#but at least you knew you would get out. maybe not whole but you would

[cressidagrey]

the one real thing you've ever known

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ariel Cane (Original Character)

(Part of Stay through it all)

Summary: If there was one thing that Dr. Percy Cane, B.Sc., M.Sc., M.A., Ph.D., Sc.D., Head of Electrical Engineering, Oracle Red Bull Racing, knew how to do then it was how to hold a grudge. 

Warnings: 

Jos Verstappen, Illegal Use of Emails?

Author Notes: This was hilarious to write, so you are getting it as a treat lol (Also don't worry, spam mail is not the only revenge Percy is gonna dish out...it's just the start...

If there was one thing that Dr. Percy Cane, B.Sc., M.Sc., M.A., Ph.D., Sc.D., Head of Electrical Engineering, Oracle Red Bull Racing, knew how to do then it was how to hold a grudge. 

Percy had a very long memory. He could recall every single slight, every single wrong that had ever been done to him. And each of those slights and wrongs were marked down in the long list of grudges he held.

Percy knew a lot of things. He was an actual genius after all. With two doctorate, a IQ of around 150 and enough other degrees to prove it. 

He also knew that he was absolutely helpless at most of the stuff other people considered normal. That's what his sisters said at least. 

He could still remember, a very long time ago, his father sitting him down and telling him that protecting his little sisters was going to be his job. 

Percy had failed utterly at that. He was very much aware at that. 

If there had been somebody protecting somebody else, then it had always been Ariel, protecting both him and Emma. 

Ariel. Ariel Josephine Cane. 3 years, 7 months, 20 days younger than him. 

His little sister. His. 

There weren't many people he claimed at his. But Ariel and Emma were his family. The only family they still had. 

He was also very much aware that Ariel had given up her teenage years for them. There had been no going out to parties. No underage drinking. There had been no time at University for Ariel where she hadn't been burdened down with the looking after Emma and him...with going grocery shopping and running the household and keeping on top of the bills and cooking. He had helped. Some. 

But sadly an IQ of 153 did not mean that he was able to cook an egg without it exploding apparently. 

And it also didn't mean that his sister's teachers found it particularly pleasant when he questioned their degree after a completely unfair math assessment from Emma. (He still thought that Mr. Henry Payne had bought his teacher degree online. Ariel had told him to shut up.) 

Percy was self-aware enough to know that there were certain things he was incredibly bad at. Cooking being one off the top of his head. He had tried, he really had. But in the end, a kitchen and him just didn't mix well.

He was also aware that his social skills and emotional intelligence could be considered lacking. It was something that never really came naturally to him, this whole connecting with people thing. He was never sure quite what to say or how to behave in social situations. It was... frustrating, to put it mildly.

But even him...Even Percy Cane who was very, very bad with people...He was not going to stand for anybody putting his hands on his little sister. He was not.

Jos Verstappen would regret the day he was born. That much was certain.

The mere idea made his blood boil.

He had never been the violent type. But in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to wipe that smirk off Verstappen's face. Permanently.

Sadly, he also couldn't throw a punch. Though maybe Connor would be willing to help him. But then...that wasn't thorough enough.

Percy knew that resorting to physical violence wasn't the answer. It wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be nearly enough to make Verstappen pay for what he had done to his little sister.

No, Percy had a far more effective weapon at his disposal. He was a genius after all. And he wasn't above using his rather above-average intelligence to make Verstappen's life a living hell.

He was going to make the man's life a living nightmare. Every single aspect of it. He would dig up every single dirty secret. He would contact every single person that Verstappen had ever wronged or slighted. He would ruin him, reputationally, financially, emotionally. He would ensure that Jos Verstappen would be left with nothing. No money, no friends, no allies, not even a good reputation.

He would start by digging into his past. Every piece of dirt, every skeleton in the closet Verstappen thought he had locked safe, Percy would find it all.

And then he would use all of that to publicly ruin him. His reputation would be absolutely destroyed.

It was a long game to play, but Percy played the game of chess at a grandmasters level. And he was patient. He could wait.

He was going to destroy him entirely and completely.

And it wasn't like he couldn't have his fun in the meantime, right?

There was absolutely nothing that stopped him from finding out Jos Verstappen's email address and sign him up to every spam mail he could find.

He couldn't wait for the man to be flooded with an onslaught of unsolicited newsletters, scam emails, and countless offers of online gambling and adult entertainment websites.

It was just a fraction of the torment that he had planned for the man...but it would be a good start.

Maybe sign him up for some online courses.

Some philosophy? He didn't seem to have much of that.

Or perhaps...

Percy smirked as he navigated the online course platform, searching for just the right subject. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for: "Introduction to Anger Management for Beginners".

He couldn't wait to see the look on Verstappen's face when he realized he was now enrolled in a course teaching him how to control his temper. It was almost poetic, in a way.

Percy couldn't help but chuckle as he hit the sign-up button. "Let's see if you can actually learn something," he said to himself.

He highly doubted that actually, but education was good for everybody.

Anyway, that was just the start. It wasn't enough. Not by a far shot. But it was a start. 

His hands drummed against the dining room table for a moment.

He had dealt with Jos Verstappen.

Now it was time to deal with Max Verstappen.

Ariel's now...boyfriend if Emma's ungodly screeching and dancing around the room had taught him anything.

Percy winced at the thought of his sisters' reaction to the news. Emma had started performing some sort of victory celebration dance that included a lot of jumping and singing off key.

Ariel loved Max. Had loved him for years. Even Percy wasn't that blind.

He had seen the way Ariel's face lit up when she talked about him. He had seen the way she softened when he came into a room. He had seen the way her eyes tracked him whenever they were in the same room together.

Percy was many things, but he was not blind. He could see how head over heels in love his little sister was with Max Verstappen.

She could do worse, he supposed. Granted, she also could do better.

But she wanted Max, so Max would need to suffice.

Percy grudgingly admitted that Max Verstappen wasn't the worst choice his little sister could have made. At least the man had a good heart underneath everything else.

And, most importantly, he made Ariel happy. At the end of the day, that is what truly mattered to Percy.

But that didn't mean Percy was going to let him off easy. No, he was still going to give Max Verstappen a good old-fashioned "don't you dare mess with my baby sister or I will end you" speech.

Or more exactly... the 40 page document that told Max Verstappen exactly what kind of behaviour was appropriate and definitely wasn't appropriate towards Ariel Cane and that Percy Cane had been working on for 5 years. 

That was appropriate older brother behaviour, regardless of what Connor wanted to tell him. 

Initial Observations and Expectations Regarding Your Relationship with My Sister

Max,

Let me preface this by stating that I am not naturally predisposed to emotional discussions. My professional expertise lies in electrical engineering, and my contributions to Oracle Red Bull Racing's success have been rooted in precision, logic, and a steadfast aversion to failure. My concern here is not a matter of sentiment but a calculated response to a situation that demands my immediate attention: Your sudden and unannounced pivot from "best friend" to "romantic partner" of my sister, Ariel. 

You and I have coexisted in a professional capacity for some time. As Head of Electrical Engineering, I am well aware of your talents behind the wheel. While I respect your ability to follow telemetry data and navigate complex racing strategies, I am under no illusion that this translates into competence in the far more intricate task of maintaining a healthy, supportive relationship with a woman of my sister's caliber.

Ariel is a person of exceptional intelligence, unparalleled kindness, and unyielding patience—qualities that, frankly, you lack in sufficient quantity to match hers. Her value is not up for debate, nor does it require validation from you or anyone else. 

You are someone whose primary skill lies in pressing a pedal and turning a wheel at high speeds while driving a car around engineered circles. While this skill has evidently brought you fame and a modicum of fortune, it does not, in my estimation, qualify you to be a suitable partner for someone as exceptional as her—yet here we are.

Before we proceed further, let's clarify a few key points. I'll keep this simple for your benefit:

My sister is not your pit crew. She is neither here to fix you when you're broken nor adjust her life to accommodate your lapses in maturity or judgment. If you treat her as such, you will find yourself uncomfortably acquainted with the concept of consequences—both professional and personal.

Prioritization of Ariel's Well-Being: Her happiness, ambitions, and individuality are not optional considerations—they are prerequisites. She is not an accessory to your life but an equal partner, and this dynamic must be respected at all times. If you are not prepared to prioritize her needs with the same intensity you dedicate to your career, then don't bother. 

You are not indispensable. While your ability to drive a car very fast is impressive to some, it does not make you irreplaceable in her life—or the team's, for that matter. Formula 1 drivers come and go. My sister's trust is much harder to earn, and significantly harder to regain if lost. Treat it accordingly. Your skill set, though narrowly exceptional, does not automatically qualify you for the privilege of being a part of Ariel's life.

Reliability Beyond the Track: I will assume you possess at least a baseline awareness that her well-being now partially rests in your hands. This is, frankly, an unsettling thought. I have observed your performance on the track and in team meetings, and while you are undoubtedly capable under controlled conditions, I question whether your ability to maintain composure under personal and emotional strain is as well-developed. My sister deserves stability, not the emotional equivalent of an unpredictable gearbox.

Long-Term Planning: My sister is not a temporary fixture in your life. If you are unable or unwilling to build a future with her in which her dreams and aspirations are given equal importance to your own, then you have no business being in her life.

Acknowledgment of Consequences: Relationships are not races; there are no podiums, no trophies, and no resets after a crash. If you fail her, there will be no pit crew to fix the damage. Consider this carefully.

Remember who is watching. That's me, in case you were unsure. I have access to your data—lap times, telemetry, the whole lot. Don't think I won't leverage every piece of technical information at my disposal to make your life extremely inconvenient should you fail her. 

I trust that even you, with your evident fondness for high-speed decision-making, can appreciate the gravity of this situation. You have been entrusted with something far more valuable than any championship trophy: my sister's trust. Do not squander it.

This is merely the prelude to a far more detailed assessment, which will include chapters such as:

Your Track Record: A Comparative Study of On-Track Aggression vs. Off-Track Emotional Stability

Effective Communication: Beyond Race Strategy and Post-Race Excuses

Aerodynamics of Trust: Building a Stable and Transparent Relationship

High-Performance Partnering: How Not to Total My Sister's Emotional Well-Being

Overclocking Your Efforts: Why Being Adequate Won't Cut It Here.

How to Keep Your Relationship on Track Without Blaming DRS Failures

And the most important chapter:

What Happens When You Violate Safety Protocols: A Comprehensive Guide to My Wrath

To be clear, this is not an emotional outburst; I am incapable of those. This is a calculated and rational attempt to ensure my sister's happiness and well-being are safeguarded. If this level of scrutiny makes you uncomfortable, I suggest you reconsider the life choices that have brought us to this point.

While I do not presume to control my sister's choices, I am well within my rights to evaluate those choices and respond accordingly. Ariel is my sister, and I will not hesitate to involve myself if I perceive you are not treating her with the respect and care she deserves.

You are, effectively, on probation. Rest assured, I will be monitoring your behavior with the same meticulous attention to detail I apply to every project at Oracle Red Bull Racing. Should you fall short of the standards my sister requires and deserves, you will hear from me again, at length.

In summary, approach this relationship as you would an understeering car: correct it immediately, or you will find yourself in a metaphorical wall of my making.

Consider this your first and final warning.

Sincerely,

Dr. Percy Cane, B.Sc., M.Sc., M.A., Ph.D., Sc.D. 

Head of Electrical Engineering, 

Oracle Red Bull Racing

[heeseung64]

★彡ーROADTRIP!

the tropes and love language of enha as you and your cozy friends plan a three day long road-trip.

friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff! confession, jealousy and all that jazz.

3 part series.

taglist: open

★彡ーHEESEUNG AND JAY!

𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨…

• quiet in the mornings,

he's a lil' grumpy that he has to wake up at the crack of dawn to start the road-trip, but at least he's not driving- and- more importantly, you're sitting next to him. you bring him peace that can never be broken. neither of you are the perfect choice to mess with in the morning, so being idle and appreciating the silence made him much more giddy with you, which wreaked chaos and unbelievable anxiety in his mind. though his nerves are unseen, he hesitantly shares his earphones with you, and with the way you compliment his hazy playlist, it made his heart flutter, starting his morning off with a burning engine. his first words in the whole trip was only to you: "this song reminds me of you." he whispered, taking out the earbud out your ear before he puts it back in. wave to earth, cute.

more below。

• would never let you help,

lee heeseung himself doesn't believe in help, and his walls of pride were too high to even consider a pretty girl like you to help him with something he could impress you with. but the gas in the airbnb isn't lighting up, and he keeps complaining he's getting colder by the minute. you watch him, and eventually you yank off whatever is occupied in his hands. "i don't-" "i'm cold too." you stop his words before helping him. you finish the job for him, yet he doesn't say thank you, he walks off, annoyed and huffy.

eventually in the night, he whispers a sorry, pulling you aside as you watch the bonfire light against your friends' faces afar. what he gives you is his hoodie, putting it on you before tucking in your hair as he warns you: "don't take it off, i don't want you being cold. m'kay?" he tries to hide his smile, shrugging off his nerves until he's kept up awake at the thought of you being snuggly under his own scent.

was it his way of being sorry? you wonder, at this point you knew the boy enough to know that he liked you- maybe you're just waiting for him to show it.

• quiet observer, loud messages,

"did i do something to piss you off, hee?" are the words for heeseung to realise that you were quick on his tail. his eyes were practically stuck on you, waiting that'd you eventually talk or interact with him- praying-even; that you'd be just as stickily close to him like your other skin-ship friendships this night. but those words had broke sense to him that maybe his actions came out as aloof.

"i.. just wanted you to notice me." he whispers, blurting out his confession in a series of tiny words. his cold demeanour wasn't so cold on his cheeks, and his watery eyes and red ears worsened when you kissed him between his cheek and the corner of his lips. "if you wanted some love, always ask from now on." you say back, and he nods, flustered. his only regret was to beg for you to kiss right where his lips were. the rest of the trip was glee to heeseung, smiling uncontrollably, bantering with the guys, and later on asking to be more physical, cuddling you, playing with your hair and eventually being warm and fuzzy on your neck, sweet. he doesn't know what you and him are after that, but he's so surely determined to make you his.

𝘫𝘢𝘺…

• a man of service,

handsy is an understatement. you know how close you guys are regardless of the trip but, with a day so free and unrestricted, he rests his hands on your thighs like its no problem, not to mention he made you sit in the front with him as he drove. and likewise, he recognises your wisdom than others- so its best to have you with him as he makes every itinerary and packing decision. inseparable, you call it. love, the others know it. he'd be the first to know if you're sleepy or un-energetic amongst the group, and he'd be first to offer you food and little snacks as you guys visited sites and other places.

"i'm not hungry." you'd lie, and jay could see right through it. "say ahh!" he'd jokingly force you, and he'd hold you down to feed you anything until you wouldn't complain. "next time just ask if you wanted me to do feed you." since then, the others labelled any interaction between you as 'couple's quarrelling', and as much as it bothered you, you could see jay's demeanour unshaken by this.

"come with me to the nearest grocery store." he'd pull you up to keep him company, buying your favourite things even when you don't even say it. "how many do you want, y/n?" he'd ask, seriously. and when you say you don't want them, he'd chuck it in the cart anyway. you find that he's often getting others their favourite things, and doing favours for them as his love language, so nothing is different towards you.. right? you start to believe otherwise when he starts prepping the first night dinner, feeding you food as he cooks, only supplying you with the generous meats and the better sauces, while the remains end up with him or the younger friends. he'd make you sit on a stool, humming to the music setup adjacent to the kitchen as you guys were isolated from the others setting up their rooms and games. jay would only make you stay with him, keeping his peace intact when you were around, and if you left, he'd find you again to ask for help in the kitchen- when all you do is let him feed you. "how's it taste?" he asks, looking down into your eyes before licking his thumb and wiping the little stain off your lips. "tastes.. like love in a plate." you reply, smiling sweet as he backs away, smiling to himself. "good."

• not satisfied til' you are,

jay was not happy when you received a few cuts and scratches after scraping your hands on the rocky coral by the third day of the trip. the beach was relaxing, yet his world had sirens blasting with his eyes alert constantly watching and looking out for you- not to mention how good you looked. he pretty much made it clear that if someone were first to approach you, it would be their last.

though he may not be the one to softly tell you that he cares, he shows it. "don't be a stupid idiot and do that again." he warns as he wraps your hand, and when he sees your doe eyes and watery rims reflect against him he falters, securing your wound with a little peck as he hides away his blush- making sure know one else saw what he did.

"there, better?" he asks, and you nod, wrapping your hands around his arm. you stuck by him like glue, and he didn't mind- infact, this was the most you've been so quiet and so yearning for him- so he was ecstatic, off his head, especially when he started talking back to the guys. later in the night you took your courage to approach his room in the cabin, knocking on his door.

"jjong." you call his nickname, and just by the knock he instantly takes you in, breathy as he'd realised he'd taken you in too quickly and awkwardly. "y-you called?" he asks, his hair half wet as he had finished his shower. "i think i like you." you boldly confess over your fumble of words. jay wildly smiles, poking his tongue in his cheek as he looks around the room, avoiding your eyes as you stand there, meek. "you do?" were the first words he responded to you. when you nodded, it was over; his hands were all over you. no one questioned why you weren't in your room that night, instead they mentally cheered that you magically woke up in jay's.

coming soon: SUNGHOON AND JAKE! ★>>

perm tags:

@nikiswifiee @ancnymcnzjy @ja4hyvn @17ericas

[lilacxquartz]

sickly sweet;

kenjaku x f!reader

plot: just as you got ill, your once distant husband started to be caring again — themes: one shot, domestic dread, character study, problematic mindset/themes, manipulation — w.c: 2k • masterlist

a/n: this is a story about kenjaku but the reader is unaware of such a fact… so the name we refer to him as is via suguru/geto and why it’s tagged as such.

For the longest time, you thought that there was something a little… off-putting about your husband.

It wasn’t always this way, but ever since he came back home following an accident, he changed for the worse. Before then, he was vibrant and abuzz with energy and then… something simply just changed. You caught wind of something happening within the cult, but you couldn’t investigate too much—what with you being pregnant with your first child. When he came back seemingly and alive unscathed—save for the stitches that ran across his forehead—you didn’t care to ask too many questions for as long as he was safe and sound.

(A short-lived feeling though; for what lingered just beneath the surface, left dread in its wake.)

The decline of what once made Suguru himself was a slow one, like a thick seeping venom that took its good, sweet time to enter your system. Before you tell something was amiss, he was already deep within your bloodstream—you were hooked—poisoned, yet unaware of just how devastating the damage truly was.

If you had to go back to when you first noticed that something was off, then perhaps when he tried to reintegrate back into your life. It was an ordinary event. He was simply just getting back home late one night and greeted you in the hallway as he stepped inside. At a glance, this would have been normal, but something didn’t feel quite right.

You remembered that sinking feeling of realisation perfectly well.

That moment when you were looking back into the eyes of a stranger, wearing the skin of the man you once knew—of the man that you once loved.

He’d announce his arrival too, singing out your name in a melody that felt forced, “I’m home,” he’d say, his smooth voice feeling somehow rehearsed.

Suguru’s characteristic warmth started to fade the more that you noticed such quirks, the delicately crafted facade beginning to crack. The kindness was retained, but there was a certain underlying edge to it as if he was playing a fabricated role rather than being the man you wanted him to be.

Still, you chose to ignore it. At least at first. You told yourself that if there was an accident, then maybe it was just his personality that was off and if given enough time, it would all smooth over.

(Although, it never did.)

As the months passed you both by, and the man claiming to be Suguru grew colder and more distant, too. Sure, he lived with you and practiced small talk with you, but it all felt fake, somehow. It was as if you were a temporary obstacle in the grand scheme of things and he was simply humouring you whenever he cared to, often disappearing into the night without warning.

Initially, you suspected adultery. It wouldn’t have been too far of a reach, knowing that some people, no matter how well you think you’d know them, would still succumb to temptation… but that didn’t seem to be the case. Whenever he returned, he would be the same just as he was before. Cold and distant. Should you have tried to initiate something intimate too, then he wouldn’t deny you such pleasures, but it always left you feeling unclean, somehow used instead. The moves he pulled were certainly familiar and something that Suguru would do, but it was devoid of the same tenderness that Suguru had.

So for the most part, you stopped initiating and also, you didn’t pay too much attention to him again. For the time being, you cared more to focus on your pregnancy and then hopefully leave somewhere far away from this whole mess.

(But then you got sick.)

It was deep into your pregnancy when you fell ill, bordering just below the final term. A low-grade fever that crept into your system, throwing you off balance. While you initially thought it to be fine, it was hard to ignore by the end of the week. You didn’t think that whoever was occupying your husband’s body would notice such a thing, but something awoke in him from the moment he did.

This deeply caring side of him was hard to dismiss, too, given that it felt close to how Suguru used to be with you.

Just like before, it didn’t take too long for you to notice the changes in his demeanour, the differences being almost jarring by that point. You woke up to the rush of cold air spilling into the room, watching on through partially blurred vision as the sheer curtains wafted in the breeze.

Suguru’s voice played in the background as he addressed you, his voice smooth like molten honey, “You’re awake.”

You initially didn’t respond as you were still waking up. Your eyes flicked over to where he sat on the edge of the bed, watching somewhat warily as he smoothed his palms across your blanketed form, his touch almost reverent.

“Some fresh air will do you good,” he softly murmured before stepping away to the dresser, bringing over a cup of tea to your nightstand table, “I brewed you some tea too. Ginger and honey, just how you like it.”

You warily eyed the cup but didn’t refuse it. The pleasant aroma filled your senses and soothed you as the steam rose and after about a minute, you sat up to take a sip, finding that the warmth from the tea actually did help a bit.

Just as you set the cup down though, Suguru moved closer, extending his hand to press against your forehead, his touch feeling cold against your heated flesh.

“You’re so warm…” he whispered, his thumb brushing along your temple and down your cheekbones. “I should have been more… attentive. Forgive me for being so busy.”

You blinked up at him as the tea settled in your body. Something about this whole interaction filled you with unease as if the applied sweetness wasn’t genuine.

“I’m fine,” you croaked, “really,” you emphasised after a hot second.

Suguru however just hummed, his voice taking on a condescending tone, “Oh, but you’re not, are you?” he asked, curling his lips into a calm, measured smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his gaze appearing devoid of any warmth, “worry not though, my love, I’ll take care of everything.”

Relief wasn’t quite what you felt however as he hovered around you for the remainder of your sickness, locking himself into your shadow day and night, seemingly abandoning his work to tend to you. He urged you to eat, and hydrate and even helped you bathe, prattling on about the importance of vapours when one felt congested.

“You’re not usually this caring,” you let slip as you settled into bed, regretting your word choice right away. The atmosphere of the room changed within a beat at such an admission and though you tried to backtrack, the dread had already settled.

Suguru’s smile faltered, seeming almost offended(?)

“I may have been busy, yes…” he trailed off, his eyes drifting away from you before giving you back his attention tenfold, “but you’re still… my wife, correct? I have to apply my priorities carefully. You’re… important to me.”

The way that he referred to you as his wife didn’t feel as comforting as his intention might have been; the term felt almost possessive as if laced with warning. The way he said it and how he said it, was a little bit too deliberate—as if he was trying to convince himself of a role he had to maintain.

Still, the hours dragged on throughout the rest of the evening without an issue, or so he thought. He encouraged you to sip on hot broth whenever you were lucid enough and sat at your side vigilantly, watching you with a sharp eye to ensure that nothing would go wrong.

Such intensely applied care, however, soon started to feel suffocating by the end of the day and all you wanted to do was to have a break and sleep the flu away. You didn’t mean to snap the way that you did, fully expecting him to nip or protest at your attitude from the moment you let your composure slip away, but he didn’t.

“—please,” you spat out, unable to hold back any longer as you pushed him away, “just—I… I need to sleep.”

For a moment, a brief hint of anger flashed across his features, but then he simply schooled his expression into that same cold smile from before.

“Of course,” he murmured, brushing your hair away from your eyes, “I should have known. Please, rest for as long as you need to.”

You gulped down all of your unease beyond that point, too exhausted to care, but later in the night—you woke up and something felt wrong. Your eyes fluttered open with a jarring start as your breath caught in the back of your throat. You tried to swallow, but it felt like sharp glass resided in your lungs, the sensation like fire when you tried to breathe in or out. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the dark, but a familiar figure sat unnervingly close to where you lay.

“Suguru…?” you called out.

He must have remained close to you the entire night, even after you had fallen asleep. His deep gaze fixed on you with such a grave intensity that it stole the rest of the air away from the room, leaving you barely able to breathe at that point, feeling suffocated from being so close.

Before you could call out to him again though, Suguru hushed you with the application of his fingers pressed right against your lips. He then leaned closer, allowing the smell of something vaguely metallic to fill your senses, but also medicinal or even herbal.

You listened to his silent request to keep in bed, feeling as his fingertips swept across the side of your neck using soft, featherlight strokes, to trace along your pulse point. His touch lingered for a little too long as he settled around the area, pressing firmly enough that you could feel the blood flowing.

(A warning, perhaps?)

“Go back to sleep,” he softly parted a bit clearer that time, following up with a gentle hum to the tune of a lullaby you didn’t know. Despite how soothing it felt, your innate instincts were screaming at you to distance yourself—to not let this person get too close—that this wasn’t Suguru.

(But your exhaustion simply took you over.)

“That’s right,” he whispered, his breath rolling hot against your forehead as he parted a delicate kiss against your skin, “continue to live in bliss and I'll give you the life you so desperately crave.”

You woke up slightly again as he strode over to the bedroom door, lingering in the frame as he looked back at you with that same unsettling, unreadable stare.

“Just, don’t misunderstand,” he couldn’t resist, his true self seeping through the cracks of the facade he wore so well, “I’ll only keep that up if you don’t snoop around too far,” he then paused, lowering his voice on purpose so that you couldn’t hear him, speaking more to himself than to you, “as long as you learn to keep curious—as long as you don’t figure out who I really am—then I can keep you safe.”

You didn’t reply, trying to pretend that you were already asleep. He knew that you weren’t though, choosing not to bother you.

“Sleep tight, my wife.”

The door then clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in that thick, oppressive silence that you had gotten to know so well. You didn’t dare break through it, though, not even as you felt the squeeze of his phantom fingers remaining wrapped around your neck, constricting around your throat like an invisible collar, binding you to a whole new nightmare; a silent reminder of just how much your life had changed ever since that day.

Of just how much… he had changed.

A part of you knew that it would never get better, but if being sick was what it took to get even a glimpse of your old husband back, then that’s something you wouldn’t hesitate to do.

Because even if he did come to annoy you in the end—it was better than accepting that he might truly be gone.

(So why not live a little in your delusions, just this once? Or twice? Or… however long it took to feel normal again.)

[vatelixx]

There will be no soft epilogue,

Post-prison (traumatised) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU reader

More angst than smut (i hurt myself in the process, we all suffer), but there’s still copious amounts of both. Explorations of Spencer’s trauma & his anger in relation. Autistic Spencer is a given, even if it’s not touched upon explicitly (its indisputably canon to me).

Warnings: heavy sub spencer (confirmed me classic), corruption kink (idk how i managed to sneak that one in here), possessive undertones (eg, mentions of owning), praise kink, choking, Spencer is so in love it might actually be fatal, lots (lots) of begging, Reader is mean but low-key submissive to him in an emotional sense. They’re both damaged, but its okay, bcos they’ve romanticised it.

w.c: 4.9k

a/n: sorry, my hiatus went on for longer than i initially expected. i was just burnt out and evil. there wasn’t supposed to be smut in this, but i’m clearly the biggest whore around.

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Spencer used to think he knew everything. That there wasn’t a piece of information too obscure, too intricate that his brain, his renowned, academically awarded, brain couldn’t comprehend. Maybe he was naive, or maybe, maybe there was less fault in his logic, and more fault in his decisions. Decisions that tarnished his youth, that slowly tore away at him, year by year, until there was nothing left of him to be remembered by.

Everything hurts tonight. And sure, he’s angry again, angry at himself, at what he experienced, the weight of the job that stifled the soft parts of him, and the weight of who he is now. He can’t look in the mirror anymore, stare back at the waning reflection, the reflection that is supposed to be him. But it’s not. God, it’s not.

He wants to be whole again, untainted, free from resent, the BAU’s fresh meat. Wide-eyed and credulous, trusting himself to always be clean. He wants to go back to the time when his life orbited around chess, halloween, that late hour of night when he could bury himself in academia. When everything felt untouchable and timeless.

Your concern is justifiable. The BAU’s concern is justifiable. And yet, it’s not enough, a string of ‘im here for you’ texts aren’t going to ease the weight of his trauma, nor will any form of pity.

When you show up at his apartment, it’s late. 3AM. There’s no legitimate excuse for your impromptu reason, no vindicable reason that could explain why you’re here. It’s sick to say you ‘had a feeling’, to reduce this to gut instincts, maybe you can get away with that on the field, but not here.

He gave you a key last year. It’s so morbid, to think back. To not look forward. When the door clicks open, there’s misplaced relief; at least he wasn’t cruel enough to change the locks. Even though he is admittedly cruel enough to refuse your calls.

“It’s me,” you say, deftly avoiding a stack of books. “Not an intruder. Well, technically, in a court of law, I could probably be tried as one.” you huff out a sigh, “But that’s unnecessary information. Hopefully.”

Spencer’s head has been pounding for hours, or maybe days, its hard to distinguish the weeks lately. Time is a construct that he can no longer keep accurate track of.

“An intruder wouldn’t announce themselves,” he retorts. Sat on the floor, with his back pressed against the couch, he feels heavy. Sinking. Like there is a part of him that is tethered to the ground, tugging and tugging him lower with every breath.

You remove your jacket, brown leather, scuffed with age and use, draping it over his couch.

He doesn’t look at you, nor the mess that has fermented his apartment. Files and novels and the collection of magazines (monthly subscriptions to Space News, Smithsonian, Science I am) are scattered everywhere, piled in mounds.

“I’m assuming you came to check up on me?” he continues, dropping his face to his knees. “You could’ve saved yourself the drive.���

“Fuck,” you mutter, stumbling into some books, and only because he would once keel over and die at their current mistreatment, you take additional care to place them on a… moderately uncluttered surface. “I’m hiring you a cleaner for christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” he mumbles, raising his head to watch you now — tracking your movements carefully, observing the way you interact with his possessions. Your presence reminds him of before, late nights and movie marathons. His exasperation when you’d ask ‘Why are they fighting? It’s been 10 minutes…’ in relation to Star Wars. It was so domestic, warm. Something real he could keep.

Back when you’d stumble into his apartment at any time of night, and he’d take your abrupt appearance with a grain of salt. When you would waste hours speaking over the TV, providing lazy commentary, profiling characters and his ceaseless string of facts.

He wants to go back to those nights, take me back, he begs. Because he’s still not sure how to exist alongside you anymore.

“Good luck finding a cleaner who will step foot in here.” he continues.

You move to sit down beside him. One knee pulled to your chest, the other outstretched, just narrowly avoiding a chair that has taken a substantial fall.

You laugh. It feels empty. “I’d probably have to threaten them.“

“Threatening minimum wage workers? You’re a good addition to the FBI.”

“Shut up.” you retort, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling. Everything is heavy tonight. It’s so late that the tangible feels intangible, shadows obscuring the area, diminishing the dim-light that filters through the window.

When you look at him again, he feels like breaking.

Because of course, of course, he’s hyper-aware of your stare. Has been since the moment you walked into his apartment. He’s not oblivious to your observation, scrutinisation, the way you look at him like he might break under your gaze. Or maybe he’s broken already, and you’re just here to mourn over the pieces of everything he once was.

He stares too; following the sharp outline of your profile, the way the shadows play over your features.

He thinks you still look terrifying.

Maybe that’s the worst part. He always loved you. It’s not like it was an immediate reckoning. Something blunt and fast, serrated like the shiv that penetrated his leg in prison. It was slow-burning, born from years of close contact.

It didn’t just transpire one day. You had to work for it, and he had to work harder to deny it.

There’s another attempt at conversation, on your part, and then silence, on his part. It’s stifling, uncharacteristic— no, not uncharacteristic. This is an element to you now. Awkward, strained pauses. Nothing to fill the space, nothing to ease the prevalent emptiness that centres around your dynamic.

It hurts. you’ll both take the pain. Bare it the way you were taught to.

“I came here for me,” your voice interrupts that uneasy silence, “I’m not trying to stage a bullshit intervention, or… or spend the next few hours following you around like a shadow, just in case you do something self-destructive.” You shift, turning your body to face him now. “This is for me. Okay?”

“For you?” He repeats, and the words sound bitter, cynical, tired. No fight left. “How selfish of me to think you were here for my benefit.”

It’s not like you can survive by being soft-hearted. Not in the BAU. You watched aspects of him die, or at least suffocate, year after year, case after case, when the weight of the job caught up to the fragility of his boyish demeanour. He used to sit, cross-legged on tables, rambling to you about books, constellations, the fact that the milky way will inevitably collide with the andromeda galaxy.

Now, he sits on the floor and hurts you.

“I’m always here for your benefit. It’s pretty pathetic. I can only call, or text, so many times before I get the silent message to just fuck off.”

Spencer doesn’t think he’ll be content until he digs his nails into everything he once loved, claw at the mess until it destroys. Destroys, the way he was destroyed. But he can’t find anger when it comes to you.

Parts of him, the old him, will always haunt, he supposes.

“I don’t think you’ve ever received the message to.. ‘fuck off’. Not from me. Just… maybe i’m not the person you knew before.” he looks down at his calloused hands. He hates meeting your gaze. Hates being the cause of your hurt. He feels like heavy baggage. “I— just, maybe, this version isn’t compatible with you anymore.”

I don’t want you to see me like this, he thinks.

“How can you say that?” you scoff. “How can you say that when you haven’t even tried?” The idea that the him now is so disparate to the him before?

Bull-shit.

“Okay Spencer,” you stand up, retrieving your jacket. “Why don’t you pick up the phone and actually, maybe, I don’t know? Call me? When you think we might be ‘compatible’ again? Because it seems like you’re too busy in your own self-deprecating mind-fuck to realise the person I loved is still there. That i’m still here. Even now.”

It hurts when you talk like that. Sharp, assertive, logical. And then he remembers that’s your profession, your job. Because you’re trained to be this way. Trained to break down and analyse, to pick apart the intricacies of the human mind.

He wishes he could be who you want him to be.

He wishes he could go back.

“So you don’t love me anymore?” he asks, standing up to watch you leave. He’s looking at you with these god-awful doe-eyes, like he might crumble under your response.

You could deal with the sharp-cutting words, the ugly parts he’s unsheathed in the aftermath of prison, if there was any indication he still cared. You were built to withstand affliction, it’s written into the BAU’s job description. But this? This feels like retribution.

He’s standing there, so close, so close that you could reach out and touch. Feel warm skin beneath your palms. Bridge the gap, extend an olive branch.

But there’s fear in being rejected. Because if he turns away, recoils from the contact, everything remaining will fall apart.

So, you lean against the closed door. You’re not sure why you came here now, it’s clear you miss something that you can never have back. “It’s hard to love someone who doesn’t even want me around.”

You say it, and he thinks maybe he hates you. He hates how well you can read him, how easily you can say exactly what he needs, when he isn’t ready to hear it.

But he’s just…. so angry, indignant about the hurt he experienced, the pain that was inflicted on him. He was soft and no one protected him, no one tried to preserve that virtue, to take measures, any form of initiative, to prevent him from growing thorns.

He’s dedicated his purpose to helping others. Sacrificing time he’ll never gain back. Putting his own life on hold. And yet, no one could do the same for him.

Instead they, you, the BAU, everyone inbetween, look at him like he’s a martyr. Just another failed creation. Something to sit in the ‘almosts,’ wasted potential, failed hope. He’s never understood Elle more than he does now.

He doesn’t know how to be. “You never loved me the way I love you.”

Faithful to a fault, his devotion has always been an open wound. Something messy and desperate, begging please, please notice me.

“You were always there,” he continues, “you were always present. You cared, you were empathetic, you checked in. But you never loved me the way i love you.”

He can’t hate someone for not loving him back. Sometimes, he wishes it was morally acceptable. To imagine your face as he pulls the trigger, to think of you during target practice. He’s wasted so many years, wishing you saw him as something more than a friend.

Oh, and you’ve been such a good friend. That’s what makes it sick. His best friend, the type that belongs fictionalised, too idealistic for real life. He finally had something good, and he tainted it with his own greedy heart.

You don’t understand. Until you do.

Sometimes its sick to think about him, Spencer Reid. The prodigy who inadvertently stumbled into the grasps of the BAU. Who immolated himself again and again for the ‘greater good’, for the sake of strangers, victims, people he’ll never know.

You watched self-sacrifice become self-annihilation.

Now, you watch the aftermath of it stand before you. “Who says I didn’t? Who says I don’t?” you respond exasperatedly; he’s always been so obstinate, so set in the notion that he will never obtain, keep anything good. The deprivation is sabotaging, lethal.

And how dare you? How dare you say this to him now? How dare you present a slither, just a minuscule indication that years of aching want might’ve been required. A year ago, he would’ve bled himself dry for this confession. Now, he can only mourn for his younger self. The one that didn’t realise he’d get a chance at everything. Because you, for better sake of the word, are everything.

He’s tired. He’s been tired since he was fifteen, no, younger… since he was ten, when he came to the bleak realisation that his whole life would be dedicated to academics, the pursuit of intellectual prowess. He was never a person to people. He was a brain, a textbook, a source of information. Some sort of tool to be wielded until use was no longer required.

And sure, all of it was fine, he could take take take it all, when he was younger. When he was naive, believing that he would only be valuable for his brain, that he could never have more, so he’d have to settle on scraps.

“Don’t— Don’t lie to me. Don’t spare my feelings, just.. because i’m like this. I can take care of myself.”

He wants you to be honest. He wants you to be blunt and harsh and cruel. He can take the hit, the rejection, if it’s the truth. He doesn’t want you to placate him. To make him feel better, to build more lies in order to soften the burn. He can take it. Just like he’s taken everything else over the years.

“No.” you respond.

“No?” he repeats, letting out a sharp breath. “No. Right— because that makes sense.”

“Spencer.” he looks drained when his features soften. “Shut the fuck up and come here.”

He complies, it’s actually embarrassing, obscene, downright pitying, how fast he complies. Just like he did, years prior. When your arms snake around his waist, when you’re touching him after months of abstinence, he melts.

Im sorry, Im sorry, he keeps repeating. Voice muffled, face buried deep into the crook of your neck. He’s not sure why he’s apologising. Maybe for the lack of communication, for being so distant, or maybe it’s just because he’s such a heavy weight to bare, and you’re still here. Still holding him up, taking the strain, pushing through the truculence. He just wants you to love him still.

Your hand cards through dishevelled hair, curls messy and unkept. “Stop apologising. I hate fighting with you.”

“You’ll stay right?” he asks when you draw back. He’s cupping your face now, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. It’s inherently desperate, the way he looks at you. Creased features, parted lips. “Just, like… forever?”

You want to laugh, “No big deal, huh?”

“Just a small insignificant question, really.” there’s a smile. Something contained, forced, an attempt at finding humour in the bleak.

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s—“ he stutters, “That’s all you have to say? I ask you to stay forever, and you just say yes.”

“Does that come as a surprise?”

“Yes.”

When you kiss him, there’s ache. Because he’s so weak for you, ruined in every sense. It’s always been this way, ever since he met you. There can be no one else, when you’re around. There can be no one else, point blank period. Moving on has never been an option when you still breathe. His palm cups your jaw, tilting your lips to meet him again, and he wants.

There was always a principle. A set law to never show his want. But he does now.

The kiss deepens, you’ve both grown callouses from the job. He wonders how rough you might be, underneath the pretence of apathy. Stumbling together, his hand grips the back of your head as he tries to swallow your mouth. To find the root of himself, everything that has kept him alive. You, you have kept him alive.

“Don’t go.” he begs. He’s not afraid to plead for it. He’ll reduce himself to humiliation, if it’ll reward him another hour. “Please— please just stay.”

“I already said I would,” you tug him closer, closer in a way that has him sighing.

Later, when you’re guiding him to bed, he lets you undress him, because he doesn’t want to see the bruises. He doesn’t want to see the evidence of what he endured, the lasting remnants.

Instead, he watches you.

Your hands. Your face. The slope of your nose, the way your eyes glance at his body. He tries not to think about what you must see.

He focuses on how your fingertips feel tracing his hips, instead. Focuses on your words, “Do you really think I’d still be here if I didn’t love you? If I wasn’t in love with you…”

This is the confession he’s waited lifetimes for. Excuse his skepticism. “I don’t know. Maybe you just have a saviour complex.”

His body is marred. Mauve bruises lining tired skin. The colour darkens around the hollow bone of his hip. You’ve both endured injuries before, taken the worst of the job. He drags his fingers over your chest, lingering around section 8 of your upper anatomy, a green area to the traditional silhouette target. A few inches below, the bullet you took last year would’ve been fatal.

Spencer was the one to find you. In an abandoned warehouse, applying pressure to the wound. Ripped sleeves, cloth stained crimson, attempting to stem the blood flow.

You can still remember his panicked comments now. The way he checked for a collapsed lung, monitoring each breath, stammering on about tension pneumothorax and probabilities of life. Everything was based on chance, if the bullet avoided major organs. If the bullet curved strategic anatomical structures.

There’s something intimate to the knowledge, the romanticised ideal that you’ve seen the worst of each other.

“You love me,” he repeats, like he needs time to accept that it’s never been one sided. “Well, I love you more, so I win.”

When you kiss his brow, whisper that he’s an idiot, he exhales, pushing into the warmth. His hands are shaky, fumbling as they work to repay the favour, extracting clothes from your frame.

You watch as he drops to his knees, staring up at you with something akin to worship. He knows he will pay for this later. He pays for it all. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, “Are you aware of how long i’ve waited for this?”

He unhooks your panties, coaxes your body to the edge of the bed. Legs draped over his shoulders, his breath is warm, slow, measured contact as he drags his swollen lips along your skin. A trail of kisses, travelling from hipbone to inner thigh.

“You’re the only thing I’ve thought about since I joined the BAU,” he sounds so pained. Like there’s anguish to his undying commitment. “Do you know how impressive that is? Your whole existence has the capacity to just… derail me.”

“Spencer,”

“Yeah,” he sighs, eyes falling shut, “Keep saying my name..”

There’s a litter of fading marks engrained into you now, from his mouth. When he reaches your clit, it takes all of his strained control to not lie you flat against the bed and bury his face.

Instead, there’s measured halos, he flattens his tongue, catching sensitive nerves with wet pressure, your hips push forward, breathless noises stifled by the bite to your bottom lip.

“Feels s’good,” you slur when his movements pick up, praise falling easy from your mouth. “You’re so good.”

He whimpers once, and then once more when your hand finds his head, sinking into tousled auburn hair. When your fingers reach the root and tug him closer until all he can breathe is you.

It’s a directing force, one that abolishes all thoughts beyond you.

He’s not sure he’ll ever recover from this. Because he can’t love easy. He’ll probably spend the next decade reciting each detail of this moment to himself.

You’re splayed out across dishevelled linen, bedding that holds traces of him. Cedar-wood, coffee, that soft press of freshly washed cotton. You pull harder, a litany of moans spilling from parted lips. A mess of sounds and stimulation, he pauses to drag his tongue across the length of your stained inner thigh before pliantly returning to your clit.

“Spence— fuck, just like that..” your back arches off the mattress, hips canting, bucking forward into his mouth to deepen the friction. It’s hedonistic, greedy, the way you push for more, even when he’s demeaned to his knees, giving you everything.

He groans when you take his middle and ring finger. When he can feel tight heat wrapped around his digits. Anatomy has always been his favourite subject, he’s mastered the art of locating erogenous zones. His fingers curve, and you respond irrationally.

Your thighs are gripping his head now, ensuring he remains locked, and Spencer’s not sure suffocation has ever sounded so good. Because his scalp aches from your sharp hands, and you’re pulling hard enough to warrant tears. He whines, in response, stuttering out fractured oh’s with every lap of his tongue.

“Gonna…” you warn, and he pushes your hips down into the mattress and fucks you through the orgasm. The pulse of your clit, drawn into his mouth, and the clench of muscle around his fingers as you burn with pleasure. Synapses in overdrive, stars staining beneath your closed eyes.

In the aftermath, he takes his time to clean up his own mess. To catch his breath, to not to think about his own arousal. How untouched he is, after all this time.

Climbing the length of your body, he presses kisses to your torso, over every part of you that he hasn’t grazed before.

He stops his ascent at the base of your neck, a soft kiss between your breasts and another on each of your nipples.

“I think I win,” he mutters. “Again.”

Simple words. He’s masochistic, desperate to be put back in his place. You’ve never had an issue with that.

You laugh, albeit breathlessly. “Cute that you assume I would ever let you win.”

He moans, fracturing in two, as your hand drags down his skin. He feels like he’s been hard for centuries. Never finding release. His body doesn’t obey, if it’s not you. When your thumb rolls over his tip, collecting pre-cum, he keens. Lying face to face, his forehead presses to your own, meeting your stare with this helpless, flushed look of need.

He’s too touch-starved to be embarrassed. “Please,”

“Shh,” you muffle his begs, smearing his bottom lip with his own pre-cum before pushing the digit into his mouth. “I don’t think you want to win.” he won’t protest truth, “I think you’re trying to bait me into proving you wrong.” the way he squirms, whimpers, breathless to the pleasure. “Such a whore…”

He can’t find fault in that. “Only for you,” he mutters, “Exclusively for you.”

He pushes forward, catching your lips with his own. It’s a messy kiss. Something that resembles younger him. It’s not like he’s garnered excessive experience since then. Sex, bodies, contact has never been his field of expertise.

It doesn’t help that he’s wasted half of his life aching for you.

“Prove me wrong,” he mutters against your mouth, “All the time. Every single day.”

The way your hand wraps around his cock, the long strokes that graze a need he’s never quite reached himself,.. it’s all torturous. There’s nothing soft in his response, because he bucks forward, into the warmth of your hold, whining like he belongs in porn.

“No, no.. please..” he pleads when you draw back. Though any further protests, soft breathless attempts at coercion, are cut short when you straddle his waist. Legs draped, guiding his tip between folds to graze your clit.

Being corrupted, taken, isn’t something he felt he would experience at his age. But, here he is… 

“Slow,” you command, taking him by the inch. It’s a gradual descend, stretching to accommodate his length.

By the time he’s bottomed out, he looks gone. Mouth half-parted, hollow-lidded eyes, debauched expression as he struggles to breathe. “Slow,” he repeats, as if that word has any good over him now. Everything is static beyond his hips, pushing forward to meet the drag of your own.

He feels raw, uncut, exposed in new ways. Ways that only you can coax out of him.

“You feel… so good,” he mutters, breathless, between a jumble of oh oh oh’s. You rock against him, carving pleasure, and it’s so unfair. Because he’s not supposed to be ruined already.

He can only handle the sight of you, draped over him for so long; his hands snake around your waist, using the hold to drag you both up. Leant against the bed frame. A momentary lapse in movement. “Hi.” he says, coy. “Hi, you’re so beautiful..” his lips meet your neck.

There are parts of you that he believed he would never uncover.

You scoff, “You’re going soft on me here.”

“Are you sure? Because from where i’m sat, I’d beg to differ—“ his words are destroyed by the force of your movements.

He feels warm, in ways that are so intrinsic that the feeling could border on religious. Your hips sink against his, and the contact is enough to drive him mad. His hands are tangled in hair, guiding you closer, kissing you again, and again until you’re just breathing into each others mouth.

“I’m always soft for you,” he promises between ragged breaths. When you’re close, he still feels he retains a fracture of what he once was.

“Good,” you grab a fistful of hair, watch as he breaks.

“Oh,” he moans, ripping into his own lip. “Oh— please..” To have you on his lap, wrapped around him, gasping into his collar. Your body is the culmination of every fantasy — the clandestine ones he was content to keep buried indefinitely.

You watch as he cups your face, as he forces your eyes to meet his in the diluted light. ‘Please,’ he says, shameless to the words, meeting your stare head-on. ‘Please please please.’

He begs, straight to your face. “Just have me. I want it so bad…”

He feels possessed. Leashed, built for you alone.

“Yeah? Do you want me to own you?” your words are a dragged whisper against his ear, he thinks he might come from just this. “To know that you’re mine alone?”

“Mhm—“ he breathes out, “Yes, fuck— please.”

You wrap your hand around his neck, pressing your thumb to his throat. He wears your grip like a necklace. “Just like that, huh?” his hips twitch, pushing up to bury his cock deeper into you.

You hold. For a few moments, watching as he struggles against the restriction to his airflow. He’s flushed, whining out “Just like that…” when you release.

“Take it, Spencer.” you retort, watching as he groans, head spilling back against the wall, severing the eye contact. “If you’re going to be good for me, take it.”

“Trying— ‘m trying,” he sobs. The words are fragmented, they get caught in a knot of moans and half-whimpers.

His hands, his deft, long fingers, tremble as they drag across your ribs, as they palm your breasts before hooking around your waist to deepen each push of movement.

There’s a reminder, burning through the back of his mind. Because touch has always entailed pain. Bruises, scarring, a reminder that some people are inherently violent, and no matter how soft you are, you can be ripped apart…

He’s not sure if he’s the victim or the antagoniser. He thinks maybe both.

…but when your fingers lace with his own, he loses himself.

His head falls to your shoulder. “Please, im trying..” to take it, to accept the pleasure, to acknowledge that you’re permanent. Something irreversible, a black hole he’ll bet his life on.

“I know, I know. So good, Spence. Just like that.”

He’s never needed praise more than he does now.

“There we go.., i’ve got you.”

“I’m yours,” he sobs, “You know i’m yours. Only ever been yours.”

When he comes, it’s messy. Ruptured whimpers and the arch of his back; he’s faintly aware of you clenching around him, reaching your own orgasm, but everything feels, and it’s so much. A tangle of stimuli that his tired body has grown used to begging for. He spills deep inside of you, marking himself in crevices.

“Why did we waste so much time?” he asks after. When you’re both flushed, lying naked against his mattress. “You could’ve had me when I was better. You could’ve had that version of—“

“Spencer,” you cut off. “I don’t care. There isn’t ‘versions of you,’ that’s dumb.” he wants to laugh at your bluntness. “There’s just.. you. You before prison. And you after. They’re both the same, you haven’t lost yourself. You’re just… stronger now.”

“I don’t want to be stronger.” he says, leaning forward to kiss you. “Teach me how to be weak again.”

You don’t tell him there’s no going back. That he’ll never retain the innocence of what once was. Instead, you just sigh, hand curved around his jaw as you reciprocate the contact. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah,” you respond, “I promise.”

[anotherjheastan]

No Fooling Me

A Jey Uso x Rhea Ripley FanFic

CW Suggestive, mentions sex, fluff

I leave before you wake up

The sun up

Now I’m having coffee, eggs, and regret

Am I the only one in your bed?

You just wanna have fun

And I thought I wanna have fun

…

But I want you to be true, at least true with me

You can lie to all the other boys but no fooling me

- No Fool by Joseph Solomon

Jey slowly blinked open his eyes. He smiled when his eyes focused on Rhea. He carefully sat up and stretched and looked at her again. He wondered how she could look so beautiful even in her sleep. She had one arm curved over her head and her face was relaxed.

I could get used to this, Jey thought as he reached out and touched her cheek. She didn’t move, but the smile faded from his face because that was a serious thought and they weren’t serious. They weren’t together.

They were having fun and getting to know each other, but Jey knew enough. He knew he wanted her for himself, but he didn’t think she felt the same way about him. He heard her phone buzzing as he slipped out of bed. He put his boxers and sweatpants on. He had checked her phone before and she hadn’t minded so he just touched the darkened screen to light it up. His heart sank. Messages from Matt 🖤. A few weeks ago, he was the only one with a heart next to his name: Jey 💙. So what did that mean for him? She hadn’t told him she had met anyone. But maybe she was planning on doing that. Because although she had told him he was the only one with a heart, a few days later, she canceled their date. They started hanging out less and texting less too. Yesterday was their first date in a while and it was fun: dinner, drinks, and dancing. Jey was going to go home after, but she asked him to stay. She said she had missed him and apologized for being distant. And then one thing led to another.

Jey threw the rest of his clothes on. He quickly brushed his teeth with the spare toothbrush she had given him yesterday. He had gotten his gym bag out of the car yesterday when she asked him to stay so his date night clothes were already packed up. Maybe he was overreacting, but he couldn’t be there any more. He didn’t want to talk about Matt and whatever feelings she had for him. He only cared about how she felt about him, but he feared that didn’t matter any more. And it was too early to feel such complicated feelings. He looked at her one more time, sleeping soundly. He could wake up to that face forever, but Jey accepted that this would be the last time. And he left.

He went to Waffle House since that’s where they were planning on going. He sat in the back and pretended to look at the menu like he didn’t know what he wanted to get. He tried not to think about her, but she had been on his mind for over a year, even before they started talking. Getting Rhea off his mind wasn’t going to be easy. He figured she’d be getting up now and if he was there with her, she’d pulled him into the shower with her. And they’d take forever to get ready since they’d be fooling around the whole time. The last of the breakfast crowd would be filing out by the time they’d finally get to Waffle House.

Jey half smiled and shook his head. The waitress came and took his order: two hashbrowns scattered and covered, three scrambled eggs with cheese, two chocolate chip waffles, and a lemonade. She refilled his water glass before dropping his order off.

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Rhea.

Rhea: Where are you? Is breakfast off?

Jey didn’t respond. He didn’t want to get wrapped up in her again if this was the end. And if it wasn't the end because of someone else, it would probably be the end because he pissed her off.

Jey thought about their first date. He was so nervous. They had gone axe throwing. They agreed to meet there. When he saw her come in, he realized she was nervous too. But it didn’t take long for them to relax and have fun. He got it before she did so he helped her.

“Let me show you my technique,” Jey said.

Rhea laughed. “Oh you have a special technique now? Show me please.”

“You gotta let it go before you think you need to,” Jey said, smiling.

He stood behind her and put his arms around her, his hands on her hands holding the axe.

“I feel like this is an excuse to get close to me,” Rhea said.

“I’m trying to make sure you don't accidentally hit anyone with these wild throws you’re doing.”

“Oh this is for public safety?” Rhea asked, not being able to keep in her giggles.

“Exactly. Stay focused,” Jey said, chuckling.

As much shit as Rhea wanted to talk, she did land the next throw and the ones after that.

She called as the waitress brought the lemonade. He listened to the voicemail.

“Jey, what’s going on? Are you alright? Did something happen? Can you call or text me please? I’m starting to worry.”

Well he didn’t want her to worry.

Jey: I’m good.

Rhea: Gee thanks. That’s it? You’re usually not the have sex and vanish guy…Do I have to worry about that now?

Jey shook his head, but couldn’t bring himself to text that she didn’t have to worry about him at all.

A few minutes passed and Rhea sent a text with question marks: ???

Jey didn’t respond. He had to start the separation process. Rhea would be okay. She had Matt Black Heart Emoji to keep her company.

As the waitress brought out his food, Rhea walked in. Jey tried to not to look at her, but their eyes locked. A confused and hurt look crossed Rhea’s face as she approached him. She sat down in his booth.

“Oh can I get you something?” The waitress asked.

“Can I get a coffee please? Black?” Rhea asked.

“Coming right up,” the waitress replied.

“Thank you,” Rhea said.

Jey quickly stuffed hashbrowns in his mouth. Rhea rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Jey, you’re acting weird. What’s going on?”

Jey pointed to his mouth.

“Yeah, I know you just shoved food in your mouth so you don’t have to talk to me. We had fun yesterday I thought? Are we okay?”

Jey swallowed and sipped his lemonade. So this conversation was gonna happen. Got it.

“Who’s Matt?” Jey asked.

Rhea’s face softened slightly, but her arms were still firmly crossed. “I started talking to Matt a few weeks ago. I’m getting to know him.”

“The same time you started being distant,” Jey said.

Rhea dropped her arms and sighed. “Jey…”

“You think I’m stupid, Rhea?” Jey asked, anger bubbling up.

“No,” she snapped.

“You think I wouldn’t figure out there was someone else?” Jey asked.

He ate some more hashbrowns and started cutting into his waffles.

“It’s not like that, Jey,” Rhea said.

“Really?”

“I mean, I wasn’t trying to be sneaky about it. We had this conversation. I just got out of a relationship. I’m not jumping into a new one. If I meet people I like, I’m going to talk to them,” she said. “And you said okay, remember?”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

The waitress, wide-eyed, gently put the coffee cup in front of Rhea and scattered.

Rhea’s eyes quickly widened with shock before anger settled on her face.

“No. I’m only sleeping with you,” Rhea said, words dripping with disdain.

She sipped her coffee and Jey sighed.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Rhea drank her coffee, cutting her eyes at him every so often. Jey focused on his food, ignoring the pangs he felt when she had her eyes on him.

“So you like Matt?” Jey said.

“Yes. And you what? Saw his name in my phone and got upset? That’s why you left?”

“You’re not ready for a relationship, but I can’t share you,” Jey said, looking at her.

Rhea’s breath caught and she sat back in the booth. They stared at each other.

“I don’t mean to make it seem like I’m playing games because I’m not,” Jey said. “I know how I feel about you. And it’s not casual. And I wanted some space because if you like someone else, if you wanna explore shit with him, I need to process that.”

Rhea looked down at the table. The waitress came back.

“Did you want to order anything, hon?” she asked.

“Can I get some chocolate chip waffles to go?” Rhea asked. “Two please.”

“Right away,” the waitress said. She walked away.

Rhea looked at Jey. Their eyes met as he finished the last of his eggs.

“You didn’t tell me how you were feeling,” Rhea said quietly.

“It didn’t hit me until this morning,” Jey said. “You’ve been distant, remember? And then I saw Matt with a black heart next to his name and I figured it didn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Rhea said. “I care about you, Jey. Our time together means a lot to me. You’ve helped me through so much.”

“But Matt’s not nobody, huh?”

Rhea sighed. “I’m sorry. He’s not nobody.”

Jey nodded slowly. He felt tears burn his eyes, but he blinked them away.

Silence settled between them a little more comfortably this time.

“So why did you sleep with me yesterday?” he asked.

Rhea sighed and covered her face. She looked at him. “I missed you. You’re special, Jey. I don’t know what it is about you. But I needed to see you yesterday. Like I needed this breakfast with you.” She reached her hand out to him.

“I missed you too,” Jey said, taking her hand in his.

“The problem is you’re not nobody either,” Rhea said.

“You can’t have us both,” Jey said.

“I’m not ready to choose,” Rhea said, squeezing his hand.

Jey let go of her hand. “Not choosing is choosing though.”

Rhea’s eyes watered, her empty hand lingered on the table. Jey looked away.

“It’s okay, Rhea,” Jey said. He sighed and looked at her. “I want you to be happy. You deserve happiness, especially after last year. If talking to Matt makes you happy, do it. We’ll always be friends.”

The waitress dropped off Rhea’s waffles and two checks. She collected Jey’s empty plates and asked if he wanted another lemonade. He shook his head. She left.

Jey grabbed both checks and pulled out his card.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rhea said. “I can pay for mine.”

“It’s okay. I got it. Next time, it can be your treat,” Jey said, a soft smile on his face.

“Next time?” Rhea asked, locking eyes with him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let me know if it’s a friend date or not.”

Rhea smiled. “Okay.”

The waitress took his card and came back. He left a big tip for her.

“You ready to go?” Jey asked. “You must be starving.”

“Yeah I am starving,” Rhea replied, standing up. “You gonna walk me out?”

“Yeah,” Jey said.

Once outside, Rhea leaned against her driver door and looked at Jey. Jey slipped his hands in his pockets, looking her up and down.

“I was dreaming about you,” Rhea said. “And before I opened my eyes I was like wait he’s actually here and I was so happy. And then I look and you’re gone. And then you’re not texting me back. And I didn’t just know something was off. I felt things were off. And it still feels off and I hate that. And I’m gonna get in my car and go home and miss you. I will miss you all day today. But I know it doesn’t matter. Because there’s someone else. But I worry that I won’t be able to let you go either.”

Jey leaned into her. He heard her breath catch and he smiled. “If you can’t stop thinking about me even when you’re with him, you come back to me,” he whispered in her ear. “But I won’t wait forever.”

He leaned away and she nodded, her face flushed.

He grabbed her chin. “No. Use your words.”

He was certain flashbacks of last night were on both of their minds then.

“I-I’ll come back to you,” Rhea whispered.

He smirked and let go of her chin. Rhea bit her lip.

“Bye Rhea,” he said, heading toward his car.

“Bye Jey,” Rhea said breathlessly.

He watched her get in her car and drive away before sitting in his driver seat. Jey sighed, clicking on the dating app he had downloaded last week. He still needed to set up the profile. He figured he would get started on that today. He started his car and drove home.

Choose your ending: Ending 1 or Ending 2

[scoobydoodean]

We’ve communicated about some of this over DM’s, where I said that I disagree with a lot less of this than I think you probably believe I do, but I’ll clarify a few things. 

I don't agree that there is a any way in which relationships and  forgiveness 'should' function. I think love is a relationship in which we don't owe anyone anything, but where, out of our own freedom, we choose to give everything.

I’m not sure what lead you to believe I would disagree with this, but I’m not the one saying there is one specific way that relationships and forgiveness should function. It’s Cas who I think leans into the notion that forgiveness should function in a very specific way in The Trap, by cutting off not just Dean but Sam as well over Dean’s lack of forgiveness, and explicitly communicating a timetable for Dean’s forgiveness that Dean failed to meet. This was what Laura’s post was about yesterday (at least from my perspective). I added that this expectation makes Cas’s dialogue feel cold toward Mary, and I blamed Berens, not Cas, as my criticisms of this episode have always predominantly been directed toward dialogue writing. In general though, I think Cas has a somewhat tragic tendency to see relationships as transactional, and I think The Trap leans into this, unwittingly or not. 

In Absence, when he blames Cas for not telling him something wasn't right with Jack when Dean knew FULL WELL that something wasn't right with Jack? I just felt that was not fair, full stop, and I think Dean knew it! 

On Dean's side, his anger is also legitimate problem, and more importantly, it's also a lie he is telling himself, because he is not really angry, he is grieving, and he is broken-hearted and the pain and never-ending horror of everything that follows is overwhelming him.

I agree that Dean’s anger is destructive. I agree that Dean is grieving. I agree that Dean throws an unreasonable amount of blame on Cas, and that he’s also projecting some of his own feelings of guilt. I do not agree that Dean is simply substituting grief for rage, or that the anger he feels is entirely explained by projection. I think there is a very obvious thread through the entire divorce arc about Dean’s frustration at Cas’s perpetual secrets. It is a function of almost every conflict they ever have. Cas repeatedly and intentionally withholds information from his loved ones and tries to handle everything completely alone. This is one of the things he  talks about in the conversation you describe as vulnerable. And yet, Cas doesn’t stop keeping secrets from his loved ones after acknowledging it as a problem. He continues to withhold The Empty deal. Cas has been doing this for a decade, and it has blown up in all of their faces dozens of times, and Dean’s anger is tied to that pattern of behavior. Cas's secret in isolation feels small, but it's a mistake to let that small straw trivialize the larger pattern into a non-issue that isn't a part of Dean's feelings at all. Cas's secrets blowing up is intentionally written as a function of their strife for a decade, and is mentioned during the divorce arc by both of them, but isn’t addressed in The Trap, and then isn’t addressed in the rest of the series. 

I think you can give the person you love grace out of your own exigency and freedom, and I think that's what Dean does, and it's also what Cas does.

For me, The Trap is not about absolving Cas, it's about Dean getting right with Dean, not because Cas is owed an apology, but because Dean has to give one for his own sake.

I agree. And maybe I would be able to enjoy it if they hadn’t built the divorce arc into a fight that would address strife in their relationship as a whole instead of just Dean’s anger. The problem is, even the way Dean’s anger is addressed is deeply underwhelming and uninspiring to me because as a viewer. “I don’t know why I get so angry”  isn’t an interesting comment on Dean’s anger at Cas or in general. It’s a cop out. And I do not feel Dean’s anger at Cas can be meaningfully addressed without actually addressing Cas’s biggest most signature flaw.

For me, the episode is deeply satisfying as a Dean Enjoyer because I love when Dean's beautiful, loving, gorgeous heart wins, and I love watching him speak it, and tell the truth about what he feels, both to himself and to Cas. 

That’s great. I have no problem with people liking The Trap. I do have a problem with people building me disliking it into something it isn’t just because they happen to like the episode. We all love Dean’s heart, and there is no zero sum game here where having Dean’s heart and freely given love precludes a meaningful discussion on Cas’s issues. One never had to happen at the expense of the other. It's okay to like The Trap. It's also okay to think it's a badly written disappointment.

What you say: The Trap is a dissatisfying episode that presents some questionable narratives about the way relationships and forgiveness should function, and never meaningfully addresses any of Cas’s problems. Instead, it legitimizes Cas’s repeated tendency to keep secrets as a reasonable behavior that Dean needs to get over.

What people hear: Dean did nothing wrong and nothing he ever said about Cas was ever unfair. Cas is entirely and solely responsible for the breakdown of his and Dean’s relationship and Mary’s death is all his fault. Cas should die. Destiel is dead and Cas killed it. I hate him and he smells. Also I killed at least three of your dogs.

[icewindandboringhorror]

sometimes looking at like Self Help Strategies lists for the symptoms I'm having is always just like:

thing that I already do

thing I have tried 10 times

thing I already do

thing that I don't have the money to do

thing I already do

thing I've been doing since I was 10yrs old to no avail

thing that is impossible given my situation

thing that doesn't apply to me

thing that I already do

thing I have already tried

hrmm, oh wait, maybe finally- OH, yeah.. okay. thing that I already do but it was just phrased slightly differently

thing I have already done

[tenok]

.

[cherrylgc]

lgcaeri

“you don’t have a tv yet?” aeri questioned, curious for a moment whether cherry was the type to consume any bit of media through something more portable like a mobile phone or tablet. “yeah, i do live alone.” she nodded, realizing then how long it had been since she lived in the apartment by herself. “i have for about three years already? it’s really one of the best perks that we get when we join lgc agency.” she let out an airy laugh as she thought about how much of a relief it must be for some of the models and actors to live by themselves after spending a good amount of time living in the dorms with multiple people. “the downside is that the managers do end up having to do more work picking us up sometimes, but i do enjoy being a homebody so it’s nice being able to live alone. plus i love interior decorating, which makes the whole living in an apartment experience fun for me.” while listening to cherry, aeri continued to take some more bites of her food. with how long they’ve been talking, aeri knew that if she didn’t eat any time soon, her food was bound to get cold and she wanted to enjoy it while she could. “hm…” aeri covered her mouth with her hand momentarily, thinking of cherry’s question longer. “i think if my acting career trajectory was different, i’d say i would have sticked to the roles i was best at to make sure people would remember me for that before branching to different ones. but since that’s not the case, i think preferring to play different roles would be the ideal choice…and if i play different roles, at least some people won’t assume that i’m so much like my past characters in real life. i think that’s a common assumption actors get if they end up playing the same roles, you know?”

she shakes her head “no tv yet, not really any furniture yet actually…”. cherry had been excited to move out, and when she got the opportunity to move out and live alone she was quick to taking it, even though she knew she didn’t have much money in her pocket. cherry had enjoyed living in the dorms with other people, but she wanted to live alone, mainly so she could invite her girlfriend over with no worries of getting caught. but she didn’t have the money for furniture and her dad couldn’t help her out, so her apartment looked a bit… empty. “eh? it’s been that long already?”, “how long were you in legacy before switching to the acting path?” cherry now finds herself curious.

cherry pokes her food, almost forgetting it’s there to eat, so when aeri responds, cherry is quick to get in some bites, though taking a bite bigger than intended and she finds herself mouth full while she wants to respond back. “i personally think i’d like to start with roles i’m good at and then try things out of my comfort zone” she shrugs “i think i’d be good at comedic roles, but then again, maybe i don’t know, i’ve barely gotten to act, it’s difficult to guess which kind of roles i’d be good at”. “ah yeah that’s true, like cha eunwoo, he plays a lot of the same kind of roles and now people kind of see him like the roles he plays”.

[mishtershpock]

.

[gibbearish]

am finally back home and can say without a doubt that i am just fundamentally not built for long distance travel however the train was much nicer than planes

[milo-igidk]

have i mentioned lately that i fucking hate the council

[leseigneurdufeu]

*leans back in the armchair and knits* "Aye, ah remember when all o' this was Superwholock jokes and Fuck Yeah [Name]'s [Noun] blogs. Of course, we didn't actually call our Blorbos 'Blorbo' in those days, and meme rationing had only just ended so..."

[tender-rosiey]

from me to you — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: this takes place in chapter 268, soo sort of spoilers ahead? also long live gojo satoru; gojo leaves you a letter 🙏

“y/n-sensei, there is a letter for you as well!”

that catches your attention, and you look up at the first years. you tilt your head slightly, and yuuji hands you an envelope.

you gently take it from him, and the first thing you notice is “wifey” written on it then the doodle of satoru with his blindfold on. you feel your throat tighten, and your hands shake slightly.

you let out a small breath then shakily open the letter.

hey, honey!!

it first reads.

I feel like there is still much I didn’t tell you in our last meeting, so here I, your beautiful and handsome husband, am writing them down.

you swallow lightly, and a small smile appears on your face as you imagine satoru saying that, then you continue to the next line.

first, I changed all your computer passwords to variations of “satoruisthebest” at one point. your confusion was so cute!!

you quirk an eyebrow at the admission, but when you rack your brain, you remember that one day when you couldn’t log into your computer.

what you vividly remember was satoru being sat beside you the whole time, and now that you think about it. he was smiling so widely the entire time, letting out small chuckles every now and then. oh, that sneaky man.

“satoru, I am telling you it’s broken!”

“sweetheart, we spent over 2000$ on that. if it broke, then we could easily sue the company,” he chuckled, arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you closer.

“2 year guaranteed top performance my ass!”

you smile at the memory. it was pretty satoru of him to do that. your eyes then move to continue reading.

second, there are times when I would tell megumi that you would be coming with me, then he would turn and leave me when he found out I was tricking him.

your eyes glance up at said boy who is sat across of you. he made it out alive, despite everything. he suffered so much, but he made it.

it makes you relieved, and you can imagine satoru being bloody proud of him and saying something along the lines of ‘you handed sukuna’s ass to him, very cool!’

no matter how much megumi had frowned and grimaced at satoru’s presence or antics. it rooted itself as something—safe and familiar.

you can’t count on your hands the times when you and satoru would visit the siblings, and nobody really said it, but these meetings did all of you a favor, a chance to kind of wind down. maybe act like death might actually not be looming tomorrow.

it feels like just yesterday when megumi would cling to you when he got really sad or nervous, after so much time spent getting comfortable with each other.

he grew up well, you think, eyes gliding to next.

third, I hid your uniform every two to three weeks, so you have to stay with me.

at that, your eyes widen a bit. satoru’s schedule was pretty packed, but he somehow managed to squeeze time for quality time between you two.

it tugged on your heartstrings, and you made sure he knew how much you appreciated it, not a single space on his face left without a kiss. however, finding out that he went out of his way to make you rest and stay.

satoru’s care really showed in his actions, and you feel like this is the biggest proof of it.

“satoru, have you seen my uniform?”

“nope! maybe, it is a sign to stay home today? you’ve been working so hard, wifey!”

you cupped his face, pulled him down to your height, and kisses his cheek, “you’ve been working harder, ‘toru. let me take off some of the load at least.”

“we could both stay!”

“you’re kidding, right?”

“I already told yaga; I miss you!”

you try to stop the reminiscing further and try to compose yourself before reading the rest.

fourth, I’m the one who kept adjusting the thermostat. I just wanted an excuse to cuddle.

a fond yet melancholy smile appears on your face. you kinda figured that one out. satoru’s favorite pastime was cuddling, so it’s no surprise that he would go out of his way to create the need for it even further.

add to that, once you went to get some green tea and saw him from the corner of your eye teleport to the thermostat, click something, then teleport back to bed.

you figured that the room being chilly that night was not an exception in the middle of july.

“babeeee, it’s so cold! let’s cuddle!”

“maybe the problem is with the thermostat?”

“I checked! I think cuddling is the best solution.”

you giggle as you recall the moment, one of many similar. your heart feels a bit lighter as you go through the letter. something satoru managed to always do even in person.

he would plaster sticky notes, get you trinkets, and even pull pranks on other just to see you smile. feeling more encouraged, you keep on reading the letter.

then you feel your chest constrict so tightly that you might just throw up.

fifth, I am really gonna fucking miss you.

you read the line over again, and you purse your lip in hopes of silencing any noise that may come out as you feel the lump in your throat return, even worse than before. your breathing starts getting more difficult.

your grip on the letter tightens, and you find yourself thinking back to the good times. memories of late nights spent in each other’s arms, thinking about everything and nothing at once.

hushed whispers of confessions and quiet giggles as you reminisced on your highschool days. tight hugs when recalling the sad moments and the departure of a certain someone.

“you know, y/n, I think we might just be made for each other,” he said one night. you hummed and looked him in the eyes.

“three am thoughts?”

“three am admissions,” he grins slightly, “I am made for you, and you’re made for me.”

you remember him pulling you closer and kissing your forehead, while you teased, “and what would you need little old me for, so much that I got made?”

he feigns thinking then closes his eyes, burying his face in your shoulder, “grounding me.”

I love you. I really do, but you should know that already, right?

your eyes drift down to the corner of the paper, and that is when you feel your tears start free-falling. there is drawn a chibi satoru besides a chibi you and between them is a heart.

the chibi satoru is giving yours a big smooch, while she laughs. you never thought that the day your jealousy burns would be because of drawings, and drawings of you and your own husband, nonetheless.

“but wow, gojo-sensei is shit at writing letters,” you hear nobara remark.

megumi responds with a small chuckle, “I am fine with mine.”

“what about you, y/n-sensei?—”

the trio becomes silent as you let out a sob. a watery smile makes its way up your face as you kiss the letter gently and murmur, “so shitty.”

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do not copy or plagiarize or I will tell @callmemirro

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[woovalin]

i’m in such disbelief right now and beyond disgusted.

i really hope y’all are choosing your morals over kpop; because we do not know these men at all. i will never side with or defend a predator and a criminal, even with little to no proof. even if there is the smallest chance he may be innocent, i will always believe the victim first.

some of you, as fans of the boys for years and him in general, i know you must be feeling disappointed and betrayed. you’re not dumb for previously supporting him, as we couldn’t have possibly known. but now is the time for a reality check and it’s time to wake up and take a step back. this just goes to show that we know absolutely nothing about them.

for sm to just outright put out a statement on their own before any rumors even surfaced and immediately kick him out? this has to be insanely serious and i’m terrified of what he could’ve done. the crazy thing is with everything currently happening in korea with the telegram situation, and korean women constantly being in danger in general because of the men there, i’m not at all surprised that celebrities are being exposed. sm has protected criminals before, and held onto lucas when his scandal came out as well as other artists who have been exposed for similar crimes. i can’t even imagine the severity of the current situation. we’ve seen what happened with the burning sun, and these men are not immune to being misogynistic, vile human beings.

members have already unfollowed him and deleted posts with him in them; his best friend of 17yrs has unfollowed him. the company taking the initiative and him getting kicked out of the group in less than a second before anything even came out, no denying the claims or even trying to defend him. that should be enough to tell you and understand how serious this actually is. i am beyond disgusted with him and this whole situation.

i sincerely hope the victim is doing okay and praying for them to heal and get the justice they deserve. and remember that your love for these celebrities should always be conditional, because we do not know them. it’s their job to put on a show and show you their public persona, but behind closed doors? we don’t know what they’re actually like. we put them on a pedestal and yet we don’t know what they’re really capable of. they are still men after all. i hope the police are taking this seriously. there needs to be consequences and these women need to be protected.

let this be a lesson to all of us. they don’t know us, and we don’t know them, not really, not at all.

ALWAYS choose morals over these strangers you idolize. and as women, we should be standing with the victims.

maybe not all men, but enough of them. and maybe not all men, but somehow always a man. and going forward, i will continue to support nct as a whole with the remaining members. however, keeping the situation in mind, i will be supporting from afar for a little while. if the situation escalates and other members are investigated and new information comes to light about the rest of them either knowing or possibly being involved, it would be best to step away for good. i will do my best to stay updated. but i do hope the rest of the members are doing okay, and hopefully no other members were involved; but this, just shows that they can always surprise us. you never think it’ll be your fave, until it is.

let’s hope this causes a domino effect and more of these people are exposed and charged for the crimes they’re committing.

sending love to anyone who has ever experienced sexual violence or has been targeted and been in a similar situation. it is not your fault and it never was!

love you all and my dms are always open if you need to vent. <3

❗️EDIT: also i wanna add that we need to not praise the rest of the members or any other celebrity for simply unfollowing him on social media. that is the least of anyone’s worries.

we don’t know if they were aware, we don’t know if they knew and were protecting him or turning a blind eye. it could be them trying to save themselves and clear their guilty conscience. maybe they didn’t know and are just as shocked as we are, we don’t know that either.

we blindly trust these people and believe they have good intentions but look at where that can lead to. fans being upset is valid, yes; but remember people with money and power will do whatever it takes to sweep things under the rug and make it go away in order to save face and keep their image and reputation.

follow-up post here.

[fmhobeus]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.