#and it's confusing like. what do you get out of this ?

[meowdei]

down the drain (literally) — ft. ryomen sukuna

female reader ; established relationship (engaged even!) ; modern bf sukuna ; slightly dramatic reader (she’s in shambles okay??) ; soft sukuna ; fluff

Sukuna is going to kill you.

For one, you’ve been in the bathroom for thirty minutes and he is clearly sick of it—the door handle rattling is proof enough. For another…well…your engagement ring is down the drain.

(Literally.)

You’re technically supposed to take it off when you wash your face just to be safe, but you get tired, and you forget here and there—mornings are always rough as it is. Sometimes, because you’re human, you forget. And it’s generally okay. Until it’s not.

Because your engagement ring is down the drain. (Literally.)

“God fuckin’ dammit woman,” he hisses, knocking on the door, “what are you doing in there? Open the damn door it’s been ages.”

“Just a second,” you call, panicking as you try to pull the drain plug out, but it doesn’t budge. Your fingers aren’t doing you any favors either—it feels like they’re the perfect size to not fit around anything to help you out here.

Your engagement ring is down the drain (literally) and there’s nothing to do but slowly bite your lip as tears collect at your lash line. So you open the door—and before Sukuna’s angry face can scold you any further, you’ve collapsed against his chest, soaking his bare chest with your tears.

“Wha—” he’s stunned. Stiff and standing there for a moment before he’s stuttering, “h-hey—I didn’t even yell at you that bad, what the fuck? Why’re you bein’ so—”

“I’m sorry, Kuna,” you sob, “please don’t be mad!”

“I’m mad but not that mad,” he says, bewildered. You sob harder at that, and his hands quickly find your hips and squeeze in panic at a poor attempt to reassure you. “Okay, okay! Not mad. Just…mildly annoyed. You’re…mildly annoying, better?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you wail.

“Okay! I got it! You’re havin’ a slow morning. Whatever, I waited. Can we just—”

“I didn’t think it’d slip off like that!”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“My ring,” you hiccup. He stills. You sniffle, pulling away and preparing yourself for his harsh, bitter anger as you whisper, “it fell down the drain.”

“What?” he looks at you, still confused. “What do you mean?”

“I w-was washing my face and then…and then—” you take a shuddering breath to try and work through your sobs before you continue, “it fell off and went down the drain! Now it’s in the sewers!”

“The sewers?”

“Yeah the pipes are gonna take it to the sewers!”

“I don’t think it’s in the sewers just yet—”

“And then the sewers will take it to the ocean and then I’ll never find it again!”

“The ocean is a long way from here—”

“I’m so, so, so sorry—”

“Oh my god, woman,” he grabs your cheeks, squeezing them together to shut you up as you stare up at him with wet, miserable, teary eyes. And he softens. Lets his shoulders fall a little as he sighs before rough thumbs are swiping at your cheeks less than gently, but more than in love. “’S just a ring.”

“It’s not just a ring,” you gasp, “it’s my engagement ring!”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, “but we’re still engaged—”

“But now no one will know!”

“Then I’ll buy you a damn new one,” he groans, rubbing his temples as he clicks his teeth when a fresh new round of tears soak your cheeks. (He doesn’t like how it looks—wobbly lips and puffy eyes on you make him feel like he’s doing something wrong. He has enough mistakes to worry about as is.)

“But it’s expensive and—”

“And not your problem,” he grumbles, “I’ll buy you a ring. A nicer one, too, if you promise to quit your whining.”

“You’re not mad?” you sniffle, slumping against his chest as your arms circle his waist.

He melts. Because it’s you, and he always does when it’s you. His arms wrap tightly around you, and a large hand cups the back of your head as he presses a small kiss to your temple.

“You want me to be mad that bad?”

“No,” you whimper.

“Then ‘m not,” he snorts, chest vibrating under your cheek at his laugh, “so quit worryin’. You’ll get creases and everyone’ll think I married some old hag.”

You crack a small grin. He’s good at that—at pulling a soft smile onto your lips against your will as you let out a quiet giggle, gently swatting at his back with your hand as you huff. For a second, the ring is forgotten. For a second, it’s just you, it’s just Sukuna, and it’s just nothing else.

“Not a hag, you asshole,” you huff.

“You nag like one,” he mumbles.

“Do not,” you huff, “you just always piss me off.”

“You piss me off, too.”

“Are you pissed off about the ring?” you ask quietly.

“No,” he grunts. His arms squeeze you tighter, his lips kiss your head once more, and his body sways you side to side ever so slightly as he repeats, more seriously this time, “no. Forget the ring. I’ll get you a new one if I have to, so don’t cry.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he hums.

He does. Ring or not, he does. And you can tell he does when he pulls away, gently pinches your nose and leans in to kiss the tears off your face as you can’t help but smile and giggle.

Your ring is down the drain (literally) and so is the hefty sum of money he spent on it, but everything else is still right here. Him and you and you and him and everything you’re ever built, nestled perfectly safe between the little space between your bodies.

“Done cryin’?” he asks gently.

You nod, kissing his jaw as he hums in content. “Yeah.”

“Great. Then get out—it’s my turn in the bathroom and I’ve waited long enough.”

—————— BONUS.

“Hand me the wrench.”

“Okay,” you hum. You hand him a tool, and he stares at you unimpressed as soon as he looks at it.

“That’s a screwdriver.”

“Oh. Which one’s the wrench?”

“Give me a fuckin’ break,” he groans, rubbing his temples.

Fifteen minutes later, and a good deal of bickering over what a wrench looks like and how his tools don’t all look the same, Sukuna has successfully retrieved your very shiny, and very pretty engagement ring. (It didn’t make it very far down the pipes—which is good. It didn’t make it to the sewers, and it most certainly didn’t make its way into the ocean.)

It’s no longer down the drain. (Literally.)

It’s now on your finger. (Literally.)

“Happy?” he raises a brow, watching as you grin at your finger, clearly pleased.

“Yeah,” you hum, sighing in relief. “Good thing you’re at least good at something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently.

“I’m flushin’ that thing down the toilet next time! Sendin’ it straight into the ocean so you’ll never find it again!”

I’ll never forget when I was six years old and I dropped the small ring I got from a gumball machine down the drain when I was brushing my teeth and then I had such a severe meltdown my dad had to bust out his toolkit, open the damn bathroom sink pipes, and fish it out. Because six year old me could not FATHOM losing my 50 cent plastic ring no matter how many times he promised he’d buy me a new one 💀

Anyway. My dad and I were reminiscing about that on call and then I decided it would make a cute sukuna drabble so here you go.

Anyway peace ✌️

[skyberia]

here's a list of programs/sites/whatever that were helpful to me when i was moving away from using spotify & back to downloading music:

soulseek - peer to peer downloading program, has most music you'd want. there's "rules" to it though and the UI is a little confusing, but you can figure it out. there's tutorials. i believe in you

cobalt.tools, ytiz.xyz, yt-dlp - mp3 downloaders, for the songs that you can't find on soulseek

musicbee - music player, extremely customiseable. reminds me of when i used itunes back in the day. has a lot of good features, including syncing music over to your phone

lastfm & listenbrainz - sites that keep track of your listening stats. i'd recommend this even if you still choose to use a music streaming service

syncedlyrics - cmd thing that gets you timed song lyrics, like the ones spotify has. there's no UI but it's easy enough to use. just grab the lyrics and timestamps it spits out and paste it into musicbee

music presence - program that shows what song you're listening to in your discord status, in case you use discord and enjoy the thought of other people seeing what you're listening to, which i do for some reason

i'm not going to lie to you and say that switching away from spotify/streaming services is an effortless task, it took me half a whole day of nonstop Work to get all my music downloaded and sorted out, but i will say that it was worth it!! and you should do it 👍 if you want to

[inbabylontheywept]

Memories of Grandpa Dale

I was playing in the barn, but I was also hiding from my grandpa. I was aware that this hurt his feelings, but I didn’t know what else to do. Every year I’d ever visited him before, he’d seemed kind of mad at me, but I’d hoped still that year was the year that we’d finally be friends. I even made a list of things to do together. 

Unfortunately, the list did not fix things¹ so I'd been forced to acknowledge that if he couldn't be happy with me there, and he couldn't be happy with me gone, then perhaps he simply could not be happy. At least, not until someone invented The Secret Third Thing.

(But I was only nine. So. That someone would probably not be me.) 

Fortunately, being happy is a task that I've never needed to delegate - I’m actually quite good at it. I’d been sad in the barn for maybe an hour or so, but eventually that got boring, so I invented a new game where I would chase big clouds of shiny blue flies off the sun-warmed horse-poop and try to shoo them towards a corner of the barn that I knew had a large spiderweb in it. 

I was perfectly aware that this is not ideal for the flies, but I had just read Charlotte’s Web, so my empathy function was very biased towards spiders, who I perceived as patient and compassionate and slightly maternal women. Who just happened to have eight legs.  

(I, like most nine year old boys, would have personally been willing to fight a war for every patient, compassionate, slightly maternal woman I had ever met. If you, personally, have ever hugged a little boy who was trying very hard not to cry in front of his friends after skinning his knee, know that there is a child in this world that would kill in your name.)

(Now live with that knowledge.) 

I played my game with the flies for a long time. Long enough to get into a rhythm of running and laughing and then panting outside on my back while wallowing in the long green grass.

It was during one of those walks outside to lay in the grass that I noticed my mom. She was sitting on a hay bale, looking baffled. I don’t know how long she’d been there, but I was too young and confident to even feel odd. She asked me what I was doing, and I just kind of gestured to the ceiling, and said, You know, just. Feeding spiders.²

She nodded. I was feeding spiders. Of course. 

We sat there a few moments. It was an amicable silence, but I was still faintly relieved when she broke it.  

Your grandpa’s been looking for you, she said. He got some grapes earlier. Wanted to take you to feed the ducks.

I've always really liked feeding ducks³. Visiting them had actually been the next thing on my list. 

I was baffled by the effort. 

He’s mad at me, I pointed out. My mom, to her credit, looked genuinely confused. 

He’s not, she said. 

But he was mad when we picked blackberries, I pointed out. And when we went on that walk down to the prairie. And he snapped at me this morning when I asked if I could have some of his dried mangos. 

The mangos had been my last straw. The weirdest part was that he didn’t even say no, he just (angrily) said of course you can, as if it was an insult to his hospitality that I was asking when just the year before he’d yelled at me because I ate a tin of dried apples. Apparently, I was just supposed to know that those apples were exclusively reserved for The Apocalypse. 

(To be fair, my grandpa has always been very worried about the apocalypse, but mostly in the context of not having enough dried apples for it. There was a period of my life where I thought that The Apocalypse referred to some kind of prophesied biblical event where there would be No More Apples. This thought has stuck with me for a very long time⁴.)

Well. Yeah. My mom said. He’s mad. But he’s not mad at you. He’s just… Mad. 

I mulled this over. 

What about the mangos? I asked, and she shrugged at that. 

Alright, so that time he was mad at you, but that’s being mad one time in three days. Cut the man some slack, you’ve been asking him for permission before eating anything. 

I just don’t want to eat the wrong thing, I said. I’ve always been very defensive of my rule-following. Both because rules are important, and also because that #10 can of dried apples ripped through me like a shotgun full of razor blades⁵. That “snack” had 400% the recommended daily fiber for an adult man. And I was very definitely not a grown man when I ate it.  

It was a very painful experience is what I am trying to say. 

I know, my mom said. 

I don’t even like apples, I added. Still defensive. 

I know, my mom said again. She’s very good at saying it. It always feels like she’s agreeing with me, and not just trying to rush me onto The Point. Sometimes, people need to make detours from The Point in order to explain things. Like, hypothetically, why they once ate a very large number of dehydrated apples. My mom is wise, and she has always known this. . 

I just really wanted to eat something sweet, I continued. They don’t keep anything sweet in the whole house. The day before I ate those apples, I licked all the salt off a saltine just so I could eat the cracker plain. And then the cracker tasted just like a cookie. To me. That’s how crazy I was going. 

My mom nodded her head sympathetically. 

My first month of college, she said conspiratorially, I ate about a box of poptarts a day. 

There was another longish pause as both of us considered what led us to this point. 

My parents are crazy, my mom said at long last. It’s a very peaceful statement to her. I'm sure it was stressful when she first realized it, but she's had a long time to make her peace, and she's made it well.  

Will you go with me? I asked. To feed the ducks?  

He’s not mad at you, she said again. Reemphasizing her point. He’s just mad. It’s just how he is. 

But she went with me anyway.

I watched Grandpa Dale closely the whole way to the pond to see if my mom was right. She was. She almost always is.  He was angry while he drove, and he was angry while he parked and he was even angry while he strode purposefully towards the park. When we got there, he took several grapes, and he angrily put them in his hand, and angrily extended the hand towards the ducks, and he looked at me, and for maybe a tenth of a second he looked okay. Not exactly happy, but a little less mad. Then a duck bit the webbing between his pointer finger and his thumb.

He immediately, without hesitation, without even a second thought, hit the duck with a haymaker⁶. For a human, the punch would have been devastating, but the duck had the benefit of having essentially no inertia, so it just kind of moved sideways and looked perplexed. 

You son of a bitch, my grandpa said. This is a funny thing for anyone to say to a duck, but it was especially funny to hear coming from a former Mormon Bishop. 

Quack,⁷ said the duck. 

My mom started laughing. I'd felt a sort of holy terror at the anger my grandpa was exuding in that moment, but the moment she laughed I realized how absurd it was. I was watching a grown man beef with a duck. I was watching a grown man beef with the world. 

I started laughing too. In a better world, maybe my grandpa would've joined. Maybe he would've taken a good hard look in the mirror and questioned why exactly he was so angry. But he didn't. Instead he swore at the duck some more, and he threw his remaining handful of grapes at it overhand, like a baseball, and then the duck ate the grapes out of the water, and my mom actually laughed so hard she started dry heaving a little, and my grandpa had to go sit in the car for a few minutes by himself to regain his composure. 

¹ He managed to pick blackberries angrily

² Unfortunately, I do this kind of response quite a bit.

³ I got my first kiss from my wife because I managed to capture a duck. They're like, a motif for my life. Very lucky to have that.

⁴ I reference it again in this very weird short story.

⁵ I eat a lot of strange things.

⁶ My wife is concerned people will not know what a haymaker is. It is simply the most redneck kind of punch.

⁷ ...What did you expect it to say?

[bluebellles]

"i'll take a quiet life"

gentle moments of reciprocating their affection

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, sfw

cw: varying relationship stages, brief callbacks to child experimentation (canon compliant), zayne’s describes a poor relationship with food, heavy on dragon sylus sorry i wish i could be different, ur down bad and a little embarrassing in Xavier’s but he’s worse, author is still settling into character analysis for these guys so pls forgive any ooc

Your hunting partner excelled in many ways. His skill in the field was both undeniable and terrifying, his ability to fall asleep anywhere concerned you as much as it impressed you, and his calm demeanor even in the face of the most stressful situations set your mind at ease whenever you fought alongside him.

The only area he truly lacked in, in your humble opinion, was in his ability to give a straight answer about anything to do with himself or his personal life.

He was, in many ways, a vault of information for everything from the history of wanderers to arbitrary and niche subjects that a normal person would have had to spend a lifetime studying to be able to reference as easily as him. If you had a question about nearly any subject, your walking encyclopedia of a partner likely had the answer ready to deliver to you accompanied by a yawn and that sleepy blink of his eyes. 

Answers about himself, however, were much harder to come by. He never declined your inquiries outright, but he had a litany of creative and mildly infuriating ways to dodge the question. He was very adept at distracting you, often with food or confusing questions of his own. You once asked him what he did over the weekend and he pulled a bag of your favorite candy out of his pocket to offer to you, waited until you started munching on it happily, and then just said “and what about you?” as if he had already answered your question. You were also highly suspicious about the timing of his naps on the train to get to missions – always falling asleep right after you try making small talk about where he grew up or his family. 

It's not like you didn’t want to respect his boundaries. He was probably just a very private person or a secret criminal and either way it was ultimately none of your business. It’s just that it was a little difficult to jump into battle alongside another person on a daily basis and trust them to have your back when you couldn’t even get him to tell you about his hobbies. Nothing to do with the way your heart sped up a little seeing him at his desk in the mornings at all. Completely sensible and utilitarian curiosity.

So, rather than continuing to pester him for answers you decided you would simply observe him to get to know him better. Admittedly, as far as subjects for study he was an interesting one. And very nice to look at.

You learned quite a bit about the sleepy man through your observations, jotting down everything you learned in a small, unassuming notebook you kept on hand during work hours. 

For example, he spends an hour in the break room every day eating concerning amounts of convenience store ramen and reading random books about obscure subjects like 101 Facts About Wooly Mammoths and Dating Advice for Older Men. Always a different book, and he always manages to finish it by the time his self-imposed break is over. If anyone tries to make conversation with him during that time period, he will pretend to fall asleep. You’re honestly starting to believe he has narcolepsy or something. Or just very selective hearing.

Contrary to your initial assumptions, he also does have a sense of humor. All of his jokes are told with his usual flat affectation and could easily be mistaken for serious comments, but once you start to look so closely at him it’s easier to pick up on the subtle, teasing drawl at the end of his quips or the way his nose twitches a little with the effort not to smile when he’s messing with you. 

You were in the middle of conducting a very serious investigation about his various micro expressions one night when the two of you stopped by a crepe stand on your way home from work. 

You had already been to the crepe stand a few times a few times with Tara. It was a cute little business run by an older man and his son who had recently graduated from university. You had rambled to Xavier enthusiastically about how they were the only place that had your favorite combination of fillings and how you were craving something sweet, and he had only nodded and said “mh”, which you had learned to translate as enthusiastic agreement.

The owner’s son happened to be running the stand that day and was just as friendly and outgoing with you as always, winking at you when he asked if you wanted your usual. His easygoing smile had faded, however, with a quick glance behind you before he busied himself with making your crepe.

You turned around in confusion, only finding Xavier with the same mild, spaced out expression as always looking innocently off to the side. 

A few minutes later, you dutifully hand over a delicious looking savory crepe filled with meat to the silver-haired man before looking over your own, practically salivating over the combination of fruits and cream. He stared it with what you had recently identified as confusion before looking to you imploringly.

“Not sweet?”

“Oh!” you flustered a little, realizing how presumptuous you had been in ordering for him, “Sorry, I just thought- you prefer savory to sweet right? I mean, when Jenna brings pastries in you always take a croissant instead of a donut-,”

You cut yourself off before you could start listing all the different ways you had been a total creep recently.

“I can get you a sweet one if you prefer,” you whispered out, trying your best to look completely unaffected.

A soft huff left Xavier’s lips, and you looked up to see that gentle half-smile he sometimes gave you and a very soft look in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” he assured you, “I do prefer savory things.”

The second half of his sentence, oddly enough, was accompanied by a very smug glance at the owner’s son who looked rightfully confused and possibly a little nervous.

Armed with your contrasting crepes, the two of you chose to stroll and eat, enjoying the gentle spring breeze that blanketed the evening as you walked. Absentmindedly, you mentioned the owner’s son again in passing, praising him for his skill in creating the perfect ratio of fillings. Xavier suddenly made a face you hadn’t seen on him before.

A tiny twitch of his nose, similar to when he was trying not to laugh, but followed by a miniscule pout before he took a rather aggressive bite of his crepe as if it had done something to offend him personally.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to whip out your little notebook to record this breaking update in your investigation but refrained for the meantime, tilting your head to the side and studying him closely.

“Is something wrong with your crepe…?” 

He froze, glancing down at his food contemplatively.

“…Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m done,” he declared bluntly, turning to glare at your almost finished crepe with equal hostility, “Are you done?”

“I mean- I guess?” You blinked at him.

“Mh.”

Wordlessly, he took your crepe from you and ambled off to find a nearby trashcan. You took the opportunity to whip out your notebook to catalogue all the new data you had collected. 

The nose twitch was multipurpose – sometimes indicating amusement and sometimes indicating… irritation? And the tiny pout. Did he have a stomachache? More information was needed.

You were so wrapped up your excited theorizing that you failed to notice the presence of someone coming up right behind you, peering over your shoulder to read the words you were jotting down.

“I don’t have a stomachache,” a deep voice rumbled directly in your ear, causing you to shriek and fling the notebook further down the sidewalk. It scraped against the concrete before flopping pathetically next to a storm drain. 

You whipped around in abject horror only to find Xavier’s face two inches from yours, looking at you with an unreadable expression. 

“That was not at all what it looked like,” you lied blatantly, eyes darting between him and the notebook.

“What did it look like?” he asked mildly, his face betraying nothing of his current mood. He was still close enough to you that you could count all of his individual lashes and make out a few tiny scars along his jaw.  

“I’m not stalking you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Mh.”

Xavier didn’t press the subject, instead going over to retrieve the notebook. Mortification rolled over your entire being as he began rifling through the pages. You wished a car was driving by so you could throw yourself in front of it.

“It’s seriously not as creepy as it seems,” you sound delusional even to yourself, “I just wanted to get to know you better.”

While you were panicking and wondering how soon you could transfer departments, Xavier was staring down at the pages filled with your cute handwriting in contemplation.

It would seem that he had underestimated you once again. 

Finding you in this lifetime, as a dying star well past its expiration date, he hadn’t been expecting much in the way of your relationship with him. It was simply an impulse he could not ignore – the honor of being close to you. He sought out your brilliance and would always endeavor to orbit around you but it was hardly even a thought in his brain that you would be drawn to him in the same way. Not when he was so tired. Not when he could only offer you a beautiful afterimage of what he had once been.

He should not have doubted you. In every life, you were always the only one to really see him. The only one to even bother looking beyond his blinding light. After so many years of existence and so many different identities, he only ever really saw himself through the reflection of your gaze. He was a fool to have assumed your soul would falter even if he was scattered across the galaxy instead of whole as he once was. 

“Forgive me,” his voice was hoarser than his usually airy cadence, his gaze more focused than you were used to when he looked over at you.

Confusing as it may have been, you didn’t need your notebook to identify his current expression. When Xavier finally looked back at you, the way you had been looking at him all these weeks, it was impossible to mistake the devotion in his eyes.

Rafayel turned the conch shell over in his hands, letting out a thoughtful hum as he let his fingers dance across the spikes. The outside was a gradient of pretty blues that melted into a soft pink closer to the center. A small sticker with a price that had been hastily covered up with marker stuck to the side. The artist’s eye twitched minutely at the sight of it clashing against the otherwise pleasant color palette, already using a sharp nail to carefully peel it off.

“Isn’t it pretty?” you gushed a little, a self-satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you pointed at the shell as though couldn’t see it, “If you put your ear against it, you can hear the ocean!”

He let out a petulant scoff at this, eyes narrowing at the conch shell like it was guilty of scamming you and he was about to put it on trial.

“It’s lying to you, cutie,” he scowled a bit, as though the conch had advertised this gimmick itself, before pointing dramatically at the waves crashing right outside the glass of his windows, “and did you lose your vision or something? The ocean’s right outside if you want to listen to it so bad. …Maybe if you visited me more often you’d-,”

“No, shut up, I know,” you rolled your eyes and nudged him a little before brightening again, “but still – it really sounds like waves! Besides, I thought you could take it with you when you go on your trip for that client meeting. I looked it up. There aren’t any beaches nearby, the whole city is landlocked. I figured you might get homesick or something. Now you don’t have to!”

Rafayel stared at you. Things had been strange the whole morning, starting from when you showed up at his doorstep lacking any of your usual complaints about his antics and without any coercing on his part. 

You had come to visit him of your own accord? You had looked up the geography of his business trip because you were worried about him getting homesick? He mentally scanned through all the elaborate schemes to get your attention he had acted out recently, wondering which one of them had prompted such a reaction from you. He had been so busy with a new series for a very annoying client the past few weeks and he couldn’t think of anything he had done recently that would have warranted this. So why?

“Besides, it kinda looks like your eyes, right?” You said off-handedly, only half paying attention as you adjusted a setting on your watch, casual as if you hadn’t just said something that made his already rapid heartrate speed into overdrive and the tips of his ears flush a pretty red.

Just when he thought he was starting to get a handle on this version of you, that he had figured out the proper tune to draw you closer, you decided to change the rules of the game again. He supposed he should have been used to it by now. Every version of you always managed to shatter his expectations as easily as you breathed. As unpredictable as the ocean, and just as beautiful to him. But honestly, what was a fish to do? How was he supposed to ever prepare for you?

“Are you trying to win employee of the month or something?” he scrambled a little, whipping his head to the side and trying to keep the squeakiness out of his voice, “I won’t be giving you a bonus for it. Just so you know.”

You scowled at this, glancing away from your watch and trying to swipe the conch shell out of his hands.

“Whatever. If you don’t want it just say that,” you huffed as he held it out of your reach, still without looking at you.

“Be quiet,” he sniffed haughtily, holding the shell up to his ear and pushing you away gently by your forehead with his other hand, “I’m listening to the ocean.”

“I thought you said-”

Insufferably, he hushed you and closed his eyes under the guise of concentrating so you wouldn’t see the softness of his expression. All he could hear was random ambient sound, not even close to the vibrant complexities of the sea that encompassed his birthplace. Even still, as he pictured you carefully rummaging through different shells at the pier market and comparing their hues to his eyes, he had never felt closer to home. 

As much as he'd like to pretend he was the siren ensnaring you into his trap, he was well aware that that honor belonged to you. Regardless of the time or the place or the bodies you both inhabited, your song was a tune that could never be erased from the core of his being and one he would always walk towards willingly. How annoying.

For a man who lived his life with complete precision, who planned out every day with strict control and little room for superfluities, it was nearly impossible not to notice even the slightest changes in routine.

As such, every tiny alteration you made to his otherwise balanced life was meticulously documented and filed away. Not with annoyance or disapproval, as some might expect, but instead with the intention to figure out how to best accommodate for your whims without disrupting his own routines or, infinitely more abhorrent to consider, burdening your own carefree sensibility with his neuroses.

Pausing in the doorway to straighten out the shoes you had haphazardly kicked off on your way in. Making sure you had a glass of water next to your daily iced coffee so that you wouldn’t get dehydrated. Carefully holding onto your hand and keeping you steady as you insisted on walking across the side of a bridge rather than the sidewalk next to him. Despite the stoic expression and steadfast seriousness he exhibited while preforming these simple tasks for you, he did not consider them to be a burden. It was a privilege to bear witness the vivacity you brought into his world.

He was content, in this way, to watch you bulldoze through life with reckless abandon and dutifully reorganize the chaos you left in your wake. It was enough to feel the brilliance of your warm light soak into his cold skin. He would remain steady and controlled for the both of you.

You were, however, a little less content with this arrangement. Zayne was steady. Constant. A stone pillar for you to rest against when you couldn’t handle standing up on your own. You loved this about him, but he wasn’t infallible. Wasn’t impervious to desire and indulgence. You loved this about him too. You just wished he could learn to love it about himself.

You knew your boyfriend loved sweet things. It was something you often teased him about, mostly joking in every respect besides the potential cavities. To be honest, you found it endearing and loved to see evidence of the gentle, sweet man hidden beneath his frosty exterior. 

The only thing that really concerned you about the doctor’s habit was that despite his propensity for baked goods and sugary candy, he didn’t actually seem to enjoy the process of eating them very much at all.

It was often during times of stress that he’d make a detour by the local bakery after a long shift. He would eat pastries as quickly as possible, a stark contrast from his usual habits that left little time for savoring the flavor. It almost seemed like an uncontrollable urge, a shameful impulse that he wanted to push through as quickly as possible. As utilitarian as one could be while digging into a strawberry shortcake. 

Zayne was a tempered man, driven by the ideology that if he lost even an ounce of control, he wouldn’t be able to stop the spiral. He wasn’t someone who could integrate indulgence into his routine halfheartedly. There was no true enjoyment to be found from acquiescing to his desire, only a temporary slip that would be accompanied by unfulfilled resolutions to abstain in the future.

You disagreed.

The two of you had a nice, cozy dinner together every Friday after work. Usually consisting of takeout, often delayed due to both of your hectic schedules, and sometimes taking place on the uncomfortable wooden benches outside the hospital but you always made it happen without fail. 

One night after a good meal with lighthearted conversation about your respective days, you retreated to Zayne’s fridge and returned with a miniature cake and an excited smile.

Zayne stared. It was a pretty cake, artfully piped cream and strawberries between layers of sponge cake with a delicate dusting of powdered sugar on top. His brow twitched minutely, mentally scanning through significant dates or anomalous recent events that could have prompted such an extravagance as you carefully removed it from the plastic bakery box. 

“…What’s the occasion?” he finally asked with great reluctance, disappointed by his own inability to decipher what he was missing.

“Hm?” you blinked, setting out two dessert forks and keeping your countenance deliberately casual, “No occasion, it just looked good.”

He stared at the cake as if it held all the world’s secrets.

“Did something happen today?” he pressed on, carefully assessing your mental state as if expecting you to suddenly have a mental breakdown.

“I had a craving for cake, that’s what happened,” you shrugged, not waiting for him before digging your fork into the side of dessert.

He watched as you savored your bite of cake with simple contentedness, no hint of stress or shame about the enjoyment you took from a useless indulgence. Not giving in to any kind of uncontrollable urge or distracting from any kind of emotional need. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

“You aren’t going to make me eat this whole thing by myself, are you?” you pouted playfully at him, making the puppy dog expression that always got you an exasperated huff followed by the immediate entertainment of whatever you asked for, “It doesn’t taste as good if we aren’t both enjoying it.”

Zayne, as always, weighed out his options out. If it was for you, maybe it was okay. As always.

He picked up the fork and took a slow bite.

After that night you had decided this was now an inherent part of your weekly routine, showing up with brightly colored macarons, beautifully decorated tarts, and decadent chocolate creations depending on what caught your eye at the bakery. You started calling it your ‘mandatory sweet treat’ and continued the tradition without fail. Always eaten in tandem with a balanced meal and shared slowly over happy conversation. A celebration of your bond rather than a shameful impulse. 

Zayne continued to tell himself that he was just playing along with your whims as usual. After all, how could it be wrong when you smiled so sweetly at him as you handed him his fork? 

It wasn’t until one week, when you stumbled into his house flustered after an unusually difficult mission and no time to stop by the bakery before closing that he finally had to admit his own enjoyment for the activity.

There was a brief silence after dinner was finished that week. He stared at the cleared table as if expecting something delicious to appear out of thin air. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat and clasped his fingers together on the table with his usual sense of decorum. 

“…No sweet treat today?” he asked ruefully.

You couldn’t contain your grin, whipping out your phone immediately to scroll through bakeries and ice cream parlors that stayed open late for sugar fiends like your adorable boyfriend.

Something had shifted recently. A tiny change in your dynamic that pricked ever so slightly at the center of his chest. Like everything else with you in this new lifetime, he tried his best not to sink his teeth into it and drag it forcefully out into the open. Used all his self-control to let you tend to it on your own terms and pretended not to notice. 

In hindsight, maybe the first change had been after he showered in your apartment for the first time. He had taken a polite amount of your body wash, trying his best not to infringe on your hospitality like a normal, human house guest, but as the scent of it (the scent of you) rolled over him his pupils had dilated. Fingers clenching against the bottle with the minute tingle of claws that no longer existed trying to come to the surface.

Smelling like you, knowing if anyone else walked by they would associate him with you and you with him, fed that deeply hidden instinct he tried so hard not to bother you with. You had scarcely gotten over your disgustand he was going to do his very best to keep it that way, annoying and primal dragon brain be damned. 

But still, just this once. Just this little thing would be okay, right?

Before he knew it he was drenching himself in the scent. Indulgent and greedy and marked by you. 

When he confessed nonchalantly to having used your entire bottle of body wash, playing it off as a taunt and hoping you didn’t notice the faint flush of his cheeks, he expected your usual annoyance or scathing remark. Some sort of sly dig that he could latch onto and use to keep your attention on him. It was the game this version of you liked to play, and like every version of himself he was happy to indulge. 

Instead, you had just hummed thoughtfully. Eyes a little distant as though ruminating over something in your head. The switch up made him tense just a little. Wonder if you could see through to the most feral part of him and if you would scorn him for it.

“You’ll have to give me a bottle of yours, then,” you said instead, eye contact oddly intentional for the moment, “to make it even.”

He almost jolted in place, clenching his fists at his sides for just a moment before relaxing.

She doesn’t know what it means. How could she? Swallow it down. Keep pretending that you can be human.

“Your negotiation skills have improved, kitten,” he speaks mildly, instead of pinning you to the couch the way he wanted to, “I suppose fair is fair.”

The second shift came in the form of a necklace, elaborately encrusted with bloodred rubies and sparkling diamonds. It rested in its glass case at an underground auction, the gleam of it against black velvet activating that familiar desire to possess and hoard away treasures so that nobody else could have them. He pictured it laying delicately across your neck and had to stop the rumble that threatened to emit from his chest. 

He sprung it on you right before an undercover mission to gain intel about a powerful protocore, one of many he had sought out and curated to spend a little more time with you. Tried to feed you some line about how you needed to fit in with the wealthy crowd you were attempting to infiltrate that night.

He expected you to remark about the exorbitant tastes of the uber rich or fluster about the idea of accidentally damaging such an expensive item and try to force it back into his hands. Both reactions were equally endearing to him, as was everything about you.

Instead, you only looked at him with that same thoughtful expression, allowing him to gently drape it over you and fasten it while narrowly avoiding the urge to take a deep inhale of the back of your neck. 

You examined yourself in the mirror, fiddling with the stones delicately, but your gaze was on his reflection behind you when you spoke.

“It’s pretty,” you spoke simply, your tone of voice one he hadn’t heard from you before. Something more gentle, not quite complacent but almost approving.

As if you were praising his tastes. Praising his hoard. Accepting his courting gift.

It was more difficult than ever to swallow that rumble back down again. The reaction was new, but you couldn’t possibly have understood the delusions you were feeding. Stay human. Keep letting her come to you. You already used up all your luck the first time around, you have to be more careful now.

His eyes scarcely left your neck for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t until days later that the final thread of his self-control snapped. The intel mission had taken longer than expected, and you were staying in his house to avoid the tedious commute from Linkon. A practical solution, he insisted to both you and himself, nothing to do with the primal desire to keep you firmly in his territory. 

He could scarcely pinpoint how it had happened, but sometime during your quiet evening routine of reading next to each other on the giant, plush couch in his living room you had ended up curled between the couch’s arm and him. You weren’t pinned down by any means, but you were entirely engulfed by his larger frame. If someone were to walk by they would not even be able to see you beyond him.

Completely covered on all sides. Protected from threats. Guarded by him. Nothing could touch you tucked so deeply into his territory, surrounded by him and his hoard and completely at ease.

Despite his most sincere efforts, he couldn’t stop the rumble from finally emitting from his chest. Couldn’t stop the deep purr that vibrated throughout him and rolled over you. 

He froze. Cut himself off from making any noise and, for a moment, even breathing. It was with great hesitation that he forced himself to meet your gaze. Fearful of the disgust and reproach that clouded your first meeting in this lifetime making a reappearance as you finally recognized the part of himself, he tried to keep buried for you.

Instead, that curious expression scanned over his face. Your head tilted to the side just a bit. Tentatively, you reached for his hair from where he was resting against your side and began running delicate fingers through it. His breath hitched. You glanced away from him, returning to your book but keeping up your gentle ministrations.

His purring started up again. A tiny smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

Caleb dutifully held the umbrella above your head as though he was getting paid for it, but you caught his gaze drifting to the puddles collecting near the sidewalk multiple times. Your mind drifted to rainy summer days when you were kids, sloshing around in puddles and competing to see who could slosh the most water at the other before Gran would poke her head out the front door to scold you both inside. Something twisted in your chest. Without thinking much further about it, you ducked out beneath the umbrella and took a flying leap into the nearest puddle, delighting in the small splash kicked up by your boots. 

“You trying to catch a cold, Pips?” Caleb’s tone was shrouded in playfulness, the way it always was around you, but underneath it was a brief waver, a sharpening of his gaze that revealed the true panic he felt at even the possibility of harm befalling you under his watch.

 The hypervigilance that couldn’t differentiate between a mild sickness and the sight of your battered, tiny body strapped to a white table. 

“So what if I do?” you challenged him then, hopping to an adjacent puddle and trying to keep the intention out of your voice. He flinched, as if you had just said something absurd. Opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again before trying to adjust to something more casual. Teasing and relaxed instead of the phrenetic and overbearing mess he tried so hard to hide from you.

“If you get sick you’ll have to skip the congressman’s dinner, and I’ll have to go alone. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” 

Right. An annual, stuffy dinner party where a bunch of government officials got together to talk about boring politics and pretend it was necessary to use four different forks for one meal. Half of them actively held grudges against Caleb for his unprecedented skyrocket to authority within the fleet and the other half thought he could be manipulated into granting them favors because of his youth. None of them deserved his time, you thought petulantly, not in the way you did. 

“So come get a cold with me,” you rebutted, tilting your head to the side playfully, “Then we can just stay home and play video games all day instead.” 

Caleb paused at this. You could practically see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tried to reconcile his pathological need for your safety with the temptation of staying inside with you all day, just the two of you, maybe curled up together on the couch as you ate snacks he would carefully prepare for you as he nurses you back to health, maybe sick with the same germs. His head tilted to the side like a puppy who had just heard the words walk, treat, and good boy in succession. 

 “…I bet we could even knock out a whole Lego set before we get better,” you sweetened the deal. 

Caleb practically flung the umbrella onto the sidewalk at this, giving no warning before launching himself into the puddle next to you and causing a significantly larger splash. You shrieked in both offense and thrill and splashed him back, reveling in the delighted laugh the usually curated man let out. The grin on his face was a little more crooked and uncontrolled than his usual teasing smile, the shrewd look in his eyes when he looked anywhere besides you just the tiniest bit lighter. It wasn’t a lot, but you were grateful for any amount of levity you could offer to him. Listening to the sound of his unrestrained laughter, something in you settled just a bit. 

For all his intelligence and capability, Caleb’s perception of himself was skewed by his self-imposed reluctance to ever look in the mirror. Caleb believed he was a feral wolf, with teeth too sharp to be filed down and starved by his trauma in a way that meant he’d never feel full again. So instead, he tried his best to show you a puppy. Docile and obedient without any appetite for vengeance or destruction. Someone who could curl up at your feet without you getting scared he’d sink his teeth into you the way he wanted to. You were the only one that knew he was neither.

Caleb was not the perfect, golden boy he spent so much of his life curating for you. He also wasn’t the cold, unfeeling weapon of destruction he desperately tried to hide away from your sight. He was something in between, childlike in his rage and his joy in equal measure. Calculating, certainly, and more than a little manipulative, but the end goal had always been to protect the both of you from a world that had never been as kind as he deserved. Caleb was not a monster, as he thought, or a perfect shield, as he so desperately wanted you to think. He was just a man, and once just a very scared boy. Just yours. And you would spend the rest of your life trying to prove that to him.

[sinofwriting]

Engineer in Law - Max Verstappen

Words: 1,758 Summary: Max and GP are far more close than most race engineers and drivers, which might have to do with the fact that Max is dating his daughter. Note(s): Takes place in 2021. Reader is GP’s daughter. Reader is 21, Max is 23. I don’t know what GP’s wife’s name is IRL but in this fic her name is Sarah. Also, reader is only given one physical descriptor which is that she has GP’s eyes, apologies if (like me) you don’t know have that eye color, but we can imagine and/or wish! This might end up getting a part two.

Masterlist | Support Me! 

“You're happy.”

It’s not something GP normally comments on, Max’s moods. Not unless it’s to make a sarcastic comment about how thrilled he looks to be going to a press event or something of the sort, but Max is beaming like he just won a race. It’s an odd look on the young driver, an unusual one, sadly.

“I asked the girl I was seeing to be my girlfriend, she said yes.” Max’s voice is quiet and GP leans in, his eyebrows going up at the news, at the soft but excited tone the words hold.

He smiles at the younger, reaching forward and clasping him on the shoulder. “That’s fantastic, mate. Want to tell me about her?” It’s a rather stupid question because if Max didn’t want to talk about her, he wouldn’t have said anything. And GP is rather happy to sit here and listen to Max talk about this new girl in his life.

“She’s amazing, GP. I mean really smart, funny, and she never backs down. She always has a response to anything I say. And even if I’m in a bad mood, she doesn’t let me just sulk. She knows exactly how to get a response from me and she knows it. She’ll get this little smirk on her face after I snap back at her and she’s great.”

GP has to stop himself from clearing his throat at how head over heels in love Max looks. It was oddly like looking in a mirror when GP was just four years younger than him and seeing his wife holding their newborn daughter.

“I hope you're not snapping at her too much.” His dad mode is in full force, nearly shuddering as he thinks of his twenty-one year old daughter getting snapped at often by a boyfriend. He further shudders at the reminder she currently has a boyfriend.

“Not like that.” Max reassures. “It’s kind of like us in the simulator.”

GP lets out a laugh.

It wasn’t often he joined Max in the simulator but every time they did, other people would gather around to hear the pair mock argue with each other.

“Well I’m happy to hear she’s keeping you on your toes.”

—

Max is practically vibrating in his seat as he waits for GP to sit down.

“She planned a date.”

GP stills from where he was about to reach for his water.

“Like a whole date. From everything, the food, the drinks, what we watched and it was all stuff I liked and fit in my training plan.”

He watches the younger closely, hearing something off in his voice.

“I thought I missed something. Like an anniversary or something, even though we’ve only been together five months.”

GP eyes shut for a second, rage threatening to overtake him. Max was never treated kindly enough and Max had never really talked about his few previous relationships before and he can’t help but wonder if this is why. Because Max never felt truly happy in them. Always something just wrong, always on the edge.

“She just wanted to do something nice for me. Said it wasn’t fair, I had been planning most of our dates.” Max looks confused, but there’s a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Y’know, my wife and I trade off.”

Max tilts his head a little.

“I mean, we only do a date about once a month, but we trade off. I did the last one, so tomorrow, she’s planning our date. We used to do the same with vacations, but the whole thing stresses her out a little too much, so I plan them and get the travel plans sorted while she handles looking at things to do and places to go while we are there. It's a partnership, Max. It should be an equal give and take. And that doesn’t mean that it has to be you guys both are giving and taking the same thing equally, you just need to find the balance that works for you. Like you take out the trash, she does the dusting.”

“She has a dust allergy. And we aren’t living together yet.”

GP smiles, coughing to hide his laugh. “Yet, I see. And if she has a dust allergy she needs certain pillowcases and sheets, I’ll send you the ones I bought for my daughter last Christmas.”

“Thank you, GP.”

“I’m always here for you, Max.”

—

“You were out again.”

“Good morning to you as well, dad.” His daughter says, eyebrows raised even as she steps closer to press a quick kiss to his cheek before going to the fridge.

He glances at the clock, slightly miffed to see it is just after eleven am. “Closer to the afternoon.” He comments.

She signs, leaning against the counter, a Red Bull in hand, and he watches as her fingers play with the tab but not open it. It’s a habit he’s never seen from her before. “Dad,” He looks at her face at the sound. “Is me having a boyfriend bothering you that much?”

He softens a little. “No, well, yes. It’s just I don’t know anything about him. All I know is you have a boyfriend and that’s it. I don’t know his name, how old he is, what he does for a living, if he treats you well. And you're spending an awful lot of nights as his and I’ve never met him.”

Her fingers still against the can’s tab. “Is that something you want?”

“Well I’d prefer to meet him before you fully move in with him.” He gives her a look. “But yes, I would. He makes you happy.” It was a hard pill to swallow, the reason for his daughter seeming to be so happy being a boy, but that was the reason.

“Alright, I’ll text him and maybe tomorrow we could do lunch?” She offers.

“I’d like that.”

—

“I’ve been listening to Max talk about our daughter for months.”

Sarah’s lips thin as she struggles not to laugh, running a soothing hand over her husband’s back. “You said it was sweet how he talked about her.”

“Well, I didn’t know he was talking about our daughter then did I?”

His head somehow manages to drop further into his hands. “He talked for thirty minutes straight about her eyes. Her eyes, Sarah. She has MY eyes.”

Sarah can’t help the laugh that spills from her lips. “Well at least it was just her eyes you heard about.”

GP’s face screws up at that remembering the hickey he had seen high on Max’s neck last week and apparently he had some interesting scratch and bite marks as well. Those thankfully he had not seen. “Please, love, put me out of my misery.”

His hands fall into his lap and he presses his face against his wife’s neck, smelling the slightly faded scent of her perfume and her lotion.

“Oh hush.” She says, lightly swatting his shoulder. “It could be much worse. You like Max, you know Max. He’d never hurt our baby.”

GP softens, pressing a kiss to her neck before sitting straight, his back thanking him for it. “No, he wouldn’t. I just,” He sighs. “This is serious for Max and it’s obviously serious for her. She’s never invited a boy around the house that she’s been seeing. When she said lunch, I thought she had booked our usual table.”

“I know. You were all ready to go, wallet and keys in hand.”

“She let me think that as well you know.”

Sarah hums, “I wonder who she got that from.”

He smiles at her. “No clue, love.”

Her eyes give a slight roll and then she’s leaning forward. Brushing their lips together. “Max is good for her and it’s obvious that she is good for Max as well with what you’ve told me. And just think you always joked that Max was like a son. Now it’s just more official.”

“Oh my god, they’re going to get married.”

Sarah laughs at the horror and awe in her husband's voice. “I’d say don’t get ahead of yourself, but you saw exactly what I did at lunch.”

—

“Max, if you talk about my eyes one more time, I’m going to report you to HR.”

Max snickers at the older’s expression. “But, I’m not talking about your eyes.”

“She has my eyes.” GP cuts him off immediately, already knowing his defense. “We have the same exact eyes.” He holds up a finger, silencing Max. “And don’t even think of starting to list the difference between them.”

He kicks a little at the ground, faking a sigh. “Fine. Can we at least talk about you talking in the braking?”

GP sighs, but nods. “Yes, we can talk about it.”

They both fail to notice the Sky Sports camera that had been filming the conversation until much later, when Max is sitting in his driver’s room, chuckling at the broadcast that had just ended and the tweets on his phone.

“Listen to this one, Sky Sports seriously reporting that a female employee is threatening to go to HR because of Max’s comments while playing the video of audio of GP, his MALE race engineer, is seemingly joking about going to HR, is sending me. How is this a serious news source?”

GP snorts, looking at his texts with his daughter. “She just sent me this one, ‘Sky is doing nothing but proving their British bias and stupidity. How much do you think they suck Lewis’ dick for every year now?’ Honestly, they have a point.”

“More than a point.” Max says, tossing his phone to the side. “It’s one thing to say I’m a shit driver that shouldn’t be anywhere near Hamilton, but this? This is ridiculous even for them. They have the footage and audio, aired both, and are saying that it’s a female employee. Vicky is having the time of her life right now, and so are my lawyers.”

“Your lawyers?”

Max shrugs. “They’ll be working with Red Bull’s as well, but this is more than that.”

“It is.” GP agrees. “Sarah was with her when it aired. She was livid.”

“I could tell.” The driver chuckles. “My texts are filled with it. She wants to come to the next race, well, two.”

“Team home race. That’s a statement.”

His cheeks are a little pink. “She wanted to wait for Zandvoort to officially come as my girlfriend, but she wants to be with me for these next two now.”

“It will be nice to see her at both.”

[calebs-spouse]

Sylus sits you in his lap to finger you.

The two of you had just come back from a nice, romantic dinner. You had decided to get all dolled up in a little black dress with your hair pinned up. Sylus was donning a dark red dress shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of well-fitting black trousers. Very well fitting. His ass and thighs looked incredible.

Upon arrival back to your apartment, Sylus sat down on the couch, eyeing you. He had been doing it all night, frankly. His intense red eyes boring into your soul, undressing you throughout that whole dinner. You could feel it.

His gaze gave you goosebumps, your previously smooth skin now littered with them. You couldn’t tell what was on his mind— As if that was new— It was Sylus. Unless he told you, you never knew what that man was thinking.

The silence in the apartment was finally broken by his gravely voice. “Come, Kitten.” He ordered, a strong hand patting between his thighs that were manspread confidently across the couch.

You didn’t respond. Your body did. As if on autopilot, your heels clicked against the faux wood flooring, directly to his lap.

“Yes?” You asked, standing between his legs. “You need to give me a bit more than that.” You tilted your head, loose strands of hair falling out of the way and accidentally giving him a clear view of your unmarked neck.

“Sit. I promise I dont bite.” His voice was filled with this tantalizing, teasing tone. Almost entrancing.

And you did— turning around so your back was to his chest— you slotted yourself between his thighs. They now bracketed your hips, a strong hand of his slung across your waist to keep you in place.

“How was the dinner, Kitten? Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked so casually, the exact opposite of his current actions. His free hand made its way between your legs, spreading them wide for him. The strong hand once slung across your waist now holding one of your knees to keep them open.

In your confusion, you started to answer. “Of course, my love. It was really— Ah-“

Your breath caught in your throat, his long fingers running along the seams of your underwear.

“Continue. You weren’t done.” He reminds you, his voice like velvet and directly in your ear.

“Um.” You took a moment to gather your thoughts. “Right. Dinner was really— Hhh-“ A sharp, breath hitching whimper flies from your throat. Interrupted once more by Sylus. His fingers now rubbing you directly through your panties, making slow, drawn out circles with four of his fingers against your heat.

You couldn’t help the way your body reacted to him. You were already soaked. And he knew it too. A smug, quiet laugh like bass in your ear from behind you.

“What’s the matter, Sweetie? Cat got your tongue?”

The dirtiest thing about all of this was how casual Sylus was about the whole ordeal, not even acknowledging the fact that his hand was between your legs. Teasing you. Making you desperate.

And you knew he didn’t want you to acknowledge it either.

“No, I’m fine.” You lied, having no choice but to play along. Anything to keep him going. “Was really good. So— Mhmm- Good—“

A slender, ringed finger pushed past your underwear and slid itself inside of you. Your head lulled back, now resting on Sylus’s broad shoulder as he started pumping it in and out of you. Slowly.

His cologne was now more prevalent than ever to you. Since you were unable to look at his face, you clung to anything about him you could sense. And the masculine, hypnotizing scent was what you grabbed onto.

“Sylus-“ You whined, your eyes firmly shut as he dipped another long finger into you, increasing his pace.

You were already so, desperately wound up. You could feel your body tensing up in anticipation of an orgasm. God, how was it so easy for him?

“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me.” His voice was like a siren’s song. So smooth and soothing and sexy.

“Keep going, please. Im gonna—“ Your voice gave out as a long moan replaced your words, your body shuddering as his fingers hammered into you, your slick dripping between your thighs and onto the couch.

The tension in your abdomen broke, head soaring into a fuzzy, euphoric state as your vision blurred. Your back arched off of Sylus’s chest, head resting on his shoulder.

“That’s it. Such a good little one.” He encouraged as you came, his hand that was holding your knee now across your chest to hold you as you come down. Preventing you from falling forward.

It took you a solid moment to reconnect with reality. Standing up, you noticed the mess you left on the couch cushion. “Oh my god..” You muttered, slightly embarrassed.

“I’ve got it.” Sylus chuckled, pulling your dress back down for you and planting a kiss on the top of your head. “Meet me in the bedroom.” His eyes pointed towards the doorway. “Oh. Okay. Sure-“ You shuffled away quickly towards the bedroom, knowing exactly what mood Sylus was in.

And that meant he certainly wasnt done.

[inseobts]

A Swordsman’s Resolve

zoro x reader

when you awaken a new power that lets you take others' pain as your own, you begin secretly protecting the strawhat crew—until zoro finds out and decide to train you to grow stronger without relying on your gift.

words count: 3.1k

warning: reader is like a voodoo doll so self harm, blood and injuries are mentioned for the fights

tags: injuries, fluff, a bit angst maybe, training with zoro

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You ate a Devil Fruit when you were a kid, and got a strange ability that let you use your own pain as a weapon.

If you stabbed yourself, your enemy would feel the wound instead. A direct exchange. Pain for pain.

It wasn’t perfect. The more damage you took, the weaker you got. Sure, you healed faster than the one you hurt, but it still hurt like hell.

And if you pushed too hard you wouldn’t heal as fast as your usual.

Still, it was useful. You used it to protect the crew, especially during battle. If someone was about to get hit, you’d cut yourself transferring the damage to the enemy instead to stop them.

Painful? Yes. Worth it? Always.

But then, something changed.

It happened a few weeks ago.

The battle had been rough, but the crew had won. You stood on the Sunny’s deck, covered in sweat and blood, catching your breath.

Across from you, Luffy was clutching his side waiting for Chopper to finish patch someone else.

“Oi, you okay?” you asked, stepping closer.

Luffy grinned, but it was weaker than usual “Yeah! Just a little cut.”

A little cut was Luffy speak for ‘I’m actually bleeding a lot, but don’t worry about it.’

You frowned, crouching beside him. His shirt was torn, revealing a deep gash along his ribs. It wasn’t fatal, but it didn’t look good either.

Without thinking, you pressed your fingers over the wound and then a sharp, searing pain shot through your own ribs.

Your breath caught as you felt the wound disappear from Luffy’s body… and appear on yours.

Luffy blinked, confused.

“Huh? It stopped hurting!” He poked his side, then looked at you “…Wait, why do you look like you’re in pain now?”

You gritted your teeth, trying not to hiss “No reason.”

Luffy tilted his head “Did you just—”

“Shut up,” you muttered, standing up quickly “I said it’s nothing.”

Luffy’s eyes narrowed “Did you just steal my injury?”

You froze “…No.”

“Yes, you did!” His expression lit up like a kid discovering a new game “That’s so cool! Can you do it again?”

You groaned “It’s not cool, Luffy.”

But he was already poking at his arm “What if I get a cut here—can you take it?”

“Luffy.”

“What if I break a bone?”

“LUFFY.”

He pouted “What? It’s a fair question!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples “Look. I didn’t even know I could do this until now. It just… happened.”

Luffy blinked, processing.

Then, to your absolute horror, he grinned “That means you can heal everyone! You heal faster so it must be already gone..”

Your stomach dropped “No. It actually hurts. A lot more than my usual power.” You crossed your arms “Seems like it takes longer for me to heal. It’s not some magical fix.”

Luffy hummed “Mh then I'd say you don't use that anymore... but you’d still do it, right? I know you”

You hesitated.

Of course, you would. If it meant protecting the crew.

But before you could answer, Sanji’s voice rang out from the kitchen “Dinner’s ready!”

Luffy immediately forgot everything and ran inside, laughing.

You exhaled. Crisis averted.

For now.

Because if Luffy knew then it was only a matter of time before someone else found out.

You keep your secret safe for weeks! Apparently Luffy forgot...

At first, it’s easy. You start small, taking tiny injuries from the crew when no one’s looking. A scraped knee here, a bruised knuckle there. Nothing big.

No one notices.

But then the fights get tougher.

The New World isn’t kind. Enemies get stronger, battles last longer. The crew starts walking away from fights with barely any wounds. But you start feeling it.

The constant ache in your bones, the sharp sting of deep cuts that aren’t healing fast enough. But you push through it, hide it well.

Or at least, you think you do.

Until Zoro catches you.

It happens after a particularly brutal fight.

The crew had just finished raiding a marine base. Nothing too crazy, but the enemies had been tough.

You stand on the deck of the Sunny, bandaging your arm. Another wound you had taken from Usopp. He had been hit bad, you hadn’t even thought before reaching for him, absorbing the injury.

Now, you regret it. This one hurts.

“You’re doing it again.”

You freeze.

Zoro’s voice is sharp, too sharp. When you turn, he’s standing near the railing, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you.

You force a smile “Doing what?”

His expression darkens “Don’t play dumb.”

Your stomach twists.

“Taking our damn injuries” he says flatly.

Your grip tightens on the bandages “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro steps closer “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

Before you can finish, he moves. Too fast.

One second, he’s in front of you. The next, he’s grabbing your wrist forcing your hand away from your bandages.

Your breath catches.

His eyes drop to your arm.

To the wound that wasn’t there before the fight ended.

His jaw tightens “So that’s how we’ve been walking away without a scratch.”

You yank your hand back “It’s not a big deal.”

“The hell it isn’t!” His voice is low, but angry “You’re hurting yourself for us.”

You glare “I’ve always done that.”

“Not like this.”

“It’s the same thing!” You step closer, frustration bubbling up “I take pain to protect the crew, that’s what I’ve always done!”

Zoro’s expression hardens “You’re not protecting us. You’re making yourself weaker.”

You scoff “Oh, so I’m the weak one now?”

“Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

Your breath catches.

Zoro exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“You rely on this power too much.” He shakes his head “What happens when you take too much? When your body can’t keep up?”

You look away.

He notices.

His voice drops lower “You don’t know, do you?”

You swallow hard.

Zoro sighs. When he speaks again, there’s no anger. Just frustration.

“You can’t keep fighting like this.” His gaze locks onto yours “Train with me.”

You blink “…What?”

“Train with me,” he repeats “You want to protect the crew? Then get strong yourself. Not through your Devil Fruit. You.”

You hesitate.

This is Zoro. The most stubborn, relentless, brutal fighter on the crew.

But deep down, you know he’s right.

You exhale “…Fine.”

A smirk tugs at his lips “You’re gonna regret that.”

Training with Zoro is hell.

You expect it to be hard, Zoro is one of the strongest swordsmen, after all. But you don’t expect him to be this relentless.

“You call that a punch?” he scoffs, blocking your attack with one arm “I’ve seen Chopper hit harder.”

You grit your teeth “I don’t need to be strong like you. I have my Devil Fruit.”

Zoro’s expression darkens “That’s the problem.”

Before you can react, he moves, sweeping your legs out from under you. You hit the ground hard.

Pain explodes through your body, but you refuse to transfer it away.

Zoro stands over you, arms crossed “If you lost your powers tomorrow, could you still protect the crew?”

You don’t answer because you don’t know, and Zoro sees it.

He sighs, holding out a hand “Get up.”

You glare at him, but take his hand anyway. He pulls you to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re doing that again” he says.

You groan “You just knocked me on my ass.”

“Then stop letting me.”

Over the next few weeks, something shifts.

Training with Zoro is brutal, but you keep up. You stop relying on your Devil Fruit in fights. You block, dodge, counter without using your power as a crutch.

And Zoro watches you closely.

At first, you think it’s just him being a tough mentor. But it’s not just that.

Because sometimes, when you push yourself too far, his frustration turns to something like worry.

You don’t question it. Not until the day everything changes.

The crew is ambushed on an island.

It’s not the worst fight you’ve had, but it’s bad enough. The enemy captain is strong, and before you know it Zoro takes a hit.

A deep slash across his chest. Blood spills onto the ground.

Your body moves before your brain does. You reach for him.

Pain floods your body as the wound transfers to you. Your knees buckle, breath hitching but Zoro catches you immediately.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps, eyes blazing.

You grit your teeth “Saving your life, dumbass.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“You didn’t have to!”

Zoro scowls. He grips your shoulders, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You can’t just take pain like it’s nothing,” he growls “You think it doesn’t matter?”

You glare back “It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

His voice is low. Firm.

Your chest tightens “You wouldn’t get it.”

His grip tightens “I do get it.”

You freeze.

Because there’s something in his eyes, something familiar... and then, you remember.

You were awake when the Rumble Ball incident happened. The damage Luffy took at Thriller Bark. The moment Zoro stood covered in blood, refusing to say what happened.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

Your breath catches “You took Luffy’s pain back then.”

Zoro’s jaw clenches.

You stare at him and his gaze softens. Just for a second.

Then he looks away “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does. Because now, you understand you and Zoro are the same.

You both take pain so the crew doesn’t have to.

But Zoro never let it break him.

And maybe that’s why he’s so angry now. Because he sees you going down the same path. And he doesn’t want that for you.

You swallow hard “…Zoro.”

His eyes flicker back to you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then his voice is quieter “Don’t do that again.”

Your fingers curl into fists “I can’t promise that.”

Zoro exhales sharply “Then I’ll just have to stop you again.”

Your heart pounds.

Because the way he says it, it’s not just a threat. It’s a promise.

You and Zoro don’t talk about what happened.

Not at first.

The crew is too busy celebrating the win. Luffy’s laughing, Usopp’s boasting about some made-up feat, and Sanji’s grilling enough food to feed an army.

But Zoro stays quiet.

And you pretend your body isn’t aching from taking his wound. You pretend Zoro’s eyes aren’t constantly on you.

But you feel the way he watches you. The way his jaw tightens every time you wince.

And then, late that night, when the crew is asleep, he finally snaps.

You’re on the deck, staring at the sea, when you hear heavy footsteps.

Zoro stops beside you, arms crossed.

You sigh “Here to scold me again?”

“Tch.” He leans against the railing “Don’t act like you didn’t deserve it.”

You roll your eyes “I saved your life.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You were bleeding everywhere.”

Zoro gives you a pointed look “So were you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because he’s right.

You shift uncomfortably “I can handle it.”

Zoro scoffs “That’s what I said back then.”

You glance at him “What?”

His gaze darkens “It almost got myself killed.”

You’re confused but you don’t need the details to understand. Silence stretches between you.

Zoro sighs, rubbing his neck “I know why you do it. But you’re an idiot if you think you can keep this up forever.”

Your fingers tighten on the railing “…So what do I do? Stand there watching everyone getting hurt when I know I can do something about it?”

Zoro exhales sharply “Just let me help you.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not a demand. Not a command. It’s an offer.

You swallow hard “I don’t need—”

“Don’t start.”

You blink.

Zoro turns to you fully, expression serious “You need to stop acting like you’re alone in this.”

Your chest tightens.

Zoro doesn’t do speeches. He doesn’t waste words.

So if he’s saying this…

He means it.

“…Okay.” you murmur.

Zoro raises an eyebrow “Okay?”

You roll your eyes “Yeah, okay. I’ll let you help me. Happy?”

He smirks “Ecstatic.”

You laugh, shaking your head “Asshole.”

His smirk widens “You love it.”

Your heart stumbles.

Because he says it too casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s true.

You look away “Shut up.”

Zoro just chuckles. And somehow the weight on your shoulders feels lighter.

Training with Zoro doesn’t get easier.

If anything, it gets harder.

Every day, he pushes you past your limits, forcing you to fight without using your Devil Fruit, making you stronger on your own. You hate him for it, but you also hate that it works.

Your body stops aching as much. Your reactions get faster. Your movements sharper.

And Zoro never stops watching you. But you ignore that.

Until the day everything falls apart.

The training session is brutal.

Zoro blocks every attack with zero effort. He moves too fast, dodging your punches like they’re nothing.

You’re tired. Frustrated.

So when he steps in close, you react on instinct.

You try to sweep his legs, but he sidesteps, and suddenly, you’re off balance and before you can stop it, you crash into him.

Zoro grunts as you both hit the ground, hard.

And just then you realize where you landed.

Your body is on top of his. Your hands are on his chest. His very solid, very warm chest.

And Zoro is just staring at you.

His breath is warm against your skin. His hands rest lightly on your waist, like he’s not sure whether to hold you or let go.

Your heart pounds.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

And then, without thinking, you kiss him.

It’s quick. A fleeting brush of lips. But it’s enough. Because for a split second, Zoro freezes. His grip on your waist tightens as his breath catches. And that’s when it hits you.

What the hell did I just do?!

Panic floods your chest.

You pull away. Scramble to your feet.

Zoro sits up instantly, eyes wide “Wait!”

But you don’t. You turn and run.

Because holy shit, you just kissed Zoro and you don’t know if he wanted you to.

You avoid him after that.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

But every time you see him, you hear his sharp inhale. Feel his hands tightening on your waist. See the shock in his eyes.

And you can’t face that.

So you just... don’t.

You dodge his training sessions. You sit as far from him as possible during meals. When he walks into a room, you walk out.

The crew notices.

Luffy is confused. Nami is amused. Usopp keeps giving you looks.

And Zoro is pissed, because he might be shy, but he isn’t dumb. And you’re not subtle.

So after three days of this he corners you. And you realize, too late that you’re screwed.

You’re about to slip away again when you feel that familiar, heavy stare.

You freeze.

And before you can react a strong hand grips your wrist. You spin around.

Zoro stands there, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“You,” he says, voice low, “are avoiding me.”

You swallow “No, I’m not.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow.

You try again “I’m just... busy.”

His jaw clenches “Bullshit.”

You flinch because Zoro never calls you out like this.

You pull your wrist free, looking away “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zoro exhales sharply and then “Is it because of the kiss?”

Your stomach drops.

Your entire body tenses.

You should have known he’d bring it up.

But hearing him say it out loud... you can’t breathe.

“I—” Your voice catches “I didn’t mean to—”

Zoro steps closer “Didn’t mean to what?”

You step back “Forget it.”

“No.” His eyes darken “I won’t.”

You clench your fists “Just drop it, Zoro.”

His hand catches your chin. Gently.

Your breath hitches.

“I’m not dropping shit,” he murmurs “You kissed me. Then you ran. Now you won’t even look at me.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze.

And fuck, he looks serious.

Your heart pounds.

“I thought…” You swallow hard “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Zoro stares.

Then he curses under his breath, and before you can react his hand cups your face and he kisses you.

Not soft. Not hesitant.

But actually firm and certain. Like he’s making a point.

Like he’s saying “You’re an idiot if you think I didn’t want this.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Your hands fist in his shirt. You kiss him back desperate, dizzy.

His arms lock around you, because now that he has you he’s not letting go.

Zoro’s kiss is rough, unyielding.

Like he’s making up for lost time. Like he’s claiming something he should’ve had all along.

You barely have time to breathe.

His hand tightens at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just right, deepening the kiss until your knees threaten to give out.

You clutch at his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, and maybe it is.

When you finally pull away, gasping, your head feels light, hazy.

Zoro doesn’t let go.

His forehead presses against yours. His breathing is uneven and when he speaks his voice is low, rough “Still think I didn’t want it?”

You shudder.

Your fingers tighten on his chest.

“…No.”

His lips curve “Good.”

The crew finds out immediately. Not because you tell them, but because, apparently, you’re both terrible at hiding it.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and the entire crew is staring at you.

You freeze.

“…What?”

Sanji smirks, leaning against the counter “So…you and the mosshead, huh?”

Your stomach drops.

Nami hums, sipping her coffee “Took you long enough.”

Usopp grins “You guys weren’t exactly subtle.”

Your face burns “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luffy just tilts his head “Zoro was smiling this morning.”

You blink “So?”

Luffy grins “Zoro never smiles like that.”

Your mouth opens and then you hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

You turn and there he is.

Zoro strides in, yawning. He looks relaxed, more than usual, like he actually slept well for once.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And without hesitation he reaches out, grabs your wrist, and pulls you into his side casually, like it’s natural, like he’s done it a million times.

And when he notices the crew watching he just raises an eyebrow “…What?”

Silence.

Then Sanji groans “Oh, great. Now he’s even more unbearable.”

Nami just smirks “About damn time.”

Usopp whispers something about losing a bet.

And Luffy just laughs “Shishishi! You two are weird.”

Zoro just grunts “Tch. Whatever.”

But you see the way his fingers linger against your skin. The way his shoulders relax just slightly when you don’t pull away.

[just-a-sweet-girl]

Hi i saw that your requests are open so what lets say what if reader magically teleported into the dmc netflix (anime) world and Dante finds her. Like it happens right in front of his eyes. What would he do ? Like becoming friends with feelings type of thing. Hope its not a bother. Have a great day.<3

Not a bother! Never could be :) I love reading everyone's requests! Thank you for asking for this, its a cute little idea <3

You fell from the sky. Literally.

It was certainly a big surprise when he head screaming from above to see someone falling straight towards him. He caught you, arms cradling you as your both stared at one another. Him in bewilderment, and you with fear and confusion.

"This must be my lucky day," He gives you a boyish grin. "Beautiful women falling into my arms!" But he sees how dizzy you seem to be, pressing you hand against your aching head. His expression calms. "You okay?"

"I don't know," You mumble, voice shaking. "I think... I'm going to faint."

His eyes widen. "What? Hey, wait a second you -" He falls silent when your head lands on his shoulder. "Okay," He mutters to himself, correcting his hold on you. "I've got you."

He didn't think that odd meeting would make everything seem so different. You were human, the both of you made sure of that when you had woken up in his apartment. That didn't stop him from calling you Angel, though.

With no where else to go, you ended up staying with Dante - you found out his name when he ordered pizza for the both of you. Demons was a big surprise for you, since where you're from, they were mostly monsters in movies and books.

Here, they were real.

"the healing is cool," You said one day, sitting besides him on his couch. A small bowl of water and a towel in your hands. Lifting the wet towel to clean the blood sticking to his skin on the side of his face. "the mess? Not so much."

"That's too bad," Sighs Dante. Eyes closed as he feels how gentle you are cleaning the blood off from his skin. "I like when you pamper me."

You glance away, heat in your cheeks. "Oh, so you get bloodied up on purpose? Maybe I should stop," You make a scene to pull away, only to laugh when he stops you. Hand holding yours back up to his face, his other arm wrapping around your waist.

"Don't be like that," He whines, pulling you closer. "I need my Angel to take care of me."

You huff softly at is little nickname for you. Still, you continue to clean off the blood softly. The air around you two becoming soft and quiet. Dante opens is eyes slightly, and his breath hitches.

The soft light glowing behind you like your very own halo. Brows furrowed slightly as you concentrate on what you are doing. One of your hands cradling his face to hold him still.

You are beautiful.

Eyes widening, you stop and stare at him. Feeling as if your heart stopped, then rebooted. Beating against your chest, trying to break out and into his hands.

"...Shit." He had said that out loud.

Dante looks away, but doesn't turn away. Needing to feel how you still cradle his face so softly. How your thumb brush, feather light over his cheek. He tenses when you wrap your other arm around him, face hiding within his neck. He can feel your breath warming his skin, how your lips touch him as they lift into a shy smile.

Nothing needs to be said. It's felt in how he shifts his arms around you tightly. Comforting. His cheek pressed against your head, holding you to his chest.

[wosospacegirl]

Capi Mami - Alexia Putellas x barcelona femini

Summary: Alexia swears she’s not the team mom… and yet she’s the one confiscating phones, doling out granola bars, and keeping this locker room from imploding.

Word count: 1.5k

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

a/n: a single mama who works two jobs

Masterlist

..

The locker room was a mess. Water bottles were scattered across the floor, shoes were everywhere, and a few jerseys had been tossed carelessly on the benches.

The younger girls were in full gossip mode, laughing and talking over each other, completely oblivious to the chaos they had created.

Vicky was sitting on one of the benches, animatedly chatting about some TikTok challenge, while Salma and Jana were having a loud conversation about the training session they had just finished.

Pina’s laughter echoed through the room as Esmee said something dry and hilarious.

Y/n and Sydney were livestreaming on Instagram–very much against team rules–talking about their training routine and casually throwing shade at the referee from their last match.

Marta walked in first. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the scene. She shook her head with a sigh and muttered, “What is this, girls?”

She took one step and nearly tripped over a bag lying in the middle of the floor.

“Okay,” Marta said angrily, lifting the bag into the air. “Whose bag is this—and why do I have a bunch of stickers glued on my locker?”

“Do you like it?” Vicky asked brightly, the only one acknowledging Marta’s presence.

“I hate it,” Marta replied flatly. “Take it off.”

Vicky rolled her eyes and continued chatting. The others kept pretending Marta didn’t exist.

“You might want to clean this up before Alexia gets here,” Marta warned, but the girls barely looked up.

Marta rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath before walking out.

She walked down the hall to find Alexia stretching on a bench, prepping for another round of training. Marta couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Tus nenas están causando problemas,” [Your girls are causing problems], she said with a teasing smile.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Qué?” [what?]

"They’re making a mess in the locker room again. And I’m pretty sure I saw Y/n going live on Instagram ranting about the ref being bought."

Alexia sighed, her expression shifting from confused to fondly exasperated. "You know what they’re like," she muttered, standing up. "I’ll handle them, and then I’m confiscating Y/n’s phone."

The moment Alexia stepped into the locker room, her gaze swept across the chaos. Water bottles, jerseys, shin guards, and random clothes covered the floor. Not a single head turned.

Alexia didn’t speak at first. 

She simply stood there in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a long pause, her voice finally cut through the room.

"Nenas, qué es esto?" [Girls, what is this?]

Y/n jumped to her feet, face paling at the tone. The room fell silent in an instant.

Vicky, Salma, and Pina all sat up straighter. Y/n very discreetly hid her phone behind her back while nudging Sydney to sit properly and kick a rogue boot under the bench.

“Hi, Ale!” Vicky greeted sweetly, putting on her most innocent baby voice.

“Mi reina!” Pina chimed in, springing up and reaching for a hug.

Alexia sidestepped her without missing a beat. “What is all of this?” she asked, gesturing at the chaos with one unimpressed sweep of her hand.

“Nothing! We were just… talking,” Jana said quickly, voice shrinking. “It, uh… got a little out of hand?”

Alexia’s eyes scanned the room like a laser. Her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“Is this how we treat a shared space?” she asked. Her voice didn’t rise, but the warning in it was sharp.

“No,” they chorused, voices barely above a whisper.

“Is the locker room where we throw our stuff around like toddlers?”

“No.”

“Should I start labelling your bottles and jerseys like you’re in daycare? Or can we act like professionals?”

“We can act like professionals,” they muttered in unison, chastened.

Alexia took one slow step forward. The shift in the room was immediate–every breath held, every eye on her.

“I don’t like doing this,” she said quietly, the calm in her voice somehow worse than yelling. “But this? This is not okay. I expect better from all of you.”

Y/n shifted awkwardly, guilt written all over her face. “Are you mad at us?”

“I’m not mad,” Alexia said, her pause deliberate. “I’m disappointed.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. The silence that followed was thick.

“We’re sorry, Capi,” Y/n said, her head ducked. “We didn’t mean to mess up. We just got carried away.”

Alexia’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “You should’ve known better. I trust you girls. Don’t make me regret that.”

“We’re really sorry, Alexia,” Salma added quickly, voice sincere.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Alexia replied, crossing her arms. “I better not hear another complaint. Understood?”

“Yes,” they all said, truly meaning it this time.

“Clean it up,” Alexia ordered, turning to walk out. “And next time? Think before you act.”

As soon as the door shut behind Alexia, Sydney let out a dramatic exhale. “I really thought she was gonna make us run laps again.”

“My feet still hurt from last time,” Y/n groaned, flopping back onto the bench.

“Obviously,” Pina snorted. “It was yesterday, genius.”

“We are never doing this again,” Vicky said, voice solemn like she was making a blood pact.

“Nope,” Jana chimed in, hand raised like she was swearing an oath. “From now on, we will clean up before she walks in.”

“We should actually stop throwing stuff the second we get here,” Salma added thoughtfully.

Y/n suddenly sat up, panic dawning on her face. “Wait. Do you think she saw me go live?”

“Yes,” everyone said in eerie unison.

Y/n groaned and buried her face in her hands. “I’m so screwed.”

“You two are a disaster,” Jana muttered, nudging Sydney.

“We are not,” Sydney defended. “The world just needed to know how rigged that ref was.”

“You need to stop,” Esmee said, already starting to clean up the bottles.

Sydney shot her a look. “You’re just mad you didn’t join the live.”

“No,” Esmee said dryly. “I just don’t enjoy being yelled at. Call me crazy.”

Their chatter continued as they cleaned, a little more subdued now. Just outside, Alexia leaned against the wall, listening. 

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

Y/n leaned back on the bench, phone in hand, muttering just loud enough for the others to hear, “One day, I swear, I’m gonna figure out how to get away with this. Maybe I’ll just block the older girls on Instagram and on Twitter–problem solved.”

A few of the girls snorted in laughter.

But then…

A voice, calm and deadly precise, cut through the moment.

“You think I’m gonna let that happen?”

Silence.

Alexia had stepped into the room like a shadow. Everyone froze. Y/n especially.

"Phone. Now."  Her palm was out, her stance unyielding.

Y/n clutched her phone like a lifeline. “Ale… come on. Please.”

Alexia didn’t budge. “Now. You’ll get it back after training–if you survive it.”

A dramatic sigh escaped Y/n, but she reluctantly handed it over, placing it in Alexia’s open palm like a guilty child surrendering contraband.

Alexia smirked, tucking it safely into her jacket pocket. “You really think I don’t hear everything? I’m always watching.”

As she turned and walked off, Vicky whispered, “She’s got ears like a hawk.”

“No,” Jana said with a grin, “she’s got mom-radar.”

From across the room, Alexia called out, “I heard that, too.”

As soon as she left, Vicky whispered, "Okay… maybe we should behave."

"Maybe," Jana said. "But I doubt it’ll last."

After cleaning everything, the door opened again. Alexia stepped back in and surveyed the room.

"Well done," she said. "Now get ready. Training’s going to be tough."

As they moved, Alexia pulled a small bag from her backpack and began tossing sandwiches and granola bars at them.

“Eat,” she ordered, hands on her hips. “No one’s stepping onto that pitch with an empty stomach.”

“But we already had lunch,” Y/n mumbled, catching hers mid-air.

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You’re serious?” Vicky asked, halfway through peeling the wrapper.

“Sí,” Alexia replied, voice firm but laced with affection. “You need it. You’ve all been dragging your feet since drills this morning.”

Y/n took a bite and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I was kind of sluggish.”

“You always try to avoid eating before training,” Jana chimed in, smirking. “No more excuses.”

“I’m eating, aren’t I?” Y/n grumbled around a mouthful.

Alexia gave her a knowing smile. “Good. You need the energy to keep up with the rest of them.”

“Okay, mamí,” Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow.

Alexia paused mid-step. “What did you just say?”

“Mamí,” Y/n repeated, grinning now. “You act like a mom. You scold us, you take our phones, you pack our snacks. You’re literally parenting us.”

“I am not,” Alexia scoffed.

“You are,” Vicky said through a mouthful of granola. “This is full-on mom behaviour.”

“Keep calling me that and I’ll ground you,” Alexia warned, but her lips twitched, threatening a smile.

“See?!” Y/n pointed dramatically. “Mom threat.”

Alexia rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she watched them finish the bars and sandwiches, making sure every last bite was gone.

Once the wrappers were tossed and silence settled back in, she straightened, captain mode back on.

“Alright. Let’s go. Hydrate, boots on, and meet me in five. We’ve got work to do.”

She turned, but not before one last glance over her shoulder at the girls–her girls. 

Their chaos, their charm, their energy. They might not be hers, not really, but her love for them was unmistakable.

Strict? Always.

Soft? Only when they weren’t looking.

..

a/n: Just really wanted to write something platonic haha

[capsensislagamoprh]

"You know," she said as I turned the corner, "you're dangerously close to something."

"Is it your liver?" I asked, pressing my knife in deeper.

"Not quite. Good thing too. The god of medicine is a buddy, and pal, he do get mad when I show up with random holes I didn't previously have."

I admit, I was taken aback. "Say what now?"

"Oh yeah. Lives over on 3rd and Pine."

"There's a god. Living on 3rd -"

"And Pine, yeah. So anyway," she smiled, dusting off her robes. "I work for the messenger god - fabulous health care, pension, I mean how could I not? He says to watch it. You're dangerously close."

"To what?"

"Becoming one."

"I'm going to need clarity." Perhaps demanding was a strong word, but it was heavily implied I should put away my knife as she pushed her rather pointed boot into my groin in the most unpleasant manner.

"That should help."

By the time I recovered enough for the letter she'd dumped on me to stop swimming through my vision, she and her burgundy trench coat were gone.

Three hours latter there was a knock at my door. The sun set and so did my senses. She was back with pizza and a twelve pack. By the time I'd decided I was to intrigued not to let her in, my small apartment was full of people literally crawling in through the fire escape. Except that one guy who walked in through the closet door like it was Tuesday. There were more than a dozen of them taking over my living space, raiding my fridge. One guy pulled out things I *knew* weren't in my fridge. All I could think was 'what is happening'?

"So, you're the new kid," a particularly buff old gentleman with the sort of beard one can only describe as a cloud said as he sipped from an IPA, bright eyes taking me in. "Interesting."

I was so off put all I could say was, "What?"

"Don't mind him. He's new," said the messenger's assistant, divesting her burgundy coat. "So new he doesn't know what he's done yet."

The room stopped. Glances were exchanged. "At all?" asked one particularly colorful being, his heart shaped shades some how clashing violently with his Hawaiian shirt and cacky shorts while completing the image at the same time. She set down the six pack and grinned.

By the next morning I knew what I did. I knew what I'd done. And I knew what I was in for.

Old gods exist, sure. Saw a few myself last night. (Don't ask the guy in the loud shirt to take off his glasses. Just an F.Y.I.) But so do new ones. They exist for a thousand little things. And they have a portfolio or radius. Mine? I'm the 'generous god'. The giver. Some praise me by words. 'What a lucky day!' Some sigh in relief or look confused and pleased. But what matters is that they have started talking. And I have become.

Right now I am an urban legend. If I keep doing what I am, I will become part of the fabric of this place. And from there I can gain power, followers, more. If that's something I desire.

It comes with perks. Immortality based on gathered belief and those who warship - even if warship isn't in a structured temple thing - and the ever present stuck-at-the-age-I-am-now-forever bit. The down side? Power comes and goes. You do tend to out live everyone else. It leads to a tight net community of small gods. And they will randomly show up on your couch to crash for a few days.

But the thing they thought was great was that I came with my own built in set of moral codes. Most people have a hard time not letting power like this go to their heads. That's why they seem immortal in life but die tragic or forgotten. I'm not Robbin Hood. I'm not a saint. I'm a new god. A small player on a cosmic stage.

I think I'll grab a couple of friends and film them handing out flowers to people to make their day. You have to start your following somewhere. Might as well do with with a smile. We'll get coffee on the way.

You’re a rogue with enough gold to last ten lifetimes. But old habits die hard—you sneak through crowds, slipping coins into people’s pockets. The kingdom is buzzing about the mysterious, generous "thief."

[the-original-skipps]

|| Abs! Abs! Abs! || Honkai Star Rail Reactions II

anaxa and his lightcome came home so imma drop this and scurry away i know some people are gonna come at me like sunday and anaxa don't got abs theyre lean yeah well stomach, abs whatever man lol

When you ask them for an ab pic.

: Aventurine. Sunday. Phainon. Mydei. Anaxa.

cw: suggestiveness. established relationship. gn!reader. possible oocness. half naked men. art used does not belong to me but credited to it's rightful owner.

❥ Aventurine can feel his smirk growing as he reads your text. You're way too predictable. He's heard about this fad trending nowadays on social media along with a bicep pic? He's not surprised you jumped on the trend too. The blonde is a definite tease so he'll have his fun teasing you by saying maybe or asking you for a picture back. You were on the verge of giving up until he suddenly sent the picture.

Aventurine is very casual about the whole thing. He knows he has a good magnificent body and he knows how to take a good picture. He takes some pictures, checking them for a moment to find the right one before pressing send. What he's looking forward to now is seeing how you'd react to it. Oh, he can't wait to tease you more.

The picture he sends is of him sitting on some lavish sofa. His signature turquoise dress shirt unbuttoned all the way showcasing his abs. A wine glass in one hand while the other angles his phone down so that his abs are fully captured on screen. 

"Mhmm I don't know, what do I get in return for sending you such a picture?"

❥ Sunday tilts his head in confusion. Ab pic? A picture of his abdominal muscles? The request came out of nowhere and it surprises and confuses him. What could you use such a picture for? He sighs, shaking his head. There's no use mulling over its purpose. A small smile graces his face. He could never deny you, no matter how strange your requests may be.

Sunday spends quite a while a few hours on taking the perfect picture. It's not his fault he keeps finding faults in every single picture he has taken. He needs it to be perfect for you! Until he realizes how long you've been waiting for the picture. After what seemed to be forever, he finally settles on a picture he's satisfied with. He hesitates on sending it until he wills himself to just do it. His feathers could fall off with how nervous he is for your reply.

It's a picture of him reluctantly/shyly holding his dress shirt up. His eyes looking away while his wings cover half of his face in embarrassment. If you look closely his cheeks are dusted pink. 

"Abs pic? I'm not sure what that is but if it will delight you...I'll do my best to fulfill your wish, my love."

❥ Phainon smiles in glee at your request. His invisible tail is wagging as he reads your text multiple times. With each read his invisible tail wagging harder. Ask and you shall receive, of course!

Phainon doesn't waste any time, he's already pulling out his phone to open his camera app. Then quickly discards his shirt - carelessly tossing it aside. He doesn't think much about the pose or what angle the picture should be taken. He claims he just knows how the picture should be taken - it's all in the feeling. He aims the camera so that his abs are in frame and spams the capture button. After a while, he does change poses. Despite how carefree he looks he's actually taking this very seriously. He needs to send the most perfect picture to you.

He doesn't just send one but he sends all the pictures he has taken. The more the better or so he claims. Your phone is ringing non stop from notifications because he sent around 24 pictures. They're all in different poses, angles and expressions. One is zoomed in on his abs while the other shows his entire very toned body. Wait, is that a rose in between his lips?

"Are you sure you're happy with just these? I can send you thirty more...!"

❥ Mydei raises his eyebrow in confusion but it is quickly replaced with a smirk on his face. So, you want a picture of his abs. Very well, he supposes he can make that happen. Only you would dare ask such a thing from the Prince of Castrum Kremnos. He finds your boldness both amusing and attractive at the same time.

Mydei doesn't waste any time. He pulls out his phone, snapping a picture before immediately sending it back to you. The golden lion knows he doesn't need to worry if the picture is good or not. He knows it's good no matter what angle it's taken from. You'll definitely be pleased, he knows it. Though, a mere image made up of pixels would never be able to beat the real thing. He thinks about asking you to come over or maybe he can go to you. The picture is great don't get him wrong but he wants you to see how much better it is in person.

He only sends one picture but it gets the message across. His abs are magnificent as if the gods themselves had sculpted them. He doesn't wear a shirt so he doesn't need to teasingly lift it up. No, he shows it in all its glory. He sits on a throne-like chair, his chin resting in his hand while the other holds the phone.

"Why want a picture when you can come see the real thing."

❥ Anaxa has to resist the urge to scoff when he sees your text pop up. Another one of these nonsensical trends he assumes. He quickly dismisses the thought, deeming it a waste of his time and effort to do - setting his phone aside in favor of grading test papers.

After a while, he finds himself thinking back to your text. He's supposed to be finished grading these test papers by now but all he can think about is your disappointed expression. He nearly slams his pen down on the table before letting out a defeated sigh. Dammit, the things you make him do for you.

Anaxa finds himself irritated at having to do such a thing. He tries taking different pictures but none of them are satisfactory enough for him. He's not very good at this. He knows he shouldn't be wasting so much time and effort for a simple picture but the thought of your lackluster reaction makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He takes a few more before finally settling on a picture. Angle? Good. Lighting? Good. Overall, not bad. He clicks the send button. Now he has distracted himself enough to not think about your response.

The picture is relatively simple. It's a picture of Anaxa sitting in his office but it's angled so that you can only see his lower half. His gloved hand lifting up his shirt revealing his abs. Might as well frame it because he might not do this for you again. He will.

"By the law of equivalent exchange, it's only fair that you send me one back too."

[terraswallows]

Alright, here’s a delightfully not safe for work trans girl confession that I feel doesn’t get nearly enough attention.

Especially in media or even queer spaces: how drastically your… let’s call it "output," changes the further you go into your transition.

So, pre-transition? I was an absolute little deviant. I won’t sugarcoat it—I had golf ball-sized balls, was hung enough to make even the straight boys blush, and when it came to making a mess, I could rival the grand finale of a bad hentai. It was a whole experience, and honestly, I leaned into it for a while because I didn’t know what else I could be. I thought maybe if I just used what I had hard enough, loud enough, slutty enough—it’d drown out the quiet ache of dysphoria. Spoiler: it didn’t.

Then came HRT. And with it, a full shutdown of the “boy horny” I’d grown so used to. I didn’t want to touch it, didn’t care to. It wasn’t even guilt or shame—I just forgot it existed. Months passed, and I realized I hadn’t even tried to get off since No Nut November… which, funny enough, was also the start of my estrogen journey.

And oh stars, what a journey it’s been.

Fast forward six months and... well, it’s safe to say things have shrunk. My once obnoxiously eager bits have withered into something far less commanding. The balls? Tiny. The rest? Still there, still usable, but she’s quieter now. Softer. Gentler. Like she’s finally learning how to whisper instead of scream.

The turning point was the first time I got girl horny. You know what I mean—when your thighs start to squeeze involuntarily, your body hums, and the idea of soft hands and whispered kisses makes you melt like a candle left in the sun. I didn’t know what to do with it, honestly. So I caved and decided to… revisit some old habits.

And let me just say: the difference was hilarious.

Gone were the days of puddles and panting. What I got was a single, confused little spurt that barely cleared the tip. I could’ve spit farther. I blinked. Laughed. And then I realized—oh right, no testosterone, no constant tug-of-war with dysphoria, no desperate “prove you’re a man” nonsense. Just me. Soft, femme, happy.

The porn world can keep its gallons. I’ll take my gentle dribble and the way my body finally feels mine.

So here's the question I want to throw out to other sapphic/trans femmes and gals out there: What’s a not-so-talked-about NSFW thing you found out after transitioning? Something weird, funny, affirming, or just deeply personal?

We need more of these stories—messy, honest, soft, and unapologetically ours.

[princesshopelessofthe13thkingdom]

Aw, props to prev for their self awareness!

But seriously, there are so many transphobes in the notes of this post, and I just want to ask them something: Why?

People living life as a gender other than what they were assigned at birth is doing nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, to harm you or others.

“But science/God created 2, distinct sexes! Trans people can’t defy science/God!”

Science/God also created several fish, gastropods + plants that can switch sexes, as well as intersex people, who were born with biological features that don’t pertain to strictly defined male and female.

“But women’s human rights are dependent upon sex, and gender ideology is taking that away!”

What kind of world are we living in if human rights aren’t universally, equally afforded to every person simply for being human?

“But women are repressed because of their sex!”

If that’s so, then why do so many pieces of media love to force their biologically male characters into dresses and/or makeup and call it comedy? Because it is seen as feminine, and to those people, feminine equals lesser.

“But trans women getting sex reassignment surgery is rape!”

NO IT’S NOT! THERE IS NOTHING INVOLVED THE ACT OF TRANSITIONING THAT IS ACTIVELY PHYSICALLY OR MENTALLY HARMING A CIS WOMAN, OR, WHEN DONE BY PROPERLY TRAINED PROFESSIONALS, A TRANS WOMAN!!!

You know what I think the real reason there are so many transphobes and homophobes and racists and ableists and other kinds of bigots? Well I don’t care, I’m telling you anyways.

The human brain is fundamentally very stupid. To make this infinite, complex universe comprehendible to our mortal minds, we like to make up a lot of strict rules and little boxes to put people into, so we can understand it. Problem is, people aren’t that simple and easy to understand, and these invisible walls have become so ingrained in our society, that when someone defies them, we use that as an excuse to treat them as less than human, because we fear what we don’t understand.

And before any of you have the hypocrisy to call me an indoctrinated, gender-confused, delusional man, I’ll have you know that I was assigned female at birth.

To all the trans people and their allies out there, I hope you can somehow have a good day on this hellhole we call planet earth, and to any transphobes, please, for the love of God, go stare at a blank wall for several hours and rethink EVERYTHING.

I am a woman, legally or not. i am a lesbian, legally or not. I will not have my sense of self removed by some rich mold riddled children's author or the supreme court.

[emilys-bangs]

in gold light | e.p

Tags: established relationship, fluff, reader wears glasses, emily cleans them just because, absolutely smitten both of them, it's disgusting

Summary: You have dirty glasses, and you have a girlfriend. It's simple math; 1+1=2.

Word count: 0.7k

For the glasses wearing girlies <3 Emily would never let our glasses go dirty.

This is your reward, you think. For braving the day and surviving the long hours at work and fighting through the endless horrors. 

Your bones are fusing with the bed, your body dipping further into the mattress with Sergio’s weight on your chest. He purrs up a storm, contentedly asleep in the junction of your neck, and the sound punctuates Emily’s low musings, warm and mellow as the golden lampshade at her side. She’s talking about the beach and getting baked under the sun and dipping her toes into the hot sand.

You can feel yourself sink further into your pillow. It doesn’t help that you’re cocooned in downy softness on all fronts, the lull of her voice caressing your tired bones. A heavy weight settles on your eyes; you try to blink it away.

Emily’s knee grazes your thigh under the covers. You tilt your chin up, wanting to get a better look at her, and frown when a smudge blurs out her face. The squiggles of your fingerprints are just visible on her jaw. It’s not terribly distracting, but prominent enough to bother you. You shift your head to move it away and the light from the lamp elongates to long orange streaks, spanning the length of your vision.

“What are you doing?”

“Huh?” You’re frowning. Emily is too, her head tilted in confusion. “Oh—it’s just, m’glasses. They’re streaky.” That’s enough of an explanation; you’re usually too lazy to follow through with cleaning them. “Sorry, you were—”

Emily leans over you, her hair swinging down from her shoulders and forming a raven curtain around your cheeks. She reaches for your glasses; you instinctively close your eyes, nose scrunching up as she eases the frame from your face. She’s gentle as she drags the temple tips over the curves of your ears.

The bed dips as she leans away. You open your eyes, finding her blurry around the edges, her striking features going out of focus.

“I was saying,” she murmurs, lifting the corner of her shirt and using it to wipe the lense, “why not make it a getaway kind of thing? Instead of just a day trip. We haven’t gone on vacation in a while.” Her fingers rub slow, methodical circles over the plastic. A sliver of her stomach peeks out from under her shirt, hazy lines of ink half tucked into her waistband. She cleans both lenses then raises your glasses to the light, critically squinting through them.

Your chest glows with heat. Suddenly wide awake, you try to hide your smile in Sergio’s fur, all train of thought dissolving into fog.

Emily looks over at your silence, her brows arching. “Earth to Y/N,” she drawls, leaning over again and hovering above you. You hold your breath as she carefully guides your glasses onto your face, making sure the temple tips aren’t caught in any hair. 

They settle on your nose; her outline sharpens. You can see her small smile clear as day, her features soft with love as she makes sure to keep her fingertips on the frame. 

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” She teases. “I didn’t know these were essential to brain function.” Gently, she presses down on the bridge of the frame, pushing it snug onto your nose. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat. Her eyes are inches from yours, onyx brown so deep you could drown in it.

“That was stupidly nice.” You say, your voice soft with emotion as you grab a handful of the hair at the nape of her neck. “You’re stupidly nice.” You mumble.

A brief grin, flash of teeth on lips, fire in your gut.

“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone,” Emily hums, leaning in, “or else I’ll have to kill you all.”

She kisses you before you respond, her tongue sweeping slow and languid over your lip, but you think you mumble something like wouldn’t dream of it. Your glasses dig into your cheeks, cool against your hot skin, and when Emily leans back you don’t even mind the fog on the lenses blocking your view. 

She does, though. She pushes them to the top of your head, nudges Sergio off of your chest and takes his place, all talk of beaches and getaways long forgotten.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco@jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked@heartoreadallthequeerthingz

[lllivia]

Dating Shauna Shipman

warnings: precrash!Shauna, fluff, nsfw (under cut), dom!switch!Shauna

❃ meeting her through little miss popular Jackie, but not immediately hitting it off - Shauna's guarded attitude keeping you at a distance.

❃ but the more you hang out with Jackie (who Shauna's always with) the more interested she becomes to know you. And after a while she even makes you your own entry in her journal..

❃ she becomes increasingly fascinated by who you are, but she still keeps her distance - only saying a couple of words to you when Jackie's out of the room.

❃ that changes however when the two of you get assigned an English project together, which actually requires her to talk to you (she's lowkey a little excited).

❃ after a few awkward conversations you finally begin to hit it off, and the project goes smoothly as a proper friendship begins to form.

❃ she becomes a tiny bit obsessed with you, to the point where Jackie has to keep calling out her obvious staring with a raised eyebrow and a confused expression. Wouldn't Shauna tell her if there was something going on?

❃ well, then comes a sleepover between you, Shauna and Jackie where you do all of the normal stuff - like yk, watch a romcom, eat snacks, gossip, makeout when Jackie's in the bathroom..

❃ yeah.. The staring and the small friendly touches weren't enough to satisfy Shauna's need for you anymore apparently, and how close you were sitting next to eachother on Jackie's bed didn't help. So while watching the movie Shauna's hand had crept closer and closer to yours until it was basically laying on top of it, all while you were sleepily leaning your head on her shoulder.

❃ then when Jackie finally left the room Shauna couldn't hold back anymore. "y/n?"

❃ you'd practically been waiting for Shauna to make a move that whole night, so when she whispered out your name to make sure you weren't sleeping you immediately turned over to meet her eyes.

❃ you both knew what was about to happen the second you made eye contact - so the brunette didn't waste any more time before kissing you pretty bruisingly. The two of you not stopping before Jackie's yelp was heard from the doorway (whoops).

❃ you're pretty secretive about your relationship - with her parents being pretty conservative, and just ppl in general, but also because you just like keeping to yourselves most of the time (rather staying home together than going out).

❃ she likes reading to you, having you cozily lay in her lap while she softly caresses your skin and reads aloud.

❃ treats you better than she does anyone else (even Jackie. Ik shocking) and never snaps at you - if she can help it.

❃ draws you in her journal!! She notices every little detail about you, your moles, freckles, smile lines - just everything. Now that you're together she's not ashamed to show her dependence towards you. Might not be totally healthy, but oh well..

❃ sleeps in your once favorite t-shirt - stuffing it under her pillow every time you sleep over so you won't take it back (you wouldn't - but she doesn't know that).

❃ gushes about you to Jackie, she knows basically everything about your relationship (maybe a little too much). It gets to a point where she straight up has to ask Shauna to shut the fuck up.

❃ loves when you do her makeup, having you sit in her lap while she watches your adorable face scrunch with concentration is honestly a dream.

— nsfw —

❃ writes out all of her fantasies in that damn journal. If you ever find out what it says in there, safe to say she would never hear the end of it.

❃ that girl is freaked tf out. Your first time together happens at a party after Jackie had gave you a tiny revealing top. Shauna's almost sure that the girl is praying on her downfall - bcs how is she supposed to focus on anything other than your hot sweaty body dancing with her.

❃ She practically drags you into an empty bedroom and locks the door before pushing you onto the bed. "woah Shauna what's gotten into you" you smirk. "Shut up."

❃ behind her soft sweet exterior there was now something rougher that got pushed to the front. After what felt like hours of making out on a strangers bed the wetness between your legs was getting increasingly uncomfortable. "Please.. Fuck me already"

❃ the smirk that sentence brings to her lips is downright fucking sinister. She fucks you so good you're seeing stars through the whole thing - and the scratches on her back prove how good it was (Nat sees the marks when Shauna's changing after practice a couple of days later and wow, that brought some really awkward questions from everyone).

❃ like I said, this girl is sinister. She makes you hump your pillow in front of her while she just sits in front of you with her hand in her pants - enjoying the wet panting sounds coming from you.

❃ up for experimenting with all kinds of things, spanking/slapping, bondage, biting (😏) - but her guilty pleasure is using her knife, just watching the dull part gliding over your thighs really does something to her.. She has accidentally nicked you a couple a times, but she doesn't even apologize - only licks the blood away.

❃ sometimes she isn't in the mood to top you and instead leads you through all of the different things she likes. "Just like that - mhm" "your doing so good baby.. Keep going" "fuck, you make me feel so good y/n"

❃ goes rough on you whether the yj team wins or loses, either taking her anger out on you when they lose or being maybe a little too excited after a win.

❃ but ofc she can be gentle with it too, occasionally late at night when she's tired she just likes lazily fucking you with her fingers while watching with fascination how your facial expressions change.

❃ can spend hours biting/marking your body (she has even written in her journal about how she wants to carve her name into your thigh - but that is something she plans on keeping to herself).

❃ after sex she usually just likes laying on top of you, making excuses as to not get up.

-

a/n: I kinda want to make these hcs a series.. Should I??

MAIN MASTERLIST

[scoupsakakitty]

Svt ot13 x reader, where like, reader made a single mistake during one of their concerts. Then when they practiced for the rest of tour reader keeps on spotting their flaws even when its fine. Maybe even overworking to the point she sleeps in the practice room? Then they(ot13) was confused to why reader hasn't come home yet, only to find reader passed out on the floor of the practice room, like literally passed out..

This is my first time doing a req, sorry if its too detailed.. please dont overwork yourself irl!!

Don‘t Dance Alone Tonight | idol!Scoups x 14thMember | angst fluff

The cameras stopped rolling. Lights dimmed. Staff members clapped as the director yelled “Cut!” for the final time. Cheers erupted. Another long MV shoot was done. But even through the chatter, the laughter, the scattered energy of a wrap party brewing — Seungcheol noticed it.

Y/N was gone.

She hadn’t said goodbye. No jokes. No nods. She didn’t even take her usual post-shoot selfie with Hoshi or tease Chan about his expressions in the last take.

Just… vanished.

And the worst part?

They hadn’t spoken all day. Not since that morning — the fight.

“You think just because you’re leader, you can talk down to me?” she had snapped in their dorm room.

“I’m not talking down to you. I’m trying to help you not burn out!” he had replied, voice rising with frustration.

“I know what I’m doing, Cheol. You don’t get it. You’re not the one messing up on stage.”

She had stormed out, leaving his words stuck in his throat and his heart heavier than he could explain.

Now she was gone. And his gut twisted.

“Y/N’s not here,” Chan said, peeking into her room in the Performance Unit’s dorm.

Seungcheol frowned. “I thought she stayed with you guys.”

“We thought she was with you,” Jun added from the kitchen, phone in hand. “She left right after the shoot.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Minghao said quietly. “Not even in the group chat.”

Seungcheol pulled out his phone again — five missed calls. All to her. None returned.

“She’s not answering?” Chan asked, voice rising slightly.

“No.” Seungcheol shook his head, trying to keep the worry from surfacing, but his tone betrayed him. “Goes straight to voicemail.”

“I’ll check the building rooftop,” Jun offered. “She goes there when she needs space.”

“I’ll try the stylist team,” Minghao said. “Maybe she went back for something.”

“I’ll text the managers,” Chan added.

“I’ll check the practice rooms,” Hoshi said without hesitation, already grabbing his hoodie. “If I were her… I’d be dancing it out.”

Studio 3 was nearly dark, save for the moonlight pouring in through the high window. Hoshi pushed the door open softly and froze.

There she was.

Y/N lay curled up on the wooden floor in the corner, her hoodie bunched up beneath her head, long legs tucked in, a bottle of water knocked over beside her.

The monitor in the room was paused mid-dance. It replayed the last segment they practiced together. Her figure in the center. Perfect form. But he knew she wouldn’t see it that way.

“Y/N…” he whispered, kneeling beside her.

Her eyes were shut tight. Sweat clung to her hairline. Her brows were slightly furrowed — even in sleep, she didn’t look at peace.

He pulled out his phone and called the only person who should be there right now.

“She’s here,” Hoshi said softly. “She fell asleep in the practice room.”

Silence on the other end.

“I’ll be right there,” came Seungcheol’s voice. He sounded breathless.

“I’ll wait.”

Seungcheol arrived within twenty minutes. When he opened the door, he found Hoshi sitting quietly near her, legs crossed, watching over her like an older brother.

“She hasn’t moved,” Hoshi whispered. “I think she passed out from exhaustion. She must’ve been here for hours.”

Seungcheol swallowed hard, guilt crawling through every inch of him.

“Thanks, Soonyoung.”

Hoshi nodded, then gave Seungcheol a small pat on the shoulder. “Talk to her. I’ll be right outside.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, the room was silent save for the soft hum of the AC and Y/N’s breathing.

Seungcheol crouched beside her. “Y/N…” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek.

She stirred, murmuring something unintelligible before her eyes blinked open.

“Cheol…?” she croaked, eyes adjusting to the low light.

“Hey.” He forced a soft smile. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Confusion flickered across her face, followed by recognition. Then guilt.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

“I know,” he said softly. “You scared us.”

She sat up slowly, her joints cracking from the cold floor. “I just wanted to get the routine right. I messed up that one time and now I can’t stop seeing the flaws.”

“You didn’t mess up, Y/N.”

She laughed weakly, without humor. “You didn’t see the replay?”

“I saw it. And I saw you trying to perfect something that was already beautiful.”

She turned her face away, jaw clenched.

“I thought you were disappointed in me."

His chest ached.

“I was never disappointed in you,” he said firmly. “Frustrated? Yes. But only because I saw you pushing yourself too hard again. I wasn’t angry at you. I was angry that you wouldn’t let anyone in.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I didn’t want to seem weak.”

“You’re not weak. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“But I keep making mistakes—”

“You’re human,” he interrupted, voice breaking. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, Y/N. I’ve made more than I can count. But disappearing without a word? That scared the hell out of me.”

She looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I’m sorry, too. For snapping. For not checking on you sooner. For not being the partner you needed today.”

She sniffled against his shoulder. “You’re always what I need, Cheol. I just forget how to say it when I’m overwhelmed.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth on the cold dance studio floor.

Back at the dorm, Y/N entered her room quietly, grateful for the silence. Her room was her sanctuary, a rare privilege in the chaos of idol life. She’d fought hard for it — not out of vanity, but for peace.

She sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the mirror across from her.

“How long were you practicing?” Seungcheol asked from her doorway.

“Since after the shoot.”

“Did you eat?”

She shook her head.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a bowl of ramen.

“No excuses. Eat.”

They sat on her bed, sharing the meal in silence.

“I’m not good at resting,” she admitted.

“I know. That’s why I’m here. To remind you that you deserve it.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Promise me something,” he said, voice low.

“What?”

“No more running away.”

She nodded.

“And no more dancing alone until you collapse.”

She hesitated — then nodded again. “Deal. But only if you promise something too.”

“Name it.”

“Don’t ever stop fighting with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Because when we fight, it means we care. And I’d rather argue with you a hundred times than feel like we’re strangers again.”

He smiled softly. “Then I promise.”

A week later, during practice for their encore concert, Y/N danced the choreography perfectly. When the final beat hit, she turned toward the mirror and met her own gaze. No criticism. No anxiety.

Just pride.

From behind, Seungcheol’s voice rang out. “You did great.”

She turned. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes full of affection.

She smiled, breathless. “You saw?”

“I always see.”