#but eh at some point you have to let it go

[lonesilverw0lf]

The always smiling, closed eyed, rich, fashion conscious, cheerful, pampering, remembers everyone’s birthday, has everything but the kitchen sink in her purse, presence literally lightens up a room, wide thighs and big boobied Mom Friend is the Heroes Party financial manager. She is so good at keeping a budget, finding great deals, haggling, the whole nine, and still finds the funds to give everyone gifts that it’s scary. She has been singlehandedly keeping the whole party fed, clothed, supplied, and everything. Even the nerdy number crunchers can’t figure it out. She currently in a seedy part of a city, but why? She is checking in on a black market dealer and informant in a small back room. She was just about ready to leave when the Informant tipped her off that he has information regarding MC.

Informant: Heh, little missy wants to know about her wayward friend hm? Well, I’m afraid this is going to cost you a bit extra. That is outside of what we agreed on previously after all.

Mom Friend: Oh dear, you see I think there’s been a misunderstanding. You see I am willing to pay you for information about most things, even work some shady dealings with others here and there, but if it’s in regards to MC then you will give it to us pro bono.

Informant: Hahahaha! You don’t have any power here to make such demands!

Mom Friend: Ohohohoho, it’s in your best interest to tell me what I want to know. I’m not in the mood for bartering right now.

Informant: Someone from the so called Heroes Party obviously hasn’t taught you that things don’t work like that around here. Nor that you have any kind of protection here either. Let’s see if some time with Boris will straighten you out, eh?

Mom Friend, looks over to the large man eyeing her: Oh I’m sorry dear, but you’re not my type!

Informant: Hahahaha! You don’t understand your position here missy! This room is soundproof, there’s nobody that will hear you! That door is the only way in or out and it’s locked!

Mom Friend, sighing unperturbed as Boris stalks over to her: Oh dear, it looks like we’re going to do this the hard way.

In an instant Boris in on the ground writhing in pain.

Mom Friend: Oh don’t worry Mr Informant, I’ll get to you in just a moment. In the meantime, you can decide which of your fingers you want broken last.

Informant, uncomprehending what just happened: Y-y-y-you can’t do anything to me! I have protection from the King of Beggars!

Mom Friend: Oh, is that so? You really think your ‘King’ would protect someone who is stealing from him? Someone who is skimming a little extra gold, booze, women, off the top? Someone who’s slicing his shipments to him? Someone who is trying to build up their own little ‘kingdom’ within his own kingdom in a plot to eventually overthrow him in oh 2 years? Someone who drinks with the corrupt government officials and dreaming about how you’re going to dump his body into the moat with a bag of lead coins shoved down his throat? Not that you would allow those officials to stay long anyway, only a few months or so. That is if everything went smoothly for you. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to give him his cut of your dealings with me. Our meetings are ‘off the table’ in your words, and I know you also meant to your ‘King’.

Informant: What?! How did you-?!

Mom Friend, casually dislocating limbs on Boris while he screams: If anything, I think he’ll thank me. I’m sure he’ll appreciate knowing where those Antwon originals ‘disappeared’ to. He’d be one less rodent stealing from his table, and one less knife pointing at his back too. Sure he’ll lose an informant, but it’s not like you’re a very high ranking one though. There’s no shortage of criminals who’re envious of your position, they’d jump at the chance to prove to your ‘King’ they have what it takes to replace you and then some. And without the treasonous thoughts too! At least for a while. Even if he doesn’t thank me, you’re going to be feeling the full extent of my ‘administrations’ for a very, very, very~ long time. I am nothing if not thorough!~

Informant, sweating: Ha! You can’t frighten me with-

Mom Friend: You know I had a rebellious phase when I was twelve. I wanted to read those smutty Count Dracula stories because my parents told me not to, but I accidentally found myself reading about Vlad Dracul III of Romania. He was reportedly the inspiration of Bram Stokers original Count Dracula, but I found his other moniker of Vlad the Impaler far more interesting. That led me down a historical rabbit hole of our worlds history’s darker side. Brazen Bulls, Interrogation Chairs, Iron Maidens, the Racks, oh mankind can be… inventive. Did you know there are 206 bones in the human body? Or that certain Chinese pressure points discovered to cause unimaginable pain when triggered? How many volts of lightning that can travel through a body before being permanently damaged? How long someone can laugh unstopped before dying? How long someone can survive in the extreme temperatures? How little food and water is needed to keep someone just barely alive? I’ve had some fascinating discoveries for someone so young on the dark web. While I may be limited to what I have on hand, I’m sure I’ll manage.

Informant, now cowering: Why are you doing this?

Mom friend: Because I’m what we call a ‘mom friend’. Although I would prefer to be called big sis, ‘momma’ makes me sound so old but that’s not important. What is important is that you give me the information about MC, because we are missing our friend and want him back. Back home our towns mascot is the grey wolf. Oh I know they’re a bit of a pest in your world but back home they’re creatures of beauty. They’re strong, capable, adaptable, intelligent, and above all loyal.

We are a team. A family. We take care of each other, protect one another, will do crazy things for each other. We are going to save this world, and we are all going to go home. Together. We are going to bring MC with us. You are going to tell me everything you know about MC.

Mom Friend, now a looming presence who hasn’t broken her smile once: Now then, care to make a deal? Or are we going to discover what happens when Mommy turns into Momma Bear?

MC: walks through the front door of the building being used as a front and gets one whiff of Mom Friends perfume

The standard 'entire class gets isekai'd to a fantasy world and the outcast MC is basically discarded' anime setting, where the MC, now assumed dead, decides to instead help the class of Heroes in the shadows, making sure they live up to what the people need.

However, the entire class knows that he's alive and are hellbent on dragging that son of a bitch back into the spotlight and to give him the recognition he deserves.

(And maybe because he was basically the entire class's Little Guy™.)

[fourkisses]

i stare at the crash (it actually works) ✷

a cs55 written-smau where . . .

carlos signs with porsche after getting ditched by ferrari only to find himself in a heated rivalry with his new teammate. oh, and did i mention she's also his ex-girlfriend?

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!porsche driver!reader

warnings: it's very long. also, cuss words. a lot of cuss words.

a/n: buckle up your seatbelts because this will take a wild turn wink wink

ᯓ★ PART FOUR: THE GRANDEST MASTERPLAN YET

lando calls for backup . . .

the grid added to their stories!

Golf de Monte Carlo | 8:43 AM

“The fuck is he doing here?”

You have unintentionally thought that one out loud. Lando told you that it would be just the usual gang coming today (a.k.a. the Twitch Quartet plus Lils), so you don't really get why your teammate is here.

"Really, Y/N? No hi, hello, welcome, here's some water because I am absolutely sure you two are parched from the intense heat of the scorching sun?" Lando replies sarcastically as he and Carlos get down from the golf cart parked in front of you.

You roll your eyes at the Brit before throwing a water bottle at him and Carlos that, of course, they both catch. (Drivers and their stupid reaction times.)

"Yeah, Y/N. No kisses on the cheeks?" Carlos playfully adds before unscrewing the bottle cap.

"Oh, I'm sorry Carlos! I totally forgot!" You flash him your prettiest smile. "Do you want it to be from my left fist or my right?"

Charles tries to shut his mouth, but he can't help himself and lets out a giggle. After that incident on the jet, he (aside from Lewis and Nando) is the only person to know what really transpired between the two of you.

You, however, are not enjoying even just a second of this shit. You turn to glare at the Ferrari driver and magically, his laugh somehow turns into a fake cough.

George was the first one to ask a sensible question in minutes. "So, Lan, how do we get on with this exactly?"

Lando, the ever dramatic, claps his hands before replying. "Well, since we are kind of a large crowd, I reckon it would be best if we play in teams, yeah?” he nods, as if he's delivering a presidential speech. ”The teams are gonna be Lily and Alex, you and me, and Y/N and Carlos."

“What about Charles?” you ask. “Can't I be paired with him instead?”

Lando looks around and counts one by one. Two, three, five, six, seven. Damn. They're missing a person to make it even. He clearly hasn't thought his grandest masterplan through.

"Ah, Charles! Well, actually, Charles will play by himself today.”

The Monegasque's face contorted. He pointed at himself. “Me?”

“Yeah! You told me earlier!”

“Eh?”

Lando widened his eyes at the Ferrari driver. Just go with it!

Oh. Charles gets the hint and plays along. "Oh, yeah! You know, I'm in my strong, independent era, that's why!” He smiles right after, proud of himself for pulling it off.

“Well, if that's the case then I'm going home. I'm sorry but if Carlos is my teammate, then I'm not playing,” you announce. It's one thing to be with him on the track. But being with Carlos even in your leisure time? Too much, guys.

Your announcement elicits quite a diverse reaction from the group, including but not limited to:

Carlos rolling his eyes. "As if I want to be your teammate."

Charles sighing. I am a child of divorce.

Alex and Lily whispering quietly among themselves. Do you want to get out of here and just stay in bed with Izzy the whole day?

George trying to eavesdrop on the couple. What is an Izzy?

Lando, however, is calm. Zen-like. He is unmoved, not even one bit.

“Are you sure about that? You haven't even heard of the prize yet," the brit says in an enticing manner, wiggling his eyebrows in the process. Lando may have been caught off guard seconds ago, but he wouldn't allow anyone to fuck up his grandest masterplan yet, no. Not even you. This is the ace in his deck that he absolutely can't wait to deal.

As expected, everyone looks at him in confusion. Even the guys who are part of the quartet that knows about Lando having a grandest masterplan is just as clueless as you.

“What is it?” you ask with both arms crossed, heels tapping the grass in anticipation.

Lando smiles widely. Very, very widely.

“Pole position in Zandvoort, courtesy of Max Verstappen.”

Holy shit.

This time, Lando's announcement elicits quite a diverse reaction from the group, including but not limited to:

Alex cheering inwardly. Good thing I have an amazing girlfriend who just so happens to be a professional golfer.

George groaning loudly. “Hey Albono, can I team up with Lily instead?”

Carlos wanting nothing but to punch a wall at the moment. “I would rather take Lando as my partner.”

You wanting nothing but to punch Carlos at the moment. “I would rather take Lando as my partner.”

Charles, however, is worried about a different thing.

“Hey mate,” he whispers in Lando's ear, “did Max really say that?”

The brit smirks in response, confident of his plan. “He actually hasn't. . . yet.

“But don't you worry a thing, Charlie boy! I'm sure he will, although I specifically need you to ask him."

“Err, I guess I could do that, but I'm not sure how he will agree with such . . . request.”

Lando pats the Ferrari driver's shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

“Honestly? No. But go on.”

“In situations like this, we need to bribe Max with something in exchange for what we want. And, among all of us, you're the only one who has a material worthy enough to offer to the champ."

"I'm not sure I follow," Charles responds.

"The power lies within your phone, Cha! Quick, do you have it with you right now?"

Charles nods and pulls his phone from his pocket.

"Okay, good. Now, can you please open your Instagram? I want you to do something very, very important. . . "

a few moments later, on twitter . . .

an hour later . . .

“Just hit the damn ball!”

You can't help but roll your eyes at your teammate's comment. “Can you shut up for at least five seconds?”

“Santo Niño de Atocha, we've been here for five minutes!”

You fall deaf to the Spaniard's complaint. Sure, you have been "fixing" your position for a while now, swinging the club multiple times but not hitting the ball (yet), shifting your weight from one foot to another, shuffling forward, then backward, then forward again, but hey, you're just preparing for a successful shot!

The rest have already moved ahead, leaving you and Carlos the last pair to be at the tee box. He blames it on you for not striking. You blame it on him for not letting you concentrate.

"Do you want me to help you?"

"Do you want me to swing this at you instead?"

"I'm pretty sure we would have a higher chance of winning if I do so, Y/N."

"I know how to play golf, okay! My ex-boyfriend used to bring me to these places," you snap back as you reposition your golf club, slightly swinging it back and forth to get the position right.

"You mean me?"

Oh. Oh shit, yeah. He's the ex-boyfriend. But hell, he absolutely doesn't need to know that he's that ex-boyfriend.

You stop what you're doing to look at him sideways. "Sainz, I am going to hold your hand while I say this," it's just a little white lie, you swear, "but you're not my only ex-boyfriend." (He's absolutely you're only ex-boyfriend.)

He stares at you with a rather unamused expression, not buying the lie you're trying to sell him.

Still, you frown in his direction, fully committing to the bit. "I'm so sorry to break it to you, but sweet pea, you're not that special." You nod at him a couple of times. It's okay, bud. You're gonna get past this.

Yet Carlos didn't seem to be affected by the jab. He just shrugs his shoulders in response and waves you off, gesturing you to continue what you're supposed to be doing.

Brick. Ice queen or whatever. You shift your focus back to the little white ball perched in front, eyes in slits as you examine it. God. Such a small item to be stressed at. Okay. Just. . . calm down. You have zoomed through circuits at insane, almost ungodly speeds. This is nothing. Just breathe in and breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You tighten your grip to the metal rod you are holding as you lift it and coil your body. "Here goes nothing," you mutter under your breath, silently hoping that you're not going to embarrass yourself in front of the cockiest man to have ever walked this land. Then, with eyes closed, you swing your golf club forward, striking the ball.

Except . . . you didn't. You anxiously open your left eye only to see that the tiny white dot of menace is still there where you last saw it.

You hear a snicker behind you. You roll your eyes so far back you see for a split second all the emotions that control your one hell of a brain. "Shut up, Sainz. I don't want to hear a word about it."

"Ay, I wasn't going to say anything!" Carlos answers defensively, arms in the air, his shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. He walks towards his golf bag and pulls out a club. "Although I just have to mention, you definitely called the wrong ex-boyfriend to teach you golf, don't you think?"

Ugh. You slump down the grass beneath you. See? The cockiest man to have ever walked this land!

Golf de Monte Carlo | 2:34 PM

"Where did it go?!"

Your voice echoes through the vastness of the golf course.

Carlos absolutely has no idea.

He shouts back at you. "I absolutely have no idea!"

Why the fuck would you think he'll know where the ball you just hit would go? He shakes his head in disbelief.

He watches you as you walk further down the fairway to look for your golf ball, dragging your golf bag along with you. He already told you earlier to carry it on your back but you replied that 1) your shoulders are already sore from carrying the entire face and personality of the Porsche F1 team and that 2) he should mind his own business.

Unbelievable woman, Sainz thought.

You two are in the green now, where the hole is situated. Both of you are close to finishing the whole game, actually, with this hole being the 18th and last one. Carlos fixes his stance before swinging his golf club with just enough force to send his golf ball towards victory. Finally.

"Hey! Sainz!" he hears you shout. "I can't find it!"

He puts his club back inside his bag before walking towards your direction. "Maybe it got lost in the rough!"

"The what?!"

"See that?" he says as soon as he reaches you. He points at the area that has taller, unkempt grass compared to the one you are standing on. "Considering your golfing abilities, it's highly probable that it went there."

"How am I supposed to get it out then?"

Carlos is surprised that you didn't fire back after his subtle insult. "Eh, just pick it up with your hands."

You absolutely heard that dig but hey, the past four hours with him wasn't actually that bad. Sure, there was bickering here and there, but nothing too serious or personal. For the first time in years, you start to think you're finally coming around regarding the situation you and Carlos are in.

"But isn't that against the rules?"

"Ay, it doesn't matter! You already lost anyways," he reveals as he looks back at the tall flag that marks where the hole is, signaling that his golf ball was already in there.

"What do you m- hey! We're a team here!" you exclaim at him when you realize what he meant.

Carlos scoffs in amusement. So now you claim you two are teammates after your public disdain for him earlier?

"I thought you said you don't want to play when I'm your teammate?" he counters, the hint of bitterness in his voice unintended but clearly evident.

"Really? We just finished the whole thing and you're asking me that question just now?" Wow, so much for thinking maybe you two can finally be civil.

"I'm just saying! I'm simply restating what you said earlier," Carlos defends himself, trying to salvage the conversation and save his ass.

“There's literally no need to bring it up and attack me, though,” you say as you walk away from him and towards the area where your golf ball might have landed. "Stop acting as if you weren't sharing the same sentiments earlier."

Carlos follows you from behind. Point taken. “Okay, I'm sorry,” he pleads, stopping his tracks about a meter from where you are standing. He didn't get a response as you choose to ignore him and instead continue to scour the grass for a circle of white that might be peeking through.

Found it.

"Hey, Y/N. I said I'm sorry."

You hold the golf ball in your hand as you turn to face him, nodding in acknowledgement. "Just. . . next time, don't dig up shit that's already dead and buried. You always do that, you know. It's childish," you say before walking towards your golf bag.

Now Carlos is the one who feels offended. What do you mean I always do that? And childish, me, really? You can't even talk to me without saying a cuss word every five minutes!

Lost in the heat of the moment, Carlos blurts it out before even thinking of it: "Oh yeah? Well, if you really don't want me to dig up shit, then stop doing shit that needs to be buried in the first place."

His words stop you on your tracks. You look back, jaw dropping. “Excuse me? What the fuck is your problem?”

“No, Y/N! what the fuck is your problem?” Carlos fires back, his voice sharp, his frustration spilling over.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know what my problem is,” you snap, your tone cutting. “Because I assure you, you are very well-aware about it!”

Carlos lets out a scoff, crossing his arms defensively. “Really, Y/N? Is this still about Ferrari?”

You don’t respond. Your silence is answer enough.

“Dios mío,” he mutters, exasperated. “That was almost five years ago! Can’t you still not—”

“And so what if it’s about Ferrari?!” you shout, stepping closer as you point a finger at him. “You ruined us just so you could sign with that damn team!”

“God, they already dropped me, Y/N!” Carlos yells, throwing his hands up. “We’re teammates now, for fuck’s sake! Why are you still so affected by it?”

You let out a humorless chuckle, cheeks flushing red with anger.

“Why am I so affected by it? Nice question, Sainz! What if I also signed a contract behind your back and didn’t ask your opinion about it?” you shoot back, your voice rising with every word. “And when you questioned me, I told you you were unsupportive of my dreams, accused you of being jealous, and then left—just disappeared. And a week later, you found out I told the fucking tabloids I'm single now?”

Carlos stiffens, his face paling.

“And then, four years later,” you continue, your voice breaking but relentless, “I show up in front of you and act like nothing ever happened between us?”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the anger threatening to consume you. “Is my reaction justifiable now?”

Silence. The tension hangs heavy in the air, suffocating. Carlos looks down, refusing to meet your gaze, his expression unreadable.

“You know, for the record, Carlos,” you say coldly, the words biting, “we are not teammates.”

He looks up, eyes red. “Partners trust each other. You clearly didn’t.”

You turn and start to walk away, each step heavier than the last, leaving him standing there.

“Yeah, we’re not.”

You stop, his words freezing you in place.

“Partners support each other,” Carlos adds, his voice hollow, bitter. “You clearly didn’t.”

He lets out a short, empty laugh, one that carries no humor, only pain. “God, I just really wanted you to be happy for me that time, Y/N.”

A single tear slips down your cheek. Then another. And another. The world around you blurs, your chest tight with the weight of the moment.

He walks away, footsteps fading into the distance.

You stand there, frozen in time.

And suddenly, it's like four years ago all over again.

← previous part next part →

[writingoddess1125]

Too Much or Too Little

Buggy x GN Reader

Mihawk X GN Reader

Fun Fun Spicy Times~ Starting the new year off with some Spice!

Buggy

18+ Content Down Below!

Must be 18+ to Read!

Warnings: Overstimulation, Orgasm denial, Dom/Sub, Drug use, DubCon

Too Much-

“Bu- ngh!— Much!,” you moaned shakily, your legs trembling as fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. Your thighs sticky and bruised from the harsh hand prints on them-

A cackle seemed to echo from the cause of your broken state.

Buggy smirked down at you, Having not stopped this entire time as he plowed into you- His hands detached from your legs a few rounds ago and now keep your wrist pinned down by his floating hands when you had tried to pull away from his thrust to stop the onslaught of pleasure.

The asshole hadn't even bothered to strip himself all the way when he started to fuck you like a beast- having said he got a fun new drink he wanted to test out with you a few hours ago when you'd first walked into his quarters.

You should have known by the look in this clown bastards eyes when he tipped back a little blue vile past his teeth and smirked at you with a knowing gleam.

"Eh?~ What was that Doll?"

The Captain all but purred, Rolling his hips into you deeper- Watching your face contort in a mixture of pain and pleasure, Your legs now shaking from the overstimulation.

You let out a loud cry, his throbbing cock brutalized your insides with each harsh thrust making your head spin, your back arching with unsteady mewls as a string of babbling cries falling past your lips paired with chopped remains of Buggy's name that seemed to boost his inflated ego.

"That's It~ I wanna see you cum again"

The Bluettee growled as he hips began to speed up, Grunting as he trusted deeper- Hissing as he shot another load into your truthfully beyond stuffed hole.

A silent scream ripping through your throat then- specks of white filling your vision as you felt another title wave of a orgasm wash over your battered form. Your body twitching and shaking as the painful high settled through you again- it leaving you a mess of sore muscles and you sure your hole a ruined mess.

You felt Buggy hands leave yours- a wash of relief hitting you as you thought he'd had enough- that maybe you could rest- Till you felt those same evil hands holding under your legs and bring your knees painfully to your chest- Wide eyed you see Buggy almost crazed look in his eyes.

"Let's see if we can get you to come a 9th time!~"

Mihawk

Too Little-

Mihawk calmly read his book, One hand lazily turning the pages as the other held a wine glass he held to his lips occasionally- Ignoring you desperately riding his clothed thigh, Whimpering and moaning in desperation to try and chase your orgasm.

You weren't sure what you'd done or didn't do- however for the last hour you'd been subjected to Mihawk cruel actions.

He had you stark naked, seated on his thigh and told you if you wanted to cum-

You were doing it on your own.

Mihawk glancing up from his book occasionally watching your face- flushed with tears and Biting your own lip to the point of bruising them.

You wanted it- You were feeling like your body was on fire, Every muscle sore and tender from how long you'd been riding him.

His hands lightning fast to catch your hands before they could go down to chase your relief. His wine glass now discarded on the table next to him, gripping your hands tightly- His soiled leg jotting up harshly crushing your sex painfully against him making you cry out.

"N-No Please please!"

A desperate broken sobs leaving your throat as you clung to Mihawk shirt, pressing your face against his neck as you cried wanting your release that had once again been ripped from you.

"P-Please Please! I wanna cum Mihawk please~!"

Your hips shaking as Mihawk easily pinning your form with such ease- Making so you couldn't ride for your orgasm, and having you a mess on him. Making the sensation of pleasure die just enough for you to be stuck in limbo.

Mihawk gave a hint of a smirk, Setting his book to the side again as he released your hands- his golden gaze locking onto your own watery eyes, pleading for that release.

"Start again-"

[leo-interactive-fiction]

If it's not a bother, could I ask the reaction of the RO if the MC, who was a terrible cook, try to cook them something.

Thank you

Haha, let's see....

E: Their smile looks almost fixed in place as they use their fork to pick through the charred, ashen remains of the dish. Still, they do their best to take several bites, keeping that same well-meaning smile in place.

"Hey, you're getting better at using an oven!"

You cross your arms, "I didn't use an oven though?"

"O-Oh, w-well, that's not a bad thing..."

-----------

R: They don't let the trial before them dissuade their natural assured expression. After all, years of practicing the slight of hand necessary to slip away cards unnoticed has prepared them for this life-saving moment as they pretend to eat, upturning their fork at the last moment to allow the burnt piece to fall into their sleeve.

"You've really outdone yourself, truly. Keep it up, and I may end up having to hire you on as a personal chef," R slips away, tossing all of the collected bits of food into the trash without you noticing.

"Sometimes a little white lie is a necessary evil..." they murmur to themselves.

-----------

L: They glance down at the plate of "food" tentatively, "W-Well, perhaps a small bite? I am not particularly peckish at the moment..." They claim a delicate morsel, giving it a try. The color in their face seems to gradually fade as they continue to chew and chew, unable to fully pick it apart.

"I-It might be... a little too tough?" They say apologetically as they cover their mouth with a hand.

----------

V: They glance down at the plate for a moment before beginning to eat. Their grip on the fork is almost barbaric, holding it in a closed fist and stabbing down at the food as if executing the meal.

As you watch them wolf down the meal, you tap your fingers together, "How is it?"

"Crunchy..." They murmur with a mouthful of food, the lack of decorum lost on them as they continue, "I like it..."

----------

P: "Not again," They sigh as you set the plate in front of them, "What did I tell you about going into the kitchen?"

"H-Hey, I've gotten better! I think!"

They pick apart your dish, their nose scrunching slightly, "How is this raw and burnt at the same time...?"

"I tried my best!" You return defensively, "I poured my heart and soul into it..."

"Good to know you're that dedicated to poisoning me..." They shake their head and return the plate to you, "I guess it really can't be helped... If you're going to keep trying to put food in front of people, I may as well teach you something. It'll look bad on all of us if you start killing people with your shit cooking..."

-----------

M: They glance down at the plate full of partially edible food for a moment before slowly lacing their fingers together. "I'm on.... a diet..."

You blink in surprise, "Oh, you never said anything about that..."

"I... just started... right now..." M claps their hands in finalization as they get up from the chair, "After all... it wouldn't do... if I couldn't... show off to you..."

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

K: They look ecstatic as they rush through the dinner you've prepared, scarfing it down as if someone else may come along and steal it at any moment.

You peer over at them expectantly, "How is it...?"

"Horrible!" They say delightedly, chuckling with a soft smile, "But... even if you gave me the world's most lethal poison, I would still gladly eat it. Knowing that you made it for me is all I need... Plus, this isn't as bad as some of the leftovers I've found in dumpsters!"

-----------

S: They glance around as they're presented with the smoking pile of charred coal. Thinking fast, they wave their hands around uncertainly before pointing behind you, "Ah, what in the hell is that?!"

As you glance behind yourself, S takes the plate and flings it like a frisbee across the room. The sound of shattering porcelain brings your attention back.

"What was that?!"

S gives their best attempt at confused nonchalance, "Eh... I think there's a draft... yeah..."

-----------

F: The royal wears a disconcerted expression, as if you had just handed them a bowl of dog food. They don't even deign touch the plate, using their fork to push the dish back towards you, "Perhaps... it would behoove you to perform a taste test."

You look slightly disappointed, "But... I made it for you."

"Oh, I insist... As a matter of fact, you should be rewarded for your efforts. The first serving is yours, and I would not have you leave until you finish all of it."

----------

Thank you for the ask! It was fun to write out haha. Work has kept me a bit busy as I've gotten a promotion, but means I have to work 12 hour shifts that tend to bleed into overtime haha

[mariyekos]

Imagining a scenario where at some point Dante and Lady get married purely for practical purposes (like if she gets hospitalized so Dante can visit/make some decisions) but Lady ends up dating Trish so Dante's like

[k8felge]

nothing hurts more than seeing ur fave character depicted in an official au story or elseworld where details ab them r different but it explores the character in a new way -- its good in a vacuum, but u know it isn't the Definitive Version of that character. Just a new exploration (cool!). but because the adaptation brought in so many new fans and/or was a huge success it ends up being treated like its the Definitive Version and all discussions of prev versions are overshadowed bc of it... even worse when studios / execs see the success and try to pivot to this New Version only and never try to explore new routes for the character ever again (can you tell this is about comics yet)

[keeps-ache]

yay yippee yay :3 🎉

[housewifebuck]

How did you hurt your shoulder in the first place?

It’s kind of a pathetic story but when I was 13 I got really really really sick with an infection and I fell asleep on the couch on my side with my lower arm up against the arm of the couch at a literal 90° angle and I slept like that for like 12 straight hours. When I woke up idk what I did but I must’ve torn something bc I was in excruciating pain for weeks like screaming and crying level pain and even after it “healed” I could never move my arm all the way up again and I’ve had chronic pain in it for a decade. Some days are worse than others and sometimes I irritate it and the pain gets extra bad for a few days but for the most part at this point I’m so used to it I almost don’t even notice it on a day to day basis.

[seawitchkaraoke]

I used to rarely get any (noticeable) PMS symptoms and now I'm in my mid twenties and like a week before my period, I start just having suuuper low energy no matter how much sleep I get or how well I eat, my ADHD meds lose at least 50% of their effectiveness and worst of all, I randomly feel super nauseous and sometimes do actually throw up. I do not! Like this!

Today's my first day on my period and I'm in pain, but wow suddenly I have energy again? I am motivated to clean my room? My meds kicked in? Wtf

Anyway I refuse to do this for the next 20 or so years, so I should probably bite the bullet and get to a gynecologist and talk about birth control pills (and then potentially eventually implants and such). Though me being enby complicates that bc I absolutely do not want more estrogen in my body - there's options without it but... Yeah.

I don't actually have a gynecologist. I know I should have one, and get regular checkups even when I'm not having sex but like.... The combo of being ace and enby and uncomfortable with the idea of all that plus the adhd making making phone calls hard.... Yeah.

[trollbreak]

Thinks abt spooky fucked up moment and goes ehehehe

[beloveds-embrace]

(firefighters!141 x chubby reader… 👁️👁️ )

A friend of yours is a fire chief for your town’s local fire station. They ask you to help the fire station do some training drills for rescue operations. Your friend says it’s because you have acting skills, but you both silently acknowledge it probably has to do with the fact that you are chubby. Not fit, not thin, not easy to carry as evident by all the partners you’ve dated before- whatever you wanna call it.

It’s alright, you are pretty used to it. If they weren’t your friend, you would have honestly refused and saved yourself the inevitable humiliation, but alas. You are used to it, you really are.

You are introduced to Captain John Price, who holds your hand so warm and snug you have to will your blush away, but there’s nothing that can help you as he lays a big hand over your lower back and leads you to the waiting firemen. Three men, though you expected far more but John- Call me John, sweetheart. Captain is just for thos muppets- explains that they’ll be doing it in groups.

You are introduced to the three firemen (a Scot, and two Brits. Johnny, Kyle and Simon respectively. Unlike the other two, though, Simon is wearing a balaclava) and by god, you almost want to say that just for today, there is a different source of water they can use-

“Lay down here, sweetheart.” John’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and with a blush, you scramble to obey. The good girl you receive in return might as well be the best thing you’ve even been told in your entire life and the heat between your legs agrees as well.

Though you are quickly reminded that this will probably not go so well, considering your size and everything and maybe you should just apologize and leave already-

Before you can think about leaving, Johnny steps forward with that smirk he’s had since the beginning and a glint of mischief in his eyes. He crouches down next to you, stretching his arms out. “Alright, lass,” he says with a wink, “don’t be shy now. Let’s see if I’m up for the challenge.”

Before you can even process it, he slides his arms under you and lifts you up effortlessly- still mindful of your “injury”. Your face goes bright red as he shifts you in his grip, making sure you’re comfortable and safe. He gives a low whistle as he run around with you in his arms, a teasing grin plastered on his face. “Not too bad, eh? Thought I’d be struggling, but you’re light as a feather.” His grin widens, smug, as he watches your flustered reaction. “Didn’t expect me to be so strong, did ya, lass?”

You mumble something incoherent, trying to avoid his eyes, and he laughs, his deep chuckle vibrating through his chest. When he finally sets you down, you’re left feeling a little dazed, and before you can catch your breath, Kyle steps in and helps you lay back down.

“Alright, my turn,” he says with a gentle smile, his hands warm and careful as he reaches down to lift you. His grip is steady and secure, and he holds you with a tenderness that has your heart pounding in your chest. Unlike Johnny, Kyle doesn’t say much, but he gives you soft, reassuring smiles that somehow fluster you even more to the point where you really, really just want to bury your face in his shoulder. His arms feel solid around you, and there’s an easy confidence in the way he carries you that leaves you a little breathless.

“You doing okay, doll?” he asks, his voice low and soothing, and you nod, struggling to keep from blushing harder. He catches the faintest smile on your lips and chuckles softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he gently sets you back down.

Simon is next. He’s quiet as he approaches, his intense gaze flickering over you. Without a word, he slides his arms under you and lifts you in one smooth motion that leaves you drooling (in more ways than one). His hold is firm, and you can feel the strength in every part of his frame. If you weren’t playing the role of an injured, barely-conscious woman, you would honestly be begging to feel under his clothes.

He doesn’t say much as he carries you, but his steady breathing and the quiet intensity in his eyes speak volumes. You can barely hold his gaze; there’s something about his silent, stoic demeanor that sends your heart racing.

Finally, John steps up, and you realize you’re already blushing before he even touches you. Honestly? You doubt your face will return to normal anytime soon. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet authoritative. He wraps his arms around you, lifting you with an ease that leaves you a little lightheaded. The warmth of his embrace and the strength in his arms make you feel small and delicate in a way that you’ve never felt before. It leaves you breathless, but in a good way. John holds you close, his breath tickling your ear as he chuckles. “Not so bad, is it?”

By the end of it, your cheeks are burning, and the four of them are all sharing knowing smirks- you can even see the slightest crinkles of Simon’s eyes.

“Well, I’d say you’ve helped these muppets passthe test alright, sweetheart.” John huffs, his voice warm and full of amusement, and the others chuckle in agreement, each of them clearly enjoying your reactions far more than you anticipated. You can barely meet any of their eyes, your heart still pounding from the attention- and the teasing glances they keep exchanging make it clear that they noticed every flustered look and blushing smile.

As you’re still catching your breath, John tilts his head, an amused smirk tugging at his lips, and continues. “Well, we’ll have to call you back soon for another round, sweetheart. Can’t let the boys get rusty.” he teases, giving you a wink.

Johnny chimes in with a grin, taking your hand and kissing your palm. “Aye, can’t let you off that easy, bonnie. We’ll need plenty more practice to make sure we’ve got it down, yeah?”

Kyle nods as well, his gaze fixed on you. Never before have you had so much attention on you, and you never realized how much you quite love it. “Wouldn’t be proper training without our favorite helper.”

Simon, ever the quiet one, just gives you a small nod, but there’s a glint of promise in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.

You can’t help but smile, feeling a warmth you didn’t expect filling your chest. “I’ll… I’ll look forward to it. I’m glad to be of help.” You manage, your cheeks still tingling from the attention.

As you turn to leave, maybe go and ask your friend what else they could need you for since you are such a gracious friend, John’s voice calls after you, low and steady. “Soon, sweetheart.” The words linger, making you wonder just how soon “soon” might really be.

You hope it’ll be soon enough. Very soon enough.

[catboybiologist]

“As a biologist, the terms biological woman and man don’t make any sense to me” okay then you’re an idiot and a terrible biologist. I swear to god, morons like you only become biologists just so you can hold it over others, when in reality, if biology deniers like you can become biologists, then being one really doesn’t mean much anyway. But this probably just gave an autogynophile like you a boner to read, anyway.

Oh fun! Haven't gotten one of these in a while. Disregarding the fact that you somehow think the qualification for being a biologist entirely hinges on defining womanhood, I do need to ask some clarification. I know I'm feeding the trolls here, but here we go: does your definition of "biological woman" mean:

Sociological woman? Eh, context dependent, I'm not fully out of the closet, but oftentimes, I am and present femme. So let's call that one 50/50.

Psychological woman? Because I am one.

Neurological woman? Because I am one [1].

Physical woman? My soft tissue redistribution is handling that well.

Hormonal woman? My blood tests are within cis female ranges.

Transcriptional woman? As a signalling molecule, the downstream effects of estrogen have broad transcriptional effects, completely changing the profile of gene expression and functional genomics of my cells. [2]

Genetic woman? I mean, see my above point- as far as my genes that are actually active, I have all of the same transcripts being produced, controlling which genes are expressed.

Karyotypic woman? I actually have a few signs pre-HRT that might point to a non-XY chromosome pair, but I haven't had a karyotype. We'll put that down as unknown. And hell, even if its XY, there's plenty of cis women who are karyotypically XY, with suppressed sry or complete androgen insensitivity. Interestingly enough, a completely androgen insesitive woman can go her whole life without knowing- and functionally, is very similar to a trans woman, actually. Fancy that. [3]

Reproductive woman? I can't produce an egg cell, but neither can significant fractions of cis women. Also, this is all gonna change soon, which is fun. [4]

There's also a lot of understudied aspects to the biology of HRT and even pre-HRT that are emerging, largely demonstrating widespread cellular and genetic remodeling of trans individuals undergoing hormone therapy. The field is a bit behind due to constant political pressure to revoke funding, but a lot of the results are extremely exciting in both testosterone and estrogen hormone therapies. I'm sure that, as a self professed biology As someone who presumably has a lot of expertise in biology, I'm assuming that you're aware of all of this cutting edge research, and are keeping up with modern papers, including but not limited to these cool findings:

Trans men on HRT exhibit significant genetic and transcriptional changes that make them biochemically male. [5][6]. It's a good hypothesis that the same happens with estrogen treatment, but those studies don't exist yet- I'm sure you're reserving judgment until more publications exist, of course.

Trans men on HRT develop male cell types and tissues. [7]

Trans women experience muscular and blood cell changes that align with cis women moreso than cis men [8]

And many, many more! This is an exciting, underserved, and groundbreaking field of research, and I'm sure you're keeping up with the latest in scientific journals about it.

I'm sure, of course, that you understand that it becomes impossible to draw a distinct line anywhere in here, and that words like "woman" are shorthand for the myriad of traits that invisibly synthesize in our mind and in society to represent a concept? I'm sure you understand that science is fundamentally descriptive, not prescriptive? I'm sure that you understand that these findings, while really cool and interesting, actually don't mean jack shit about what the word "woman" means or not?

As someone who is the ultimate decider in what a biologist is, I'm sure you know that bioessentiallism is a childish mindset that completely ignores and disregards the constantly changing, dynamic nature of biological systems, something that extends well beyond biological sex and its relation to gender.

I'm sure that also, that you understand that beyond just this, that the role of science in society is to advise how to achieve our moral principles, not create moral principles in themselves. And I'm sure that understanding means you know that trans affirming healthcare and supportive societal treatment leads to reduced mortality and increased happiness for everyone, right?

So great to talk to someone who is surely a scientist on this. You are a biologist, if you're talking like this, I assume? I assume you're not going to spit complete misreadings of scientific language from the background sections of these papers that only reveal you've never read a scientific paper in your life if you're thinking this way? I assume you have experience interpreting data like this?

Also, imagining my genitalia while writing this? Ew. Please stop projecting your fetishes into my inbox.

Works cited:

Kurth F, Gaser C, Sánchez FJ, Luders E. Brain Sex in Transgender Women Is Shifted towards Gender Identity. J Clin Med. 2022 Mar 13;11(6):1582. doi: 10.3390/jcm11061582. PMID: 35329908; PMCID: PMC8955456.

Fuentes N, Silveyra P. Estrogen receptor signaling mechanisms. Adv Protein Chem Struct Biol. 2019;116:135-170. doi: 10.1016/bs.apcsb.2019.01.001. Epub 2019 Feb 4. PMID: 31036290; PMCID: PMC6533072.

Gottlieb B, Trifiro MA. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome. 1999 Mar 24 [Updated 2017 May 11]. In: Adam MP, Feldman J, Mirzaa GM, et al., editors. GeneReviews® [Internet]. Seattle (WA): University of Washington, Seattle; 1993-2024. Available from: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK1429/

Murakami, K., Hamazaki, N., Hamada, N. et al. Generation of functional oocytes from male mice in vitro. Nature 615, 900–906 (2023). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-023-05834-x

Pallotti F, Senofonte G, Konstantinidou F, Di Chiano S, Faja F, Rizzo F, Cargnelutti F, Krausz C, Paoli D, Lenzi A, Stuppia L, Gatta V, Lombardo F. Epigenetic Effects of Gender-Affirming Hormone Treatment: A Pilot Study of the ESR2 Promoter's Methylation in AFAB People. Biomedicines. 2022 Feb 16;10(2):459. doi: 10.3390/biomedicines10020459. PMID: 35203670; PMCID: PMC8962414.

Florian Raths, Mehran Karimzadeh, Nathan Ing, Andrew Martinez, Yoona Yang, Ying Qu, Tian-Yu Lee, Brianna Mulligan, Suzanne Devkota, Wayne T. Tilley, Theresa E. Hickey, Bo Wang, Armando E. Giuliano, Shikha Bose, Hani Goodarzi, Edward C. Ray, Xiaojiang Cui, Simon R.V. Knott, The molecular consequences of androgen activity in the human breast, Cell Genomics, Volume 3, Issue 3, 2023, 100272, ISSN 2666-979X, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.xgen.2023.100272. (https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2666979X23000320)

Xu R, Diamond DA, Borer JG, Estrada C, Yu R, Anderson WJ, Vargas SO. Prostatic metaplasia of the vagina in transmasculine individuals. World J Urol. 2022 Mar;40(3):849-855. doi: 10.1007/s00345-021-03907-y. Epub 2022 Jan 16. PMID: 35034167.

Harper J, O'Donnell E, Sorouri Khorashad B, McDermott H, Witcomb GL. How does hormone transition in transgender women change body composition, muscle strength and haemoglobin? Systematic review with a focus on the implications for sport participation. Br J Sports Med. 2021 Aug;55(15):865-872. doi: 10.1136/bjsports-2020-103106. Epub 2021 Mar 1. PMID: 33648944; PMCID: PMC8311086.

[gojoux]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘 “𝐋𝐄𝐓'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓” 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌

Gojo. Geto. Sukuna. Nanami. Choso. Toji. Megumi. Itadori. Yuta.

◈ — 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

“Say no more.” He'd grab your face in an instant and press his lips against yours. He would immediately get touchy all over your body, and for not even a few seconds, he's already slipping his tongue in, savoring your taste with hunger. He'd pull away for a moment before devouring your lips with his own, your mouth would be invaded by his tongue once more before pressing you against the nearby wall.

◈ — 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

“You want to make out? Alright, love. Let's go somewhere private, we can make out there as much as you want.” He'd place his hands on your wrist and lead you toward the bedroom. His lips would immediately find yours, soft but deep kisses at first before it gets heated. He doesn't mind if you want to be on the top or him on the top. Rest assured, he's not giving your lips a break either way. “Now I know what you need to do to convince me.”

◈ — 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

His body would shiver with excitement as he looks down at you with a hungry look. “Come here,” he reaches for you and grabs your body, “You want to make out, do you now? My, my, are you in the mood for me.” He tilts your head with his finger and starts trailing kisses on your neck, nibbling your skin with his teeth, licking and sucking, and doing whatever he wants until he makes sure it leaves a lot of his marks. His mind is filled with dirty thoughts, “I hope you know what you're getting yourself into.”

◈ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

“Right here? Right now?” Nanami's eyebrows would elevate at this request. “I should have expected it from you.” He sighs and loosens his tie before leaning back on his chair saying, “I can spare some time for you, love,” as he pats his lap, gesturing you to sit with him. “Let's make it a good one.” He'll place a hand on your cheek and the other on your waist as he kisses you slowly, with no rush, he likes to take his time savoring your lips.

◈ — 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎

He would look at you confused, “What's that?” He had no clue what making out is and he's not familiar with the term. Once you explain it to him, he'll nod and hold your waist, initiating the kiss first. “Like this?” He'll kiss you more. “I think I can get used to this.” His kisses slowly become deeper, letting out a few hums of satisfaction here and then. His touches would become bolder as well once you give him the cue. He's never done something like this but he seems to enjoy it with you.

◈ — 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

He'd raise a brow after hearing your request out of nowhere. “So you want to make out, huh? Are you feeling needy?” He'll tease you for it. “Now come here, I'll show you just how good I can be with my lips," he'd speak to you in a seductive tone while looking at you with a sly smile on his face. He'll kiss you all over your face until it's damp from both of your wet lips after the kiss while his hands eagerly caressing and groping your body. He won't stop even until you're breathless.

◈ — 𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈

He'd turn a bit red at your sudden question. He is a little surprised with your forwardness but he's not against it. “What did you say? Do you want to make out with me?” He doesn't mind if you kiss him. In fact, he'd like it if you did because he's been wanting to do that with you for some time already. Megumi starts off shy with a few pecks, focusing on your lips and what gesture you like. It's surprisingly hard for him to stop kissing you once he's warmed up.

◈ — 𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈

“Eh? With me?” He points at himself. You'd smack his arm which makes him let out a short playful laugh, “Okay, okay, let's do it.” He'd kiss you eagerly, he really wanted to experience kissing someone ever since he was single, and now that got the chance to make out with you is more than a dream come true. He'll circle an arm over your shoulder and the other around your waist, pressing your body closer to him as he focuses on kissing you.

◈ — 𝐘𝐔𝐓𝐀

His face would turn red and his cheeks would be flushed. He'd look at you with surprised eyes and then he'd nod slowly. “O-of course, let's make out.” He'd say your name in such a soft way, the most romantic tone he's ever spoken to you with. After a few seconds of looking deeply into your eyes, he would lean closer and test the water with a few soft pecks before the kiss got deeper. He doesn't really know where to place his hand so he just holds your waist as he pulls you closer.

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 25th. tom — anal sex / sexual punishment.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: basically how i see a tom riddle punishment playing out. biblical tom of sorts. so self assured its impossible to piss him off so you go to lengths some may consider extreme but…eh. he knows you’re his.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, UNI hogwarts (obvs but just a reminder) reader and tom have an…interesting dynamic, toxic but also not toxic because it works for them, anal sex (obvs), sexual punishment, brief fingering, copious amounts of dirty talk, i once again utilize my favourite place in the school (the library).

"Tom—"

With a hand raised, he cuts you off. "Don't."

You blink. Swallow. Blink again. He's mad—oh, yes, he's mad—more than you've ever seen him and you once watched Abraxas Malfoy knock over his potion during a heavily-weighted exam.

That, in currency to this, is pennies.

You breathe in, try again. "Look, I can explain—"

He doesn't let you. Within a second his wand is out and with a flick of his wrist the room shifts to static—the glimmer from the silencing charm he just cast settles over your corner of the library, and you feel your fingers go numb—

"Why'd you stop?" He cocks his head, brow raised. His jaw is tight, the tension there burning into the space between you. His fingers flex. You can feel how much he's holding back. "If there's an explanation, by all means. I'd love to hear it."

Right—yeah, an explanation. That should help. Certainly, the man staring at you like he has bullets for eyes and knives for fingers will understand—he'll be completely calm once you explain to him you kissed someone else in retribution—because you wanted to get back at him.

"Well, I—" you push up from the desk, desperate to feel bigger, to level with him somehow. Tom thrives in this—having the upper hand, knowing all he has to do is stare at you, all stillness and quiet fury. He knows you hate it, that you'll spiral under it until you break and present him your neck on a silver platter. Until you hand him the knife and beg him to cut. "We had that argument, and I thought—I thought, maybe—you didn't—"

He moves closer. The air thickens. You're too focused on the fire in his eyes to acknowledge the sound of his wand clattering onto the desk—

"You thought?" His voice is something almost bored, like this is a trivial exercise for him—you can barely hear him over the roar of your pulse in your throat.

"—that you didn't want me anymore!"

You force the words out in a desperate rush, and the silence that follows feels like a goddamn canyon—you're just staring at each other, scowling in the wake of what you just said because you both know how utterly foolish it sounds. The only person Tom Riddle has and will ever allow himself to be vulnerable in front of—and you thought he'd leave after a silly argument.

No. You never thought that for a second.

And so, you try to save yourself. "Tom—I-I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry, I know I fucked up—but, it's not just me—I mean, you could have communicated better—"

He takes another step toward you, nodding along as if he's humoring you. "Right."

You step back—you don't mean to but the depleted space between you feels dangerous and your body reacts before you can stop it.

"Maybe—maybe we can learn from this? Right? A lesson for—for us both?" You keep talking. You don't know why, but you do. "And, maybe you could, uh, learn to talk about your feelings better?"

You wince as his eyebrows shoot up, mocking you without saying a word. Tom Riddle, talking about his fucking feelings? Right.

"I mean—you're just—" you hesitate because you know you're digging your own grave, yet he's still staring, daring you to finish. "—you're just so hard to read, you know?"

Another bored nod, another step closer. "Of course."

You swallow, stumbling back—of course Tom knows he's hard to read, that's the point. Every word out of your mouth is a wasted effort, a desperate attempt to reason with someone who's beyond it. Your ass collides with the desk behind you, boxing you in—and suddenly, he's there, right in front of you, all of his typical Tom intensity pouring into the limited space between you.

His breath brushes against your cheek, close enough that his lips could meet yours. But you know they won't. He'd never make it that easy. You can't tell if it's fear or something more wicked that twists in your chest. Dread, excitement—God, maybe both—

"You tried to provoke me."

Your throat tightens around a swallow. He isn’t asking.

"Maybe."

He doesn't blink. "You tried to see if I'd care."

You open your mouth, only to close it just as quickly. What can you say that he doesn't already know? You're as transparent as glass to him, and even that is a goddamn understatement. All you offer is a slow nod, unsure but weighted—he wasn't looking for an answer, he was looking for submission.

"And you thought, maybe, that I would come to you. That I would react. That l'd be angry." His fingers brush up your cheek, slipping into your hair with the kind of intimacy that feels out of place given the circumstances. And, inevitably, when the pull comes biting at your scalp, it's a burn you enjoy more than you should. "Were you hoping I'd punish you?"

"Well—I-"

"You know, don't you," he tugs your hair again to quiet you. Every question he's asking is rhetorical. "You know that trying to provoke me is dangerous."

You nod, fast. "I know."

"You know that I don't like to be provoked."

"I know, I know, I-"

"Shh." His lips brush over your neck, just once—a soft, fleeting thing that promises everything and nothing at once. You can't help the way you lean into him. "You're just making this worse for yourself. No more talking."

You choke on your stupid ego, but force a nod. You asked for this. You won't fight him on it. Not here. Not now.

"Good." He hums, and you feel your heart dance, stomach leap at the barest flicker of approval in his tone. His breath skates over your jaw, and you try not to shake. "You want to show me how sorry you are, don't you?"

You nod again.

"Good." He tugs at your bottom lip and something curls at the corners of his own that doesn't quite qualify as a smile. "Turn around."

With your heart on the floor beneath your feet, you nod for a final time before doing as he asked. You find that turning is a difficult task, though not due to resistance—your body just won't cooperate—a mess of weak knees and shallow breaths and tingling skin. You do it, though, with his hand on your hip, guiding you, directing you, pushing you over the desk until you're bent at the waist, positioned just how he wants.

It's merely a moment before you feel him pressed against your back, feel his belt buckle digging into your ass—

"What do you think I should do to you?" His breath grazes the nape of your neck and reflexively, you arch into him—his hands slide up your thighs, hips, finding your waist and the band of your skirt—he tugs at your zipper, you remain quiet. You know he doesn't want you to answer. "I'm sure you had your hopes. Your assumptions."

Tom Riddle, you've determined, is a torturous lover—a slow hand, a tease until you're in tears from the overstimulation. A sort of devotee to fulfilling your needs while simultaneously tempering his own. He's so very restrained, in everything he does—not fervent, not right away, anyway—

"Maybe you hoped I'd degrade you. Remind you of your place." He tugs down the zipper, letting the fabric fall to the ground at your feet—you shudder and pull your lips tight, willing yourself to stay silent as the cool air hits you. Tom's hand roams over one of your asscheeks, pawing lazily before tapping his palm against it. “Maybe you wanted me to make you feel it."

—he only rushes—he's only careless when he's angry.

And god, he's angry now.

"Maybe." You force the reply through the sting he left on your skin. It's past midnight—quiet is everything but you two, and you're almost certain he locked the door behind him on the way in. You let your head bow, eyes fixed on the wood under your palms. "Maybe I do."

"Of course you do. You've never been subtle." His foot nudges yours further apart, his fingers trailing up your thigh, finding the damp ache between your legs. Your breath catches but you hold still, biting your tongue as he teases—digits gliding through your slit, swirling your clit. "I know you thought about it."

"About what?" You try, though the question barely gets out before his other hand smacks the thick of your ass again, harder this time. "Shit—"

"About what I'd do to you." The hand on your clit shifts to smooth over the sting, rubbing slow, while the other works the buckle of his belt. "Tell me what you wanted."

"I—" you pause, steadying, gathering yourself. You know you have to give him something, but it's hard to think when he's like this. "I—I wanted you to be...careless."

"Careless." He says it like he's savouring it, rolling it over his tongue like candy. It's not a word that suits him; you're not convinced he even knows how. "You want me to be rough—to be selfish. Like you were."

The moment his belt is loose you feel those slender fingers dip back into your slit, two of them pushing inside your cunt without warning, stretching you open as his trousers slip down his thighs— he grunts low, a sound that cuts into the quiet as his cock springs free and he presses it against you, unoccupied hand slipping back into your hair, pulling you up until you're flush with him.

"Yes." You're not sure who sounds more hollow for it—your voice for asking, his for granting it. "I want that. I deserve it. Please. Please—"

"Please. It's always please with you," he mocks, the words a hiss that burn your cheeks. "Yet, I don't get to be selfish like you, do I? I still have to show restraint."

"I mean—oh—fu—" you choke as his lips find your neck, muttering something against your skin before you feel the sudden cool slip of a lubing charm coating your asshole and cunt. "Tom-"

"Despite what you might believe, I've never had much in the way of patience," he breathes, a confession almost, something deeper—something that feels like it costs him. "Not when it comes to you."

"Tom—" you fucking gasp his name as he pulls his fingers from your cunt—only to drag them higher until they find your asshole. Despite his haste he's still at ease, massaging, pressing one finger against it until you let him in. He sinks slowly, curling slightly, and your thighs shake—lungs deflate. "Oh—oh, fuck, Tom—it's been—"

"A while, hasn't it?" He finishes, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his finger sliding all the way in. "So tight for me. So—tight—"

"Tom—" a repetition of the last one, his name spilling from you like it’s the only goddamn word you know how to say. "Please, Tom. Oh god—"

"Shhh." He shushes, but it's not to quiet you; you know that. He's savouring this. He slips in a second finger, stretching you wider, working you open, and you're biting your lip to keep from crying out. "This isn't about you."

"You—" your voice breaks on another gasp, hands clutching at the desk. "—you think this is punishment."

"Partially." His muses as his fingers scissor, filling you with the most delicious ache. You're so slick, arousal running down your thighs, and that—oh no, that does not escape his notice. "Look at you, dripping for me. And yet,"

"Oh god." The realization crashes over you—it’s punishment as in orgasm denial. "That's—that's not—"

"Not fair?" There's a smirk in his voice, and though he doesn't say it, you hear the word that lingers beneath it: pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He pulls his fingers out and you whine, feeling empty for half a second before the head of his cock glides against your slit, gathering your juices before finding its way up to the throbbing ring of muscle. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to be selfish?"

"I just—" words scatter, useless, because you're trembling, breathing hard, and then he's pressing in, slow enough to save you pain but fevered enough to make you feel him. "Oh—oh—"

"Oh fuck." He says it breathless, as if it's an agony to fit himself inside of you. "Oh yes."

And it is an agony—for both of you, though for very different reasons. Tom is huge, and even on a good day, it's a struggle to take him. He's so deep, filling you in ways you'd forgot were possible. You struggle to hold yourself upright—legs visibly shaking, teeth gritting. He sinks all the way in, and in your mind, you can almost see the look on his face, the way his lashes flutter, the way his head tips back—

"Ah—“ he groans, a rough sound that's followed by a huff and a slight roll of his hips, like he's holding back, like he can't bring himself to move just yet. He yanks you up against him by your hair. "That's fucking tight, isn't it? This must be hell for you."

He's not wrong, it is. But it's hellish for Tom too, the type of hell the two of you inflict on eachother that is as fucking addicting as it is anything else—

"Just—" you manage to bite out breathlessly, but it's a struggle to make the words. "Move—"

"Make me," he grits, jerking your head to the side until your foreheads press together. "Convince me to use you. Tell me how badly you want it. How much of a whore you are for it."

Merlin help you, you moan at his words. It's that thing inside you—the needy, desperate part that's dying at his feet. You don't know what it is or why it's there; it just is, and it's greedy. It's not something you'd give into normally—your ego is far too big to give him the satisfaction of begging, not aloud—never in words that he could use against you later—but in these moments, you both learn to make exceptions.

"Dear god, Tom—please, just use me-" you push your hips back against him, one of his hands slide up your stomach, cupping your tits. "Please, l'm—I'm a pathetic, begging whore for you. God, I know you're pissed—I feel it—just take it out on me—l want it—"

He moans—a soft, almost gentle sound—and you know you've struck a nerve, the part of him that's equally as weak in the moment—the part of him that makes it all too easy for things to spiral like this.

"Goddamn you." Something inside him snaps, something that's been frayed, just waiting for a pull—and you've pulled it now, and oh you want, no, you need him to make you pay for it, to make it hurt. "You just—you always-"

He grunts, cutting himself off and in a way, it's almost like he's thanking you because you're giving him an outlet, something to take it out on. You test each other, push and pull and let the other break, because, at the end of the day, it always comes down to this. The two of you. Like this.

A sharp inhale, and he starts to thrust.

"Fuck!" it's all you manage, it's all you can manage, because it—just like that—feels the way you wanted it to feel but it also feels so much more intense, so intense that your brain can't keep up. "Oh god—oh fuck-"

"Fucking hell," he spits, like you're the worst thing in his world and the best thing all at once, and somehow, that makes perfect sense. He lets go of your hair, and you slump forward onto the desk, elbows barely holding you up as his hand smacks your ass, fingers spreading you apart. "So—so tight—“

You're a shuddering mess, helpless to it; all you can do is remember to breathe through it.

"That's it." Another smack to your ass, thrusts quick and deep. "Fuck. The things you drive me to do."

You know him so well—and he knows you just as damn well, and that's the point, isn't it? That's what this is all about. You're the perfect mix of wrong, a match that burns too hot it hurts but the ache makes him feel alive.

"I want to cum—" your neglected clit is begging for it, you’re fucking begging for it. "Tom please—"

At that, he laughs and it's mean and it's condescending and you love—God—how you love it and want it and can't get enough of it. His hips snap forward a little bit rougher and you lose a bit more of your sanity—

"You think you deserve to come, after what you did?" Another smack to your ass.

You don't know how to answer, and he doesn't wait for one anyway. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you—everything is so calculated and calculated and calculated. You've never once seen him falter, and you don't expect to see it now. You don't know if you'd survive it if you did.

"No." He answers for you. "You don't."

His fingers trace around your thigh, grazing your mound and finding your needy clit, your sopping slit, gliding through it—you moan louder than you should as he gathers your slick on his fingers, humming at what he finds there before retreating—bringing them up to your mouth.

"Open."

You open your mouth and he feeds you your need—the result of his selfishness. You love him for what he is and you love him for what he isn’t too. How he tries to be both, only when you ask.

"Taste that?" It's a whisper, something he's telling you.

You sob around his fingers as he fucks your ass deep—he pulls them out to let you respond. You nod. "Yes."

"Taste how much you want this?"

"Yes." A pathetic moan. The perfect response.

"Good girl." He presses the words into your hair, the back of your neck, along your spine. He sucks in a breath as he fucks like he needs it just to speak. "You're going to remember this the next time you think about doing something just to spite me, I hope you know that."

Of course you will. He knows it, you know it—there's no doubt in your mind that you'll remember this the next time you toy with his patience; the next time you give him a reason to discipline you again. And what's worse is: you'll do it anyway.

It's a battle you two will fight for eternity.

But you don't get a chance to respond, not that you'd have one anyways—because his hand is on your throat and his lips are at your ear and he's sucking in air through his teeth and then—

"I'm going to cum." He whispers and you hear the pain in it. "Fuck."

You shiver in reply; a whine of a whimper coming from the back of your throat. “Tom—“

"Shh." He shushes you with his free hand, gripping your jaw as his thrusts turn sloppy, erratic. "Fucking take it.”

God—you’ll take it. Of course you will. You asked for this, drove him to this point. You're both sick, but this is the kind that doesn't have a cure.

One of his hands moves to his own hair, tugging at the back of his head; it's the only hint you've had this whole time of how much he's affected by this, how much it's driven him mad. He's doing his best to keep control, to maintain composure and make sure you feel it—but it's the way his hand squeezes your hip when he lets go of your throat that gives him away.

It gives in to what he's been repressing.

"Ohhh—fuck—yes—" and then you feel it, feel him, hot and sticky and warm, filling your ass and holding you there until he’s finished. His body collapses against the back of yours, hips slow rolling until he's drained—until you’ve taken all of him, all of his anger and frustration and restraint along with it. He’s sweaty, exhausted, spent—forehead pressed to your hair. "You feel that?"

"You know I do." You're not allowed to sound so smug, not while you're in the position you're in, but you are. It’s why he loves you. "That's what you were looking for."

"No, that's what you were looking for." He nips your ear, and you hear the smile in his voice when he bites down on it and murmurs a, "and that's why you're my favourite," into it.

"And you mine, Tommy."

[charliemwrites]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[sleepymarimo]

𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡?

zoro x gn!reader // sfw! we've all seen reader walking in on zoro and hiyori, but what if zoro stumbles upon you with someone else? it's just a big misunderstaning, of course!

𝐙𝐎𝐑𝐎'𝐒 cheeks are colored a light pink, bordering on red as the icy wind continues to relentlessly nip on them. the snow isn’t a problem, thick, powdery, yielding for each rhythmic movement of his strong legs.

it’s early, much too early, and he should be on the ship just like he was commanded to do, but when does he ever comply?

no, he wouldn’t be staying on the ship, not when he knew you were out here somewhere on this frozen waste of an island. zoro doesn’t often kick himself, taking things as they come, but he feels it’s his personal responsibility to go after you.

a part of him isn’t quite sure what had happened the day prior.

the crew was together, united, exploring the island when the peace was disrupted by an ambush from some not so friendly inhabitants. it wasn’t a problem, shouldn’t have been a problem, but when the snow cleared, when the last of the flurries were blown away, you were gone.

not only were you the closest one to him, but he prided himself on being the protector, the man who safeguards his crew mates.

zoro walks along, his green hair sticking out amidst the snow white landscape. he scoffs, looking all over. had he came around here already? he doesn’t know, but he looks up toward the sky, nose wrinkling as a few flakes melt into his skin.

his body knows before his brain, his steps coming to a halt before he takes a last minute turn toward the east. instinct; it’s all instinct, his good eye honing in on a structure just beyond a few trees. he’s found what he’s been looking for and he knows it.

the scent of pine gives way to something smoky as he trudges closer, one of his hands wrapping around his wado. there’s hints of alcohol, the medical kind, and alcohol, the drinking kind, but more than that- there’s you.

old wooden steps creak as he makes his way toward the entrance of a worn down cabin, his muscles tense, ready for action. it’s quiet inside, much too quiet, yet he doesn’t bother concealing his own presence. the door opens, hitting the wall, and he steps inside, the light from a nearby window illuminating all.

he’s prepared to see you, knows you’re here. would you be starved and injured? frightened and in need of help? he takes his role as a pillar, but this isn’t what he expects to see.

you don’t look like you need help, that’s for damn sure. thick blankets shield your form from the morning chill, but so do a strong pair of arms. who the hell is that laying next to you? why are you letting him so close?

"eh?" he finds himself saying, keeping his sword pointed and ready for action.

zoro doesn't recognize the man beside you, enveloping you in a safe embrace. it's...surprisingly irritating and he doesn't know why, but he has enough mind to place his wado back into it's sheath.

those damn arms tighten around you and zoro decides he's had enough. "oi," he calls, crossing his arms, taking another step toward you. "what the hell is this? get. up."

beneath the blankets, you and your partner huddle a bit closer. and when you stir, letting out a soft, sleepy grunt, your new companion opens his eyes and tenses, ready to protect you.

oh, how it makes the marimo's eye twitch. doesn't this guy know that zoro should be protecting you? it's made even worse when you hold the man a little tighter, your eyes just barely starting to open.

"watch it." the swordsman growls, not trusting this man one single bit.

zoro says your name again, more firm, a little more demanding of your attention. for a moment it sounds like he's scolding you, clearly not approving of this whole situation.

it's only when you fully wake that you sit up, then the swordsman silently thanks the stars above. he relaxes once you shake yourself from the stranger's hold, a relieved smile on your face.

his protective instincts swell, a certain satisfaction filling him as you scoot away from the man.

"zoro!" you tug the blankets off and the marimo tenses again. bandages are snuggly wrapped around your leg, you're injured, but you've been tended to. cared for.

he takes some steps closer, a flash of concern in his eyes, yet he remains strong, not wanting to let his guard down around the man who is still a little too close to you for his liking. crouching down beside you, reclaiming his place, he assesses the wound.

his nose wrinkles. you smell like that bastard right beside you, the one that had probably been cuddling up to you all-

zoro shakes his head, focusing on the important things.

you explain everything that led you to this point. you'd taken a tumble during the initial fight, sliding down the snowy mountain and hurting your leg in the process. the so-called stranger had been the one to find you, tend to your wounds. of course he was skilled at first aid, of course he cooked you a hot dinner, of course he kept you warm while the snow fell outside in soft flurries.

damn, it pisses zoro off. none of this would've happened if the swordsman had kept you safe to begin with. yet, he has to begrudgingly voice a quick thanks.

you don't leave his sight though, not for one bit.

once some goods are packed up, zoro gets you situated on his back as he prepares to return you to the ship. he watches as you wave at the man one last time, your eyes bright, thankful, and zoro feels his cheeks warming at your expression, wishing it was directed at him instead.

he grows more comfortable as the cabin fades away and out of view. his shoulders relax, his breaths even out, and he's acutely aware of every move you make.

your arms snuggly rest over his shoulders, face resting in the crook of his neck as you seek refuge from the light snowfall. with your thighs wrapped around his hips, you rest and he makes sure to keep a secure hold on you.

it's as though all is right again. you'll be back with the crew, and it's a reassuring thought. or maybe it feels right because it's just you and him? zoro doesn't know.

either way, he makes a pledge to be better, to do better, to keep you safe.

at the end of the day, he doesn't even make the connection that he simply can't stand to see you in the arms of someone else.