit yourself. Couldn’t bring yourself to throw the bent and dented thing out because it was Viktor’s, and pieces of his old self were growing increasingly sparse.

Once Jayce had disappeared too, it hadn’t even come into question that you would keep it, permanently.

Jayce looks at it, then at you, before he lowers his head and hisses. Recoils visibly, teeth gritted so hard you can see the tendons in his skinny neck rising, dips his head into his hand and paws at his forehead like he’s desperate to dig a thought out.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you utter gently though it’s crystal fuckin’ clear it’s anything but. What has he seen? What has he done? Your hand hovers hesitantly over his shoulder, but the way he’s been recoiling has you deciding against touching him any further. Instead, you attempt: “You’re safe, now.”

And that alone makes something in Jayce shift. He scoffs at the mere concept of it, and spits, with venom meant to conceal fear: “None of us are.”

The last thing he needs is you panicking — but you’d be lying if you claimed you weren’t scared to death just now.

He inhales a long, winded breath, and reluctantly looks up at you. He must have sniffed out the horror in your expression, because his eyes soften, and he sighs. Adds on a softer, more discouraged tone:

“Not until… I fix this.”

Fix it how? you wonder, but don’t dare say it.

“We’ll fix it. By doing what we do best,” you say with a conviction you lack. “Figure it out. Together.”

The old Jayce would have reached for your hand with a dopey, enamored look on his face. Would have said something sickeningly sweet and hopeful before he’d lean in for a hug or a kiss.

This Jayce swallows his words, looks down at himself, and brings his healthy leg closer to his chest, until he can hug it for comfort.

“How long…” Jayce’s voice falters. He lays his forehead on the top of his knee, and closes his eyes. “How long was I gone?”

The truth makes you choke. It comes out of your throat like a ball of thorns, unwilling and scarring.

“Well over six months.”

“Shit.” It hits him somewhere painful — his eyes go damp, and he swallows a knot in his throat. Water droplets pearl off his arm and fingertips as he reaches for your hand, the one you’re holding Viktor’s pitcher with, and gives it a loose little squeeze around your knuckles, before he lets it fall back into the water. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m just glad you’re back.” You stifle a sniffle, reign in the shake of your voice, you can’t be the one falling apart right now, he needs you. “I thought I’d lost you.”

At that, he falls silent, fully. Stares down at the murky water below for a long, uncertain moment until you realize you need to take the reins back into your hands lest the two of you are left sitting here for any longer than need be.

“Close your eyes and lean your head back for me, puppy. I’m gonna wash your hair.”

Jayce complies with the same willingness as his old self, though not as fast. Something in his back pops a little when he tips his chin up, so you rush to support the weight of his head with one hand, while you dip the pitcher into the tub with the other.

His hair’s never been this long. Always the kind to keep it nice and tidy, Jayce often said something about how the feeling of it on his nape bothered him, how it made him run too hot in the summer. Now it sticks to his forehead, to the back of his neck, falls behind his ears once you pour water over it. Something about it must startle Jayce, because when the stream of water rushes over his ear, he flinches first, frowning something fierce, before his hand finds the width of the forearm you’re holding his head with. And he clings to you.

You let him.

You keep it there even as it becomes a difficult task to lather his scalp in shampoo with just one free hand (it hardly foams), you keep it there even as you rinse it off. He’ll need a second wash, but the water’s already so murky it’ll be an impossible task for him to be anywhere close to clean if you reuse it.

“I’m gonna unplug the drain and turn the shower on, okay? Water’s getting too dirty.”

Jayce tips his head back up straight once you tell him so, and watches with dread as you stick your hand into the brown-grey water to feel around for the drain. After you succeed, the water level begins to slowly but surely fall, and you can’t exactly tell what Jayce is looking at — just that he’s dreading it. Only when you turn the faucet on, and switch the water to the shower head to return to him with it, do you understand.

“I’m disgusting,” he mutters.

The water level had left a ring of dirt on the bathtub.

“It’s not your fault,” you console. “And I’m not disgusted.”

He doesn’t look you in the eye, but that doesn’t make the rest of his sentence sound any less genuine.

“You should be.”

You try not to let it sting. It can’t be just about the state of him — he must have done something, something he thinks would make you recoil.

It doesn’t matter. Wherever he’s been, whatever he’s had to do to survive long enough to get back, you know your Jayce would never do something horrific out of anything but necessity.

So you don’t say a word. Only put the shower head in his hand and tell him to lean his head back once more so you can shampoo his hair a second time. You don’t plan on making a whole thing out of it, don’t plan on scrubbing his scalp more than strictly necessary. But his frown begins to melt at the same time as the shampoo starts to foam up nice and proper, scarred lips part in a lax expression of pleasure — and who are you to deny him more of it? You keep at it until his eyes crack open just enough to peek at you in question, until the murky water’s sunk down to his hips.

It’s a quiet form of communication that Jayce still speaks, albeit not as fluently as before, when you nod for it and he hands you the shower head, and lets you rinse his hair off. Once it’s done, he lifts his head and lets out a deflated sigh, shoulders sinking with relief.

“Better?”

He nods.

“Told you so.”

The scarred corner of his lips curl upwards for a fraction of a second at that, before a shiver shakes him, and, reminded of the quickly draining water, he curls in on himself a little to preserve heat. Struck with an idea, you put the shower head on its support on the wall above.

“I think it’d be faster if I helped you shower, instead of drawing you a second bath.” you begin. “I’ll help you stand so we can rinse you off, alright?”

Jayce hums affirmatively.

You thought it would stay a dream, a distant longing to strip for Jayce ever again. There’s some delight to be had in doing it still, though not the way you’d imagined in all those lonely nights with nothing but your own hands to console you, but you’re glad to be doing it nonetheless — even if it’s to help him above all else. He watches you quietly, not hungrily, but with a hearty mix of nostalgia and curiosity as you step into the tub between his knees, naked, and crouch down to his level.

His arms are heavy wrapped around your shoulders (Jayce always went for the shoulders in embraces — you’re glad that hasn’t changed) as you help him scramble up to his feet. It’s a daunting task, one that has you wondering how the hell you’ve even succeeded once he’s up and leaning on you, his left leg hovering off the ground. It doesn’t matter.

You’re reminded of how you used to waltz with Jayce at those fancy events as you carefully maneuver him around so that he can stand under the water stream. How he moved with a distinct lack of grace even then, how it used to make Viktor smile from the sidelines. How the three of you would be on each-other the second your apartment door shut behind you, and oftentimes far before that.

Under the grime, the dread, the fear, he is still your Jayce. Warm and pliant and willing in your arms, tucking his face into your neck and sighing once the warm water hits his back.

“Can you stand on your own for a bit?”

“Not for long.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Jayce braces himself on the wall with one hand and watches you lather your palms up before you hand him the soap bar and get to work. His face comes first, unfamiliar in your hands. You rub at his forehead, the bridge of his nose, tell him to close his eyes when he just won’t. Massage gently at his closed lids, then scrub at his beard — still a strange sight on him. By the time the suds have been rinsed off, he already looks a good five years younger. Looks just a fraction more like your Jayce, too.

He squeezes the water out of his eyes before he opens them to look at you, so close now your breaths are shared. Under damp lashes, his pupils go wide at the closeness, the way you hold him for a long second, face cradled between your palms, and look at him. The new, deeper creases in his face — his crow’s feet, between his brows, between his lips and nose — the nicks and cuts where the dusty pink of his lips meets the rest of him, the broken, profound weariness he carries in his pretty amber eyes.

Jayce lets them fall shut again as though on the edge of sleep, before he presses his face into your palms like a dog. A long, winded breath leaves him before he sits still in your hold.

The old Jayce would have kissed your palms in worship, would have whispered a sweet little something. This Jayce soaks up the mere act of being held like a rare delicacy, does so in silence. And doesn’t allow himself too much, because he pulls from your hands less than a minute later, and tells you he can’t stand for much longer.

The tremble in his right thigh is testament to it.

So you make quick work of lathering him up everywhere else. His neck, the back of it. His shoulders, his fuzzy chest, whatever you can reach of his back. His stomach, his hips—

“No. I’ll do it,” he interrupts when you reach the lovely spot where his hips draw into a V. You’re not about to argue, especially not about… this. It’s not something new per se, you’ve seen and touched him in various vulnerable and embarrassing ways — but this Jayce has different limits for what he deems acceptable, this Jayce goes rigid under your hands instead of soft, this Jayce hasn’t asked for a kiss once yet.

Your Jayce is scattered within this new, unfamiliar version of him. You will find what’s left of him — and you will find a way to love the rest of him too. At his pace.

So you hand him the soap bar wordlessly, and step a little closer to help brace his weight instead. Jayce takes the assistance offered, wraps the arm around your shoulders tighter, and tucks the other between your bodies to get to work. Scrubs in the front, the back, then leans a little heavier on you when he has to spread his legs to be thorough. You grasp the underside of his left thigh and look at him in silent question.

“Yeah, that’d help,” he replies. After a moment of silence: “Thank you.”

So you hoist his injured leg a little further up, until you can hold it securely next to your hip. That allows Jayce to lean most of his weight on you, and also has him pressing against your leg, an intimately familiar position. You swear you can feel… something, prodding at your thigh before his hand wedges in-between. But that’s wrong to think about right now, when he needs you in plenty of other, far more important ways. You must have imagined it.

You busy yourself with the next best thing to avoid your mind drawing any other unneeded conclusions: taking the soap bar and lathering up his thighs while Jayce rinses himself off. You linger somewhere safe, on just the outside of them, before you work your way inward, gauging Jayce’s reaction every step of the way.

There’s a little sound that comes from him, a half-whine half-groan that has your eyes flicking to his face, finding it downturned, before you look away.

You really need to stop.

You turn your attention back to his thighs with eager hands instead, kneading at the still plump fullness of them. This is where he always stored weight, other than his stomach and his hips, and though they’re visibly thinner now, they still have some heft to them. Oh, how you’ve missed squeezing the soft flesh, missed brushing your fingers through the curly fuzz on them, missed the way it grows thicker, darker, coarser near his crotch, where his pubes are now sopping wet.

Jayce hands you the shower head wordlessly, and you have to remind yourself not to be disappointed at the received message. He’s tired, and you’ve indulged enough. It’s alright.

You don’t question the hand he keeps between his legs. Focusing on the task at hand instead, you rinse his thighs off as well. Are about to step back and gently set his injured foot on the ground, until he breathes desperately, and groans.

“Oh, come on.”

His head falls to your shoulder as if in shame, the arm tucked between your bodies flexes. Your first worry is that you’ve somehow hurt him.

“What’s wrong, Jayce?”

He groans, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, this is the last thing I need right now.”

Confused, you lean back just enough to get a better look at him, but are left none the wiser with the way he’s hanging his head and his hair’s curtaining his eyes.

“Didn’t mean to what?”

He sighs. Swallows. Tells you the truth like it’s dreadful.

“… I’m hard.”

Oh.

You’re almost inclined to laugh at the absurdity of it. Out of all the issues there are, this is at the very bottom of the list — if on it at all.

Poor, sweet Jayce. Had he considered himself an inconvenience? Thought you wouldn’t want to?

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I can take care of it,” you assure, nuzzling at the side of his face that’s closest to you. Brushing the cup of your palm to his knuckles, where he’s fisting his own cock, unmoving. “And I’d like to, if you want me to.”

He shakes his head again. You try not to let disappointment sink in your gut.

“No. I… Not here. Not now.” He tilts his head to glance at you from below thick, dark lashes, and exhales a shaky breath. ”I really… hah, I need to sit down. My leg hurts bad.”

You know better than to ignore Jayce — in general, but also especially when he sounds like that. On the verge of crumbling. The water’s shut off quick, before both hands come to rest under his arms to help him move his weight, until his back faces the edge of the tub. Slowly, you help him sit.

He sighs with relief once he settles, brushing the hand that isn’t still cupped over his cock over his right thigh, flexing and shaking with the effort of having supported his weight for so long. It’d be wisest not to wait, and dry him off before the cold gets to him. As for you, you’ll decidedly live, and the chill that takes you hardly feels significant as you wade over the tub’s edge, to the drawer where you keep the towels. You take the fluffiest, biggest one — coincidentally one of Jayce’s old towels which you’d still kept in use — and you return to him. He’s managed to cross over to the other side, facing you, breathing subtly with the effort.

You waste no time in draping it over his head — and try not to think about the sight of Viktor, freshly out of the hexcore chrysalis, blanket you and Jayce had shared draped over him. Jayce raises one of his hands to his head, but you’re faster.

“I’ve got you,” you assure. Place both hands over the towel and start to rub at his hair the way he used to when he stepped out of the shower in what perhaps was a small cry for attention from you and Viktor. Nothing around his body — just a towel draped over his head and shoulders, hair still damp and tousled.

Jayce hums at the contact low and long, like a cat’s purr, before he lets himself dip forward slowly, until his forehead comes to rest upon your damp chest. He sits through it dutifully, lets you rub the towel down his back then his front. Takes it from you once again when you reach lower, and dries himself off down to his feet.

You hang it up to dry, then retrieve another towel for yourself. Coincidentally, one of Viktor’s. Jayce says nothing, but reaches out for it by the time you’re drying your middle. Fiddles with the edge for a moment, swallowing audibly, before he lets go and sinks his head.

As far as Viktor goes, you’d gotten a little better at managing your grief. Jayce, wherever he’s been, whatever he’s done, seems taken with the same pain as the day Vik had walked out on you and Jayce with nothing but a blanket to his name, never to be seen again. Well, sort of. You’ve heard rumors — and you will let Jayce in on them, once he’s rested.

You finish drying yourself off too, and ready yourself for another long, painful walk. Jayce seems to dread it just as much as you, burying his face in his hands for a moment, before he lets you have them instead. Pulls himself up with what little strength he still has, breath coming out in labored bursts against your neck when he finally manages to stand.

He’s very warm. And though not as soft as he used to be, on account of having lost quite some weight, his hips and his waist are still pliant under your touch when you wrap your arm around him.

The walk to the bedroom is torture. You have to stop halfway there and catch your breaths together, to whisper something encouraging at him before you brave through the rest of the way.

Jayce positively crashes on the bed once you reach it. The mattress protests under his weight with a pained creak, but it stifles under his long, languid sigh. He’s made no effort to position himself properly; his right leg hangs off the bed, his left is tucked a little closer so that it’ll fit on the mattress. You can’t help but get an eyeful of his ass, of the dark peach fuzz on his cheeks, growing thicker below where they go fullest, thinner up his back. There are dimples that were not so visible before at his lower back, just above his ass — another telltale sign that he’s been eating far too little. He shoves his face into the sheets, nuzzling at them, his trembling hands fist the pillows, his chest expands with how he breathes it all in. Jayce chokes on the exhale like he’s overwhelmed, before he gasps, more to himself than to you: “Hah… Oh my god.”

He must have not had a bed to sleep in for a long time.

You’re not sure what to say, so you don’t. Only crawl onto the sheets next to him, and linger, hand above him. And you’re not sure where you should touch either — if you even should.

Jayce tilts his head to look at you from where he’s pressed into the sheets, before he closes his eyes, and nods.

“Please,” he mumbles.

So you go for the closest part of him that’s within reach, which is his head.

It’s… abnormal, to be running your fingers through hair as long as Viktor’s on a head that isn’t Viktor’s. Jayce hums, and after another few moments of gently scratching at his scalp, finds it within himself to crawl closer. Until all of his body’s on the mattress, until he can rest his damp head on your chest and — after a second of reluctance — sling his arm over your middle. Curl up next to you like he wants to be small, knees bumping your leg.

“There you are.” You talk to him the way you would to a wounded animal. Lay a kiss on his forehead that has him pressing his skull into your lips desperately, like it could fix him.

And maybe it can. Maybe every single reluctant touch is slowly going to bring your Jayce back, going to mend the broken pieces he came to you with into the man you cherished. Maybe love will fill in the cracks like gold.

You go for the blanket at your feet and tug it over the both of you, heavy and comforting, before Jayce settles back against you, cuddles a little closer. Lays his injured leg atop your hip, which you reach for instantly. You cradle his knee reluctantly for a second, before Jayce nods, and you begin pressing your knuckles into the top of his thigh… up, down, up, down.

“O-oh…”

A shiver rattles him, from the base of his skull to his tailbone.

“Where does it hurt, sweet thing?”

“Lower.” And after a second of hesitation, he adds: “Be gentle.”

As if you’d ever be anything but.

Your palms brush lower, under the scrapes on his knee, to his shinbone. It’s palpably crooked right under the joint, you can feel the bump, the way his bone fused back wrong. It has you wondering if he’ll be able to walk without an aid ever again.

You test the waters with a soft press of your fingertips on the abnormal skin on his calf, trying not to think too hard about the smooth, wax-like ridges and ripples of purple skin you’re gently stroking, gauging his breathing for any signs of pain. It’s steady, grows steadier and shallower still as he relaxes. You stick to that. Cupping your palm around the back of his calf, kneading gently.

“My thigh,” he breathes his next instruction, sounding significantly less pained.

His hamstrings are drawn tight and rigid. You try with just a rubbing of your palm, but soon realize that your method will yield nothing. So you ball your fist tight and use your knuckles instead.

Jayce tilts his hips to press against you and moans. It sends a shiver through you, how equally exhausted and ecstatic he sounds, how he paws at you at a lack for any other way to express how overwhelming it is.

“Good?” You ask.

He nods.

“Don’t stop.”

So you insist, press at the underside of his thigh (drawn violin-string-tight and knotted with months’ worth of pain), then at the bulging muscle at the top of it, and finally, press your palm into the muscle on his ass to rub in circles, bringing him closer to you.

That has the hard-earned laxness of his body turning to uncomfortable tension.

“Shit. Sorry.”

You’re about to ask what for, until you can feel it. Poking your thigh the same as in the shower. His cock, leaking at the tip, leaves cold dampness where it’s nudged you.

“I’m— It’s a reaction,” he rushes to justify himself. “I haven’t been… and this is… ’s good. I just… I don’t want… god.” His next sigh sounds a little too close to a sob. “I just wanna sleep.”

Sweet boy. You brush a strand of hair behind his ear — something you’d subconsciously always wanted to do to him, frankly — before you tell him.

“Do you want me to get you off, baby? I can make it quick.”

Or, you used to be able to. Not like it was a particularly difficult feat anyhow.

Jayce takes a moment — doesn’t look you in the eye at all — before he reluctantly nods.

“If you want to.”

If there is one thing you know about Jayce, is that he can always use a little more tenderness. And you suspect that hasn’t changed one bit.

“Of course I do.”

You kiss between his knitted brows as if to urge them apart before you brush your fingers down the fur on the front of his flat stomach. You miss the small bump of padding under his bellybutton, miss the way the skin of his hips spilled over his boxers if the waist was too low. It’s unfamiliar to be able to feel the hardness of his hipbone, to have it jutting out in a way reminiscent of Viktor‘s body.

But oh, thank god, his cock’s just the same as it always was. Short but chubby, the slight curve to his right, the abundant dripping that damn near lubricates the whole expanse of his tip, the vein that goes from frenulum to the seam of his balls. Scorching hot as though freshly pulled out of an oven, the slightest give at the squeeze of your fist until it goes rigid. He damn near spills in your palm then and there, curling up and closer like a puppy, pressing his face into your neck for comfort.

Jayce whimpers with delight, relief, as though being touched — and being touched like this — is a rare, divine gift.

He’s significantly hairier — Jayce was as adamant about keeping himself trimmed below the belt as he was about his haircut. Not so much for pleasure or aesthetics (though those played a part, certainly) but moreso because it bothered him if it got too long.

It never bothered you. Certainly doesn’t now, either, when you stroke his foreskin back and fist his length until you reach the thick, rich hair at the root.

You’re ecstatic at how soft he is here, too. Everywhere else on his body, he’s scarred, scraped, wounded. Not here — his cock is as silky smooth in your palm as it was the first time you touched him here, all doe-eyed and muffled puppy whimpers as you stroked him into his first release.

It nearly has you forgetting that you’re stroking him dry, and that it can’t be good, until he squirms a little at the overstimulating squeeze at his tip.

“Mm… Lube?” He asks, voice muted against your skin.

You’ll give him something much better. He deserves it — always had, really, but now more than ever.

“I’ll use my mouth,” you promise with another kiss to his forehead. Work your way down between his brows — furrowed again — to the bridge of his nose. “Missed tasting you.”

”Don’t.” You can feel his nose nudging your lips as he shakes his head, how he grips you a little tighter when you shift just a hint. “I want you here.“

“I am here,” you assure, not quite sure what he means. A kiss to his cupid’s bow to settle him, a brush of your palm to his cockhead, gentle and careful, not enough to slide his hood back. “Just close your eyes and lay back. I’ll make it good for you, Jayce.”

That does little to change how he clings to you.

“No. Want… you to hold me. Please, use your hand — it’ll do.”

That is when it hits you that he had ached to be held much more than he’d ached to get off. Of course he had — of course Jayce would.

Of course you’re going to give him what he needs.

“Okay,” you coo. Kiss his cheek to reassure him. “I can do that.”

He clings to you a little tighter when you have to unfortunately turn away from him to search the nightstand drawer for the bottle.

You want it to be good. Want it to be comfortable, tender, easy. So you pour a generous amount into your palm, and rub it until it warms thoroughly, before you reach for him again.

Your other arm wraps tigher around his shoulders, comes to cradle the back of his head with splayed fingers.

Jayce sighs shakily, as though on the verge of breaking, when you stroke his cock into slickness with one glide of your hand, swollen tip to twitching root.

“Thank you,” he moans into your neck. “Oh, thank you.”

“Thank you,” you counter. Stroking his foreskin up over his tip, then back down, and thumbing at the underside of his crown, where he’s most sensitive. Jayce mewls for it, blunt nails scratch at your arms — they would have broken skin, had they been any sharper. “For coming back. For letting me take care of you.”

“Sorry,” he says anyway. And as you ease him out of the crook of your neck to gaze into his eyes, glittering in the moonlight, you intrinsically understand what for. Sorry for making you do it. Sorry for how I am, sorry for how much I am.

You scratch at his scalp gently as you speed up the strokes of your hand. It has him tipping his head back in ecstasy, pawing at you a little more desperately.

“Don’t ever apologize for that again.” You kiss the column of his neck; thinner now. “This…” Your voice falters, and you make up for it by twisting your palm around his cock as you steady your tone. He gasps, but keeps his eyes open, keeps them on you, soaking up every word. “Jayce, this has been the best day of my life since…”

The explosion. Since Viktor left. Since Jayce disappeared, too.

“Me too,” he chokes out. You can hear the tears in it, the way his throat must be stringing tight with the cracking dam he’s built to hold back his sobs. “I missed…”

You nod. Pet his locks like he’s just a scared little boy — because behind it all, he always has been. “I know, baby, I know.”

His face finds its way back into the warmth below your jaw, as though that is the one place left where he’s safe. And maybe it is… you dread to think of it.

And you shouldn’t think of it, not when you have the far more important ultimate goal of granting Jayce release, reprieve, reverence.

“M-mh… close,” he tells you, and the way his cock gives a vehement twitch as though he were coming already only confirms it.

Already.

It almost makes you cry, the fact that he’s still so eager to melt from the slightest touch. Your Jayce.

You wish you had a third arm, more to touch him with, to pet his hair, to fondle his swollen balls, to hug him closer, because god, does he look like he needs it. Jayce presses his body to yours as though he wishes the edges of your beings were blurred, overlapping, entwined. It’s hard to stroke him through it, the angle makes your wrist ache, but you’re not about to let him down.

His lashes tickle your neck with how they flutter shut, before his forehead presses into you, his nose crushes your collarbone. And he sobs. Sweet, familiar little sniffles that are borne of pleasure, of overwhelming.

His chubby cock is heavy in your hand, on the verge of bursting. You can feel his balls against your thigh, the way they softly twitch, drawing up against his body. All of Jayce swells like a rising tidal wave. Almost there.

You blindly reach for the tissues on your night stand, tug out two for good measure. His eyes snap open at the sound, alert, scared, searching. You suspect it will be a while until he stops being on guard so tirelessly.

“I’ve got you,” you assure him. His damp hair is soft between your fingers when you pet it, and his dick twitches when you thumb at his weeping cockhead. Jayce settles, nods, and nuzzles at your chest for comfort. You can feel his breath on your collarbone, labored and coming through his nose and gritted teeth, until his mouth audibly falls open, and he whines on his next exhale. Something in his hip pops painfully when he snaps forward into your grip — once, twice, thrice, until he gasps, and oh, “There it is…”

His dick pulses in your hand the way a fresh wound does, hurt and struggling as his orgasm consumes him.

Jayce curls up as if from a gut punch, hurt leg rising from where it’d been draped on your hip to your stomach. The first thick rope of his cum shoots across your tummy, sticky and lukewarm, all the way up to your lowest rib.

You barely manage to hold his tip into the tissues in time, and it overflows moments later regardless. His cum pools in your palm heavy and thick and it just won’t stop, but then again, neither do you, dutifully stroking him off into the tissue.

His orgasms were never this long, and it’s clearly new to him, as well. Dazed and overwhelmed by the intensity, the duration of his own peak, Jayce begins to writhe about halfway through, until it has him shivering, wheezing for air, tears and snot on one of your shoulders, desperate near-painful grip of his on the other.

You slow your touches to languid strokes, steering clear of his tip, simply massaging his shaft to get all his orgasm’s worth while he comes down from it.

“Sweet boy,” you praise before you go for even more tissues, slowly dabbing him dry while he tries to catch his breath. You can hear his heart beating from all the way there, can feel the way his ribcage expands with each breath as if he’s run a marathon.

You clean up his mess in the meantime. Jayce whines when you get up and retrieve the small garbage bin you keep in your bedroom and toss all the tissues there, then go for more, to wipe yourself off.

His brows knit into an uncomfortable frown, but ultimately he doesn’t complain further when you peel the blanket off him to clean him up. There’s just a few droplets, in the fuzz at the base of his cock, which you make quick work of, before you seal your work with a kiss to his stomach. The rest of him has gone slick with fresh sweat, and his eyes, damp and glassy little things, crack open to watch you.

You wipe the remnants of his tears next, but Jayce doesn’t seem particularly moved by it. He lets it happen, same as the kiss you press to his cheek, then at his jaw.

“How was that?” You ask through the trail of chaste pecks you plant down his neck.

Jayce just hums affirmatively.

“Come back,” he tells you.

He’s gotten what he needed — now, you want your fill. And maybe it’s selfish, but you want, you need to feel his skin on your lips. Need to kiss down his body the way you used to before, so that you may at least wake up happy and satisfied if this was all just a dream.

“In a second.”

He smells like himself again. Clean, familiar, warm, the scent of his skin imbues you, begs you to go further. Down his chest, his hairy stomach, over the sensitive crest of his hip. You can feel his stomach clenching.

“I said I don’t want—“

“It’s not that,” you interrupt. “Just wanna kiss you. Let me have this for a bit. Please.”

His hand finds your shoulder, before he sighs, and nods.

“Okay.”

Down the fuzz of his thigh, you nuzzle at him where his scent’s a little more potent, before you move on further down.

A kiss on his knee, and then, the final destination, your lips graze the place where his shinbone is cracked apart, where it bumps his skin from within.

“Don’t,” he says.

“I love you,” you counter.

At that, he swallows. Stares up at the ceiling like the answer might be there, somewhere, among the stars he cannot see.

He inhales shakily, swallowing, before he mutters: “I can’t—“

“I don’t care. I love you.”

At that, Jayce sits up from where he’s laying, and stares down at you with a heaving chest, a tight throat, and wide eyes.

You gently lay your cheek on his knee, cradle the weight of his wrong calf in both your palms like it’s precious anyway — and it is, because it’s an undeniable part of him, no matter what.

And then you kiss his knee again, holding eye contact.

At that, something in Jayce breaks.

He scrambles away as if hurt, to the edge of the bed. Sets his feet on the ground and sits up, about to stand, until it dawns on him, momentum still drawing him forward, but not up, that he can’t.

So Jayce just hunches over, a sight worryingly similar to Viktor on days when he was hurting so terribly he could do nothing but sit and sob. Jayce buries his face in his hands, and after a long moment of silence, wheezes, chokes on his own spit, starts coughing.

Reluctantly, you turn to him, with the sinking feeling of having undone all the shakily built progress of tonight with a kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, though you’re not sure what for, only that you really are.

Except his coughing doesn’t calm. It turns into a spluttering, a barely drawn breath, an interrupted exhale, another stilted, brusque, wheezing inhale.

Jayce paws at his own breastbone with one hand, as if to tear his heart out, bunches his hair up in the other.

“Fuck,” he coughs it more than says it, the whole expanse ribcage widens with another labored inhale. It whistles on the way into his lungs, windpipe drawn tight in resistance.

Oh, no. You know exactly what this is, based on the way sweat starts to bead at his brow, the way his hands clench, scratching at his chest, legs trembling with pure panic.

Touching him was a double edged sword in moments like these even far before… he became who he is right now. But there were other things that worked, and you pray they still do.

“Jayce?”

He looks at you for a brief moment, startled like a feral animal in a trap.

“Easy.” You try your best to keep your voice steady. You go for old reliable — if this won’t work, hauling him all the way back to the bathroom and running cold water down his wrists will. “Tell me two red things you can see right now.”

Your attempt goes ignored, unacknowledged. Jayce swallows a sad little sound, and finally, finally speaks.

“You… we used to kiss him like that.” On his leg, you realize. On days when the pain was gnawing at Viktor’s joints and bones, or on days when he looked into the mirror like he wished to throttle his reflection. Jayce drags in another breath. Whimpers and cradles his head in both hands now, wincing and flinching. “Fuck.”

“You mean… Viktor?” You ask carefully. It’s a territory that is thin, crackling ice for you as is — and it can only be worse for Jayce, who has decidedly not spent his absence processing his grief.

He nods.

Nothing could have prepared you for his next sentence.

“I killed him.”

What?

Jayce sinks at the same time as your stomach does, until his elbows rest on his knees, and he sobs so hard you fear he might throw up. Under a metaphorical just as much as corporeal pressure, he crumbles, he breaks, he cracks.

“I killed him,” he repeats. His shoulders shake with another cry, and he winces like someone’s grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. “Put a hole. Th-through his chest. You can’t imagine… how it was gaping, magic sparking like, like… some broken circuits on a fucking machine, a-and the way he looked at me. Oh, god.”

And though there are a million questions racing through your head, at odds with the bile rising in your gut, you find it within yourself to ask just one.

“Why?”

“I had to,” Jayce says. “I had to, you have to… you have to believe me.”

Why the hell would I? and How could I not? should not be equal statements that weigh on your mind the same. But they are.

“I’m sorry.” Jayce tries again at your silence. And you realize that is what he had been truly apologizing for all this time — not his helplessness, not his pain, but his sins. “I’m so sorry. Please.”

What is he pleading for? Forgiveness? Comfort?

He sniffles, shifts a little closer to you. You don’t embrace him when he settles his head on your shoulder and sobs. But you let him find a semblance of comfort in your warmth all the same as he starts to sob so hard it makes him choke and tremble like he isn’t all lean, scarred muscle.

He killed Viktor.

“If I told you even half of what I’d seen while I was gone… you would never believe me.” He swallows another set of tears, and lifts his head to look at you.

He is not, and will never be your Jayce again. You feel it burning at your stomach, the disgust he’d predicted. He knows you well.

You should kick him out of what once was your — all three of yours — sacred space. You shouldn’t want him tainting the memory of tender hands with his bloodied ones, you shouldn’t want a lover turned killer in your bed.

But you will take what you can get. You will take what’s left.

You will cradle the jaws that bite, you will hold the hands that pulled the trigger. You will kiss the eyes that have seen Viktor dying.

“Try me anyway,” you say.

And you brush your hand to his own.

#jayce talis #jayce arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis x reader #jayce arcane x reader #arcane jayce x reader #jayvik x reader #my writing #arcane x reader

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envy-of-the-apple · 8 months ago

Text

Ruptured Amethyst; Splintered Tanzanite

Dark!Satosugu x reader - Yakuza Au

Synopsis: In hopes of paying off your debt, you start working for two dangerous men. Soon, you realize they want more than money.

Word count: 9.2k

(Warnings: dark content, sexual coercion, dubcon, noncon, oral sex, piv sex, threesomes, gun, blood, violence) Ageless blogs will be blocked. Minors DNI

In this job, you quickly learned that it's better to just keep your head down.

Do what you were called for and leave. Do nothing but sit on your computer and look at numbers. Stepping out of your makeshift boundaries led to nothing but trouble.

It worked perfectly like that for the first few weeks you were brought here. The other workers never bothered you, and it took you a moment to realize they were in the same boat as you were: owing a debt. You wouldn’t quite say things were peaceful; every so often, one of Geto’s men would hurl someone through a table, but things were manageable.

And then Gojo came back.

You hadn’t met Gojo, yet. He was overseas on a business trip when Geto brought you in. You hadn’t met him, but you’d heard enough to make you want to stay away from him. Ijichi had told you enough stories to make you want to sink into the floor altogether. You just had until the end of the year until your debt was paid. It was the beginning of September, right now. Surely, you could avoid him until then, right?

“Ah, you’re the one Suguru was talking about.”

It was your fault. It was entirely your fault. Ijichi had begged you to stay after work for a bit longer and desperate to pay the debt off, you had agreed. No one else was supposed to be in the office besides you and him.

But Gojo didn’t follow other people’s rules. It'd take you a while before you fully understand that.

You could do nothing but stand there, wobbling in your heels as Gojo loomed over you. His sunglasses were tilted, cresting over his nose as he scrutinized you. You clutched the laptop closer to your chest, as though it’d save you somehow.

Gojo didn’t look dangerous. If you had seen him on the street, you would have assumed he was a model. Tall, long hands, pretty features. Gojo doesn’t look dangerous. Gojo is dangerous. He doesn’t need the gun (casually on his side, right in your line of sight) to prove it.

You say nothing. You don’t know what to say. So far, you’ve only dealt with Geto. Geto with his fake smiles and soft words of thinly veiled threats. As intimidating as Geto was, you felt safe enough with him to answer his questions. Speak when spoken to.

Gojo was uncharted territory. Should you speak? Should you greet him? Should you get on your hands and knees? Gojo was new. You had to deal with something new, alone.

You opt to stay silent, hoping that’s the best move. It’s not. Above you, Gojo’s clicking his tongue. He leans down, stooping his head low to get a better view of your face. You stare at him until it gets too much and you’re turning away. He likes that even less, grabbing you by the chin so you’re facing him again.

“You mute or somethin’?” He asks, tilting your head like he’s assessing you.

“No,” you finally murmur. It was a question, correct? He won’t get mad if you answer his questions.

He doesn’t seem mad. But he doesn’t seem happy, either. If anything, he looks a little disappointed.

“I really don’t get it,” he’s talking, but it’s more like he’s saying his thoughts out loud, “Suguru would not shut up about you. Thought I was gonna see something more exciting. You’re so...”

He trails off as though even describing you would be a waste. The thought that Geto speaks about you to his partners scares you, but you’re wise enough not to pry. Instead, you wait. Waiting often works. You’ve been cornered by Geto’s men (before they knew he was the one who brought you), most just want to intimidate you, they get a kick out of fear. When you give them what they want, they usually leave you alone.

Gojo doesn’t leave, even when you’re sure your horror is printed on your face. Obvious to even the blind. Instead, he leans back, eyes trailing down your outfit. Despite how most of the stuff done here was off the record, Geto still prioritized a professional workplace. You were expected to put on a clean blouse and skirt every day.

You yelp when Gojo tugs on the fabric of your skirt, bunching the material on your thighs. Forgetting where you are, who you’re with, you grab his wrist.

“Don’t be like that,” Gojo chides as though you were being the unreasonable one, “I just wanna look. Seriously, what was that guy going on and on about—”

“Satoru.”

Geto’s voice stops the both of you. He’s leaning against the wall, watching the two of you with a less than impressed look. You’re relieved when he’s more focused on Gojo than you.

“Sugu!” Gojo cheers, a complete 180 from his past demeanor. He lets you go and you sink against the wall in relief. “I’m home!”

“I can see that,” Geto retorts, but there’s an odd fondness laced in his tone that you’d never heard before.

The kiss they shared was violent. Tongue and teeth and messy. Gojo reached up, scrunching Geto’s hair, dragging him closer. Respectfully, you glanced away. You don’t yet leave. You know better than that, especially now that Geto is here.

“How many times have I told you to stop harassing our employees?” Geto sighs, once he’s pulled away. His tone is filled with exasperation, as though he were talking to a child.

“I didn’t do anythin’,” Gojo responds. When you finally turn back, Geto is shaking his head.

He smiles at you.

“Apologies, my dear,” he states, “you can leave. Remember to tell Ijichi you’re going.”

You eagerly nod before scurrying away. You can hear Gojo scoff, another murmur from Geto. You couldn’t care less what they’re saying, more than happy to grab your things, bid Ijichi goodbye, and leave.

Keep your head down, and don’t ever bother with what they are doing.

⟡

Technically, you weren’t in debt, your father was.

He had close ties to the underground. You weren’t sure of the details, you were so young when your mother left with you in tow. She was always stingy with the details, but she never failed to remind you that your father was a stupid man who worked with dangerous ones. She passed away right after you graduated from college. You’d mourned her.

Now, a part of you felt grateful she passed just before she saw your life fall apart.

They came in the middle of April. You remember that day purely because of the flower blossoms littering the sidewalk, the first sign of blooming spring.

There were three other men besides Geto that day, and you hadn’t known his name back then—just the man with long, pretty hair. They were all waiting for you, loitering right beside your home. When you hesitated, slowed to a stop, the man with long hair smiled at you. Geto calls your name. When you don’t respond, his smile widened.

“That is who you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nervously said, “sorry, but—but who are you all?”

He introduces himself. The other three don’t bother. You don’t yet realize that they’re only henchmen, mere puppets for Geto.

“Apologies, but this is a rather sensitive subject. Can we talk someplace private?”

You don’t want to let these men into your home, but his soft words and intimidating company coax you into agreeing. You lead them up the steps, praying to God that you were wrong about this—whoever they were. When you unlock the door, only Geto follows you. The rest wait outside. You don’t know if that’s better or worse.

He seats himself right on the sofa. It’s your apartment, and yet his mere presence makes you feel like he’s the owner. You loiter next to the door, twiddling your thumbs.

“Would you like tea?”

He tilts his head. “Aren’t you a polite one?”

It was more for you than for him—scurrying to the kitchen, away from his searing purple eyes. It’s a reprieve to start the burner, pour water into the pot. You take as much time as you can, but eventually, you have to come out.

Geto says nothing when you place the cups down. He takes it, humming at the taste. You don’t touch your cup.

His tone is soft. His words aren’t.

Your father did far worse than work with dangerous men. He’d stolen from them. He was already dealt with, his punishment had sent him careening off the Earth far sooner than your mother. Still, the topic of the missing money was still there.

Something that had fallen onto you, his next of kin.

You were already crying once Geto finished. Your body is wracked with sobs. You can barely suck in a breath.

“Please—please,” you’re already saying, “he—we—I swear we never received any sort of money from him.”

He takes your hand within his own, curling his fingers around them. Coming from anyone else, it would have been a nice gesture.

“I’m aware,” Geto comforts, “we know you haven’t been in contact with your father for more than a decade.”

His fingers are warm. They trace your cheek as he gently wipes away your tears.

“But in this line of business, family matters, no matter how estranged, my Dear.”

You look at him through your tears. He’s beautiful. Long black hair. If you touched it, you bet it would feel like silk within your fingers.

It’s his eyes that truly suck you in. Purple. It’s a rare eye color, you’ve never seen someone with purple eyes until now. They resemble amethyst, unpolished, but still just as beautiful.

“My partner would have much less...humane ways of dealing with this situation,” Geto continues, “but I think you could be far more useful warm rather than cold, do you agree?” You shrivel in your spot, already having an inkling to what he’s saying. It’s not like you haven’t already figured out where this was going. You’ve heard the stories of what dangerous men do to those who’ve wronged them—to the vulnerable girls who accidentally trip and fall into their trap, forced to work in brothels and debase themselves all for the sake of keeping them rich.

He laughs right then. It’s rich, deep, startling you out of your misery.

"Come now, it's the 21st century."

Geto smiles. Fake. Unsafe.

"Women are worth far more than just their bodies."

It turns out that even the Yakuza had paperwork.

It was a menial deskjob, on the surface, at least. If you don’t think too hard about who you’re working for, it could be a regular office. It’s not like any of the work you are provided with is illegal, but you doubt you’d put it down on your resume.

Your education had saved you. Ironic that it was your father who instilled your desire to learn.

If you don’t think too hard about it, your new ‘job’ wasn’t horrible. As notorious as they were, your new employers weren’t downright cruel. You still got paid. You had a contract. Things could honestly be a whole lot worse.

It was still very hard to get used to, especially in the beginning.

Something you learned very quickly was that the men around here did not like it when women had an attitude. You were far too meek to have one, but the other few women who worked with you became your teachers, showing you exactly what the men would do if you didn’t stay in line. You were more than happy to listen, and even then, your eagerness to learn didn’t help. In order for the lesson to truly sink in, you needed trial and error.

You stepped out of line exactly once. And then you never did it again.

It had been an accident. You’d forgotten that Geto had an important meeting that day. You knocked on his door, shuffling some documents in your hand. It was muscle memory to just go in because he’s never said anything but come in before.

They’d all stared at you, eyes lingering up and down your body. One of them grins. Immediately, you look at Geto. Horrified. Ready to grovel at his feet if need be.

His eyes flashed dangerously. Purple turned into sharp magenta knives. Geto tilted his head.

“Come here, dear.”

You take one step. Another. Then another. The way they look at you makes your stomach twist and sink but Geto only looks at you expectantly. When you linger at his side, his lips quirk.

His grip on your waist is gentle as he guides you into his lap. Your cheeks burn, but you don’t dare move, not even when the men start laughing at the free show. Geto only curls a hand on your waist, keeping you in place as he leans back again.

“Continue, gentlemen.”

The rest of the meeting continues with you on Geto’s lap. You don’t look at any of them, hands balled into fists at your sides. You feel naked. The air within the room is stifling. You refuse to look anywhere else but the floor.

The conversation goes back to business. Despite the compromising situation, he put you in, Geto’s hands don’t wander. He's content to keep his fingers on your waist until the room filters out and everyone leaves.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Geto.” You murmur, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, at least not to that. He just sighs, sinking into his seat. Still, Geto doesn’t let you get up. Not yet. He waits until you’re looking at him, still smiling that fake smile.

This had been a punishment. The next time you made a mistake, you doubt you’d be let off so easily.

“Learn quickly, my dear.”

You nod. You apologize again. When Geto finally lets you go, you are quick to stumble away, pushing your way out the door. Purple eyes follow you out. You don’t think they stop looking until you’re out of the room, curled into your desk, steadying your heartbeat.

You stepped out of line exactly once. You never did it again.

Despite being under Geto, technically, Ijichi is your direct superior. You thanked the Gods for it. Ijichi was the only person here you were certain didn’t have blood on his hands. He was in a similar situation as you were; stuck working off a debt that he didn’t owe. You two bonded on your shared misery. He was the one reprieve you had in your new life.

Unfortunately, now that Gojo was back, Ijichi was far busier. It gave you little time with him. You suppose you were always welcome to join them, but considering your first encounter with Gojo, you’d much rather not.

It’s not like you hadn’t had similar encounters before Gojo's arrival. In the very beginning, one of Geto’s men tried something remarkably similar. You can still remember his hand on your hip, his other hand slowly unbuttoning your shirt while other men stood to the side laughing.

It hadn’t lasted long.

You didn’t realize he was shot until he was already on the ground, twitching in pure agony. He screamed and cried louder than you had. Blood was already dripping to the floor.

Geto had already tucked away the gun, striding away as though nothing happened. He didn’t say anything, the incident was never mentioned. Even to you, his statement rang loud and clear.

You were off-limits.

Clearly, Gojo didn’t care about the unspoken rule.

So far, Ijichi hasn’t acknowledged him. If anything, your superior is hunched behind his computer, typing away, rarely taking his eyes off-screen. You admired his concentration, but it was hard for you to follow suit, considering that Gojo had taken a seat right next to you.

His stare is impossible to ignore. You can feel it even as you desperately try to focus on the screen in front of you. As if he can tell you’re intimidated by his mere presence, he leans over, shoulder pressing against your own. You could practically hear the grin in his voice.

“Watcha’ workin’ on?” He asks as though he can’t already see.

Still, you falter. “Um—”

“Um’” he repeats, “that’s all you’ve been sayin’. Hey, Ijichi—” The man in question jolts up, eyes already panicked.

“Your assistant always this jumpy, or is your personality just that infectious?”

“Sir, uh—” Ijichi starts before getting cut off by a tsk.

“See? Again,” Gojo sighs, “I see why you two get along so well.”

You and Ijichi exchange glances, unsure what to do. When Gojo says nothing more, you decide it’s okay to resume work again, typing away.

Childhood friends, Ijichi told you back when you were still morbidly curious. Gojo had come from a lineage of powerful businessmen. Geto had more or less worked his way up. They became partners somewhere along that time.

It’s hard to imagine them as friends or as anything more. They’re so different. Geto is so controlled, measured with every response he takes. Gojo is more like dynamite, ready to go off at any moment.

You suppose the only similarity is how unreadable they are. To this day, you can’t tell whether Gojo dislikes you or not. Every action you take seems only to disappoint him, yet he constantly hovers around you.

It takes another minute for you to be on the keyboard before Gojo decides he doesn’t like you working peacefully. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts closer. His head rests against your shoulder. With his new position, you can feel his breath on your collarbone as an arm casually wraps around your shoulders. You don’t dare react, but you send Ijichi a panicked look. He looks sympathetic, but he doesn’t move to help you. You can’t find it in yourself to fault him for his inactions.

“You never answered me, by the way.” He murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

You respond as diligently as you can, making sure you use as few word fillers as possible. It’s clear Gojo doesn’t like that. Or rather, he doesn’t like the nervousness your voice exudes but you doubt you could fix it, especially with his presence around.

“Sounds boring.” Gojo interrupts your rambles. “You don’t do anything else more entertaining?”

“No, sir,” you reply, “I’m only in charge of paperwork.”

Despite the other co-workers you have, you are still an anomaly. Everyone here has had an experience holding a gun—even Ijichi. It’s clear Geto ‘hiring’ you was a change in pattern, something you would always be grateful for. If he hadn't, you wouldn’t want to know what was in store for you.

That’s probably why Gojo was so curious about you. However, considering how close they were, you were now wondering why Geto hadn’t explained it.

“How long have you been working here—hey,look at me when you’re talking.”

You turn, and for the first time, you willingly face Gojo Satoru. His sunglasses are tilted down, and you can see his eyes now. They are blue, so painfully blue, like an ocean, curled up tightly within his eyes. Glittering tanzanite stares back at you—beautiful gemstones that glisten beneath the fluorescent light.

Gojo tilts his head, and you remember that he asked you a question.

“Three weeks, Sir.”

He doesn’t seem all that pleased with your answer. You wonder if you should have lied instead. He’s embarrassingly close, and the position he’s forced you into doesn’t help.

“That quick, huh?” Gojo murmurs, and he sounds a little impressed, “how many times have you and Suguru fucked?”

You gape at him, horrified at even the insinuation. It takes a while for you to even find your voice.

“I—we’ve never. Never.”

Gojo narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me. C’mon, I'm just curious.”

It feels even worse that Gojo's question isn't even unreasonable. Geto has always treated you differently. Softer. Kinder, if you wanted to be charitable. It isn't a stretch to assume you've been doing favors for the man, in this line of work, it must be a normal occurrence. Yet, you haven't. Apart from that one blunder weeks ago, Geto has never touched you inappropriately.

Still, you shake your head rapidly, feeling heat flush in your cheeks. Being cornered and interrogated like this is humiliating, especially in front of everyone. Ijichi is nice enough to look away while you’re being humiliated, but you know he’s listening. You know everyone’s listening.

Thankfully, Geto intervenes.

“You.” A sigh of exasperation. “Get off.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but you almost cry in relief when he pushes away and stands up.

“We were bonding,” Gojo argues, though, like everything he says, it sounds like a tease.

Geto’s murmuring something else, and it’s clear that this interaction between them is normal. It's almost a repetition of what happened last time. Both times, you’d been the commonality.

Gojo leaves eventually, shooed away by his partner. The office finally grows quiet when the white-haired man disappears to God knows where. You feel like you can breathe again, but Geto still has not left.

When you look, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, and you’re strangely reminded of a stressed mother. Finally, he lets out a breath, opening his eyes and staring down at you.

“I apologize for his behavior, my dear,” he says. There’s a hand on your shoulder, mirroring the touch Gojo gave you.

“He’s excitable, like a dog.” You don’t think that part was for you, though you don’t think you could ever even fathom comparing the terrifying anomaly that is Gojo to a mutt. You don’t respond. Geto squeezes your shoulder.

“Come to me if Satoru goes too far. I always take care of my people, don't I?”

He doesn’t leave until you give a nod. His hand finally retracts, allowing you to sink into your seat. You watch him until his figure disappears from view.

“I’m taking a break,” you say, not even a minute later.

Ijichi gives a nod as you push yourself up away from the computer. You spend your break the way you usually do: tucked inside the bathroom, trying to wonder how your life turned out this way.

⟡

Sometimes, you accompany Geto on his trips.

You don’t want to, but it’s not like you can reject his ‘requests.’ It’s part of the job, whether or not you can refuse is up to Geto’s whims.

The trips aren’t too bad. Most of the time, it’s a meeting with other dangerous men. You mainly just sit in a corner, peering down at the ground, trying your best not to be noticed. It works, most of the time. The few perks of this new life is how seldom the people of the underground want to associate with you, especially when you're with Geto. His presence is everywhere, a blanket of protection bestowed only to you. These days, you feel safe even when walking home alone at night.

The trips aren't too bad, but Gojo's insistence on tagging along changed even that.

You should be sitting up front. There's a perfectly vacate passenger seat, right beside Ijichi, the least dangerous man in the vehicle. Gojo had practically dragged you into the car with him, holding you hostage. Geto slid into the seat beside you, effectively trapping you between the two men.

Despite your attempts to keep your body to yourself, every other minute, your thighs brush against theirs. It's a miserable affair, but neither comment on your breach of personal space. They're both too invested in their own little worlds. Geto peers peacefully out the window, enjoying the city life pass by. Gojo is glued to his phone, tapping away every so often.

It's tempting to sneak a peek at them in their natural states, relaxed, unbothered. You don't stare for too long.

Every so often, their worlds will collide. Geto will point out a cat. Gojo would reach over you, showing Geto something funny on his phone. Unfortunately, Gojo catches your lingering eyes.

"Wanna see?" He doesn't bother to hear your response, shoving his phone in your face.

It's a cat video, of all things. You almost wanted to laugh at how normal it is, but you're too intimidated to do anything but give a strained smile, more designed to please. You expected something darker. More blood. More screams. On the screen, the orange kitten lightly bats at a ball of yarn.

"Got a cat?" Gojo asks, tucking away his phone.

"No, Mr. Gojo."

He tsks, but before your blood can freeze, he says, "I told you: It's Satoru."

He's been insistent about it these past few days: Satoru. Satoru. Call me Satoru, as though you'd even dare. Beside you, Geto rumbles out his disapproval.

"Don't be childish, Satoru." He chides.

The car rolls to a stop eventually. The relief in your lungs expands. Ijichi gets out first, followed by Geto. Before you can move, a hand grabs you by the chin, halting your movements.

"You're not leaving this car until you say it, pretty thing," Gojo tells you. "C'mon. Sa-to-ru."

Behind you, Geto sighs, but he doesn't move to stop him. Right, Geto promised he'd step in only when Gojo goes too far. Clearly, this is within his bounds.

You wilt under the hardened tanzanite.

"Satoru." You mutter.

Satisfied, Gojo releases his hold on you, hopping out the car, humming a happy tune.

Geto holds his hand out to you. You'd be an idiot not to take it.

"Bear with him today, dear," he tells you when you step out in the pavement, "he's in a mood."

Amythyst sears into you. You can only nod.

Even then, Geto doesn't release you. He gently maneuvers your arm until your elbow is interlocked with his. He takes his time, walking into the building, mindful of your heels. Ijichi and Gojo are already ahead. Gojo takes a look behind him, spots the two of you, scoffs, but doesn't do much more.

It's another thing you don't know how to feel about. The two have always instigated less than friendly gestures toward you. Yet, neither of the two have expressed any kind of jealousy. You know they are clearly lovers, yet the way they allow their significant other to behave with you makes you feel a bit nauseous.

Most likely, they see you as a pet. Not even a threat to their relationship. It makes sense. In their eyes, you're probably a scared gazelle in the middle of a lion's den. Cute. Something to play with.

There's another theory in your head that you're pushing away.

You follow the same procedure you've always followed. You stay still and silent, like a doll, right beside Geto. Strange men come up to him, greeting him with smug smiles. They barely give you a glance. That's good. It means they know you're one of Geto's.

Gojo being there changes the dynamic. He's more serious, in this setting. You sit right next to Geto's side, listening as Gojo talks. They both do that a lot. Talking. Negotiating. Scheming. You're a bit disappointed in yourself at how easy it is to let the words swirl around until there's nothing left to understand. It's easy to ignore them now. The horrors they partake in. The horrors you are indirectly part of.

Are you allowed to be innocent now that you work under these people? You've never pulled the trigger yourself, but is that an excuse? Morally speaking, you're the same as the men you are terrified of.

How laughable. You came to that conclusion right when they were discussing the price of narcotics.

Sometime later, you find yourself alone, roaming down an unfamiliar hall. It's foolish to be out without Geto or Gojo or even Ijichi, but Geto had an errand he wanted you to run. Now that it was complete, you needed to return back to him.

Except, you had no clue where he was.

You were lost. You should have known this would happen. Why didn't you pay more attention to where you were going? This wasn't any old building. Dangerous men lurked around, even the weaker ones carried guns and weapons.

It was only a matter of time before one of them caught you.

"Hey. You."

You were considered one of Geto's, but without him in sight, you were nothing. You knew that. It's why you cower immediately.

"I'm busy," you speak quickly, "My boss, Mr. Geto, he's—"

His hand is rough and scared and filthy on your skin. You are basically thrown against the wall, cornered against this stranger. He smiles. His teeth are yellowed and filled with tarter and plaque.

"C'mon, there's no need to rush. 'Just wanna have some fun. How much?" Disgust rolls off your tongue, but you don't have the courage to reveal it.

"I'm not like that," you mutter, "I'm not for sale."

But, aren't you? You've sold yourself to Geto, haven't you? Underneath his thumb, his whims. What makes you so much different from a hooker?

"Sure." And then there's a shift in his eyes. His face scrunches up, like he's just tasted something sour.

"Hold on...you're—you're that bastard's kid, aren't you?"

He says your last name, the name your father gave you with so much spite that you nearly flinch. In that moment, you realized that your father had messed with a lot more people than just Geto.

"Yeah yeah, you're a spitting fucking image!" He gripes you harsher. "Your daddy fucked me over while you're sitting over here nice and pretty? What the fuck?"

He's dead. He's dead and you hadn't spoken to him in over a decade, but his ghost still wants to punish you for being his kin. And this man is his executioner.

You're expecting something violent. Something that hurt more than his hand's squeezing your bicep. Perhaps he was, perhaps he would. Unfortunately, for him, Gojo interupted his plans.

You didn't even know that it was him, at first, on the floor, on top of the man. Gojo, despite his hungry smile, eager eyes, was always so angelic. He isn't supposed to be using his hands. He isn't supposed to inflict violence, not by himself.

He's punching him. The man isn't a man anymore, reduced to a mere punching back. Gojo doesn't stop until he breaks skin. He doesn't stop until you can hear a distinct crack.

Satoru doesn't stop until Suguru tells him to.

"Don't kill him." Geto warns. "It'd breach the agreement."

You can feel his presence, always silent, never revealing himself until he wants to be known. So unlike Gojo, who is hungry for even a second of attention. More than happy to spill blood over it.

Gojo grits his teeth, as though he's debating to even listen. He stands up eventually, chest heaving. His knuckles are caked in blood. It's not his. His glasses are off. His eyes are blown wide open like he's just hit the greatest high of his life. Geto calmly hands him a clean towel. You don’t want to know how many times this situation has repeated.

"Who gives a shit." Gojo bites out, his eyes , trailing to you, and you flinch away. He looks like a wild animal, growling and spitting. You don’t want to be next on his plate. Geto steps in front of you, barricading you from his sight.

The man on the ground had recovered enough to pathetically crawl away. It such a stark change to how he was just a few minutes ago, when he was lording over you, drunk off of his power.

Gojo steps on his calf. The broken thing gives a strangled scream. It only makes Gojo’s manic grin wider.

"Let him go. You made your point," Geto says, "calm down."

Firey blue eyes. Bright and violent. You don’t know how Suguru is able to withstand the intensity. Even you’re wilting when it’s not even directed towards you.

"Calm down?” Satoru asks. “You want me to calm down? Did you see what that bastard was gonna do to our—"

"Satoru." You've never heard Geto use this tone before. "Not here. Not now."

A silent battle warred between them. Tanzanite bore into amethyst. Which gem would rupture first, splinter into defeat?

Eventually, Gojo looks away, cursing. He glares down at you, as though he were blaming your weakness of all things. In a way, he’s not wrong to.

"I'll wait outside."

And then he's gone, striding down the corridor. Geto watches him go, before glancing down at you.

"Did he hurt you?" He asks.

You're not supposed to lie to him. You nod.

Geto pulls on your sleeves until he can see the imprints. Light bruising, nothing too horrible. You'll survive. Geto looks less than pleased. He glances down at the remnants of the man, the imprints of blood on the floor. You pitied the person who'd have to clean it up.

"I apologize, dear." He sighs. "I should have kept an eye on you."

He stares at the blood some more. Then, he smiles.

"Perhaps, it's better if I just let things run its course, this time."

You blink at him. He ignores your silent question. Instead, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, gently leading you outside. The car is already running. This time, Geto silently ushers you into the passenger seat. You take it immediately. Gojo hadn't taken his eyes off of you. You're grateful for any barrier.

This time, the car ride was silent. You don't relish in it. If anything, it just feels like the calm before the storm.

⟡

Soon, what Geto was talking about became apparent.

The man who had nearly been killed by Gojo had talked. You don't know what your father did to these men, perhaps you never will, but they didn't let you forget his crimes. If they couldn't get to him, then clearly, his kid was the next best option. You know it was them. It would be no one else.

Someone broke into your apartment one weekend. Everything was ruined. The TV was shattered and broken. Your mattress was tossed onto the floor. Every plate, cup, and bowl was smashed onto the floor. They took nothing, but they broke everything.

You hadn't been home that night. Ijichi needed more work from you. If you had, if you had come home that night, alone, locked the door, slept in that bed, then what would have—

Geto finds you on the stairs of your apartment, curled into a ball. You watch with bloodshot eyes as he observes the damage, clicking his tongue. He doesn't look particularly shocked.

You do nothing when you feel his hand on your shoulder, brushing against the sleeves, a feign of sympathy. You don't even care to ask how he came even though you never called him. Geto has a keen sense for you.

"It'll get worse." His voice comes. Soft, and sure.

Yeah, you knew that. You'd been naive, following after Geto with wide eyes. You thought that if he was untouchable, then so were you.

He speaks about an enemy group, people with debts with your father, just as he did. Of course, he knows who did this to you. You’d be more surprised if he didn’t.

You don’t care. His words go in one ear and out the other. The reasons don’t matter. Your home is still destroyed. It’s no longer yours.

"They got my phone, too," you mention to your discarded cell phone. "My emails, messages."

You're trapped, with nowhere else to turn. All the doors are shut and bolted, and only one remains open.

You turn to the devil.

"Can you...help?"

The angler fish uses its darkened habitat to its advantage. Hundreds of miles beneath the water's surface, it produces its own light as an olfactory bulb. It's an excellent predator, swinging its bio lantern around in the dark sea, the only light around for miles.

Geto tilts his head, a smile on perfect pink lips.

"You want my protection? It's a steep price, darling."

You feel like an empty well, forced to give and give until you're all dried up. Who could be so greedy? Who could be so willing to take?

"I've given you everything." It's barely a whisper. "What else do I have left to offer?"

He doesn't say anything to that, not at first. Geto kneels in front of you, a slender hand lifting your head up by the chin. Fingers trail down to your neck. Not choking, just holding. His thumb lightly presses into your throat.

"Not everything," Suguru says quietly.

He's right. You hadn't given him everything. So far, you have always been one of Geto's people. You were Geto's employee. You were indebted to him, but you weren't conquered by him.

Not yet.

He's kneeling in front of you, holding your soul in his hands and demanding for your heart. In a way, you find it a bit funny. You just don’t have the will to laugh anymore.

He's smiling again when he can tell you're finally starting to understand. "We couldn't have been that subtle, were we? Satoru never failed to express, at the very least."

No, they never tried to hide it. Even in the beginning, when you first met Suguru, you saw the hunger. You just tried to ignore it. You tried to keep your head in the sand, hoping it would pass. It makes you wonder if you had just agreed on that very night, led him into your bed, and bared it, would things have been different?

"I can leave. We can pretend this never happened," he coos, "it's all up to you, sweetheart."

He's making it seem like you had a choice. In a way, you did. You're choosing between two monsters. A known and an unknown. It takes longer than you'd like to figure out which one scares you more.

You take the bait. The angler fish siezes its prey.

"One night?" You're trying not to beg but it's coming out anyway. "Just—just one night?"

Geto leans forward, pressing a kiss on your forehead. It’s not an answer.

⟡

Despite the many months you've worked with him, you've never been to his home before.

It's not a house. A villa maybe. The property stretches itself stretches for miles. Filthy rich. Bleeding gold.

Geto—

("Suguru," he corrected you in the car, "considering this isn't really business, anymore.")

—had ushered you throw a double-door entrance. You couldn't even admire the architecture. Not when Gojo was already standing there. His eyes were hidden away, tucked underneath his glasses, but you still felt his stare. And all too wide smile stretched on his lips. He greeted Suguru with a kiss. For the first time, you looked down at their hands.

Matching rings.

You felt sick.

'It's all up to you, sweetheart' Suguru's voice rings through your head all through a dinner that's really nothing but a flimsy padding for the rest of the night. Food was served, wine was poured, all in a bid to ease you into it. As of right now, it's still your 'choice'. You know, without a doubt, if you backed out now, they'd let you go without a fuss. Suguru or Satoru themselves might drive you home. You'd crawl into bed without a scratch.

But you don't. You stare at your plate, picking at it when they ask questions. Satoru's in such a good mood he offers to feed you.

It's mostly because it doesn't feel real yet. You feel like you're watching yourself go through the movements. Eat. Speak when spoken to. Smile when prompted. Empty.

You only come back when you're standing in their room, and the door locks with a click.

The window blinds are drawn, but there's no light to seep in. The moon is already out. You wonder how many hours you've already spent here.

You take another step towards the bed. Then, you turn around.

Satoru and Suguru stare right back. You feel their heavy gazes immediately, flicking your eyes down to your feet, playing with your sleeves.

Satoru laughs, perceiving the terror as shyness, or maybe he doesn't care. He steps forward first.

"Don't be like that." He lightly chastises you, tucking one arm around your waist. "We'll be nice. Promise, baby. We're gonna be so so good for you."

He finds your lips, then. Satoru kisses like the sun, all fire and passion. Sinking into you, wanting to melt. It's impossible to turn away and ignore his presence. He gropes at your chest, your waist, trying to feel all of you at once. When he finally lets go, you feel dizzy.

Suguru's kisses ground you, makes remember where you are, who you're with. He's like the Earth you're crashing back into from your high. You hurdle through the atmosphere as his hands grasp at your throat. He never squeezes, but it's more than enough to sober you.

"You smell so nice, baby," Satoru says from his place at your neck. You flinch when teeth sink into your sink, but you don't complain.

"That's creepy, Satoru." Suguru chastizes him.

Serpentine eyes stare into yours. You don’t get the chance to hide before you feel his breath on your cheek. Suguru tugs at the hem of your dress.

“Take this off.” He whispers into your skin. “And get on the bed for us, sweetheart.”

This is the lesser monster. It’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you pliantly nod, hesitantly gripping the fabric of your dress. It’s horrifically easy to take it off and let it drop by your feet. You can’t bear to look at them anymore.

The soft duvet sinks under your weight. It looks expensive. Silky pillows. On either side is a nightstand covered with trinkets and personal items. You spot one of Suguru’s shirts on the floor, and it takes you a second to realize this is their room, not an impersonal guest room they use to fuck the less fortunate.

They stop paying attention to you. Satoru moans loudly into Suguru’s mouth. Suguru fiddles with the buttons on Satoru’s shirt, close to ripping it off entirely. Satoru palms at the tent in his pants as he unbuckles his pants. Suguru loosens his tie. They’re so violent with each other. Dread soaks through your palms, and you curl even further within yourself. You prayed this was all they wanted from you—someone to just watch, someone less interactive.

It’s not. When they pull away, their lips are swollen. Satoru leers at you, licking at his busted lip. You can’t seem to cry anymore.

They’re both half-naked. You can see the tattoos spread on Suguru’s hand, crawling up to his shoulder. Another peeks just behind Satoru’s neck. You only get a glimpse before he’s on top of you, eager for a continuation.

“Shit, you’re so soft.” He hisses as he squeezes your bra-covered breast. It doesn’t stay on for long. You wince when his fingers trace over your sensitive tits.

Your hands squeeze into fists, because you choose this, choose them. Satoru’s more than happy to sink into your breasts. His warm tongue swirls around a nipple before fully taking it in his mouth.

“Like a baby,” Suguru says. Satoru scoffs, tossing him an impressed look.

“Shut up.�� Satoru releases your breast with a wet-sounding pop. They’ll be marks there tomorrow.

His fingers trail down your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. They linger on the band of your panties.

You can’t help it. It’s instinct.

He freezes when your fingers snap around his wrist. There’s no strength behind your grip, he pauses more out of surprise than anything.

His eyes, filled with hardened tanzanite, shoot up to yours. You think, if they’d be anyone else’s, you would have envied them.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Suguru. The silence is crushing.

“Sorry.” You feel pathetic apologizing, but it’s outweighed by the fear. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—”

“It’s okay, dear,” Suguru coos. “Satoru just scared you, hm? He’s such an idiot, isn’t he?” He violently smacks Satoru on the head. You flinch at the sound. Satoru just whines, rubbing at his temple.

“Mean.” Satoru childishly says, but he’s slower now, rolling down the hem of your panties.

Suguru is quick to distract you. He’s busy with his own bottoms before he’s taking you by the chin.

His cock is already leaking precum. He’s big, and you don’t think you’ll be able to do want he wants. Suguru smiles down at you, he doesn’t need to say anything. You’re swallowing down your self-hatred before opening your mouth.

You take him in just when Satoru buries his face between your thighs. The two of you have very different reacts. Satoru just hums, finding your clit to lick. You gasp, your legs jolting as you accidentally take Suguru even deeper.

He’s nice enough to let you go at your own pace. There’s a hand on your head, petting you, easing you through the process. Even then, your mouth is stretched uncomfortably wide. Tears prick at your eyes. Suguru’s face gets blurry. You don’t think you want to look anymore.

Below you, Satoru is enjoying his meal. He’s slobbering on your pussy, eating you out like it’s his last meal. His hot tongue finds his way into your sopping hole. You squeeze your eyes, a muffled whine comes from your mouth. The only loss of control Suguru shows was how he ever-so-slightly gripped your head.

By then, you’re unintentionally squeezing Satoru’s head in between your thighs. It’s so much. Pleasure tingles up your spine as Satoru continues to worship your pussy. His nose grinds into your clit and, for a moment, you’re wondering how he’s even breathing.

Suguru’s close. You can feel it every time his balls slap your chin. He’s speaking now, words stilted and heavy. It’s the only hint you get that he’s only holding his control by his teeth. That thought scares you. At any moment he’d snap, choking you with his cock, let you suffocate while he fills your dying mouth with his cum.

“Good,” he’s hissing out, “so good—good for me. C’mon, baby, take it.”

Satoru’s hand squeezes your ass, urging you to arch off the bed. You come like that, pressing your thighs around Satoru’s head, moaning around Suguru’s dick.

Suguru barely gives a grunt before something salty fills your mouth. You have to swallow it down. It burns your throat.

The air tastes sweet by the time Suguru’s cock leaves your mouth. You’re sucking in deep breaths, breasts heaving. Incidentally, you hadn’t suffocated Satoru. He’s kissing his way up your body. A trickle of Suguru’s cum had escaped your lips. His tongue presses against your chin before he pushes it back into your mouth. You can taste your tangy essence on his lips.

“Gotta’ swallow it all,” Satoru says with a teasing lilt, “he gets mad when it’s wasted.”

You can only nod. He gives you another wet kiss before he pulls away.

They switch places, Suguru moving over until he’s between your thighs. His large cock lays on your cunt. He’s still hard, his cock twitches when he angles his hips down, letting the head run over your leaking slit.

“The only reason he's going first is ‘cuz he’s been pining for you for months.” Satoru murmurs into your ear. Strangely enough, Suguru doesn’t comment. Your brain can’t work fast enough to comprehend what that means.

You hold your breath just as he presses himself inside. You’re almost grateful Satoru took the time to prepare you. His salivia, and your stretched walls make it easier for Suguru to bury his length inside you.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You hiss. Satoru feels enough sympathy to coo at you, kissing your neck, trying to distract you from the pain. It doesn't help, not even when Suguru presses light circles into your clit, easing his way through.

Suguru’s giving a harsh laugh when he’s fully seated inside, his hips meeting yours.

“Feel good, hm?” Satoru goads, reaching up to nibble on Suguru’s ear.

“Shit, so tight—fuck.”

Your hips twitch and you’re clenching down on him. Suguru doubles over, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, darling.” Scarred hands grasp your neck. “I’m going to ruin you, aren’t I?”

Your bottom lip wobbles. He’s eyeing you like a piece of meat. A gazelle in the lion’s den. To them, to men like them, you suppose you’re nothing more.

“Suguru.” You whisper because your voice is failing you. “You-you promised you’d be nice.”

Silence. And he’s laughing so hard his shoulders shake. They both are.

“We did promise that, didn’t we?” Suguru glances at Satoru. “Next time, then.”

He pulls his cock out of you slowly, dragging his head through your cunt. He’s so slow and deliberate that you think it’d feel better if he just went ahead and fucked you already.

And he was, technically. His hips rolled back into you, his cock disappearing inside your wet pussy with each thrust. It’s so much that you’re willingly arching your back, trying to do anything to alleviate the intensity.

Beside you, Satoru is pulling out his cock, his eyes never leaving the lewd sight of Suguru fucking himself into you.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he’s cursing under his breath, fisting his cocl in one hand, “so fuckin’ hot.”

Suguru growls, grabbing Satoru’s stiff cock, crudely pumping his hand up and down. His movement are getting more erratic losing his pace, his patience. You’re at your end too, almost crying when someone squeezes your sensitive tits.

“How does it feel, darling?” Suguru asks with a ragged breath. His eyes are blown, you don’t even think he’s looking at you, anymore.

When you don't give an answer fast enough, Suguru snaps his hips punishingly in response. You give a sharp wail.

“I said.” Suguru hisses through his teeth. “Tell me how it feels.”

You can barely suck in a breath. You’re losing oxygen too fast.

But you’ll die if he keeps doing this.

“Good.” You tell the truth. “It—it feels good, Suguru.”

He grins, serpentine. You’ve lost a game you didn’t even know you were playing. His fingers descend on your clit.

“That’s my perfect darling.”

You sob when your walls clench around his cock, milking him dry. Your orgasm triggers his own. He curses, and something is spilled into your used cunt. Out the corner of your eye, Suguru and Satoru are kissing, going together like rabid dogs. Satoru shudders, and then all three of you are a panting mess.

You take in deep breaths, barely caring when Suguru lets out an exhausted laugh, collapsing into your chest. He licks at your sweaty skin. You just sink your head further into the pillows

It was over. It was finally over.

“You got it everywhere.” Suguru suddenly says, disgusted. He wipes Satoru’s cum off your stomach.

Satoru just snorts.

“I didn’t have a hole to dump it all in.” He snarks back. “Twice, by the way. So selfish, Sugu.”

“Quit whining.” Suguru groans. “You have your chance now, don’t you?”

What? Exhaustion blinks away.

Suguru stays by your side. Gojo is the one moving, rising from the blankets. He places his hands on either side of your hips, spreading your legs.

Geto catches your panic, easily catching you before you can even do anything. He hushes you while Satoru settles himself between your thighs, his cock pressing right at your slit.

“The night’s still young, dear.” He sounds almost sympathetic. “Be good for just a bit longer.”

By the time they’re finally done with you, it’d been hours. You can’t count how many positions they put you in, how many times your holes were filled by their cocks or their fingers or their mouths. You’re barely coherent by the time Suguru is tucking you under the soft duvet.

You feel sore and used and dirty. His soft words, filled with praises, just make you feel worse. Despite how exhausted you feel, you’re just waiting until they finally get bored of seeing your body and kick you out.

You’ll call a cab home. You’ll cry yourself to sleep. You’ll be okay.

They’re taking a while to get to that part. They’re mumbling soft words too each other, it sounds too intimate to be something you should be overhearing. Satoru’s at your back, hands curling around your waist, another brushing Suguru’s mussed hair. You can feel his soft breath at the nape of your neck.

Suguru’s eyes are on you. Amethyst watches you intently.

"Satoru,” he finally says, “go uphold our end of the deal."

Gojo groans, annoyed. He snuggles closer to you. "Why me? You go do it."

An adoring smile crinkles on Suguru’s lips. It makes him look younger.

"Because I don't trust you alone with this one for the night. Go."

“Ass.”

He sighs, but Gojo sits up, letting the covers shift off his naked body.

"Stay right here for me, baby, 'kay?" He leans over, pressing a delicate kiss on your hairline. Despite everything that happened tonight, this was the most intimate thing he'd done to you. It's too...loving.

When Satoru leaves, you wait for a few moments. Suguru had yet to tell you to go. It probably meant that he didn’t want to waste his breath dismissing you. You take the hint, rising from the bed.

His fingers snap around you wrist just as your feet touch the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice doesn’t sound accusatory, but you flinch anyway.

A wobbly smile makes its way across your face, you hope it comes across as submissive. Weren’t you done? The deal was made, that meant you could leave now, right?

"I—I need to go home?" Suguru gives a doting smile, as though you said something adoringly naive. He barely pulls on your hand, gently leading you back under the covers.

You follow because the gun glints by the nightstand.

“Is that the best idea right now, dear?” He asks, “Who knows if those men have come back? I’d hate to see them find their target, wouldn’t you?”

He draws you into his chest. Your head is tucked underneath his chin.

“And besides, Satoru will be disappointed if you left without saying goodbye. It’d be horrible to deal with one of his tantrums so late at night.”

He buries his face into your hair, inhaling your scent.

“Why don’t you leave in the morning? I’ll be sure to drive you back myself. By then, I’m sure Satoru will have made the proper arrangements. Don’t tell him I told you this, but—” Suguru drops his voice as though he’s scared someone might overhear”—he tends to be more efficient when you’re in the picture.”

You don’t know what he means by that, and you don’t think you want to know. Still, you lift your head, finding the courage to stare at him.

His eyes are such a beautiful color. Glittering purple in the moonlight. You’d stare at them all night if you could.

“I can leave in the morning?”

Suguru hums, kissing your forehead.

It’s not an answer.

#yandere jjk #yandere #dark jjk #dark gojo satoru #dark content #yandere gojo satoru #non con touching #yandere geto suguru #dark geto suguru #dark satosugu #yandere satosugu #tw:blood #tw:noncon/dubcon

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rmbunnie · 2 months ago

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I see so much of "is post-crisis Robin Jason an innocent little sweetie-pie or a mean aggro delinquent" and after reading through all of his batman and detective comic issues post-crisis I think i can safely say he's... an introverted and distrustful, but altogether friendly teen boy who has convinced himself to the deepest level that he is an Adult Man, and also does not hold a particularly good view of adults.

The sweet little babypie characterization falls a little short (assuming we aren't being too silly with it, there's plenty of that in the comedy issues of tec) because it disregards the part where he's a jaded teenager who is constantly going off and trying to take care of his own problems like "his own man" and reacts negatively to any breach of trust or move to take care of him. But negative doesn't mean "violent and rageful." The delinquent angle is incorrect because not only is his disposition peppy, silly, and agreeable most of the time, but assuming the problem upsetting him isn't a predator or the guy who killed his dad (and three out of four canon instances it is a predator to be clear) he reacts to emotional turmoil with Bruce by bedrotting, sulking, communicating through notes, and overall being avoidant. The only times he lashes out are when Bruce is calling him out or after Bruce told him to his face that he chose to look for the Joker over looking for him, and that case of "lashing out" is just getting a little snarky.

More than anything his main personality trait (besides being silly, a robin staple) is kinda coming into this parentified as fuck. Not that it's Catherine's fault, but it really shaped his character, like one of the first things he says to Bruce (after he promised not to turn Jason in to the foster system) is that he kept her fed and warm as long as he could like he wasn't her ten year old child when he started. It's why he views himself on the same level as adults and why he gets all closed off at any insinuation that he needs to be taken care of, both of which heavily inform his dynamic with Bruce. He's constantly checking in on Bruce's wellbeing, like half of Batman: the Cult is just him taking care of Bruce while he recuperates from being brainwashed. (Side note, he's also constantly asking Bruce stuff like "what's your relationship like with this woman or this rogue or the concept of religion, how did that play out, how do you feel about it?" he is Very chatty like that.) The first thing he does when Sheila tells him her (revised to exclude medical malpractice) life story is hold HER and try to affirm her struggle. After a while he starts to act more childish with Bruce (although he doesn't really stop trying to brush off attempts to care for him) but as soon as Bruce admits he prioritized crimefighting over Jason and didn't show up to look after Jason like Jason assumed he came there for, Jason snaps back to acting very independent and rejecting any attempts to be looked after on any terms other than some kind of "equals" thing, which he isn't, as he's a 15 year old boy. Like. He's very sweet to his former neighbor, but also he refers to being a homeless child and the sole provider in his condemned building living situation as "getting by" to her.

He's definitely not. some bloodthirsty delinquent, at least to anyone who's not an uber-misogynistic predator, and he like demonstrably is a pretty sweet kid. It's just that when people say he's a sweet kid they kinda just jump to "untraumatized eight-year-old who grew up in a loving family and just got a new puppy from Santa" instead of "good hearted and curious teenager who has trust issues and is deeply uncomfortable with being taken care of, so kinda just compromises by pretending his dad is a Friend Doing him a Solid and acts like his kid only when he has plausible deniability so he can't get the rug pulled out from under him." Of course. He does kinda get the rug pulled out from under him despite all that. So there's that.

#I have more to say on his search for his mom and his drastic mood shift because there's some weird stuff surrounding that #but this is getting long anyways #jason's time as robin is comically traumatic bro #boom your dad got killed and Bruce hid it boom dead body sewer boom serial killer putting women in dumpsters boom the filipe situation #just a mess #his only wrongdoing as robin was meeting Ronald Reagan #jason todd #robin #bruce wayne #batman #dc comics

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yandere-romanticaa · 8 months ago

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she walks in beauty.

🎀 Today is Diluc's birthday. However, instead of focusing on himself, he can't help but to fall into his usual lovesick trap of gentle obsession.

yandere! diluc ragnvidr x fem! reader.

Ever since he was a young lad, Diluc could recall every single banquet and celebration which was hosted by the Dawn Winery estate. He could still sense the smell of various colorful liquors and taste the endless sea of pastries and cakes which were served at such events, making the inner child in him smile.

However, Diluc was no longer a young child.

Ever since the passing of his father, the need to throw any grand banquets was thoroughly diminished. While yes, there were certain things he could not avoid due to societal expectations, he still made the decision to keep things to an absolute minimum.

His birthday was not one of them. At least, not by his choice.

Everyone and their mother knew what day it was today and Diluc lost count with how many birthday wishes and gifts he had received. He was a little touched with the plethora of people who wanted him nothing other than joy, but those same people quickly became a nuisance because he could not seem to be with the one he actually wanted to be with today.

And there stood Diluc, hidden in the shadowy hallway as he watched his beloved prepare for the upcoming festivities. With both his arms crossed and his left side pressed firmly against the dark wood doorframe, Diluc decided in that moment that there was nowhere else he'd rather be than here.

His red eyes watched you thoroughly like a hawk, making sure to remember the ravishing scenery before him.

As much as you disliked his gifts, you didn't have a choice but to accept them this evening. The gentle sapphire necklace hung around your neck perfectly, the fine silver glimmering gently beneath the flickering candle flames. Diluc's gaze quickly shifted to your arms as they toyed with the various strands of hair at the top of your head, carefully adjusting the matching pin he had gotten you not too long ago.

He felt his heart skip a beat once he caught a glimpse of the wedding ring on your finger, causing him to nearly lose his composure and blow his cover altogether. His own ring seemed to come alive as he felt it around his finger, seemingly pulsing with a firey need to just take you, to see the light in your eyes, to beg you to please forgive him-

Even now, he could still hear you weep, for each tear felt like a stab straight into his bleeding heart.

Please, don't lock me away, you pleaded.

"I will be with no one but you. I will give you everything you desire but please Diluc-

Do not keep me as a prisoner!"

He sighed as he fidgeted with his gloved fingers. Diluc hated himself for doing this to you, for making you so utterly miserable. He was the one who took you away, it was him who had stolen that precious smile away from you. If you had been a normal couple perhaps this evening could have been more bearable. Perhaps he could have even enjoyed it, with you by his side.

But that was not how things were going to play out.

Diluc was stuck in a Hell of his own making. Every single tear that you had shed and will shed - that was all on him. Money can buy a lot of things but your love was not one of them. A new surge of determination was born deep inside of Diluc on that night of his birthday and he finally knew what his wish was.

He wished to make amends. Perhaps he could learn to live without your love, even if the mere thought made his teeth shake in fury and heart cry out in blind sorrow.

But he needed you to know that you were loved. He needed you to know that he was going to keep you safe. He was going to love you until his very last breath and even then, he would wait for the day of your sweet forgiveness.

🥀 TAGS: @genshinarchives, @mod-kisa-blog, @juuuuuj101010, @kalopses-sonderes, @mayulli, @b10h4z4rd, @xiaopleasecomehome, @saturnalya, @alatusprinz, @lakxcpsta, @mewmeowmika, @ranposgirlboss, @goldenglow149

Happy birthday to this wonderful man. He was my first ever husband in Genshin Impact, he deserves something extra sweet from yours truly.

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dragon-ascent · 9 months ago

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Zhongli wants you to go to bed early. You're a night owl. Shenanigans ensue.

✩彡 fluffy domesticity + a lil suggestive!

Besides the fact that Zhongli's body composition is literally inhuman, he is a very healthy man with healthy habits. Wakes up early and exercises, drinks plenty of water, eats clean. Ever since becoming your husband, he's tried to rub some of those off on you as well.

Currently he's gripping your waist, gently trying to pull you away from the couch that you're so desperately clawing at like a wet cat. "No! I want to stay awake and do fun things!" you yowl.

"You can do fun things tomorrow, my love." Zhongli succeeds in pulling you away, promptly scooping you up bridal-style and carrying you back to the bedroom. "The bags under your poor eyes beg to be taken care of. When was the last time you had a good night's sleep? It is already an hour to midnight, and you promised you would come to bed with me." He plops you in bed.

"Once, many years ago, I had a good night's sleep..." You stare out the window dramatically. Instead of a flashback ensuing, however, your husband wraps you up all snug in a blanket. You scowl at him, a silly little blanket burrito scowling at the god, which makes him chuckle.

He plants a fat kiss on your forehead and goes to put out the night-candle. However, he turns when he hears you shifting around. "Darling, please, I want you to-"

"I'm a ghost! Ooooooo!" You wave your arms around, having turned the blanket burrito into a drape over your head, your feet poking out at the bottom.

"My love, your feet will get cold."

"Oooooo!" you emphasize again, getting off the bed and padding in his direction with your arms out in front of you. "I'm going to haunt you, Zhongliiiii~!"

Zhongli simply picks you back up again. "How frightening. I quiver at the thought." Back in bed he plants you, laying you down.

You shoot back up like clockwork, repositioning the blanket with a grin before he can. "Now I'm Little Red Riding Hood! And you're a wolf! I must flee!"

Before he can react, you've bounded out the room and back into the living room, waiting eagerly to see if your husband will follow. Unfortunately, Zhongli is not human, so he simply materialises behind you and picks you up, avoiding the chase altogether.

You squeal. "I forgot you could do that!"

"It would do you well to remember," replies Zhongli, with a light tap to your butt as he brings you back to bed - again. This time though, he lays you down and then lays on top of you, practically smothering you.

You squirm. "Hey! No fair!"

“If necessary, I shall stay atop you all night.”

“Oh?” You blush. "On top of me all night..?"

Zhongli seems to have realised the implication of what he’s said, for his cheeks begin to temper red. He coughs. “That is…not what I meant.”

That doesn't do anything to alleviate your flustered self - Zhongli makes to get up off you, but he seems to have changed his mind; his eyes gleam for a moment.

"But it could be," he adds silkily, sliding a hand under your shirt, fingers meeting bare skin. "And by the end of it, you will fall asleep of exhaustion."

You eye him in anticipation as he locks fingers with yours, your heartbeat quickening in sync with his. It's a night to remember, but he makes good on his promise.

#sini writes #zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #fluff #drabble #suggestive

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sgt-tombstone · 2 months ago

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Like A Baby

————

Ghost sleeps like he’s in a coffin

On his back, straight as a board, arms crossed over his chest, the whole nine yards

When Soap and Gaz see him do it for the first time in the field, they think it’s a joke, that he’s leaned into the whole Ghost thing a little too hard. They think it’s funny, albeit slightly disconcerting

But over the course of several missions, they realize that Simon genuinely has no idea that he does it. He goes to sleep laying down like anyone else, in whatever position is most comfortable in the middle of an op, but as soon as he slips unconscious, his body naturally arranges itself into the most macabre position possible

They want to tell him about it so badly, but Price convinces them not to. He doesn’t tell them why, he just says that it would be a bad idea, and they trust him enough not to push it

Until Soap lets it slip one night while they’re at a bar, makes a stupid joke about Ghost “sleeping like the dead” that Gaz laughs a little too hard at and they only realize their mistake when Ghost’s eyebrows knit in confusion. So they fess up, reluctantly, and tell him that he sleeps like a corpse. Arms crossed and everything. He refuses to believe it at first, because denial has always worked for him in the past, and he wouldn’t put it past the sergeants to pull his chain like this, especially since they don’t know. But then Soap says he’ll snap a picture the next time he sees it and Ghost starts to get scared

Sure enough, two weeks later finds them in the middle of fucking nowhere in the middle of the fucking night, and Ghost settles down against a wall that’s more rubble than structure. He resolutely stays sitting up because he desperately wants to prove the sergeants wrong, but as soon as he falls asleep, his body slumps over and turns until he’s on his back, arms crossed, spine straight. Soap snaps his picture and feels guilty about it all night

When he wakes up the next morning, Ghost’s first words to him are, “show me,” and Soap should know better but apparently he doesn’t because he pulls up the picture. It’s dark and slightly blurry but unmistakable. Like a fucking corpse

It sends Ghost into a tailspin. The only reason why he doesn’t lose it completely is because Price is there to hold him together. Instead, he shuts down. It feels like a betrayal from his own body, his own mind. It’s a sick joke, a cosmic ‘fuck you’, a trauma response of epic proportions. He’d escaped his own grave, but apparently his sleeping mind didn’t know that

When they get back to base, no one sees or hears from Ghost for close to three weeks. Soap is losing his mind, Gaz is ready to tear the base apart to find him, and even Price (usually very used to Ghost’s moods) is visibly worried. Finally, Soap corners him in the sniper tower where he’s been taking stim packs and caffeine pills in an attempt to avoid sleep altogether. Soap damn near drags him, stumbling and off balance from exhaustion, to bed. Despite how tired he is, he can’t fall asleep, his heart and mind racing with panic at the thought of his unconscious body forcing him to become a corpse again

Right up until Johnny lays down next to him. And then his mind goes blissfully quiet. His heart is still pounding, but for a completely different reason as Johnny curls his body around Simon’s, arranging their limbs in such a way that Simon couldn’t possibly straighten out. It’s the warmest he’s ever been, the most comfortable he’s ever been. With his arms around Johnny and Johnny’s head tucked under his chin, he falls asleep effortlessly

When he wakes up, the first thing he mumbles is, “how did I…?” but he can’t bring himself to finish it, terrified of the answer. Johnny just smiles up at him, mohawk askew and cheek creased from being pressed against Simon’s shirt all night, and says, “like a baby.”

Simon never sleeps like he’s in a coffin ever again

#idk I think it’s interesting if Ghost’s trauma is remembered by his body but not necessarily his mind #trauma built into his bones and muscles but not his brain #call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #ghostsoap #soapghost #john price #kyle gaz garrick #tombstone's epitaphs #tombstone's ficlets

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urfavfrenchgrl · 2 months ago

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muggle studies

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader ᥫ᭡ words: 2k ᥫ᭡ warnings: 18+ | SMUT | MDNI | public fingerfucking ᥫ᭡ summary: you cheated on your boyfriend with your best friend My first one shot omfg I hope you guys enjoy 🥹 For those who know me on Wattpad or A03, this passage was adapted from one of my fics for Tumblr.

You wandered through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, the familiar sound of your footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls. Your hands were buried deep in the pockets of your house robe, seeking warmth against the cool draft of the castle. Your stomach churned, a physical reminder of the breakfast you had skipped, choosing instead to avoid the Great Hall altogether. You couldn’t risk seeing either Mattheo or Cedric—both of whom you hadn’t spoken to since the Yule Ball.

You and Cedric had been dating for two months. He wasn’t someone you were in love with, not really, but he was kind, reliable, and he took good care of you. There was a comfort in the stability he offered, something safe and predictable, even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it. But now, with everything that had happened, facing him felt impossible.

Your heart clenched at the thought of Cedric. Facing him now seemed impossible, especially with the weight of your secret pressing down on you like a boulder. The memory of your night with Mattheo still lingered, a dangerous mix of regret and yearning that sent an unexpected warmth between your legs whenever it crossed your mind. It had been a fleeting moment of weakness, a slip in judgment that you couldn’t afford to admit, even to yourself.

You and Mattheo had been best friends since your second year at Hogwarts, inseparable from the start. He had always been like a big brother to you—protective, loyal, and always by your side.

But something had shifted in recent months. The lines between friendship and something more had started to blur. You found yourself noticing things about him you hadn’t before—the way his dark eyes lingered on yours a moment too long, the sharp curve of his smirk that sent your heart racing. It confused you at first, but the more time you spent together, the more your feelings deepened, until you could no longer deny that you saw him differently.

And then came the ball.

Just as you reached the heavy wooden door of your classroom, the last voice you wanted to hear cut through the air behind you, freezing you in place.

“Hey, Y/N!” Cedric’s voice, warm and full of affection, called out. You closed your eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before turning around with what you hoped was a convincing smile.

Cedric’s face lit up as he strode towards you, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. He cupped your cheeks between his hands and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, sending a fresh wave of guilt crashing through you. You could barely look him in the eye, knowing what you had done—what you had betrayed.

“Good morning to you too,” you murmured with a soft laugh, stepping back, though the smile never fully reached your eyes.

“I didn’t see you yesterday, or this morning,” Cedric said, his brows knitting together slightly in concern. “Are you avoiding me?”

His tone was gentle, but the question made your stomach twist in knots. What could you say? That you had been running away from your own guilt, from the look in his eyes that always made you feel safe, but now only reminded you of your betrayal?

“What? No! Why would I avoid you?” you forced the words out with a light chuckle, hoping they would come across as casual, though the weight of your actions made you feel anything but.

Stay calm, you thought. You have to keep it together.

“If it’s about the ball… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that,” Cedric said softly, his voice filled with regret. He looked down, his expression pained, as if it was his fault for leaving too soon. But you knew the truth. Cedric had waited for you, and when you showed up late, frustrated and embarrassed, he had left. You had been upset too—enough to leave the ball and end up in his best friend’s arms that night.

“It’s nothing, Cedric, really,” you reassured him, though your voice felt hollow. Over his shoulder, your eyes caught a familiar figure leaning against the stone wall further down the hall—Mattheo Riddle, his dark eyes fixed on you with that same dangerous glint.

Your throat tightened, your pulse quickening at the sight of him. You quickly tore your gaze away, focusing back on Cedric.

“I should get to class now,” you said, your voice soft as you brushed a hand over his cheek, forcing yourself to smile. “I’ll see you later?”

“Tonight in my dorm?” Cedric suggested, his smile so pure, so trusting. “The guys will be out at Quidditch practice, so we can watch a movie… just us.”

“Yeah… sounds perfect,” you replied, though the guilt gnawed at your insides like a beast you couldn’t tame. Cedric kissed your cheek and waved goodbye, disappearing down the corridor.

You were in deeper than you thought.

The moment you entered the classroom, you made a beeline for your usual seat at the back of the room, hoping for a moment of peace. You began unpacking your things, your mind racing, but before you could settle in, someone slid into the seat next to you.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“That’s not your seat,” you said flatly, not bothering to glance at Mattheo, who leaned back in his chair with that infuriating smirk on his face.

“It is now,” he replied casually, his voice low and teasing.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a retort. You didn’t have the energy to argue with him today, not when your mind was already a storm of guilt and confusion. But when Ron Weasley walked into the room, sporting a fresh black eye, you turned to Mattheo, your anger rising.

“Tell me you didn’t do that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, though the accusation hung heavy in the air between you.

Mattheo’s smirk widened. “He had it coming.”

Your jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, you wondered if Mattheo had done it out of jealousy because you and Ron had talked for a long moment during the ball before you rejected his advances. But you pushed the thought away, shaking your head. Ron could be a jerk sometimes, but he didn’t deserve this.

“You really don’t know how to behave, do you?” you muttered under your breath as Professor Rowle began the lesson.

Mattheo chuckled darkly beside you. “Not really.” His hand slid under the desk, finding its way to your bare thigh, his fingers brushing against your skin.

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you as a heat spread through you once more. You clenched your fists, trying to focus on the lesson, but Mattheo’s touch made it impossible. His hand slowly inched higher, his fingers teasing the edge of your underwear.

“Mattheo…” you whispered, your voice trembling, your face flushed with both embarrassment and desire.

“Shh…” he whispered back, his breath warm against your ear as his hand continued its slow, torturous movements.

The sensation sent a shiver of anticipation through you, your heart pounding in your chest as Mattheo’s fingers brushed the fabric of your underwear, teasing you with maddening slowness.

“You’d better stay quiet for me, alright?” Mattheo murmured, his voice a dangerous whisper full of promise.

You squeezed the edge of your desk, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your mind spiraled between guilt, desire, and the impossible situation you had found yourself in.

With a surge of confidence, Mattheo’s hand slipped further under your skirt, his fingers gliding beneath the fabric of your underwear with practiced ease. The moment his fingers found your wetness, your breath hitched, a wave of heat spreading through your body as his touch sent ripples of sensation coursing through you.

A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, and you bit down on it immediately, trying to maintain some semblance of control. But it was impossible. The way Mattheo’s fingers moved—slow, deliberate, teasing—ignited something deep within you. His touch was maddeningly light at first, barely grazing your skin, but that only made the ache inside you more unbearable.

Mattheo’s mind wasn’t as calm as his outward expression suggested. Seeing you with Cedric just moments earlier had ignited a fire of jealousy within him. You were still with Cedric—perfect, dependable Cedric—when Mattheo knew that only he could make you feel this way. No one else could push you to the edge like this, and the thought of you being with anyone else—especially Cedric—drove him mad.

His fingers moved with calculated precision, each stroke a reminder that you were his, even if you wouldn’t admit it. You might still be with Cedric, but right now, you were here with Mattheo, your body responding to his touch in ways Cedric could never make it. He was the only one who could drive you to this point, and he knew it.

Without warning, Mattheo slipped two fingers inside you, rough and deliberate, making you gasp. The sudden intrusion sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body, your breath catching in your throat as your legs instinctively clenched around him. His smirk only deepened as he watched you struggle to maintain control, knowing that the raw intensity of his touch was exactly what you craved, even if you wouldn’t say it aloud.

"Such a good girl for me," Mattheo whispered in your ear, his voice laced with arrogance and desire. His fingers moved faster now, more insistent, as if to remind you of who really had control over you.

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, your body arching into his touch. Your breath became ragged, your chest rising and falling quickly as you struggled to hold yourself together. But it was impossible. His fingers stroked you with relentless precision, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, until the tension inside you became too much to bear.

“Mattheo, please…” you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper, desperate for release.

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying how you fell apart under his touch. His fingers pressed deeper, drawing slow, maddening circles that made your entire body tremble. "Let go, baby," he whispered again, his breath hot against your ear. "Come for me."

Your body responded instinctively, trembling as the coil of pleasure inside you finally snapped. A rush of heat overwhelmed you, your release crashing over you like a wave as your muscles tensed, your thighs clenching around his hand. You tried to stifle the moan that rose in your throat, biting your lip as the pleasure coursed through you.

Mattheo’s smirk grew wider as he watched you fall apart, his fingers still moving, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling beneath his touch. Finally, he withdrew his hand, slick with your arousal, and brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes locking on yours as he slowly licked them clean.

"I hate you…" you whispered, your voice breathless and weak as you tried to catch your breath.

Mattheo chuckled, wiping his hand on his trousers with casual indifference. "No, you don’t," he murmured arrogantly, his gaze still fixed on you. "But you will."

His heart was still racing with the jealousy and possessiveness that had been gnawing at him since that night at the ball. Seeing you with Cedric had only made it worse. He wanted to remind you, selfishly, that only he could make you feel like this. Cedric could never compete, and Mattheo needed you to know that.

You glared at him, your chest still heaving as you tried to regain control of yourself. You had crossed yet another line, one that you knew you shouldn’t have. And the worst part was, you knew Mattheo had done it on purpose—every touch, every tease, designed to remind you that you belonged to him in ways you could never admit out loud.

Mattheo Riddle was going to be the death of you.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure you wanted him to stop.

#mattheo riddle #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo smut #harry potter #slytherin boys #hogwarts #slytherin boys smut #matt riddle #smut #urfavfrenchgrl🤍

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karlydraws · 11 months ago

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SWAP AU

(a.k.a. Integration* AU)

"Wake up, brother. No time for sulking. We have a work to do."

Team Knives 🔪

Nai and Cleric Bluesummers

Team Vash 🌺

Cleric Wolfwood, Cleric Livio, and Vash

About the lore(?) Under the cut!

So. Um. It's a typical Swap AU where Knives is trying to save humanity and Vash annihilate it.

But not out of hatred; instead Vash loves mankind so much he wants to save them from human suffering altogether by fully merging them with the Plants.

By merging, Plants become independent like himself and humans become (almost) immortal. No hunger, pain, or disease. But instead human subjects lose free will, or can get killed by the process. Utter Human-Plant Integration, thus "Integration AU"

Vash have amassed some zealots through his own religion (like Knives did in the canon) and the most devoted of them become "the Clerics" (Gung-ho Guns). Cleric Bluesummers however had a change of his heart and joined Knives on his mission to stop Vash. Because I can't separate millionsummers

All Clerics wear 'clerical collar' like things, but they differ in style. (e.g. woowoo's chocker)

Morality

Knives WILL kill if necessary, but not willingly. He will avoid if possible. Same goes to Legato. (Also... will do mercy killing at some point?)

Vash also will kill some if they are REALLY in the way, but mourns them deeply and weeps for days

About their powers:

Vash of course has higher capacity but his true Gate can only be open by Knives; making him essential for his plan. Without him he can only produce some plant material but can be deadly to human nonetheless. Same goes to knives; only few blades at a time, but still a deadly warrior (close-range fighter like Edward FMA). Also he carries a gun, since you can't really bring a knife to a gunfight?? Lol. he wears cropped jacket, so his gun is hidden on his sides, with a holster. Knives also can heal other plants, like Vash did in the canon.

I gave too much though on this and I don't have a life

#oh?? i didn't tag??#karly draws #trigun #trigun stampede #vashwood #millionsummers #vash the stampede #millions knives #legato bluesummers #nicholas d. wolfwood #livio the double fang #saverem twins #hopeland brothers #swap au #integration au #role swap au #trigun maximum

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hearts4renaa · 2 years ago

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NEVER AGAIN.

summary: things the genshin men stop doing after the two of you break up. featuring kaveh, kaeya, alhaitham, diluc, zhongli, and kamisato ayato.

w/c: 0.5k words altogether

a/n: i was listening to cornelia street by taylor swift while writing this

Kaveh stops incorporating your favorite color into his designs, unless absolutely necessary. Every shade, bright or dark, holds memories for him. That shade was the color of your favorite sweater. That one was the color of the scarf tied around your sword hilt. That one was the color of the flowers he’d find for you. He can’t bear to look at the color. One single glimpse leaves the memory of you hanging over him.

Kaeya stops wearing certain jewelry. If you had a particular love for all silver jewelry, best believe you would see all his silver jewelry in the trash. Bracelets, earrings, rings, necklaces. Feeling the jewelry against his skin makes him feel as if he is suffocating. The feeling of the cool metal against his right ring finger makes him think of how he should’ve slipped a ring around your left ring finger instead.

Alhaitham never lets any meal go untouched. Even if he despises the food, he will take at least three spoonfuls. Every time he grabs hold of a utensil, he thinks of how you used to cook for him. And he thinks of how he used to leave you in the kitchen all alone, not ever bothering to taste your meals. Losing you and that privilege hit him like a truck. He swears to treat every meal with the same love the way he should’ve treated yours back then.

Diluc stops eating anything that reminds him of you in general. Your favorite dishes, desserts, drinks. He makes an effort to personally request to the winery staff that they avoid feeding him anything of the such. Even for minimal things, like certain fruits, vegetables, or even spices. If it’s overly present in the dish, Diluc will go out of his way to avoid it. Every flavor on his tongue turns bitter, reminding him of how he lost you.

Zhongli stops using the terms dearest, dear, or anything of the sort. It was his name for you. He will make an effort to actively avoid the word. When talking about something that means a lot to him, he will absolutely use the phrase “special to me” rather than “dear to me”. That topic itself is even a little rough for him to talk about, because nothing meant more to him than you. You were what was dearest to him, and he can only look back on and remember how he was once dearest to you too.

Ayato never steps foot inside your favorite restaurants or stores ever again. If something requires attention, he will simply send Ayaka in his place. If business partners or other important figures are looking to discuss over a meal, he will almost always be the one to choose the place. Every restaurant he chooses has no correlation to you. Even if the other party has a place in mind, and it’s your favorite, he will either reschedule for somewhere else or decline altogether. He hates knowing how he should’ve treated you to every store and every restaurant. He hates knowing that he’ll never get that chance even more.

#genshin x reader #kaveh x reader #alhaitham x reader #diluc x reader #kaeya x reader #zhongli x reader #ayato x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin #genshin impact #al haitham x reader #genshin angst

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katebishopsbow · 1 year ago

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MISSING PIECE • F1 GRID

pairing: f1 grid x driver!reader (platonic)

summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of abusive parent, found family

word count: 3k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Formula 1 journalists have always been known to be brutal – asking questions that teetered on the brink of privacy violation and unnecessarily hostile probing with the excuse of “providing insightful coverage” on the highly competitive sport.

That was why media training existed – to prepare drivers for the harshest, most demanding questions thrown at them and rewire their brains such that instead of lashing out, they would be able to gracefully divert the focus to something else while also preserving their pristine image.

You had always excelled at handling the media, and your ability to constantly remain level-headed even when they asked the most ridiculous of questions was something you took pride in – until a journalist purposefully asked about a subject you had desperately tried to avoid ever since your F1 career started.

The relationship you and your father had was rather difficult to explain. The two of you became distant since the day your parents divorced and you decided to walk away from his constant emotional unavailability and manipulation he so skillfully disguised as paternal love. He didn’t bother asking you to stay – well, he never bothered doing anything when it came to you. He called occasionally, only when he needed something from you and your mother, and sent birthday cards out of obligation a month late because god forbid he remembered your birthday if your mother hadn’t reminded him.

Then the calls became less frequent, and then they stopped altogether, and his empty promises of visiting became blatant lies that you no longer believed in. Your father gradually turned into a stranger, a missing piece, a clouded memory left behind in the childhood days of your life.

It was a hard subject for you to talk about, something you would much rather keep away from the limelight and scrutiny of the world. Unfortunately for you, secrets weren’t really a thing in F1, and the obvious absence of one of your parents on the grid and in all your victory celebrations had been noticed by the public’s watchful eyes.

So your secret was no longer a secret. All the drivers on the grid were aware of it, and a few closest to you had known the full truth of your strained relationship with your father, but they all avoided mentioning it as they knew it was a family matter you wanted to remain private. Most journalists were also respectful enough to avoid asking insensitive questions when interviewing you, phrasing their words like “How will you celebrate the win with your family?�� instead of using the term “parents”, and you were more than appreciative of that.

So when the voice of a certain reporter who was known to be ruthless with his questioning echoed through the press conference, directing the uncomfortable and out-of-the-blue question toward you, you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.

“Rumors have been circulating the Internet recently about you and your father. There are accusations against you claiming that you were ‘selfish’ and ‘ungrateful’ for cutting off ties with your parent, that a callous and unforgiving person such as yourself does not deserve a seat or to be the inspiration for young minds. What are your comments on such claims, and have you ever experienced regret for turning your back on your family – your very own flesh and blood?”

The sudden silence in the room was suffocating, and the only sound you could hear was the heartbeat that was drumming loudly in your ears as the colour drained from your face. The discussion revolving around your relationship with your father wasn’t anything you were unfamiliar with, but to hear it being brought up so directly in front of the press and all your fellow drivers, and all the demeaning names that people had called you – it had felt so demoralizing.

What happened between you and your dad was entirely private, people outside of your family who had never gone through what you had experienced should never have the right to make comments on your decision to leave. They didn’t know what it was like to have a father who was never there, who constantly let you down with his lies and broken promises, who subjected all his volatile temper and toxic outbursts to his daughter and wife.

You had enough of his bullshit and were simply sick of pretending to be the perfect little family, so you left with your mother and told yourself that you would never look back. It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t miss the presence of your dad every now and then – the palpable emptiness he left behind had and would continue to haunt you – but you also never once regretted your decision.

“I – I don’t think… these accusations… umm –” The composure you had always displayed in front of the media was long gone, and you struggled to find the right words to say in response to such an uncomfortable question. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixated on you while that journalist watched you with an inspective expression on his face, just waiting for the moment when you break – wanting you to lose control so that he could have the reaction he needed to write his article.

And all of a sudden, you were back in your childhood home, standing in the living room with your head hung low, fighting back tears as your father unleashed his wrath at you over the smallest, most trivial things. “What’re you crying for, huh? You want me to give you something to cry about?” he would say to you, his voice harsh and venomous as he screamed out insults that scarred your fragile little heart.

Then you were back in your grade school classroom, standing in front of the whole class and staying completely silent after your teacher assigned you the speech topic “My dad is my hero”. Your classmates looked at you as if you had grown a second head, confused by the way you were struggling to speak about a topic they could so easily blabber on for hours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything – your dad was never your hero, he was a distant stranger who struck fear within you whenever he was around.

Then you were back in the bedroom at your new home, reading the birthday card that your dad had sent to you a month late. Written in the top left corner of the page was a scribble of your name, completely misspelled. You closed the card with tears brimming in your eyes, knowing that your existence was slowly beginning to fade from your father’s memories. You tried to remember what his voice sounded like, his calloused hands, his boisterous laughter on the rare days when he wasn’t screaming profanities at you and your mother, and then you realized that he was beginning to fade from yours, and it had felt so, so painful.

Blinking away the hectic memories, you were quickly dragged back to the reality of the press conference. Everyone was still waiting for your response, and the reporter continued to wait for you to crumble under pressure, but all you wanted to do was to run out of the room and hide from people’s blazing eyes, to not have the world criticize you on how you dealt with your family trauma.

“I think that is an absolutely unprofessional question to ask if I am being honest.” Max’s stern voice finally broke the silence, and you were still attempting to process the situation when he continued to chastise the overstepping journalist with an irritated scowl, “The focus of the press conference is to discuss the races and the drivers’ performances on the track, not to delve into people’s personal matter and bring up their family situations which clearly do not have any relevance to the sport.”

The Dutch driver had always been brutally honest, never afraid to speak his mind and call out the press for their bullshit, and this was no exception. Having a complicated relationship with his father himself, he knew the hardships of being in your situation and struggling with toxic family dynamics, and he experienced first-hand how the media loved exploiting such issues for the sake of a story. More importantly, you were his friend, and he would do anything to defend you.

You exchanged thankful glances with the driver next to you, feeling the warmth that blossomed over your heart when Max placed his hand over your trembling ones beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze in a way that meant “Don’t worry. I got your back”.

Upon hearing what Max had to say, the reporter was quick to defend himself. “I was merely hoping to get some insights on whether or not the recent rumors had affected her performance on the track. That’s all,” he attempted to reason, trying to rationalize his intrusive question but was interrupted by another driver who frankly also had enough.

“I think everybody in this room is well aware that is not your intention,” Charles spoke up from his seat, staring at the lying journalist with a tight-lipped smile that was far from friendly. Being one of your closest friends on the grid, Charles was also no stranger to your father’s abusive tendencies and knew how tough it was for you to open up to him about such horrible memories. To see the press tried to take advantage of your vulnerability and blatantly lie about their ill intention sickened him, and he was not going to just sit and watch it happen.

The McLaren driver sitting beside him nodded as he let out a light chuckle, “Yeah I mean – I’m literally an idiot at reading the room but even I can tell that getting racing insights was not your only intention, mate.” The audacity some of these journalists and reporters had was astounding, thinking they could get away with asking disrespectful questions just because of their job titles. When it came to snapping back at their baleful antics, Lando did it once on camera with his iconic “Who are you?” and he would certainly do it again.

Carlos couldn’t help but smirk at Lando's cleverness – masking his reproval at the journalist with a self-deprecating joke. When his attention landed on the audience seated before him, he allowed himself to enjoy the caught-off-guard look on the journalist's now reddened face. “Serves him right for asking stupid questions,” Carlos muttered in a hushed voice just loud enough for himself to hear before turning his head to catch your eyes, shooting you a quick smile as a sign of support. You returned the kind gesture, thankful that your friends were standing by your side when you needed help.

As the journalist busied himself with trying to recollect his composure, an awkward silence hung upon the room once again. That was when Daniel perked up from his seat, the usual cheerful smile on his face as he proceeded to do what he did best – easing the tense atmosphere and diffusing the tension with a touch of humour. “Well, I can totally affirm that Lando can be an idiot sometimes,” he joked while grinning mischievously at the papaya driver, and the mood in the room visibly lightened as a few reporters laughed at his playful words.

“But on a more serious note though, I do believe it’s important to remember that drivers are also human beings, and we all have our own struggles and difficulties both on and off track. It’s crucial to respect drivers’ boundaries and not exploit their personal struggles, and our sole focus should always be on the sport and racing,” Daniel voiced out respectfully, emphasizing the one thing that people always seemed to forget – that drivers deserved privacy and owed nobody any explanations on their personal lives, even if they lived under the spotlight.

Oscar and Pierre who were seated at the further end of the table also nodded at Daniel’s resonating words, expressing their agreement on the importance of maintaining a respectful and uplifting environment for all drivers. “What are your thoughts, y/n?” A female reporter in the crowd raised the question, subtly giving you an encouraging smile as she steered the attention back to you, offering you the chance to speak your truth and address the situation directly.

The fear and dread within you slowly dissipated, replacing them was the heartwarming gratitude at your fellow drivers who showed no hesitation in defending you in the face of intrusive questioning. It was then that you realized you were never alone in this journey, that the other drivers on the grid were not only your competitors but your family who understood what you had gone through and would unconditionally have your back.

It was their reassuring glances, their wholehearted support, and their willingness to stand up for you that enveloped you with the strength and courage needed to finally speak up for yourself. “I would like to start off by thanking all the drivers here with me, and thank you to the journalist for that rather personal question,” you spoke clearly at your microphone, your voice emboldened by the newly found determination as you watched the journalist shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“While I do appreciate the public’s concern regarding my family issues, I would prefer to keep my personal life private. The decision to distance myself from my father to prioritize my well-being and emotional health is not something I regret doing, and it is not fair for people outside my family who don’t understand the complexities of our relationship to make assumptions on the matter.”

Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, you made the closing remarks to your statement, “Which is why I kindly ask for your understanding and space moving forward, to respect the privacy of not only me but everybody on the grid and allow us to deal with our personal matter privately, and ultimately create a respectful community within Formula 1.”

You looked around the room when you had finally finished speaking, meeting the eyes of your fellow drivers and the rows of reporters sitting before you. Your hands were still shaking from the nerves that pulsated through you, but a firm squeeze of Max’s hand pulled you back to the present before you could begin spiraling. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with a gentle smile.

The media training sessions had come in handy once again, and you managed to address the situation in a graceful manner without revealing more details than you were comfortable sharing while also highlighting the importance of personal boundaries in the world of motorsports. “Thank you, y/n,” the previous female reporter nodded at you with a proud smile, glad that you put those unprofessional reporters who had no sense of boundaries back in their place.

Among the sea of cameras and eager reporters who could so easily expose the vulnerabilities of the drivers with a simple flick of their pens, some suddenly found themselves becoming the subject of such exposure, called out for their prying questions and insatiable need to twist people’s words for a click-worthy story.

It was evident that what you and the other drivers said had struck something within them as they silently began reflecting on their roles and responsibilities as reporters, and perhaps remembering the reason why they had chosen journalism in the first place – to report the factual truth to the public, or to fabricate things in exchange for views and attention?

The press conference proceeded to continue, but the shift in the atmosphere was apparent when journalists asked their questions with more sensitivity and introspection, mentioning topics that genuinely mattered instead of blindly chasing exclusive headlines. When the conference finally ended, you and all the drivers collectively exuded a breath of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off your shoulders now that the far-from-enjoyable media day was over.

As you exited the room and were away from the cameras and people, you turned around and gave your friends an appreciative smile. “Thank you all… for standing up for me.” You must have sounded like you were close to tears because Daniel began cooing at you teasingly as if he were comforting a crying child, “Aww… don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

Charles leaned forward to ruffle your hair almost like what an older brother would, and he said to you tenderly, “We’re a team, and we’ll always have your back.” You were not going to cry initially, but now you weren’t so sure. At that moment, you had felt so loved, so supported, and it made you want to hide under the covers and bawl your eyes out from the rush of emotions that crashed over you.

Your friends, understanding the depths of your emotions, gathered around to offer you their words of encouragement and gentle pats on your back. “I love you guys, really…” you whispered quietly, looking at them with such sincerity and gratitude. How lucky were you to be able to have these people as your competitors, your friends, your found family?

“Who wants to go and eat because I’m actually starving,” Lando exclaimed as he began walking in the direction of the restaurants, and a few of the drivers tailed behind him as they joined in on the rant about how hungry they were. You watched them with an overwhelming sense of fondness, and when Max reached out his hand for you to take, you gladly accepted it.

Listening to the light-hearted banter and laughs that filled the air with your best friend right next to you, you knew that this was exactly where you belonged. Not in the tiny living room with your father screaming at you, not in the classroom with the kids who didn’t understand what you had been through, not in the bedroom where you cried over your fading memories with your father, but right here – with your favourite people who would always be there to fight your battles with you.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #max verstappen x reader #charles leclerc x reader #daniel riccardo x reader #f1 drivers x reader

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