#he was sent into emergency care

[lavatory-sealed-hanako-kun]

Pov: your boyfriend is high on pain medication after his major injury and being dragged out following chapter 71

[furiousfinnstan]

URGENT!!!Help Abdul Salam Al-Anqar and his family get through this war in Gaza!!!

(URGENT) THEY ARE AT €3,445 OUT OF €50,000 GOAL

I was asked by @nader5555 to make this, if u cannot donate please please share this post. Copy pasted from a message i was sent:

"Only a Few Hours Left Before We Enter Our First Year of War, Genocide, Starvation, and Displacement A Final Plea from the Heart of Hell: Save Us Before Hope Dies 💔🔥 I am Abdel Salam, and I have nothing left but words written by a trembling hand ✍️. The war has not only destroyed our lives; it has taken everything from us. Our home, which was once our refuge, is now a pile of rubble 🏚️.

My car, my only source of livelihood, was destroyed in a sudden strike 🚗, and the work that sustained us is now a distant memory 💼. Today, I live in an endless nightmare. Under a sun that burns everything in its path 🌞🔥, my family and I sit in a worn-out tent, a tent that shields us neither from the summer heat nor the winter cold ❄️. Insects 🦟 invade the place, diseases consume our bodies 🩺, and my younger siblings cry from hunger and thirst 🍞💧. We have no clean water or a crumb of bread to ease our hunger. Each passing day deepens the weight of this hell we live in.

My Daughter Eman is Dying from Malnutrition 😨 My daughter Eman suffers from malnutrition; I have nothing to feed or treat her with. The deterioration of her health is killing me slowly. Every glance in her eyes, every pain she endures, crushes my heart 💔. How can I explain to her that what was once our hope has now turned into nothing but a mirage? The Night Only Adds to Our Pain 🌙 The night does not bring us rest; it only adds to our pain. We sleep on hard ground, feeling the cold in every bone of our bodies 🥶, with nothing but pieces of cardboard 📦 to cover us. My wife Aya cries in silence 🥺 as she watches our daughter’s future fade before her eyes. My mother Eman suffers from illness and needs urgent medical care 🩺💊.

My Father Ahmed is Sick with Cancer and Needs Emergency Treatment My father Ahmed, who is sick with cancer, needs emergency treatment outside Gaza, and the cost of his treatment is at least $10,000, not including accommodation. As he suffers from severe pain, I cannot provide the treatment he needs due to our dire situation.

My Siblings Are in Constant Suffering ⚰️ My brother Omar was unable to continue his studies due to the situation. My brother Nader could not take his high school exams, and my younger brother Mohammad suffers from brittle bones and needs treatment we cannot afford. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the end. Death surrounds us from every side: if not from hunger 🍽️, then from illness 🦠. And if not from illness, then from the despair that devours our souls. Where is Humanity? Where is the World? 🌍💔 We want to leave the devastated Gaza Strip to escape the machinery of destruction and killing and the severity of hunger and poverty. The cost of travel for each person is $5,000, and we are a family of seven members, bringing the total cost to $35,000.

Where are the compassionate hearts? Are you waiting for us to disappear into the depths of this suffering? Are you waiting until death takes us before you act? We are drowning, and we don’t have enough strength to scream for help 🆘. Will you let this cry go unanswered? 😭 Your donation today is our last thread of hope. With the little support I received, I was able to buy a simple phone 📱 to reach out to you. But the bitter truth is that what I and my family need is much greater. We are not asking for much; just enough to save our lives from this hell 🔥. Every donation, no matter how small, could be the difference between life and death for us 👐. Don’t Let Us Disappear in the Darkness of Suffering 🌑 Don’t let our story end here. Be the light that guides us to salvation 🕯️✨.

With every tear, with every pain, I write this final plea to you, Abdel Salam."

taglist

@butchniqabi @xinakwans

@batekush

@appsa

@nerdyqueerr

@butchsunsetshimmer

@biconicfinn @stopmotionguy

@t4tvampireisms

@strangeauthor

@bryoria @shesnake

@legallybrunettedotcom

@lautakwah @sovietunion

@neechees @evillesbianvillain @antibioware

@akajustmerry @dizzymoods

@ree-duh @neptunerings

@explosionshark

@heritageposts

@ibtisams

@schoolteacher

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]

title. around the clock

Hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision.

ᰔ pairing. babysitter/boxing au - underground boxer & babysitter!gojo x college student!reader (f)

ᰔ summary. when underground boxer gojo satoru becomes a little strapped for cash, he gets a day job as a babysitter for a five-year-old kid named yuuji who most definitely has adhd (but that’s besides the point). the kid’s mom gave gojo two rules, and two rules only: don’t accidentally kill my son, and do not flirt with my daughter. he’s pretty sure he’s got a good hold on the former, but he’s got no self control over the latter.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, smut, casual sex, lil bit of fluff, lil bit of crack, slight age gap (reader’s 22 & gojo’s 27), cum play, creampie, unprotected sex, praise kink, slight degradation, gojo is a sleazebag that cares?, sort of porn-coded smut except there’s a lil bit of lore so it’s kinda porn w plot, uhh having sex with risk of getting caught, gojo beats people up at night & then plays father figure to a 5 y/o during the day, mentions of violence/alcohol/drugs/blood/cigarettes

ᰔ word count. 12.6k

a/n. hiiii friends jeez it feels like FOREVER since i've posted some good ol' smut (still has plot tho xd)...hopefully you enjoy n see ya at the bottom! lmk if i missed any warnings! if you asked to be tagged but didn’t get tagged it’s bc you have your tags off aaa :( even when some ppl tried to fix it i still couldn’t tag them i’m sorry!!

alsoooooo so very much love to @starmapz for beta reading this for me :”) really helped me w my posting nerves haha. she is also a wonderful jjk author pls go check out her works!! 💕 ART CREDITS: @/3-aem

➸ masterlist

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): heyy um i’m sorry if this comes off kinda rude i just am kinda bad with this but i was wondering if you could text my mom for questions about yuuji’s care instead of me?

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Oh 2:46pm Gojo Satoru: Yeah, sure

2:34 pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sorry i know my mom doesn’t know much ab how to take care of him bc i was the one that took care of him for a while but i just really want to separate myself from that guardian role now that i’ve transferred to NYU yknow? :/ i think it’s not my place anymore. i just wanna be big sis now haha

2:46pm Gojo Satoru: I get it. Sorry if I was making you uncomfortable with my texts

2:48pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): no no not uncomfy by it, thanks for looking after him. it’s just i’m kind of busy n stuff so it can be distracting 

2:49pm Gojo Satoru: Ok, got it

2:52pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): and it was kind of an issue with his last babysitter

2:53pm Gojo Satoru: Oh?

2:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeahhh like he would keep textinf me n stuff uhh kinda weird things… i told my mom about it and she was super pissed so she fired him

2:55pm Gojo Satoru: Weird things?

2:56pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah he was always “accidentally sexting me” n like he sent me a dick pic once sooooo yeah

2:56pm Gojo Satoru: Who tf 2:56pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll go beat him up

2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): oh no no its fine lol 2:57pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): please dont beat anyone up 2:58pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i’m not saying you’re like him tho i just think maybe less texting unless its an emergency okay?

3:00pm Gojo Satoru: Are you sure because I will totally go beat him up for you

3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO I DONT WANT YOU TO BEAT ANYONE UP FOR ME 3:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): also no offense but you dont look like you could beat someone up

3:01pm Gojo Satoru: WHAT 3:02pm Gojo Satoru: Tf you mean “no offense” that’s literally the most offensive thing you could say to a guy

3:04pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeaa i mean you have muscles ofc but in the ‘ohhh i wanna look good for instagram’ way and not like real man muscles yknow

3:06pm Gojo Satoru: Ok princess next time you visit home and go on one of your stupidly large grocery hauls I’ll make sure you carry all those groceries in by yourself 

3:06pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): NO 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): I WAS JUST JOKING 3:07pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): YOURE SO STRONG TY FOR ALWAYS CARRYING THE GROCERIES INSIDE 3:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): PLEASE KEEP CARRYING MY GROCERIES INSIDE

3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Nah 3:09pm Gojo Satoru: Should we be texting right now? I’m not sensing any emergencies here

3:11pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): pls. my groceries :(

3:16pm Gojo Satoru: I’ll let the kiddo know you say hi 👋🏼 

The irony of it all was that, if Gojo really wanted to, he absolutely could beat the shit out of someone. And he has, hundreds of times, pseudo professionally. Although that isn’t something he’d admit to you, out of fear that you might relay that info back to your mom who would then become mortified that she’s entrusted her five-year-old son’s life to the hands of an underground boxer. 

But he needed the money. A night-time job didn’t really make daytime money, not when they could easily replace him with the next dude the second he gets knocked out of the ring more than twice, let alone if he let it happen once. And although he sometimes made large sums, it wasn’t stable income. He needed a back-up plan, and so babysitting it was. 

The babysitter working nights at unsanctioned dojos and gyms located in the back of cartel blocks, knocking teeth out of men twice his size, would put any decent mother into a coma or induce some episode of syncope, hence why it wasn’t something he put on his resume before he got hired. Not that he even needed to provide a resume; your mom seemed desperate to cover the position as fast as possible, that promotion at work was moving faster than she wanted to, and Gojo’s beneficial attribute that he possessed as a candidate to look after her son, compared to all the other potential hires, was that he had a penis.

He likes the kid. Yuuji. He’s got kind of a short attention span, and makes Gojo weary of his age. Hold up, that makes him sound like he’s geriatric, he’s really only the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but the immortality and infinite stamina that a five-year-old boy has on him is enough to have him huffing and puffing at the end of every single evening shift he takes on with the rascal. 

Fighting is all sprint, and no stamina. Sure, there might be some more seasoned boxers that might disagree with him, but for someone as young as him in the field, it’s the tactic he’s been forced to gain. If he draws a fight on for too long, he'll get killed by a forty-two year old man with steroids clogging up his adipose tissue and enough  testosterone to grow a full-body beard by the time the sun starts to set. No, his strategy is to knock them out within the first fifteen seconds. Use their weight against them, and whatnot. A tactic he’s found has worked, since he’s been undefeated thus far. 

He can never wrap his head around it. The drug lords that run the rings who’ve gained millions the night before from selling crystal meth only to lose it all the night following in the second Gojo hooklines a solid punch to their betting boxer’s chin, making them see God & their Momma before they tap out (if they’re even able).

He doesn’t pocket much money from it, not anything compared to what the men who bet on him end up making at least, but it’s a decently solid sum. How lucrative it really is depends solely on what he thinks the value of his life is.

It’s not unheard of, boxers dying in the ring. Turns out, rich drug dealers care very little about the sheep they’ve captured to perform their entertaining little stunts. But Gojo wasn’t doing all of this to feel some sense of work-life pride, no, it was just sustenance. When basic needs are not met, humans resort to the most animalistic of all behaviors, and while he’s not proud of what he does, he can’t deny the fact that it’s turned him into an adrenaline junkie that gets a rush in his veins every time he knocks a jaw loose.

But balance was key. And hence why he’s a boxer by night, babysitter by day. For at least four days a week, he gets to pretend he’s the king’s most trusted appointed knight, or he’s the radioactive tyrannosaurus rex that wants to tyrannize all the other dinosaurs, or maybe he’s the evil power ranger (he always forgets which color that one was) that is determined to make the world a living hell by smashing mr. potatohead against the bunk bed post a billion times for all the other toys to see. Or whatever other imaginative hyperfixations Yuuji imposes on him in the later afternoon once he’s had his bowl of spaghetti-O’s and is ready to play. Lately, the kid’s been really into space. They’ve got all sorts of space toys these days. Back in Gojo’s day, he just had a good ol’ Buzz Lightyear.

“One rule, that’s it: don’t accidentally kill my son. Actually, one more rule. Don’t flirt with my daughter.” 

There’s a part of Gojo that believes your mom kind of knows he’s up to shady shit at night, otherwise why else would she clause for him to not flirt with you if she didn’t read the slight swell to his eye and the healing gash across his cheek as anything other than this boy is trouble and I want him nowhere near my too-good-for-him daughter of reproductive capacity since that’s the exact tale of how I became a single mother in the first place. Or maybe he inherently looks like he’s up to no good? He’s not sure which angle is more offensive, and which one was more flattering. Well in any case, she entrusted Yuuji’s life to him, despite acknowledging the plausibility of harm, and that means she overall thinks positively of him, right? ……right?

The first night he met you, it was awkward to say the least. Gojo spends most of his nights performing deadly stunts for middle aged men with potbellies, and most of his days hanging out with a five-year-old (one who he’d argue is his only friend at this point). Sure, he’s got some people he sees occasionally back in his high school hometown when he can brave hearing about how everyone’s in college now or doing a masters or they’re working respectable nine-to-five day jobs meanwhile he has to lie to his Pops that he’s been working in insurance for the past two years. Listen, in fairness, he probably makes the same amount of money as an insurance broker would anyways, but he can’t exactly own up to the identity of his craft. 

Anyways, the point is, he’s not used to seeing other people his age anymore. There’s the occasional hook-up with girls he hasn’t seen since Mrs. Tracy’s homeroom period back in sweet two-thousand-sixteen, or his twice-a-year hangout with Suguru where he only learns the day of where he's visiting from since the guy moves around more than Gojo can keep up with. But save for that, he mostly just sees your mom and then Yuuji. 

So seeing you standing in the kitchen for the first time when he went to put Yuuji’s half-finished GoGurt back in the fridge was startling to say the least. When the sight of a woman startled him, he knew he needed to start getting out again.

You were on your tiptoes, reaching up to grab at something over the fridge, and wearing these ridiculously short shorts to where he could see the curve of your ass, his line of sight trailing down the skin of your bare legs. He couldn’t see anything of your form above your shorts, given you were wearing an extremely baggy t-shirt with NYU on it in big bolded university letters. As far as he knew, you were a senior at NYU, studying psychology, made dean’s list consecutively for the past three years given the way your mother posted all your stellar transcripts up on the fridge (he gets that she’s proud of her daughter, but doesn’t that kind of stuff usually end in grade school?) But other than that, it was all the information he had on you.

“Here,” he said, pressing his front to your back, maybe just to get a feel, as he reached over to you to finally grab the box of cereal you were swatting for, the one that he purposefully placed at the back because Yuuji learned how to climb counters recently. ��Is this what you want?”

He had heard you gasp, spinning around on your heel fast, staring up at him with wide eyes like you weren’t expecting some random man to be in the house right now, and your first instinct ended up being to grab the knife out of the kitchen knife block and lunge it straight at his torso.

If it wasn’t for his boxer reflexes, he’d have ended up at the ER that evening. Or dead. All depending on the strength you could pack into a stab. But instead, he deflected it, though not without a gash to his torso through the fabric of his shirt, one that you spent the rest of the evening profusely apologizing for and eventually mending to with cotton balls and neosporin. 

“I didn’t know you were my little brother’s babysitter,” you mumbled with a small wince on your face as you dabbed ointment on the wound while he pulled the hem of his shirt up to his shoulder. He’s never had an injury tended to before. It was nice.

“It’s fine, I get it, totally acceptable response to seeing a random dude in your house.”

He remembers the curl of your eyelashes while you stared down at his bare upper half, something he imprinted on his memory rather than the concern in your face as your fingertips traced the scars across his chest. He hoped they made you feel better about the one you just slashed into him, because after all, what was one more? 

He knows he shouldn’t have, but he kissed you that night. Two minutes before your mom came home, and right after you bid him goodnight with one more apology, he backed you up against the door of your bedroom, his hands on your hips pulling you towards him, and his lips pressed against yours. Something seamless, from candid conversation that was heading towards an end, to full fledged making out against white-painted wood, his teeth nipping at your lip and he wondered just how touch-starved those university boys were leaving you given the desperate way you’d clinged to his shirt for dear life as he deepened the kiss.

The moment only lasted one minute and fifty-seven seconds, and in the remaining three, your mother’s key pushed into the front door and he had to pull away. Always, on the dot, 10PM, she was home. It was how he knew he had two minutes left to make a move in the first place.

So much for no flirting.

6:57pm Gojo Satoru: Bahahah I accidentally forgot where yuuji’s epipen is 6:58pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 6:59pm Gojo Satoru: Turns out this can-o-soup was just covering it in the cabinet

7:01pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): ??? why did you need to find his epipen

7:08pm Gojo Satoru: Oh he accidentally took a bite of my pad thai 7:09pm Gojo Satoru: I freaked cuz I thought it had peanuts in it but I remember I asked for it without any  7:09pm Gojo Satoru: shit’s crazy

7:10pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY THE FUCK DIDNT YOU TEXT ME????????

7:12pm Gojo Satoru: YOU SAID YOU DIDNT WANT ME TEXTING YOU UNLESS IT WAS AN EMERGENCY ?

7:13pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): SATORU YOU THOGHT HE ATE SOMETHING W PEANUTS IN IT AND YOU FORGOT WHERE HIS EPIPEN WAS THATSS A FUCKIGN EMERGENCY

7:15pm Gojo Satoru: THE KID IS DOING FINE HES ALIVE JESUS LEAVE ME ALONE 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo] 7:16pm Gojo Satoru: See. he’s chill 7:17pm Gojo Satoru: with intact airways might I add 7:18pm Gojo Satoru: Also isn’t he a little too old to still be watching baby sensory videos?

7:20pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): yeah my mom thinks he has adhd :(

7:22pm Gojo Satoru: oh

He tried to keep his word though (although he doesn’t recall ever giving it) out of the respect he had for your mom. She was a hard-working lady, single mom of two who went from working three jobs to now being a major administrator at a big law firm near the outskirts of town. It was an underdog story if he’d ever heard one, and he loved an underdog story. 

But a little texting here and there wouldn’t hurt, right? Or so he thought, until you told him to cut it out with the contact. Maybe you were just trying to be the good one in this situation. After all, hooking up with your little brother’s babysitter? That sounds more like a bad porno than a sensible decision. Still, he’ll eventually get your replies to his which shirt should Yuuji wear to the park? and look, the toothfairy gave him the butt of a joint and a couple thumbtacks for his front tooth. he’s ecstatic texts, although in a less timely manner than before when you weren’t trying to preserve propriety. And when you’d occasionally visit every other weekend, he’d do his best to keep his hands in his pockets, and you’d fill up your nights with hangouts with your hometown friends to avoid spending too much time with him at the house. A silent agreement to not fuck each other, it was. 

4:55pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): send pic of yuuji pls i miss him :(

5:04pm Gojo Satoru: [sent a photo]

5:08pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): IS THAT BLOOD?!?!?!?!

5:09pm Gojo Satoru: chillllllll it’s fake. We’re working on his halloween costume

5:09pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): WHY DOES IT HAVE BLOOD?!?!?!?!?!?

5:10pm Gojo Satoru: He wants to be a baby xenomorph and I'm his parasitic host. You know that iconic chestburster scene from the old school alien movies? yeah

5:12pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): satoru please for the love of god just dress him up as a dinosaur or something

5:13pm Gojo Satoru: I’m not the one that came up with the idea, okay? It was him

5:14pm yuuji’s sis (no flirting): because you let him watch adult swim with you before putting him to bed. you’ve deranged his brain.

5:14pm Gojo Satoru: He needs it. Builds character.

Gojo was living a double life, and if someone asked him, he’d say it was less of a Clark Kent way and more of a Bruce Wayne way, although in reality, he knows it’s close to neither. He’s no superhero with a concealed identity fighting crime, he’s a con artist that’s tricked a hard-working woman into hiring him just because he’s trying to save up enough money to get the fuck out of this godforsaken town, given he’s not knocked dead before then for the crime’s amusement.

But Yuuji looks up to him now. And Gojo’s grown attached to him too. He taught the kid how to tie his own shoes and piss inside the actual toilet like a real man. And that kid’s the only thing that’s made him question any of this. Maybe that’s what dads feel, suddenly held to all this impossible responsibility and the pressure to stop doing stupid shit so that you’ll stick around to see your kids get older. The thought that there are eyes on you now, eyes that are innocent and hopeful and learning, and because they know nothing at all, you feel the responsibility to protect them from everything. For fucks sake, remind him to never become a dad. 

“Do you like my sister?” Yuuji had asked him out of nowhere one afternoon after he just got home from preschool, stacking a blue cube over a yellow one at the dining table.

“Uhh,” Gojo starts. He wondered if your mom had put a wire on the kid, so his answer was as diplomatic as he could manage. “Yeah, she’s cool. You’ve got a cool sister.”

“But. But.” Yuuji stutters, trying to find his big boy words. He stretches up higher to reach the top of his stack of blocks, but he only has so much arm real estate at the age of five. “Do you like her like you wanna kiss her?”

Gojo grabs the block from the kid’s hand, for a moment questioning Yuuji’s decision to want to put a blue block over another blue block, but he figures aesthetics are the least of a kid’s concern, and so he places the block where Yuuji wanted it. 

Why does the kid know what kissing is anyway? Do kids know that kind of stuff at that age? Isn’t a kiss to a five-year-old just something their mom gives to them before they head off to preschool for the day? And not something that happens between adult men and women? Maybe he should stop watching that adult swim in front of him.

“No. I don’t want to kiss your sister,” he says, again, because he is suspicious of a wire. It was a lie and then some, because he wants to do a lot more than just kiss you.

Gojo lifts the RedBull he was nursing up to his lips and watches Yuuji in the corner of his eye as the kid stares at his growing stack of blocks with a concentrated expression on his face, his chubby fingers squeezing tightly into little round dimpled balls, like he’s putting together all his tiny brain cells together to form another coherent thought before turning to face Gojo on the chair.

“It’s ok. You can kiss her if you wan’ed to. You can marry her too,” Yuuji says.

Gojo almost spits out his RedBull. He barely manages to swallow it, a broken cough immediately leaving his throat when some of the liquid goes down the wrong pipe and he’s smacking a fist against his chest to knock the sanity back into himself.

“Where the fu—…where the flip did that come from?” he asks, blinking back tears from the rasp in his throat.

Yuuji’s small shoulders sulk as he sits back on his heels. “I want a papa.”

Oh fuck that hurt. Jesus christ, there was nothing more sad than that. Yuuji has literally never known what it’s like to have a dad, since his had left before he was even born. Gojo’s not really close to his old man by any means, but he had still been a fatherly figure in some pivotal moments when he had needed it growing up. Kids need their dads. And he’s seen enough people lose their way without one to know that the value of them is really underestimated.

He’s also kind of shocked that Yuuji really did think of you as his motherly figure. Maybe since it had always just been him and his dad, Gojo learned how to self sustain from a young age, and he and his dad became accustomed to just looking after their own interests to avoid the headache of tending to one another. My land is my land, and your land is yours, and there was the occasional Saturday night spent together with his dad’s millions of beer bottles emptied dry on the carpet in front of the 1992 box TV as the two shared a greasy pizza from the place down the street. That was the extent of family solidarity that he knew.

But he can’t imagine being barely eighteen and having to take care of your little brother all by yourself because your mom was too busy trying to put food on the table and was too poor to hire a babysitter. Your mom tried so damn hard to keep you away from the single teenage mother life, but somehow ended up giving it to you by proxy in the end anyway. It was no wonder you wanted space now that Yuuji’s a little older and your mom can afford a babysitter. No matter how much you might love your sibling, being their effective guardian out of pure necessity had to have taken a toll.

Gojo clears his throat before he speaks. “Buddy. If I married your sister, we’d be brothers. I wouldn’t be your dad.” 

Yuuji’s eyes light up at the word brother. “Brothers? Me and you?”

“Yeah. Bros.”

The kid giggles, all bubbly with cheeks rounding fully and eyes sparkling. Gojo reaches out to ruffle at his hair before Yuuji gets down onto one stubby leg at a time from the chair then bolts towards the kitchen.

“Juice!!” he yells somewhere around the corner out of sight.

Gojo sighs, staring at all the toys he pulled out for Yuuji to play with, all left in a scattered mess across the table. He gets up out of his chair and heads towards the fridge. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your juice, you little demon.”

The conclusion he comes to, and it might read like an obvious one, is that kids don’t really know the reality of life, hence why adults hide so much from them. 

This is what he thinks of tonight when he wraps his worn out boxing tape around his hands and his wrist, tightening it with his teeth, and he can smell the sweat and grime from them. The back of the underground gym had an old dated locker room, and as Gojo stretches his neck side to side while sitting on the stiff metal bench, he eyes the peeling red paint of the locker in front of him, blurring vision making it look like spilt blood. 

His phone pings with a text. He shuffles inside his duffle bag to look for it while his other hand scratches at his bare chest.

1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): hhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 1:07am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): omgomgomg sor y i’m 

He blinks at the screen, confusion flashing across his face. He types one letter, but then he sees three dots and a speech text bubble in the bottom left, so he waits for you.

1:09am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i drunk :(

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. 

1:09am Gojo Satoru: Yeah I can tell

1:10am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): at a apartyyyy

His eyebrows raise slightly, the thought of you tipsy on some frat party couch flashing through his mind, yet of all things you could be doing at that frat party, you’re texting him? Must be a really boring party.

1:11am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): whyyy are you aawake?

1:12am Gojo Satoru: Couldn’t sleep 1:12am Gojo Satoru: Don’t you have a midterm in the morning?

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): wtf hwo do you knwo that

1:15am Gojo Satoru: Your mom keeps your schedule posted on the fridge

1:15am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): im so fucked;’;(((

He snorts. He’s got a bit more life experience than you, five-ish years to be exact, more than enough time to master the no-hangover hangout, but just before he can offer you some advice, he sees another text from you. 

1:16am yuuji’s sister (no flirting): can i tell u smething 

His gaze flits up to the ceiling briefly, and he hears commotion outside the thick walls of the locker room. The previous fight was over, and fast. The guy must’ve been knocked out in under twenty seconds tops, which means that Gojo was next up against whatever superbeast just beat him up. 

1:17am Gojo Satoru: Sure

He stands up, placing his phone down on the bench before he flexes the muscles in his arms a couple times to get the blood flowing into them. And there’s the noise of another ping. Actually, four.

1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): sonetimes 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): i thikn of  1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): when u kisse me 1:14am yuuji’s sis (no flirting): *kissed me

His eyes widen slightly, irises dry to the ashy cigarette smoke from outside lingering in the air, and his heart rate picks up a bit. An adrenaline junkie with close to no fear in his veins due to the way his amygdala’s been fried to a crisp from years of boxing, yet he’s got his breath hitched from the memory of your soft lips against his. It makes the blood rushing through the muscles of his arms rush somewhere down south instead.

Loud banging on the door of the locker room jolts him out of his trance, and he’s stiff around the edges once more.

“Satoru! You’re up, man,” he hears Danny, the fight coordinator, yell at him from the other side of the heavy & poorly-installed steel door.

Gojo sighs, glancing down at the texts on his phone. To respond, or not to respond. You’re off your face, clearly chatty from the alcohol, and he knows for certain you’ll regret every life decision you’ve ever made once you wake up in the morning and see the self sabotaging behaviors you’ve engaged in tonight. He knows that responding to you might put you at ease rather than straight up ignoring you, but the feeling will pass, and he has a match to win with no more room left to stall.

He makes his way out the locker room, pushing past the crowded halls of people underneath dim flashing club lighting, some dudes angrily jerking to face him when he pushes past them with a stiff shoulder, only for their eyes to widen when they see just exactly who pushed them. 

There’s strippers in the ring, doing some routine for pre-match, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man he sees laying back over the rubber boundary rope, head tipped back up to the ceiling with a wicked grin on his face. So that was his opponent? He’s never seen the guy before. Was he from a different district? Different district talent was tough, you had no background info on them, while they’ve been preparing to be here for weeks. Hence why boxers tend to do better when they visit a different district than they do in their own. There have been rules made to limit these types of fights, mostly over outrage that it was unfair to bid on them, but they were also usually more entertaining to watch. Gojo’s got a sick feeling to his stomach as the strippers clear the ring.

“Hey,” Gojo calls out, grabbing Danny by the back of his collar and dragging him towards him and away from the girls stepping down onto the floor, “what’s in for this fight?”

Danny glances up at the ceiling. “Tarp’s bettin’ tonight, so it can’t be anything less than ten grand for you. I’d say tops fifteen?”

Gojo narrows his eyes further, then glances off into the ring again. The man stands up, and Gojo gets a better look on his face. He’s got short hair, neon green in color with a dark fade underneath and tattoos all over his face. But those eyes. They were freakishingly red, and it made him uneasy. He knows the type. The type of boxers that do this to genuinely hurt people for thrill. Make no mistake, Gojo understands he’s made himself out to be like that too, gaining some kind of rush out of this profession, but this type of fighter was different. The type to literally continue smashing a dude’s face into the floor until they’re a bloody mess even minutes after the winning call, and no referee to stop it because that’s the kind of action the spectators wanted.

Danny reads his line of sight. “That’s Gale. Newton’s new boxing toy. Came outta nowhere about a month ago. He’s undefeated so far in his district, and Newton specifically wanted to see you up against him tonight,” Danny tells Gojo, resting his elbow up on his bare shoulder. “Chances are he’ll compete with Tarp for final bid if you win this one. I’m talking twenty-five grand in the next if you can knock him out in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo acknowledges, rolling his shoulder so Danny’s elbow falls from it. Forget the money, he just wants to make it out of this alive.

He sets his foot up on the square, ducking through the dividing boundary straps and the tacky caution construction tape that the gym thinks creates an exciting ambience. He hears the static of the speakers as the announcers call out Gojo’s name, then this other guy, loud bass club music booming through Gojo’s chest as he tries to take a few deep breaths through the thick air of this low-ceiling arena. 

The dim overhead lights flickered, casting shadows over the makeshift ring, and the crowd pressed tight around at every perimeter area, yelling and pushing, one even tosses a beer bottle on the square and it shatters, spreading glass all across, a few shards reaching Gojo’s feet and he looks down at them with a shudder. A fight immediately breaks out in the crowd over something related or possibly entirely unrelated, and he’d have no way of knowing as he swipes the shards away with his heel.

The influential men always sat up on higher seating, off towards the back in their own VIP section where they suck in the smoke of fat cigarettes and peer through 100% tinted sunglasses to assess the boxers they’ve bid thousands on. The light reflects off the golden grills of their teeth with every snarl at any passerby that gets too close, like a lion in its den. That’s what the sanction was called. Lion’s den.

Gojo sighed, eyeing the twisted grin of this Gale guy across from him. Was that his real name? Usually, foreign district guys get nicknames. Gojo’s always thought the nicknames were tacky, and he’s accumulated some of his own over the years, but to his ears, none of them ever really landed, although The White Fox admittedly was kinda nice. Reminded him of throwback shooting games. 

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, holding his hands up in front of his chest in weak fists, storing energy in them in the form of pure anticipation alone, and then the bell rang.

His opponent lunged towards him immediately, fists flying in a barrage of reckless strikes, and Gojo’s eyes momentarily widened in the briefest moments of hesitation he had been allowed before ducking and dodging every one of this guy's shots, then jumping a step back to create distance.

Fuck. He was fast. Not just boxer fast, athlete fast. There was a difference. And it wasn’t a good one to be up against.

Gojo picked up light on his feet. He couldn’t win this one fast, that much was certain. One single careless or reckless move, and he’ll get tackled. He knows that by the malicious look he sees on that guy’s face, grin wide like he’s some cannibalistic beast. 

Stepping back towards the center, Gojo purposefully set himself up for Gale to swipe a vicious hook towards his head, before Gojo last minute ducked down, crouched to the floor, and swung his leg out to knock the guy off balance by his ankles, and he falls onto his back with a loud thud!

There’s a moment of momentary silence from the crowd, right before Gojo put the man in a torso-lock, twisting him in a way a human body should absolutely not be twisted, hearing the grunts of pain and the crack of spine even through the shouts of the crowd.

He can hear it. Kill him! Knock his fucking teeth out! Snap his neck like a goose, man! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM! FIN-ISH HIM!

He feels like throwing up. 

Gojo looks up at the referee, who wasn’t really a referee, just there to run the clock when there was action and only barely stop it before near death. “This is enough, right?” he asks.

The referee nods. “1-0, next round.”

Gojo lets go of his opponent, leaving him there to heave for a moment before he gets up onto his feet again. Just needs one more, and he’s a winner. Ten grand in his pocket, and he won’t have to come back here for a couple weeks.

Gale gets up, swiping at the spit that had trickled out the corner of his mouth down to his chin, and he had an enraged look on his face. The second the bell rang for the second round, he exploded forward towards Gojo with even more fervor than before, gritted expression with a thirst for violence fueling the storm of punches he was throwing towards Gojo but he tried to remain calm, light on his feet, swiftly duck and avoid before he can find another opportunity to clear a sharp, clean jab right to the ribs—

sometimes, i think of when you kissed me

Gojo misses his strike, leaving his guard wide open, and Gale takes the opportunity to land a solid punch straight to his jaw, sending his mouth guard flying straight out of his mouth into the air, and knocking him backwards onto the ground with a thud and then he finds himself staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and a ringing in his ears that almost matches the roar of the crowd.

His head is in a haze, dizzy like where one second could feel like a millennia. He feels a soreness underneath his chin, a pain that radiates to his mouth, and he briefly swipes his tongue over his front teeth to make sure he still has all of them. 

What the fuck was that? That intrusive thought. There’s no intrusive thoughts allowed in life or death situations, not when he was always just one smash to the head away from a permanent concussion. But, fuck, he can’t help it. Can’t help thinking of you. Even when his vision has gone blurry and he should really be weary about what happens next in this ring, his mind’s just thinking about you, at some frat party, tipping back shots of tequila and waiting for a text-back in response to your tipsy ones. Were you even waiting up on him? Have you already passed out on the couch, or were your friends dragging you back to your dorm? Or are you fucking some other dude right now? Has he got his hand up your top, squeezing at you, sleazily feeling you up before spilling beer all down your shirt, and are you kissing him back with the same enthusiasm, your phone now somewhere long slipped between the cushions of the couch and out of sight?

Even though it’s still sore, he tenses his jaw. Grinds his teeth, even. Tasting blood somewhere along the line of his gums, he realizes his lip is split. He licks at it, the flavor of copper more rich on his tongue, and he clenches his fists tightly. Why’s he thinking of that right now? It just pisses him off, the thought of you with some other dude. Maybe that’s what he needs to win this fight. Spite. Although he’s not sure why the guy across from him at the ring has to pay for it.

He lifts his head up off the ground, and while it felt like years he had been down, a glance at the timer tells him it’s only been a solid four seconds. A solid four seconds that his opponent had to fully charge a lunge towards him with the look of death in his face, raising his elbow up into the air in time with his leap, ready to come straight down, and Gojo’s eyes widen at the sight above him from where he’s still lying on the wood.

“Shit—” he cusses, rolling his body over to the side so that the dude falls straight down onto the floor rather than elbow Gojo in the fucking ribs, and then he gets back up on his feet. 

Stakes were high, he has to end this, he has to end this now, and he flexes the muscle in his right bicep, channeling everything he has into this one blow, and before Gale even really has a chance to turn around and face him again, Gojo’s already three-fourths set up a knockout undercut that he drives straight up the guy’s chin, with so much force it has him lifting up off the floor, a vertebrate stretch to his spine before he’s sent flying backwards and slammed against the tight rubber lining of the ring to where he was half hanging over it.

The room fell silent for a split second, then erupted in a roar as the referee fell to one knee beside Gale, checking him for any semblance of consciousness, and when he found none, he waves the match off. 

Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the lion’s den, the only opinions that he really needed to care about were sitting in those mahogany chairs with glasses of scotch swirling around in their hands, and he sees some of them looking straight at Gojo before leaning towards one another and discretely talking about something he can’t make out because he doesn’t know how to read lips.

He feels someone tug at his arms from behind, pulling him to crouch down and he balances back on the balls of his feet. He glances down through the ring at the floor. Danny was leaning against the wooden surface of it. “Dude. Go.” He jerks his head towards Gale, who still laid there sprawled across the now stretched out rubber perimeter bands. “Go fuck him up. Knock a few more teeth out, I don’t know, get some more blood out of him.”

“What?” Gojo huffs, yanking his arm away from Danny’s grip. “The fuck are you saying?”

“I told you, man, Newton’s here and he’s got his eye on you. Go give him a show,” Danny says, “do it.” And when he sees clear frustration on Gojo’s face he sighs. “Twenty-five grand, consider that, will you?”

Gojo sneers at the man, an awful taste in his mouth as he spits blood towards Danny’s feet. “Go fuck yourself on his cock if he wants a show that bad.” And then he ducks underneath the bands and hops back down onto the floor, pushing past people who were trying to grab at him and pull at him and lift him up and even throw him down until he made it through flashing hallways and back to the locker room.

He shuts the door behind him, sliding the bolt lock into the frame so no one can follow him inside, and then he leans his weight back against the chilling steel before tipping his head back until it hits the surface too.

He lets out of a few deep breaths, then stares down at the sting he finds over his knuckles. Red and blistering from the last punch he delivered, and he’s almost certain he broke a bone in his hand. Fuck. It was bleeding across the cuts, too. He had to figure out a way to get it all healed by tomorrow, as if that was humanly possible, just because he doesn’t want Yuuji questioning him about it.

Yuuji. For fucks sake, when has he ever thought about the kid this much? When has he ever thought about much of anything when he’s out here or in the ring? He’s a babysitter by day. He’s a “part” of your family when the sun is up and normal functioning society is breathing their lives into the clean air. That’s it. He’s no five-year-old’s caretaker in front of all these primetime drug lords, and he certainly shouldn’t be thinking of you when facing big, burly men he’s aiming to rough up, all within the dead hours of night. So then how come these thoughts are on his mind at all times, twenty-four-seven, around the clock?

He heads further into the locker room, glancing down at the bench where he’d left his phone, then picks it up, neck craned all the way down to glance at the screen as he holds his phone by his hip because he doesn’t have any energy to pick it up any further towards his eyesight. 

He sees your messages. You never sent any follow-up ones, just your horrendously typed out sonetimes, i thikn of when u kisse me *kissed me across the span of four texts, and Gojo runs a tired hand down his face.

He tips his head back to groan at the ceiling, guttural with no basis other than a release of all the pent up frustration of every sort, then he types in a couple messages to you,

3:23am Gojo Satoru: That’s nice 3:24am Gojo Satoru: I think about fucking you all the time 

—and then tosses his phone into his duffel bag to call it a night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’re awoken to your alarm blaring heavily, and you whack your arm across your nightstand table beside your tiny twin-size bed to hit the snooze button, then rub your eye with a loose fist while smacking at the residual taste of alcohol you have on your tongue. 

“Mm…” you mumble to yourself. And then the thirst hits you. The overwhelming, intense, unquenchable thirst that leaves your mouth feeling like the Sahara desert before you grab your twice-dented Hydroflask from the nightstand, twist the cap off and chug about twenty ounces of water in one breath. 

You let out a deep exhale and fall back into bed, your hand resting on top of your water-filled tummy, and you stare up at the ceiling of your dorm. 

Last night was horrible. You knew you shouldn’t have gone to that frat party, especially given you have an exam in—you checked the time on your phone—about an hour, and an hour was not enough time to recover from the raging hangover headache that’s pounding through your head. But your roommates insisted you went, and so go you did. You never knew what to expect, always torn between shaving your pussy before you go or throwing on a stained pair of sweatpants to keep the guys away instead. Sometimes, it was a combination of both. But last night, you ended up drinking more than you usually do, and that always led to poor, poor, poor decisions, in which all the sense of pride you had in yourself was washed down with the puke that you hurled into the upstairs toilet. 

You grab at your phone again, briefly seeing that your friends had sent you some photos from the night. You immediately swiped off to the side to dismiss the notifications, because as far as you were concerned, you never wanted to see those photos in your life.

And then, in the briefest of moments, you saw a familiar name in your notifications that made you heart skip a beat.

Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter)

With an immediate gasp, you pulled your phone to your chest and held it there, blinking up at the pale yellow ceiling, your heart picking up in rhythm.

Oh fuck.

That was right.

You drunk texted him last night.

You drunk texted your little brother’s hot babysitter.

Fuck.

Mortified was an understatement, possibly because you don’t even remember what you said, and so you don’t even want to see what he replied with.

You groan, rubbing both your hands across your face then kick your sheets back with your feet like a child having a temper tantrum because you were so embarrassed you had even texted him at all last night. I mean, he was hot. A little older than you, really gorgeous eyes, tall, and, yeah, you gave him shit for the Instagram muscles thing, but that’s only because you thought he’d find it cheeky that you were trying to humble him despite the fact that he’s more toned and ruggedly sculpted than any other man you’ve ever met. You didn’t want to have a flustered schoolgirl attitude because it would just seep through to his ego.

In any case, he was hot, there was no denying it, so can you really blame yourself? But still. There was collateral with this. You had to see him every other weekend. He knows your family, even your extended since they invited him to Thanksgiving dinner a couple weeks ago. A high-risque drunk text recipient if he ever was one (of course he has been, look at that face). Why couldn’t you have just drunk texted ECON160 guy from last semester who Clit DJ’d you underneath your desk at the back of the lecture hall instead?

The thing that made you nervous about Gojo Satoru was that he was just so…confident? Like, in that I was raised to be this way confident and not that I fought inner demons my whole life to barely end up this way confident, y’know? Never had to fake it ‘til he made it, he just was. At least that was the kind of energy you got from him, and unfortunately for you, it was nerve wracking but enticing all at the same time.

You sigh. “Stupid. Stupid. Stuuuuuupiiiiidddddddddddd. You. Are. So. Stuuuuuupiiiiddddddd,” you sigh, running your hands through your hair to grip at the strands.

You pull your phone away from your chest, and finally brave yourself to read the texts from your notifications screen, but not without blurring your vision a little to further stall. And then you finally refocus it to read them. The first one you see has you gasping—

3:24am Gojo Satoru (yuuji’s babysitter): I think about fucking you all the time 

It has heat spreading across your cheeks, and you blink at your screen, then quickly swipe up to read the previous messages with rushed glides of your index finger on the screen to see that he had sent it to you in response to your barely coherent texts about how you still so often think about that time he randomly pressed you up against the door of your bedroom to kiss you that night you first met him.

I think about fucking you all the time

At 3 in the morning? He decided to send that text at 3 in the fucking morning? That was the devil’s hour. What’s he trying to tell you? 

Oh come on, you’re not stupid. And you know he isn’t either. The sexual tension was palpable, it was there since the day you two met and you almost stabbed him, and also everytime you were visiting the house, and his shoulder brushes against yours when he’s trying to get past you in the kitchen, or when you’ve got Yuuji in your arms and the kid is clinging to Gojo’s sleeve because he wants him near him at all times. There’s even sexual tension over the phone, in those stupid texts he sends you all the time about meaningless child care stuff, and honestly, those little updates made your day.

But… you don’t know much about him, and your mom would kill you if she ever found out you wanted him. And she’d probably pulverize him if she found out he ever made a move on you. Cremated without leaving a trace behind would be an understatement. She thinks he’s no good and she thinks you’re too good. You know she’s warned him before to not get close to you, as if she was pre-emptively expecting him to try to get in your pants like it was some canon force of the universe, hence why he’s probably so fucking awkward around you whenever she’s there too. Like if he accidentally got caught staring at your ankles, your mom would light him on fire, so he’d rather not risk it by just avoiding looking at you at all.

Your mom has always been protective of you. Your father was a deadbeat, one she thought she loved, only to watch him leave. And she had to raise a baby all by herself. He re-entered your lives right before you graduated high school, knocked up your mom again with Yuuji, and guess what? Left again without a trace. To be doubly humiliated by a man is a fate you wouldn’t wish on any woman, but that’s exactly what your mom went through. It was a wake-up call for her, though. No more living paycheck to paycheck like you had been your whole lives up until Yuuji was born. The kid doesn’t even know how lucky he is with everything he has right now. Your mom worked her way up the corporate ladder and made something of herself and now you guys were comfortable, so it was safe to say she had some sort of right to look after her daughter, of whom she simply doesn’t want to follow in the same naive footsteps of her youth.

You get it. She wants to break the generational cycle. But it made being with men tough on all fronts, let alone dating. You could never bring a guy home because he’d never be enough, even if he cured cancer or could make you orgasm while doing a sixty-nine handstand. And while her overbearing paranoia over what you do or where you are or who you’re with has since dimmed slightly since you officially moved out to finish your last year of higher education at NYU, you can still feel her disappointment from a hundred miles away when you’re making out with some random frat guy on his beer-stained couch at eleven AM on a Tuesday.

But you got to college. You’ve already made it this far. You’re on dean’s list. You graduated high school as salutatorian. You’re the most highly decorated cello player in the state. You won Miss County pageant when you were sixteen for your philanthropic efforts towards feline leukemia. You did online community college for three years so you could stick back after high school and help your mom raise Yuuji, which meant that you had to forfeit your scholarship to Cornell. You’ve spent your whole life being good, you just wanna be bad for a little bit.

And if bad meant fucking the hot and mysterious babysitter, then so be it. 

You pick your phone up, begin blasting what the hell by Avril Lavigne on your dorm room bluetooth speaker, then type a message to him that says—

10:34am you: do it then

—then shove your phone under the sheets and belt out the lyrics aaaall my life i’ve been good, but now, ahhhh i’m thinkin’ what the hell!!! while kicking your feet and clutching your pillow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Gojo has no clue what divine entity has overcast their gratuitous spirit over him on this blessed Monday afternoon, but he’ll thank them for it later once his balls are empty. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled across the couch in the living room, the first fuck being a rushed one that you offered him with before he has to go pick Yuuji up from circle time at preschool, which wasn’t ideal, but he’s delirious at the sight of you underneath him right now. Your little NYU shirt, a tighter one this time, bunched up over your bare breasts, otherwise entirely naked other than the flimsy panties dangling at your ankle, and the view of the tip of his cock looking hot and heavy against the velvet of your cunt, slowly pushing in, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around him paired with the sweet moan that leaves your lips, makes him fall forward with a bracing hand dug into the cushion by the side of your head because the sensation feels so fucking good he can hardly keep himself upright.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he grunts, pushing himself in further to try and bottom out but he’s still got a couple inches he needs you to take, and so you curl your hips upwards towards the cieling to make more room for him, practically putting yourself into a mating press and soon enough he’s balls deep, “you on any birth control?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan, eyes closed and head tipped back with one hand squeezing your own tit.

“I can cum inside then, yeah?” he asks you, pushing your knees to your chest, slowly drawing his hips back and you squirm underneath him.

“Let’s get there first, and then we’ll discuss,” you breathe out.

“I’ve been there for the past ten minutes, baby. I could cum at any second with the way you look and feel,” he informs you flatly, because it was just the truth and you had to know it, then he feels himself twitch inside, slowly working up to a languid rhythm, almost fearfully like your mom’s going to pop out somewhere around the corner with a camera crew ready like one of those retro TV shows just to humiliate him on national television for not keeping it in his pants like she’d told him to. 

“Harder,” he hears you whisper, and he rolls his eyes shut to just focus on the feeling. The feeling of your nails grazing down the skin of his chest and his abs, tracing the scars he’s collected over the years, and he feels you tightening around him. He leans down to kiss you, fucking you properly now with the squeak of the couch springs echoing across the room, your hums of moans seeping through his lips until he’s fully taking them on with an open-mouthed kiss of sloppy tongue. 

The fact that it was wrong felt right to him, and he realizes in this moment he’s lost all sense of control. He wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie that liked to rough up dudes, he was an adrenaline junkie that wanted to fuck you against all better judgement or moral compass. The way your tits were bouncing, the slap of skin on skin, his balls slapping against your ass while you wrap your legs around him tighter, all convincing him that any consequence made it worth it.

“Good,” he groans the praise, pinning your hands above your head as he rams his hips against yours, your cute moans and squeals sounding like literal music to his ears and he feels heat spread all the way up his neck, “goooood, keep squeezin’ me like that, fuck.” He slows down momentarily, just to take a moment and watch, really look and see the way his length disappears inside of your pretty self with every push forward, and then he works back up to a relentless pace that has you tipping your head back with a slack jaw and eyes closed tightly shut, sprained expression of pleasure spread across.

“Oh, oh my god, Satoru—” you mewled and he felt dizzy from the sound of his name from your softly parted lips.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” His hand finds it’s way between your legs, calloused pads of his fingers brushing against your clit and you jolt underneath him, gasping as your hand shoots out to dig your nails into his bicep for purchase. “I’m gonna cum, better tell me where you want it.”

“In me,” you moan, “nowhere else.”

He presses his mouth against your cheek in a lazy smile, “Atta girl,” he drawls before pushing your ankles down as far as they’d go near your ears, folding you in half and then reigns all hell into your cunt. He should really care a bit more about your pleasure, but testing your flexibility like this with both his hands holding you down was doing sinful things to his brain, and besides, you had yourself covered with the messy circles you were rubbing over your clit. It was hot to see that too, your nimble pretty fingers so close to the place where he was pounding into you. 

“Oh shit, shit, shit—” he grunts when starts to see blistering white in his vision, balls straining with a pleasure that was almost painful. The moment he finishes feels like hot flashes in his brain, a heat like the cum he begins to paint inside your walls in time with your release, thrusting over and over and over, each one more staggered as he lets off a long, drawn out groan that comes from deep within his chest with the feeling of you milking him dry and the sound of you enjoying every second of it. He can’t remember the last time he came this much or this hard and even after coming down from the high, he feels the remnant pulse of your orgasm around his now half-flaccid dick.

He leisurely pulls out, hearing you let out a soft whimper as he marvels at the sight of his cum slowly dripping out of you and down towards the couch, before he scoops it up with a couple fingers and pushes it back inside. You grip his wrist tightly, but you weren’t stopping it, that motion of him plunging it all back into you.

“Want a taste?” he asks, casually.

“Mhm,” you nod, face looking flush.

He pulls his fingers out of you, coated with sex, then plugs your pussy with the fingers of his other hand because he kinda likes the idea of you walking around all day with him inside of you, so he doesn’t want it getting out. He’s then pushing his other fingers past your lips, pleased to find he’s met with not even so much as a grazing of teeth, and he grins, “bet you take a dick in your mouth as good as you take it down here.”

Your furrow your brows at him, the pout of your lips seen in the way they were puckered to lick his fingers off clean, and when you release the suction with a smack of your tongue and his fingers were wet from your saliva now, his eyes narrow with desire. You push his face away with the heel of your palm to his forehead. “Flattery won’t make me suck your dick.”

“Alright. So? How is it?” he jerks his chin towards your face, pushing against your hand with his forehead until he’s hovering over you again, “taste good?”

“It’s cum, Satoru.”

He shrugs. “Bad?”

“No,” you say, and you can’t make eye contact, “good.” You sigh. “Hot. I don’t know. Salty, sweet. I’m the sweet. You’re the salty. And this conversation is obscene.”

He kisses you, capturing your lips softly, tongue darting out to taste what’s on yours. “I like it that way. Dirty. Nasty. Obscene, whatever.”

There’s the slam of a car door heard from the driveway, and the two of you instantly make eye contact with round eyes.

“Sa—” you stutter, “Satoru.”

He gets up off the couch in a panic, and heads to the window of the living room fully butt-ass naked, then peers through the blinds to see—

Your mom was making it up towards the front door, rustling with her keys in her purse. And the last thing he sees before he turns around to face you is her pushing the keys through the lock.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” he cusses, finding his boxers off of the floor, hopping on one foot with his cum & slick coated dick flapping around and slapping against his thighs unceremoniously as he tries to get one leg in through them and then the other. You’re trembling as you hook your panties back into place, pull your shirt back down your torso, and even in his extremely panicked state, he’s still sad he can’t freely stare at your tits anymore. You’re rummaging for your skirt in a haste, looking everywhere for it, and he finds it underneath the coffee table before tossing it to you and then he side-to-side hops towards the coat closet while he pulls his sweatpants up over his ass, in time for you to quickly run and shut the door of the closet closed just before the front door of the house swings open.

The inside of the coat closet is dark, barely enough space in there for a six-foot-four two-hundred-and-twenty pound man, but it’s better than being balls deep inside his boss’s daughter on the couch when said boss just came home from work.

He hears conversation on the other side of the door, albeit muffled, and he presses his ear to it to hear better while he tucks his dick into his boxers from where it was hanging over the waistline.

“Mom! You…you’re home so early,” he hears you squeak out.

“Yes,” your mom says, “The rest of my meetings today are online, so I figured I’d come home when there’s less traffic.”

Gojo feels you lean against the coat closet door.

“I see, I see, how was your day at work?” you ask with a tremble in your voice.

“Fine.” And then nothing. The silence could mean that was all she had to say, since your mom wasn’t really a woman of many words, or it could be a silence that means she’s suspicious about something. “Darling, why is your skirt flipped up and tucked into your panties? Your whole butt is showing.”

Through the wood of the door, he hears you softly gasp. “Oh, um, I just went to pee. Must’ve—…must’ve got caught when I pulled it back up.” 

“I see,” your mother says, and Gojo can hear her dropping her heels down near the shoe rack at the entrance. “You know, I really don’t like those short skirts you wear often. Maybe it’s just your generation, but I think it looks tacky and cheap.”

“Mom,” you say, in as stern of a voice as you can manage without sounding embarrassed.

Your mother sighs. “In any case, where is Satoru? I still would like him to go pick up Yuuji. I don’t have the patience to sit in preschool & daycare traffic right now.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t know,” you chirp, and then he hears you let out a small oh no before you lean even more weight against the door, this time somewhere lower, and he realizes you’re pressing your ass against it. His eyes narrow with a small frown, and then he realizes— his cum must still be trickling down your thighs. You couldn’t put your panties on fast enough. 

Shit. That’s hot. A little fucked up, but hot. He feels his dick harden against the fabric of his boxers, and he rests his forehead against the door, fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat as he slips his hands down his sweatpants and then gives his cock a firm squeeze. The thought of you discretely swiping his cum up your inner thigh and smearing it against your thin panties so your mom doesn’t catch sight of it dripping down your legs has him slowly working up to a rock-solid erection, and he almost lets out a broken grunt from the feeling.

“What?” your mother says, “what do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve just been watching TV this whole time,” you say, “last time I saw him…he was…um, in the backyard pulling weeds?”

He lets out a small scoff through his nose at your cover-up. Cute. And not bad. 

Your mother sighs loudly, and he glances down at the strained veins on his dick as he tugs it through his hand, the tip rearing and appearing flushed and dripping with precum. God, you were just on the other side of this door. Less than a few inches away, and he’d be inside of you. 

“I’m going to take a shower. Go find him and tell him to pick up Yuuji soon. But before then, change into something less revealing,” your mother says in a more or less detached tone, and he can hear the stomps of her footsteps up the stairs from above him in the coat closet.

The two of you wait at least a solid minute, and just when the coast is clear, he hears you turn the knob of the coat closet and slowly crack it open.

“Okay, I think she’s in the shower, I hear the water running,” you whisper at him, “you can go now—” You glance down towards his groin, your jaw dropping. “What—…Satoru, why the fuck is your dick staring at me right now?!” you whisper-hiss at him.

He pulls you into the coat closet, pushing your front against the door to where it clicks shut, and you gasp when his hands pin your wrists crossed behind your back and his dick presses into the plush of your ass.

“You talkin’ to your mom while your pussy’s stuffed full of my cum was the single hottest thing that’s ever grazed my lizard brain,” he tells you, flipping your skirt up and hooking your panties to the side, his index finger briefly brushing against your entrance to find it still leaking from the way your walls were pulsating from his words. And then he aligns his tip to your entrance. “Now keep quiet while I do this, ‘kay?”

“Oh—” you gasp, your cheek pressed against the door as you arch your back and push your ass out for him, “okay—” you say, barely vocalizing the first syllable before he’s already stuffing himself inside of you with one solid glide of a push, making you yelp loudly and he has to instantly cup a hand over your mouth.

“Shhhhhh,” he hisses at you, immediately starting to pound you from behind, “told you to— fuuuck,” he catches sight of his length covered with a mix of your glassy arousal and his white cum, now starting to cream at the base of his cock, “jesus christ—” he breathes out, squeezing the flesh of your ass harshly with his other hand and you let out another yelp, “I told you to fuckin’ keep quiet.”

“I’m—mff,” you muffle against his palm, “I’m trying but,” your hips move back in time with his, “feels good, feels too good,” you mewl, and his hand desperately yanks up the fabric of your shirt so he can squeeze at your breast.

“Yeah?” he grunts, hypocritical for telling you to keep it down when he was slamming his hips against your ass with so much fervor he wouldn’t be surprised if the sound was reverberating across the entire house, “you like it when I fuck you while your mom’s all clueless just up the stairs?” His rhythm falters, feeling his release building, and his hand reaches in front of you to rub your clit, making you drop your head against the door with tightly closed eyes. “Gets— you—wet, doesn’t it?” he torments you, his lips near your ear as he slams his hips against you harshly with every enunciated syllable. 

“Mhm, mhm,” you easily agree, or maybe that’s because it’s all you can really articulate, and he angles his hips up so his balls slap more fervently against your clit, making you scream into his palm while he picks up the pace of the circles he draws on your clit and in one, two, three— beats of his pounding heart, he feels you come undone around his cock, gushing wetness leaking out of you, he can feel the mess of fluids splattering on the skin of his thighs due to each of his heaving thrusts as he cusses out a fuuuuuuckkk before spilling his cum inside of you, a short-lived and thicker release this time that has you mewling from overstimulation, and in a few following thrusts, he’s given you everything he had to give.

His eyes open, he wasn’t even aware he had shut them in the first place, and he glances down at where the two of you were joined. Rings of arousal coat the length of his half-pulled-out dick, and the second he retreats all of it, a bulging push of his cum seeps out of you, dripping and pooling all over the hardwood floors.

“Holy shit, I wish I could take a picture of this,” he says, taking a step away to commit the sight to memory, your legs trembling and still slightly spread, ass pushed out and when you wiggle it a little, he lets out a huff of an exhale because he just can’t believe how sexy you are. Are all college girls like this? He’s never been to college, his old man’s been trying to get him to go for years, but maybe this is what finally convinces him.

“No pics,” you breathe out once you catch your breath, standing up straight slowly, “that’s my one sex rule.”

He takes a step closer to you, flipping your skirt back over your ass while you shimmy your shirt down to cover your chest. “That’s the only rule you have? Anything else goes?” he asks.

You spin around to face him, his eyes briefly flitting down to the still exposed skin of your midriff. “I have a feeling I’d be making up more specific rules if it was with you.”

He smiles, his hands grabbing your hips before pressing you up against the door again. “I also had a rule. It was to not fuck you. Wait, no, to not flirt with you. Which, technically, I didn’t do.”

You blink your eyes at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused, “I didn’t.”

“Huh—” you scoff, “how do you think we got into this situation in the first place?? You didn’t just say wanna fuck? You were insufferably flirty with me.”

“Nahhh nah nah nah nah, baby, that’s not flirting,” he tells you, thumb running circles over your hips, “that’s, like—…I don’t even fuckin’ know how it worked on you to be honest, I was just being stupid.”

“Oh okay so I’m stupid.”

“I never said you were stupid?”

“Well you said you were being stupid so me falling for it must mean I’m stupid.”

“Pshhh. You’re cute. Pulling weeds, by the way? Adorable.”

Your hand slowly roams up the front of his shirt, the fabric bunching at your wrists until you uncovered up to his collar bone, and you stare at his skin. He tries to not let the way his heart’s beating faster show through the heave of his chest. 

“Why do you have all these scars, anyway?” you whisper to him.   

“Too many girls tryna stab me,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes. “Seriously.” Your thumb traces the one you had left on him. 

“I—” He stops himself.

Does he tell you? Should he tell you? What, just because he’s seen you naked and you took his dick like a queen he’s supposed to open up to you about these things now? He doesn’t know. Maybe he could? Maybe you already suspect what he does at night. And if not, at the very least, I’m an underground boxer might make you think he’s hot? At the very worst, you’ll report him to the cops and he’d get fired as your little brother’s babysitter then thrown into jail, but not before the busted cartel gets him first.

“Maybe I’ll tell you some other time,” he says, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling it from his chest, “no hyper personal details until you’ve had my dick in your mouth at least once or twice. That’s my one rule.”

You snort. “I could’ve guessed that rule from a mile away.”

He hums. And then there’s the sound of steps creaking down the stairs above the two of you.

You both make eye contact, eyes widening, internally yelling at each other: how the fuck did we get into this situation twice?!

This time, Gojo opens the door and stumbles out of the closet, leaving you inside of it, just in time for your mom to come down the stairs.

“Satoru. I was looking for you,” she says as she rounds the post. “Have you picked up Yuuji? He has to go for his swimming lessons soon.”

“Ah, nope, was just about to head out,” he says, letting out a cough to diffuse tension, “sorry, I was—” he points his thumb over his shoulder to behind him, “…pulling out some gnarly weeds.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I see. Well, thanks. If you want, I can add a gardening stipend to your paycheck. Let me know.” And he’s not sure how to respond because he’s not sure if she’s joking. 

He heads out the door, the keys to your mom’s minivan in his palm as he throws them up into the air and catches them a couple times. And just before he gets inside the car, he turns on his heel to face the house and pulls his phone out of his pocket to type in a message for you.

3:22pm Gojo Satoru: Send over those me-specific sex rules soon

.

.

.

[the end]

a/n. hope u enjoyed im shitting bricks posting this bc i haven't posted a oneshot smut since february but thanks so much for reading i appreciate u!! i got way too invested in the whole underground boxer thing 😂😂 but the fact i managed to keep everything under 12k is an accomplishment to me bc if u read my other fics you know i’m a yapper LOL i have another kind of a similarly written smut oneshot n it’s a lil angsty (totally different au tho) i’ll probs post that one next but yea i really like, hmm, i really like exploring entire characters within a short amount of time i enjoy writing the obscure lore drops xd it’s been kinda fun so far anywho much loveee hope to see u around! <3

➸ masterlist

taglist:

@joemama-2 @erencvlt @pickuptruck01 @hanakotateyama @nuronhe

@beabadobeee @air3922 @timetoletmyimaginationfly @chiyokoemilia @jotarohat

@sirencholia @sorcerersseestars @horisdope @to-dabi @staoru

@aliidarling @ninjaturtletoes @lavender-hvze @lanadelreylover11 @chckn-pi

@satoryaa @gojodickbig @v4mpieres @reinam00n @sleepyyammy

@haikomaiko @tbzzluvr @myahfig4 @arabelluhhh4200 @bloopsstuff

@nat-the-gayass-down-bad-mf @badbclub @blackunecorn @geniejunn @n0tviv

@verystrawberryhottub @iheartshopping @peonysfordayz @dreamsxmerci @aishies-stuff

@milkm4nz @athinasaurus @sashisuslover @welldamnsatoru @aeriiixhh

@crystalymin @dcvilxswish @miakxn @satxoru

[ivyues]

Laptop Delivery - Bang Chan

Practice got a little more eventful thanks to an forgotten laptop.

It was a peaceful morning. Fresh from your shower, you padded into your kitchen, planning to grab a quick breakfast before heading to uni. But something on the counter stopped you in your tracks – Chris' laptop.  

Your heart sank. He’d stayed over last night but had to leave early for dance practice. The sight of his laptop sitting on the counter screamed trouble. Normally, he wouldn’t bring it over – it was too precious, filled with tracks, demos, and other vital material for the group. You knew his schedule was packed, and forgetting something this important could only mean bad news.

You snapped a picture of it and sent it to him with the caption:

"Forgot something?"

Still, you couldn’t shake the thought that it might be much more important. Without hesitation, you called him, even though you knew he was at practice.  

After a few rings, he picked up, slightly breathless. "Hey, baby. I’m… kinda at practice right now – what’s up?"  

"Did you leave your laptop here on purpose?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.  

"What?" His voice was sharp with confusion. "No, I thought I— wait, let me check the picture you send me."  

A muffled curse followed as realization hit. "Oh shit, no. I’ve got a meeting with some producers right after practice. I can’t believe I left it there." His tone was laced with stress.  

Chris hesitated. "I—" he started, then stopped himself. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He was probably considering rushing back to your place after practice, which would make him late for the meeting. Worse, you wouldn’t even be there to open the door since you'd already be at uni by then.

"I… could… bring it to you," you offered cautiously, knowing what value the device had to the group.  

"Really? Would that be possible?" His voice softened, a mixture of relief and guilt.  

"Yeah, but I’d have to leave now. I still have uni today," you said, already moving to grab your things.  

"Ah, that's amazing. You're an angel," he said warmly. "I’ll text you the room number."  

Skipping breakfast, you grabbed his laptop and headed out. On the way, you planned to stop by a bakery for something quick after the delivery, before heading straight to class.  

-----

At the JYP building, you knocked lightly on the practice room door, despite Chris’ text saying you could walk right in. The door opened to reveal Felix, his face lighting up with a grin.  

"Hey!" he greeted, pulling you into a quick hug.  

"Hi, Lix," you replied with a small smile. From across the room, Chris’ head shot up, his eyes locking on you. Relief and affection softened his expression as he quickly made his way towards you.  

"Hey," he murmured, stopping just in front of you.  

"Hi," you replied, reaching into your bag to pull out his laptop. As soon as the sleek silver device emerged, the room fell silent.  

The members froze, eyes wide. It wasn’t just a laptop to them; they knew what was inside – tracks, demos, lyrics, everything. The fact that you were holding it was proof of something bigger: the trust Chris had in you.

But before anyone could speak, Chris gently pulled you into the room, his fingers brushing your cheeks as he softly pulled your mask down.  

And then, he kissed you.  

It was natural, familia – something the two of you had done countless times before. But here, in the quiet practice room, with – unbeknownst to you – all eyes on you, it felt different. His lips were warm and soft, a silent expression of gratitude and love.  

The members didn’t move, still processing what they were seeing. None of them had expected this. Sure, they knew how much Chris cared about you, but seeing it displayed so openly caught them off guard.  

When he finally pulled back, his ears burned red, and he muttered a sheepish "I’ll call you later, okay? Thanks again", as he took the laptop from your hands.  

You, cheeks blazing, barely managed a nod as you stepped back. The silence lingered for a beat longer before you mumbled, "Y-yeah. Bye, everyone."

You turned and left, closing the door behind you.  

The moment the door clicked shut, chaos erupted.  

"YAH, HYUNG!"  

"I can't believe you just did that!"

"PDA MUCH?!”

"Channie hyung, what was that?!"

"Wow, so smooth. Too bad your ears give you away."  

Outside, you heard the screaming teasing very clearly and couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks still burning as you walked down the hallway. Chris could handle the teasing – he brought it upon himself after all.  

masterlist

[pucksandpower]

Gridlock

Charles Leclerc x Red Bull driver!Reader

father!Fernando Alonso x daughter!Reader

platonic!Max Verstappen x teammate!Reader

Summary: when a crazed fan kidnaps you from the paddock, your boyfriend, father, and teammate are sent on a wild goose chase … but will they make it before it’s too late?

Warnings: kidnapping, poisoning, attempted murder, and actual murder

The drivers' briefing room is already buzzing when Charles slides into his seat near the back, careful to keep a neutral expression. It’s packed as usual — Max is lounging at his right, propped up on one elbow, scrolling through something on his phone. Lewis is arguing with Lando about the track limits from last week, and Fernando — seated a few rows ahead — turns in his chair every now and then, a faintly amused expression on his face.

“Where is she?” Charles mutters without looking up.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Charles raises an eyebrow, his look pointed, before turning his phone off with an exaggerated sigh.

“She’s always late,” Max says under his breath, more to himself than anyone.

“She’s always here by now,” Charles says, crossing his arms.

Max tilts his head in reluctant agreement. You’re late, yes, but never this late — not to something this important. Usually, it’s you walking in at the last second, hair a little messy, still half-laughing at some joke you overheard outside. You’d throw out a quick apology, flash a grin at the unimpressed FIA official, and drop into your seat without missing a beat.

But five minutes have stretched into ten.

The laughter in the room starts to taper off.

“She was with you, wasn’t she?” Charles asks Max, keeping his voice low.

Max frowns. “No. Wasn’t she with you?”

“No,” Charles says sharply, suddenly sitting straighter. His leg starts bouncing under the table. Max notices but doesn’t comment.

“Relax,” Max mutters, glancing around the room like he’s hoping to spot you suddenly materializing out of thin air. “She probably stopped to talk to a fan again. You know how she is.”

“Ten minutes ago, maybe,” Charles says, glancing at the door for the fourth time. “This isn’t like her.”

“Nothing about her is like anyone else,” Max says, rolling his eyes. But Charles doesn’t even smirk.

The FIA official clears his throat, stepping up to the front of the room. “Alright, let’s get started. If your fellow driver decides to show up, kindly remind her that punctuality is part of the job.”

The comment earns a chuckle or two, mostly from Lando and Pierre, but Charles feels his stomach drop. The humor of the situation has curdled.

Fifteen minutes late.

Fernando twists in his chair again, a little deeper this time, as though he’s scanning the room. Charles catches the older driver’s eyes and shakes his head slightly. Fernando’s jaw tightens before he faces forward again.

“Where the hell is she?” Charles mutters, mostly to himself.

Max gives him a sidelong glance. “You sure you didn’t fight or something?”

Charles snaps his head around to glare at him. “Why do you assume it’s my fault?”

Max shrugs. “You’re dramatic.”

Charles looks ready to argue, but the official’s voice cuts through.

“If she’s not here by the time I finish explaining the changes to the pit exit procedure, she’ll be fined and possibly given a penalty. And yes, that’s a new regulation, so don’t act surprised.”

“She’s not going to get a penalty,” Charles hisses under his breath, ignoring the way Max raises his eyebrows again.

“You sure about that?” Max asks, leaning back lazily. “Because she’s not here. And neither of us knows why.”

Twenty minutes now.

The official starts rattling off a list of procedural updates, but it’s white noise in Charles’ ears. He keeps glancing at his phone, as if it’ll buzz with a message from you, explaining everything. Maybe your PR officer pulled you into an emergency meeting. Maybe you ran into trouble on the way here — traffic, a flat tire, something.

Maybe you’re-

The doors burst open.

Everyone’s heads snap around. Even the official stumbles over his words, startled.

Your PR officer stands in the doorway, panting, her face pale and her hair disheveled. She doesn’t look at the FIA official, or the other drivers. Her eyes zero in on Fernando, Max, and Charles, and she says three words that turn the room to ice.

“Y/N is gone.”

***

Charles is on his feet before the words even register fully, his chair screeching against the floor as it topples over.

“What do you mean, gone?” His voice is sharp, the edges fraying with panic.

Max looks frozen, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form a sentence but can’t. Fernando’s reaction is more immediate. He strides toward the PR officer, his expression dark and unrelenting.

“Explain. Now.”

The room is in chaos. Drivers are standing, whispering, some shouting questions, but Charles barely hears any of it. His heart is in his throat, his pulse pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

The PR officer stumbles over her words, her breaths still uneven. “She … she was heading here. I saw her outside the paddock maybe — fifteen, twenty minutes ago? She stopped to talk to fans, like always, and then … then she never showed up.”

“You’re sure it was her?” Fernando asks, his tone biting.

“Yes,” the PR officer says, her voice cracking. “I called her, but it’s going straight to voicemail.”

Charles’ blood turns to ice. He pulls his phone out, fingers fumbling as he dials your number. It rings once. Then twice.

“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time, please leave a message after the tone.”

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters under his breath, hanging up and trying again. The same result.

Max is already doing the same thing, his movements more frantic. “Straight to voicemail,” he mutters, looking up at Charles, his face pale. “This — this doesn’t make sense.”

Fernando is digging into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “She’s on my Life360,” he says, his voice clipped. He pulls up the app, but when he taps your name, his expression hardens.

“She turned off her location,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “She never does that.”

“Maybe her phone’s dead,” Max says quickly, as if the words are a lifeline.

Fernando gives him a sharp look. “She’d still be here.”

“Enough!” The FIA official steps forward, his voice raised. “Everyone, calm down. We don’t have enough information-”

Charles whirls on him, his voice nearly a shout. “She’s missing! We’re not sitting here and waiting for her to just show up!”

Before anyone can stop him, he’s bolting for the door. Max and Fernando are right behind him, and the PR officer scrambles after them, her bag bumping against her side.

They’re halfway down the corridor before Fernando grabs Charles’ arm, pulling him to a stop.

“We need more information,” Fernando says firmly, though his voice is tight. “Panicking isn’t going to help.”

Charles shrugs him off. “We are getting information!” He waves his phone in the air. “We’re calling, we’re-”

“Her phone is off!” Fernando snaps, his composure breaking for a split second. “Think. Where would she go? Who saw her last?”

“She was coming here,” Max interjects, his voice rougher now. “Her PR officer said she was coming here.” He turns to her. “Did you see anyone with her? Did anything seem off?”

The PR officer shakes her head quickly. “No, no, nothing. She was smiling, signing things — like always. But then …I don’t know.”

Fernando exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “We need cameras. CCTV. Someone at the track must have access.”

“Let’s go,” Max says immediately, and the four of them take off again, weaving through hallways, ignoring the bewildered looks from engineers and staff they pass along the way.

Finally, they find someone — a track operations employee lingering near the media center. Fernando doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“We need access to CCTV. Now.”

The employee blinks. “Sir, I-”

“Now!” Fernando barks, his voice so authoritative that the man flinches before nodding quickly. “Okay, okay, follow me.”

The group is led to a small security office, the lights dim and monitors lining the walls. Fernando explains the situation in clipped, impatient sentences while Charles paces behind him, one hand pressed against his mouth.

“Check the paddock entrance,” Max says, leaning over the shoulder of the security guard. “Around fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

The guard types something into the system, fast-forwarding through various camera feeds until he pulls up the right one. The screen shows you walking down the paddock, your Red Bull jacket unzipped, your hands moving animatedly as you talk to a small group of fans.

“There!” Charles says, pointing.

The footage moves forward. You’re smiling, crouching down to take a picture with a young girl holding a Red Bull plushie. Then you stand, wave goodbye, and keep walking toward the briefing room.

“So where the hell did she go?” Max mutters, staring at the screen.

The footage follows you as you walk further, the paddock getting quieter as you near a shadowed section where fewer people are gathered. You stop once to sign someone’s hat. Then you keep walking.

And then-

“Stop. Go back,” Fernando says suddenly, his voice sharp.

The guard rewinds a few seconds.

There’s a figure. Blurry, just out of frame at first, but unmistakably there.

The figure steps into your path as you turn a corner. You hesitate — your posture stiffens slightly, but the camera can’t pick up your face. You’re saying something, gesturing slightly, but the figure doesn’t move.

And then, in a single quick motion, the figure grabs your arm and pulls you toward the shadows.

The four men in the room freeze.

“Keep playing it,” Max says, his voice low and urgent.

The footage continues. The figure drags you out of the camera’s view. You stumble but don’t fight back immediately — like you’re startled, caught off guard. And then you’re gone.

“Do you have cameras on that corner?” Charles asks, his voice shaking.

The guard clicks through several feeds but shakes his head. “No. That area doesn’t have coverage.”

“Who the hell doesn’t put cameras there?” Max snaps, slamming his fist against the table.

“Not the time,” Fernando says sharply, but even his calm is slipping. His hands are clenched into fists, his jaw tight.

Charles turns away, pressing his hands to his face, his breathing uneven. Max grips the back of a chair, staring at the monitor like he can will the footage to show something else.

Fernando finally speaks, his voice quiet but steely.

“We need to alert security. Lock down the paddock. Whoever took her can’t have gone far.”

“Assuming she’s still here,” Charles mutters, his voice breaking slightly.

Fernando grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him to look up. “Don’t. Don’t go there.”

Charles swallows hard, his jaw tightening.

The PR officer, who has been silent up to this point, finally speaks, her voice trembling.

“What if they’re already gone?”

The room falls silent again, the unspoken fear thick in the air.

Fernando is the first to move, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Call the stewards. Lock down every exit. And get that footage to security. Now.”

The guard nods frantically, scrambling to make calls, but Charles, Max, and Fernando are already moving — determined to find you before it’s too late.

***

Your head is pounding. The ache spreads through your skull like a dull hum, throbbing at your temples. You feel heavy, limbs refusing to cooperate, your body sagging against something rough and scratchy. The fog in your brain is thick — too thick to fight through completely — but you’re aware of three things.

One: You’re moving. The subtle, constant vibration beneath you tells you you’re in a car.

Two: Your hands are bound. You can feel the bite of plastic ties against your wrists, pinning them together behind your back.

Three: You can’t speak. There’s something gagging you — a rag or cloth shoved into your mouth and secured tight, choking any attempt to make noise.

Panic flares sharp and bright, a surge of adrenaline trying to push past the sedation still clouding your system. You crack your eyes open, but the world is a blur, hazy outlines of the car’s interior shifting in and out of focus.

From the driver’s seat, a voice cuts through the silence. Calm. Casual.

“You’re awake.”

Your stomach twists violently, and you force yourself to focus on the sound. It’s a man — his voice light and unnervingly conversational, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“I was starting to wonder if I gave you too much. Would’ve been a shame. You’re supposed to hear this part, after all.”

The fog is still thick, but your instincts are sharper now. You tug against the ties, testing for any give, but they hold firm. The seat beneath you is rough, the material cheap — some old, unassuming car.

The man keeps talking.

“Didn’t mean to be so rough back there. I’m not like one of those creeps on the news, you know? This isn’t like that. I’m doing this because I care. Because I’m a fan.”

Fan? Your sluggish mind stumbles over the word. What fan? What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he continues, glancing at you briefly in the rearview mirror. His face is mostly obscured by a baseball cap, the shadow hiding his eyes. “But Ferrari … Ferrari is everything to me. I’ve been watching them my whole life.”

Tifoso. The realization makes your chest tighten.

He keeps talking, his tone eerily steady.

“And Charles — he was supposed to be our champion, you know? Il Predestinato. But he hasn’t been the same since you showed up.” His voice dips slightly, edges hardening. “You’re a distraction. That’s all you are. You think you belong here? With the men who bleed for this sport? Who live for Ferrari?”

You try to make a noise through the gag, your breathing quickening, but it comes out muffled — weak.

He doesn’t notice. Or he doesn’t care.

“I’m doing what’s best for Charles. For Ferrari. He’s lost focus, but that’s not his fault. You — you’re the problem.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “And I’m going to fix it.”

Cold washes over you like a wave.

Your pulse pounds against your ears, your heart hammering so hard it hurts. He’s serious. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a mistake.

You squirm again, trying to move, trying to do something, but your body still feels slow, heavy, like you’re wading through water. The sedative isn’t gone yet.

“Don’t bother,” the man says, his tone almost bored. “I’m not stupid. I knew you’d fight, so I came prepared. You’ll wear off the drugs eventually. Doesn’t matter, though. We’ll be where we need to be soon enough.”

The words settle over you like a weight, crushing the air from your lungs. Your breaths come faster now, quick and uneven through your nose as the panic starts to eat at you.

No one knows where you are. No one saw.

Your mind flashes to the paddock — the fans, the smiling faces. You were there one moment, walking toward the briefing room, and then —

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shove away the terror clawing at the edges of your mind. You need to focus. You need to think.

The man keeps driving, his voice low and almost soothing.

“It’s nothing personal, you know. I’m sure you’re a nice girl. But Charles … he’ll thank me eventually. Once he wins the championship, once Ferrari is back on top — he’ll see. I’m saving him. From you.”

Tears sting your eyes, hot and useless, and you force yourself to breathe — slow, even breaths. You have to stay calm. You have to stay awake.

Because the moment you stop fighting, the moment you give in to the fear, it’s over.

***

The paddock is unrecognizable now — sirens blaring, radios crackling, and the heavy presence of law enforcement swarming the space. Team personnel, engineers, and journalists are being questioned or ushered away, their faces a mix of concern and disbelief. Charles stands to the side, fists clenched at his sides, staring at nothing in particular as police officers bark orders into walkie-talkies.

Fernando is pacing. If his shoulders looked tense before, now they’re wound so tight it’s a miracle they haven’t snapped. His phone is in his hand, the knuckles white as he grips it, as though willing it to ring.

“What is taking so long?” He growls, directing the question at no one in particular.

Max stands a little further back, hands buried in his hair as he mutters to himself in Dutch, too fast and low for anyone to understand. He’s restless — his legs shifting constantly, gaze darting between Fernando and the officers trying to establish a timeline. He finally rounds on the nearest officer.

“You’ve seen the footage!” Max snaps, his voice rising with his panic. “She was dragged off — so what are you doing?”

“We’ve sent the footage to every available unit in the area,” the officer replies, his voice calm and professional. “We’re locking down roads and alerting border security. It’s only been an hour. We’ll find her.”

“An hour is too long,” Charles says suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut. He steps forward, finally snapping out of his trance. “Do you understand? She’s been gone for-” He stops, swallows hard. “Anything could have happened by now.”

Fernando stops pacing and turns to face the officers, his face carved from stone. When he speaks, his voice is low but steady, the weight of every word impossible to ignore.

“If this is about money,” he says, “if that’s what they want, then tell them I will give it. I don’t care how much. I don’t care.” He pauses, his voice cracking slightly. “All I want is for my little girl back.”

The officer hesitates, clearly uncomfortable under Fernando’s gaze. “We have to consider all possibilities, Mr. Alonso. Right now, there’s been no ransom demand-”

“Then what do they want?” Fernando cuts him off, his voice rising. “Because they took her for something. And every second you stand here speculating is a second wasted!”

Max looks like he’s about to explode, his anger barely contained. He tugs at Charles’ arm, muttering furiously, “We can’t just stand here and do nothing.”

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw is tight, his face pale, but his eyes burn with the same helpless rage clawing at all of them. “What do you suggest?”

Max looks around, frantic. “We find out who saw her last. There were fans — people. Somebody must have seen something.”

“And then what?” Charles shoots back, his voice shaking. “You think we’ll figure out something faster than the police?”

“Yes!” Max shouts, his composure finally breaking. “Because we care more than they do! Because she’s my teammate. Because … because she’s your-” He stops himself, shoulders heaving as he swallows hard.

Charles stares at him, the same raw panic etched into every line of his face. “She’s everything,” he finishes quietly, and Max doesn’t argue.

Fernando clears his throat, regaining their attention. “They’re right.” His voice is calmer now, but the intensity hasn’t lessened. “We know the paddock better than anyone. If there’s something the police missed, we’ll find it.”

“And if they call with a ransom?” Charles asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then I’ll pay,” Fernando says firmly, no hesitation in his tone. “Whatever it takes.”

A tense silence stretches between them, broken only by the sounds of the chaos surrounding them — police radios, footsteps echoing, far-off voices.

Finally, Fernando looks up, his gaze sharp as it lands on Max and Charles.

“We start now. Every minute counts.”

And with that, they move — unwilling to let helplessness win.

***

The showroom is a husk of its former self. Dust clings to the faded red walls, peeling in long, jagged strips that curl at the edges. Empty shelves line the room, their glass panels cracked or completely shattered. A single rusted Ferrari emblem hangs crookedly above what was once a display stand. The faint smell of mildew lingers, mixing with the metallic tang of rust and decay.

You’re on the floor, your body still sluggish from the sedative. The concrete beneath you is freezing, biting through your clothes. The gag in your mouth is damp and scratchy, and your throat aches from the effort of trying to cry out, trying to scream through it.

The kidnapper hasn’t stopped talking since you arrived.

“This used to be my favorite place,” he says, his tone almost wistful. He kneels beside you, gently adjusting your position like a priest arranging a relic. “When I was a boy, my father brought me here. Showed me the cars, the engines, the history. The soul of Ferrari.”

His hands move with eerie care, tugging your arms into place, straightening your legs. He almost looks reverent, his face slack with something that might be mistaken for peace.

“And then I grew up, and I realized what it all meant. Ferrari isn’t just a team. It’s a religion. You understand that, don’t you? You’re in the sport — you must.”

He leans back on his heels, looking down at you. His lips twist into a small, regretful smile. “But you — you’re an outsider. You don’t get it.”

You try to move — jerk your head, kick your legs, anything — but your body doesn’t cooperate. He sees the flicker of effort, and his smile widens.

“Still a fighter, even now,” he murmurs, almost admiringly. “That’s good. You should fight. It makes it easier to justify what I’m about to do.”

Your muffled cry comes out as a whimper, your breathing rapid and uneven. He sighs, reaching into his pocket.

“Shhh. It’ll all be over soon.”

The gag is yanked from your mouth, and the sudden relief of being able to move your jaw is immediately eclipsed by raw panic. You open your mouth to scream, but his hand flies out and slaps you hard across the face.

The force sends a sharp, stinging pain radiating across your cheek, and your head jerks to the side.

“None of that,” he snaps, his voice sharp but not angry — like a teacher reprimanding a disobedient student. “No one’s going to hear you, anyway. We’re miles away from the city.”

He grips your jaw with his hand, pinching your nose closed with his thumb and forefinger. Your airway clamps shut, and your chest burns with the instinctive need to breathe. You thrash weakly, but his grip is iron.

“Open your mouth,” he says softly, his tone almost coaxing. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Your body betrays you. Desperation wins, and you part your lips, gasping for air.

That’s when he takes the vial from his pocket.

The glass catches the dim light filtering through the broken windows, the liquid inside a murky, yellowish-green. You have no time to process what’s happening before he tilts the vial to your mouth and pours.

The liquid tastes bitter — like acid and rot — and your instinct is to spit it out, but his free hand clamps over your lips, sealing them shut.

“Swallow,” he commands. His voice is calm, almost soothing. “Swallow, and it’ll all be over soon.”

You gag, your throat convulsing, but your body obeys the inevitable. The liquid slides down, burning a trail that settles like fire in your stomach.

He watches you closely, his eyes unblinking, until he feels the muscles in your jaw relax, signaling that you’ve swallowed. Only then does he release you, gently patting your cheek as if in reassurance.

“There,” he says softly. “That’s the worst part over.”

Your chest heaves, and you cough violently, trying to expel whatever it is he just forced into your body. But it’s too late. You feel it already — a strange, creeping warmth that spreads from your stomach outward, curling into your limbs like poison-tipped vines.

“What-” Your voice cracks, raw and broken. “What did you do to me?”

He stands, slipping the empty vial back into his pocket.

“It’s a slow-acting poison,” he says matter-of-factly. “Tetrodotoxin. Comes from pufferfish. Not easy to get my hands on, but I’ve been planning this for a while.”

Your stomach drops. Tetrodotoxin. It paralyzes the body, shuts down the respiratory system slowly over time, all while leaving the mind conscious until the very end.

“You’ll feel it soon,” he continues, his tone apologetic. “First, it’ll be hard to move. Then, hard to breathe. But don’t worry. I imagine it won’t take longer than an hour or two.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and fast, as you try to scream again, but your voice is weak, strangled by both fear and the poison already taking hold.

“I know it’s cruel,” he says, lowering his head as though ashamed. “But I had to be careful. Something more obvious would’ve drawn too much attention — raised too many questions. This … this was the best I could do.”

He steps back, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But Ferrari is everything. And Charles … he needs to be saved. He needs to be focused. You’ve blinded him. Distracted him. Taken away his fire.”

His voice cracks, and for a moment, he looks almost human, almost like this is hurting him too.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “But you’re the problem. And I’m doing what I have to.”

He drops to his knees beside you, his hands trembling slightly as he presses them together, praying softly under his breath for forgiveness. For Ferrari. For himself.

All you can do is lie there, your body heavy and your mind screaming, as the poison begins its slow, merciless work.

***

Charles crouches in the grass, his breathing shallow and uneven, his eyes darting frantically over the area where the CCTV footage had shown you last. His hands shake as he sifts through discarded wrappers and bits of gravel, frustration mounting with every second that passes.

There’s nothing here. Just debris, just noise, just-

A scrap of paper catches his eye. It’s half-buried in the dirt, bent and weathered.

Just litter, he tells himself, his jaw tightening. His fingers hover over it briefly, the urge to dismiss it tugging at him. There’s no time for distractions.

But something stops him.

A feeling — an inexplicable pull, like some deep part of his brain is whispering: check.

With a frustrated exhale, Charles grabs the paper, yanking it from the grass and brushing off the dirt. It’s thicker than he expected — more solid, less like a wrapper and more like …

A business card.

His brow furrows as he inspects it, flipping it over. The edges are worn and faded, but the text is still legible:

Scuderia Ferrari Showroom

Branch - Est. 1978

His heart stops.

The words burn into his mind, and his fingers tighten around the card until it bends. For a moment, all he can hear is the roar of his pulse in his ears.

“No,” he breathes. “No, no, no.”

The police hadn’t mentioned anything about Ferrari. None of their theories had hinted at it, but suddenly, Charles’ thoughts are racing, piecing together fragments. You were targeted. This wasn’t random. And if Ferrari is connected …

The card shakes in his hand as he bolts upright, spinning around and screaming with everything he has.

“MAX! FERNANDO!”

His voice cracks from the force, raw and panicked.

The two of them aren’t far, just down the stretch of paddock where they’d been questioning a security guard, and they come running the second they hear him.

“What? What is it?” Max demands, his chest heaving as he skids to a halt next to Charles.

Charles doesn’t answer right away. His throat feels too tight, and he holds out the card with trembling fingers instead.

Fernando snatches it before Max can, scanning the faded words. For a brief moment, his face remains impassive — just stone. Then his brows draw together, his lips pressing into a grim line.

“This address,” Fernando says, his voice low and strained. He looks up at Charles, eyes blazing. “This is from years ago. That showroom shut down almost a decade ago. It’s abandoned now.”

Max leans over, snatching the card from Fernando’s hand. His face hardens as he reads it. “Why the hell would someone have this?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Charles says sharply, his panic morphing into resolve. He snatches the card back, stuffing it into his pocket. “She’s there. I know it.”

“Charles-” Fernando starts, his tone cautious.

“She’s there!” Charles snaps, his voice rising with desperation. “Why else would this be here? Someone left it for us to find!”

Fernando hesitates, his instincts warring with his logic. Max doesn’t wait. He’s already moving.

“Then let’s go,” Max says, his voice clipped as he starts toward the parking lot. “I’m not wasting another second.”

Charles follows immediately, his strides long and determined, the tremor in his hands betraying his urgency.

Fernando hesitates for only a second longer before caving. He mutters something in Spanish under his breath, low and furious, before chasing after them.

The three of them pile into a car, and Fernando takes the wheel, punching the address into his phone’s GPS. The abandoned showroom isn’t far — just fifteen minutes away.

Every second feels like an eternity.

Charles stares out the window, his fists clenched on his lap, the weight of his worst fears pressing heavily on his chest. Beside him, Max is eerily silent, his leg bouncing with restless energy.

Fernando’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel as he presses the gas harder, the engine roaring.

“Hang on, nena,” Fernando mutters under his breath, too quietly for anyone to hear. “We’re coming.”

***

The tires screech as Fernando slams the car to a halt in front of the crumbling remains of the old Ferrari showroom. The building looms dark and empty, its once-proud red paint faded and cracked. Vines creep along the walls, twisting around shattered windows like nature’s claim on a forgotten relic.

Charles doesn’t wait for the engine to fully stop. He throws the door open and sprints toward the building, Max and Fernando close on his heels.

The air inside is heavy, stale, and suffocating, but none of them notice. They’re moving too fast, adrenaline pumping as they take in the eerie emptiness — the broken shelves, the scattered debris, the shadows pooling in every corner.

And then they hear it.

A voice, muttering softly, the words indistinct but filled with fervor.

Fernando freezes, his head snapping toward the sound. His hand shoots out to stop Charles from rushing ahead.

“There,” he whispers, nodding toward the far end of the room.

The three of them move as one, their footsteps quiet but purposeful as they close the distance. The voice grows louder, rising and falling in rhythm.

When they round the corner, they see him.

The kidnapper is pacing in front of you, his hands clasped together in prayer. His head is bowed, his lips moving quickly as he mumbles under his breath. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice them.

But Charles notices you.

“Mon Dieu …” The words fall from him like a breath he’s been holding for hours.

You’re sprawled on the floor, your body twisted unnaturally. Your face is pale, your lips tinged blue, and your chest barely rises and falls. The sight is enough to freeze the blood in Charles’ veins.

Fernando doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward, shouting, “Y/N!”

The kidnapper spins around, startled, but he doesn’t have time to react. Max launches himself at the man with a guttural roar, tackling him to the ground with such force that the two of them crash into a rusted display stand.

“Stay down!” Max snarls, pinning the kidnapper with his full weight. The man struggles, but Max slams him back down with a ferocity that makes it clear he isn’t moving.

Fernando drops to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling on your shoulders. “Dios mío, nena, no …” His voice cracks, and he turns to Charles, his panic fully unleashed. “What did they do to her?”

Charles collapses next to you, his hands trembling as he brushes your hair back from your face. “Y/N? Y/N!” His voice is high-pitched, frantic. He gently shakes you, but your head lolls to the side, your eyes half-open but unseeing.

“She’s not breathing right,” Fernando says, his voice tight with terror. He presses two fingers to your neck, finding your pulse weak and erratic. “She’s fading.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Charles’ voice rises, his eyes darting between you and Fernando. “What did they give her?”

“I don’t know!” Fernando snaps, his frustration born from fear. “We don’t even know what this bastard did to her!”

Charles fumbles for his phone, his hands shaking so badly he nearly drops it. He dials emergency services, his voice cracking as he shouts into the line. “We need an ambulance! Now! She’s dying!”

Fernando leans closer to you, his hands cupping your face. “Hang on, cariño. Hang on,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “Stay with me. Just stay with me.”

Charles is still on the phone, pacing in short, frantic bursts. “I don’t know what it is — poison, maybe? Something slow-acting. She can’t breathe, she’s barely — what do you mean how long has it been? I don’t know! Too long!”

Meanwhile, Max tightens his grip on the kidnapper, his eyes blazing with fury. “What did you do to her?” He growls, his face inches from the man’s. “What did you give her?”

The kidnapper stares up at him, his expression dazed, as though he’s only just realizing the severity of his actions. “You … you weren’t supposed to-”

Max grabs the man’s shirt, slamming him into the floor. “What did you give her?”

“Tetrodotoxin!” The man finally yells, his voice cracking. “It’s poison! It — it’s slow, but — but I didn’t mean-”

Max pulls back just enough to glare at the man. “Didn’t mean what? Lead us straight here?” His voice drips with venom.

“She’s going to die!” Charles screams from across the room, his voice breaking.

Fernando’s hands shake as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing your temple as he whispers desperately, “Please, mija. Stay with me. Please.”

The sound of sirens wailing in the distance cuts through the chaos, but no one dares to hope. Not yet.

***

The sound of sirens pierces the air, growing louder as the ambulance speeds toward the abandoned showroom. Fernando cradles you in his arms, his lips moving in a silent prayer, his tears falling unchecked. Charles hovers beside him, pacing back and forth, his hands pulling at his hair as if trying to keep himself together.

The paramedics burst through the door moments later, carrying a stretcher and medical bags.

“She’s been poisoned!” Charles shouts, running to meet them. “We think — what did he say? Teratodoxin?” He spins toward Max, who still has the kidnapper pinned to the ground.

“Tetrodotoxin!” Max corrects, his face twisted in rage.

One of the paramedics pales. “That’s … that’s serious.”

“She’s fading,” Fernando growls, his voice low and urgent. “You have to do something.”

The paramedics spring into action, gently prying you from Fernando’s arms and laying you on the stretcher. One checks your pulse, his fingers pressing firmly to your neck.

“It’s weak,” he mutters to his partner. “Breathing is shallow. Cyanosis around the lips.”

“What does that mean?” Charles demands, his voice cracking.

“It means the poison is paralyzing her muscles, including the ones she needs to breathe,” the paramedic explains quickly. “We’ll do everything we can, but this toxin is-” He stops, hesitating.

“Is what?” Fernando snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“It’s one of the deadliest known to man,” the paramedic says grimly. “There’s no antidote.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Charles staggers back, his face crumpling as he struggles to process what he’s just heard. Fernando freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“What are you saying?” Fernando finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “That there’s … nothing you can do?”

“We can try to stabilize her,” the paramedic replies, his tone cautious but not without compassion. “We’ll get her on oxygen, monitor her vitals, and provide supportive care. But the mortality rate for tetrodotoxin poisoning is …” He hesitates again, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“How bad?” Charles demands, his voice raw and desperate.

“Sixty percent,” the paramedic says quietly, his eyes darting away.

“No,” Fernando breathes, his head shaking violently. “No. She’s strong. She’s an athlete. She can fight this.” He grabs the paramedic’s arm, his grip like iron. “You save her. Do you hear me? You save her.”

“We’ll do our best,” the paramedic assures him, gently but firmly removing Fernando’s hand. “But we need to move her now.”

As they begin wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Charles stumbles after them. “I’m coming with her,” he says firmly.

“Only one can ride with her,” the paramedic warns.

“I’m her father,” Fernando growls, stepping forward.

Charles looks at Fernando, and for a moment, they’re both frozen, their pain reflected in each other’s eyes.

“Go,” Charles whispers, his voice breaking. “She’ll want you there.”

Fernando doesn’t respond with words. He simply nods, his face hardening as he climbs into the ambulance beside you.

Charles stands frozen as the doors slam shut, the sirens wailing as the ambulance speeds away.

Max comes to stand beside him, his face still dark with rage. “We’re not letting her die,” he says firmly. “We’re not.”

But Charles doesn’t answer. His eyes are locked on the fading ambulance, his chest rising and falling as if he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

***

The ambulance doors swing open with a sharp metallic clang, and Fernando stumbles out behind the paramedics, who rush you through the hospital’s emergency entrance. His mind feels detached, like it’s moving slower than his body. All he knows is that you’re there on that stretcher, motionless, your skin pale and your breathing almost nonexistent.

“Trauma bay three!” A nurse shouts, running alongside the stretcher as it barrels through the fluorescent-lit corridor.

Fernando struggles to keep up, his legs heavy and his chest tightening with every step. He’s used to controlling situations, navigating chaos with precision. But here? He’s useless.

A doctor intercepts the team and starts barking orders. “Tetrodotoxin poisoning? Start oxygen. Prep for intubation. Monitor for paralysis progression.”

Fernando can barely hear the words, his ears ringing as he watches them move like a well-oiled machine. They lift your limp body onto a hospital bed and immediately crowd around you, wires, tubes, and monitors connecting to you in seconds.

“BP’s dropping!” One of the nurses calls out.

“Her pulse is gone — prepare for CPR!”

“No.” Fernando’s voice is hoarse, raw. He takes a step toward you, only for a nurse to hold out a hand, blocking him.

“Sir, you can’t be here-”

“She’s my daughter!” He shouts, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “Mi hija!”

The nurse’s face softens but remains resolute. “Please, let us work. We’ll do everything we can.”

Fernando doesn’t move, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his nails dig into his palms. He forces himself back a step, then another, until his back hits the wall of the trauma bay. From there, he watches, paralyzed, as the team fights to save you.

Your body jolts violently as the doctor performs compressions. Fernando can see the force behind each movement, the way your fragile chest heaves with every push. His breath catches in his throat, the sight unlike anything he’s ever faced.

He’s been in crashes that should have killed him. He’s watched cars flip, felt the searing heat of flames licking at his helmet, and heard the terrifying silence of blacking out mid-impact. But nothing — nothing — compares to this.

“Charging defibrillator,” a nurse announces, the machine humming to life.

“Clear!” The doctor shouts, and the electric shock courses through your body, making it arch violently before collapsing back onto the bed.

Fernando flinches, his hands gripping the edge of the doorway so tightly he feels the strain in his forearms.

“Still no pulse,” someone says, their tone tense but controlled. “Resume compressions. Push another dose of atropine.”

The words blur together. The room feels too small, the walls pressing in on him as he watches your body being battered in their attempt to restart your heart.

“Dios mío,” he whispers, the words spilling out like a plea. He presses a hand to his mouth, his knees threatening to buckle. “Please. Please, mija. Don’t leave me.”

“BP’s stabilizing!” One of the nurses suddenly shouts.

Fernando’s head snaps up, his breath hitching.

“She’s still in critical condition, but we’ve got a pulse,” the doctor confirms, his voice calm but firm. “Intubate her now. We need to stabilize her airway.”

Fernando sags against the wall, his eyes stinging with tears that refuse to fall. His legs feel weak, but he doesn’t dare move. He watches as they thread a tube down your throat, as machines start taking over your breathing, as the chaos shifts into a more controlled rhythm.

“Sir?” A nurse approaches him, her expression gentle but serious. “She’s alive. But she’s not out of danger yet. We’re taking her to the ICU.”

Fernando nods mutely, his throat too tight to speak. He doesn’t even register his feet moving until he’s following the stretcher down the hall, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Stay with me, cariño,” he whispers under his breath, his fists clenched by his sides. “Stay with me. Por favor.”

***

Max and Charles burst through the hospital's front doors, their faces pale and their movements frantic. They’re met with a stern-looking receptionist who immediately raises her hands.

“Only immediate family are allowed beyond this point,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Charles steps forward, his voice taut. “We’re her-” He falters, unsure how to explain, unsure of anything except the desperate need to see you. “Please, just let us in.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but we-”

“You don’t understand,” Max interjects, his voice sharp with frustration. “We-”

“I said no exceptions.”

Charles slams his hand on the counter, the loud crack echoing through the sterile lobby. “She could be dying!” He yells, his voice raw. “Do you even care?”

The receptionist flinches but doesn’t budge. “I understand this is a difficult situation, but you need to-”

“Wait,” a voice cuts in. A nurse steps forward, her brow furrowed as she looks between Max and Charles. Her eyes widen slightly in recognition. “You’re the F1 drivers, aren’t you? Verstappen and Leclerc?”

“That’s not important,” Max snaps, though there’s a tinge of relief in his voice. “Please. We need to see her.”

The nurse hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Come with me.”

They don’t wait for her to finish speaking, following her down the hallway at a near run. The sound of their footsteps echoes loudly in the quiet corridors, and neither says a word. They don’t need to. The tension between them is thick, a shared panic they’re both barely keeping at bay.

When the nurse gestures toward a waiting area outside the ICU, they see him.

Fernando is sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His usually composed demeanor is nowhere to be seen — his shoulders are hunched, his body unmoving except for the slight tremor running through him.

“Fernando,” Charles calls out, his voice shaky. He steps closer, but the older man doesn’t look up. “Fernando.”

It’s not until Max steps forward, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, that Fernando finally raises his head.

And what they see shatters them.

Fernando’s eyes are bloodshot, his face lined with exhaustion and something deeper — fear, anguish, helplessness. He looks like a man who has lived through every nightmare imaginable and come out the other side broken.

“Is she …” Max doesn’t finish the question, the words catching in his throat.

Fernando shakes his head slowly. “She’s alive,” he says, his voice hoarse, as if it’s taken all his strength to get those two words out. “For now.”

Charles sags against the wall, his legs threatening to give out. “What happened?” He asks, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Fernando takes a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists on his thighs. “Her heart stopped,” he says flatly. “They had to perform CPR. Defibrillation.” He closes his eyes, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I thought I lost her.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Max turns away, running a hand through his hair and pulling at the strands as if the physical pain might drown out the emotional. Charles stumbles to one of the chairs and collapses into it, his face buried in his hands as his shoulders shake.

“What now?” Max finally asks, his voice rough, his back still to them.

Fernando lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. “Now we wait. The toxin … there’s no cure. They’re trying to stabilize her, but it’s up to her body now.”

Charles looks up, his face streaked with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. “What are her chances?” He whispers, his voice barely audible.

Fernando meets his eyes, and the weight of his silence is crushing.

Max slams his fist against the wall, the sharp sound making them all flinch. “This can’t be it!” He shouts, his voice breaking. “She’s stronger than this. She’s-” He stops, his chest heaving as he struggles to keep himself together.

Fernando leans forward, his hands gripping his hair. “I’ve seen her fight through so much,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with desperation. “But this … I don’t know if she can fight this.”

The room falls silent, the weight of his words pressing down on all of them.

Charles leans back in the chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. “I should have been there,” he mutters, the guilt crashing over him in waves. “I should have protected her.”

Max turns to him, his expression fierce. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself.”

Charles doesn’t respond, his hands clenching into fists.

Fernando looks between the two of them, his eyes softening for a brief moment despite his own despair. “She wouldn’t want this,” he says quietly. “For either of you.”

But it doesn’t matter. The three of them sit in silence, the minutes stretching into hours as they wait for any scrap of news, their fear and guilt eating away at them with every passing second.

***

The hours drag on, the waiting room oppressive with its hum of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell. Fernando hasn’t moved from his seat in what feels like forever, his hands pressed together in a silent, unending prayer. Max leans against the wall, his head tilted back, eyes closed, his knuckles raw from where they struck the plaster earlier. Charles is hunched forward in his chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his face buried in his hands. None of them speak.

The sound of footsteps jolts them all. A doctor, dressed in blue scrubs and holding a clipboard, approaches. The man’s face is unreadable, his expression carefully neutral, which makes Fernando’s stomach drop.

Fernando stands first, his movements stiff and mechanical. Charles and Max scramble to their feet behind him, their breath catching as they wait for the news.

The doctor stops in front of them, his voice calm but direct. “She’s stable for now.”

Fernando’s knees almost buckle in relief. Charles lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and Max grips the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself.

“But,” the doctor continues, his tone grave, “the next 24 hours are critical. The toxin is still in her system, and while we’ve done everything we can to support her vitals, her body needs to fight through this. The damage to her heart and lungs was significant.”

“Can we see her?” Fernando asks, his voice trembling despite his best effort to sound strong.

The doctor hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes. But keep it brief. She’s on a ventilator and heavily sedated to give her body the best chance to recover.”

Fernando doesn’t wait for more. He strides toward the doors the doctor came through, Max and Charles close on his heels.

The room they’re led to is quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft hiss of the ventilator. The sight of you makes them all freeze.

You lie motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale and almost unrecognizable against the stark white of the sheets. A tangle of wires and tubes surrounds you, the ventilator tube taped to your mouth, rising and falling in a mechanical rhythm that seems unnervingly unnatural.

Fernando is the first to step forward. He approaches slowly, as if afraid that getting too close might break you further. He sinks into the chair beside the bed and reaches for your hand, his large, calloused fingers trembling as they wrap around your much smaller ones.

“Mija,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Charles stays back, his hand gripping the frame of the door. He can’t seem to look directly at you, his eyes darting everywhere but your face. “She looks so … small,” he murmurs, his voice almost inaudible.

Max steps past him, his jaw tight and his hands stuffed into his pockets. He takes a position on the other side of the bed, staring down at you with a fierce intensity. “She’s strong,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s gonna make it through this.”

Fernando doesn’t lift his eyes from your face, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “I’ve seen her fight through impossible things,” he says quietly. “She’ll fight this too.”

Charles finally steps into the room, his legs feeling like lead. He moves to stand behind Fernando, his hands braced on the back of the chair. His eyes lock on your face, and the dam breaks.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, tears streaming down his face. “I should have been there. I should have-”

“Don’t,” Fernando cuts him off, his voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“But I-”

“She wouldn’t want you blaming yourself,” Fernando says, his eyes still fixed on you. “She wouldn’t want any of us to.”

Max exhales sharply, leaning against the wall as if the weight of his worry is finally catching up to him. “We’re not leaving this room,” he says, his voice hard with determination. “Not until she’s okay.”

Charles nods silently, his grip tightening on the chair. Fernando doesn’t respond, just keeps holding your hand, as if willing his strength into you.

The three men settle in around you, the minutes bleeding into hours as they keep watch, waiting for any sign that you’re still fighting.

***

The world keeps moving, but for Fernando, Charles, and Max, time has frozen. The hospital becomes their whole existence, days and nights bleeding into each other as they sit vigil by your bedside.

Fernando rarely leaves the room, his chair permanently pulled up beside your bed. His unshaven face and hollow eyes make him unrecognizable to anyone who knew the fiery, unstoppable force of a man he used to be. He clings to every little improvement — the way your heart rate steadies, the slow return of color to your face — but every day that you don’t wake up feels like another fracture in his already breaking heart.

Max is the restless one. He paces the halls, his phone constantly in hand, though he never calls anyone. When he’s in the room, he’s quiet, but his energy buzzes under the surface. He tries not to look at you for too long, hating how still you are. But he’s there. Always there.

Charles is the opposite. He sits beside you in silence, watching you with an almost desperate intensity, as if willing his presence to pull you back. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s only to you. Quiet, broken words that he knows you can’t hear but hopes you’ll somehow understand.

They all gave up their races without a second thought. No explanations, no press releases — just silence that sent the paddock into chaos. Speculation swirled: Was this some protest? A contractual dispute? Theories ranged from dramatic to absurd, but none came close to the truth.

The first week passes. Then the second.

The doctors are cautiously optimistic. You’ve survived the critical period, but you’re still unresponsive, locked in a battle that only you can fight. Fernando listens to every update with grim determination, nodding silently before returning to his post by your side.

It’s the fifteenth day when everything changes.

The room is quiet, the afternoon sun streaming weakly through the blinds. Fernando is half-asleep in the chair, his head tilted back and his arms crossed over his chest. Max is leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone without really seeing anything on the screen. Charles is beside your bed, as always, his hand wrapped around yours as he murmurs something in French under his breath.

Then it happens.

Your fingers twitch.

At first, it’s so faint that Charles thinks he imagined it. He freezes, his heart stopping as he stares at your hand. Slowly, hesitantly, he squeezes your fingers.

And you squeeze back.

“Mon Dieu,” Charles breathes, his voice barely audible. He bolts upright, leaning over you as his other hand gently brushes your cheek. “Y/N? Can you hear me?”

Your eyelids flutter, your brow furrowing slightly as if you’re trying to piece together where you are.

“Oh my God.” Max pushes off the wall so fast that his phone clatters to the floor. “Is she-”

“She’s waking up,” Charles says, his voice shaking.

Fernando stirs at the commotion, blinking blearily until he sees Charles leaning over you. It takes a moment for the realization to hit him.

“Mija!” Fernando is out of his chair in an instant, his hands trembling as he cups your face. “Can you hear me? It’s me, Papá.”

Your eyes finally open, squinting against the harsh light. You look around sluggishly, confusion clouding your gaze before it lands on Fernando’s face. Your lips part, and though no sound comes out at first, your expression softens.

“Papá …”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to shatter Fernando completely. He chokes out a sob, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re okay. Gracias a Dios, you’re okay.”

Charles and Max stand frozen, relief flooding their faces as tears stream down their cheeks.

“You gave us a hell of a scare, you know that?” Max finally says, his voice thick as he scrubs a hand over his face.

You blink up at him, then at Charles, your brows furrowing. “What … what happened?”

Charles lets out a broken laugh, pressing your hand to his lips. “It doesn’t matter right now,” he says softly, his voice cracking. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

You close your eyes for a moment, exhaustion pulling at you even as you fight to stay awake. “I … I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,” you mumble.

Fernando lets out a watery laugh, his hands never leaving yours. “You’re allowed to rest, nena. You’ve been through enough.”

Your lips curve into a faint smile, and for the first time in weeks, the room feels lighter. The storm has finally passed, and the three men who love you most in the world know one thing for certain: they’ll never let you face anything like this alone again.

***

The hospital room is quieter now, though the tension lingers in the air. Fernando stands by the window, staring out at nothing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Max and Charles have claimed chairs on either side of your bed, their exhaustion palpable but their determination to stay near you unwavering.

It’s late afternoon when the knock comes. Two officers step into the room, their uniforms crisp but their faces drawn, tired from days of dealing with the chaos surrounding your kidnapping. One of them — a tall man with a clipboard — speaks first.

“Miss Alonso, we need to ask you a few questions.”

Fernando turns sharply from the window, his expression hardening. “She’s barely awake. Can’t this wait?”

The officer shakes his head. “We’re sorry, Mr. Alonso, but we need to understand what happened while her memory is fresh.”

You swallow hard, your throat still raw from the ventilator. Charles reaches for your hand instinctively, squeezing it gently. “We’re right here,” he murmurs.

You nod, giving the officers a faint smile even though your heart pounds in your chest. “Okay,” you rasp.

The other officer, a woman with kind eyes, steps forward. “Do you remember anything your kidnapper said to you? Anything about why he did this?”

You hesitate. Your gaze flickers to Charles, who’s staring at the floor, his jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken much since you woke up, but you know him well enough to see the storm brewing beneath his silence.

“Not really,” you lie, shifting your attention back to the officers. “It was all kind of … jumbled. He wasn’t making much sense.”

The male officer frowns. “Miss Alonso, it’s important to be honest. He hasn’t spoken a word since he was taken into custody. If we’re going to build a case against him, we need to understand his motive.”

“I told you, I don’t-” you start, but the officer cuts you off.

“You’re the only one who can help us.”

You bite your lip, your eyes darting to Charles again. His fingers tighten around yours, and you know he’s listening to every word.

“I-” you falter, trying to find a way to deflect. “He … he said some stuff about racing. About being a Ferrari fan.”

Max leans forward, his brows knitting. “A Ferrari fan?”

You don’t meet his gaze. “Yeah, he — he was rambling about the team.”

The female officer’s voice softens, but there’s a firmness beneath it. “Did he say anything about why he targeted you specifically?”

You hesitate too long. The officers notice. So does Charles.

“Miss Alonso,” the male officer presses, “please. Did he give you a specific reason?”

Your chest tightens. You can feel Charles’ eyes on you now, his hand suddenly too still in yours. You know the truth will cut him like a knife, but the officers aren’t going to let this go.

Finally, you exhale shakily. “He … he said he thought Charles was distracted. That he wasn’t focused on Ferrari anymore because of me.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Fernando’s head snaps toward you, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. Max mutters something under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. But it’s Charles’ reaction that makes your stomach twist.

He lets go of your hand and stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you. He just walks to the other side of the room, his back to everyone.

“Charles …” you start, your voice cracking.

He shakes his head, his hands gripping the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turn white. “So it’s my fault,” he says quietly.

“No!” You try to sit up, but Fernando is immediately at your side, gently pressing you back down. “Charles, that’s not what I meant. It’s not your fault.”

He turns, his eyes blazing. “But it is, isn’t it? If he thought-”

“He’s insane,” Max cuts in, his voice sharp. “That’s not on you, Charles.”

“He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t-”

“Stop,” Fernando says, his voice booming. He steps between Charles and the bed, his glare enough to silence everyone in the room. “The only one responsible is the man who did this.”

Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods stiffly and turns back toward the window, his shoulders slumping.

The officers exchange glances, sensing the tension but staying professional. The female officer speaks again, her tone careful. “Thank you for your honesty, Miss Alonso. We’ll let you rest now.”

They leave without another word, and the room falls into an uneasy silence.

“I didn’t want to tell them,” you say softly, your eyes pleading with Charles’s back. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Charles finally turns, his expression pained but softer. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to blame yourself,” you whisper.

He crosses the room slowly, sitting back down beside you. His hand trembles as he reaches for yours again. “I already blame myself,” he admits. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to know. You shouldn’t have to carry this alone.”

You squeeze his hand weakly, tears blurring your vision. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

Fernando and Max exchange a look, then quietly slip out of the room, giving you and Charles a moment alone.

Charles leans closer, resting his forehead against your hand. “I don’t care what anyone says,” he whispers. “You’re not a distraction. You’re everything.”

And for the first time since waking up, you let yourself cry.

***

The house in Oviedo feels like a sanctuary. Nestled in the hills, far removed from the madness of the paddock and the media frenzy that erupted after your kidnapping, it’s exactly what your father promised: peace. The smell of pine trees drifts through open windows, mingling with the aroma of home-cooked food.

You’ve spent the last week recovering, the color slowly returning to your face and the strength to your limbs. Fernando refuses to let you lift a finger, always muttering something about “not risking his hija.” Charles and Max have become equally protective shadows, hovering just enough to drive you crazy but not enough for you to complain.

It’s dinner time now, and Fernando is serving up plates of steaming paella, his movements confident and measured as he hums to himself. The dining table is small but feels full: Charles is to your left, Max to your right, and Fernando sits across from you, dishing generous portions like he’s feeding an army.

The TV hums distantly from the living room, some nightly news segment filling the silence.

“Fernando, you’ve seriously outdone yourself,” Max says, shoveling a forkful of rice into his mouth. “This is better than anything we’ve had since that steakhouse in Abu Dhabi.”

Fernando waves him off, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course it is. You think I’d let you leave here thinking otherwise?”

Charles chuckles, picking around the plate for the perfect bite. “If Red Bull knew you could cook like this, they’d hire you as the caterer.”

“Ha,” Fernando scoffs, though the glint in his eye says he’s enjoying the praise. “No one can afford me.”

You smile to yourself, leaning back in your chair, letting the banter wash over you. For the first time in weeks, things feel normal — almost like you’ve reclaimed something that was lost.

And then the newscaster’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation.

“In a shocking update,” she says, her tone grave, “the man accused of kidnapping Formula 1 driver Y/N Alonso was found dead in his cell earlier today. Authorities report that the death was accidental, citing severe anaphylaxis as the cause. It appears the suspect had a previously undisclosed peanut allergy, and somehow his food became contaminated.”

Your fork pauses mid-air. The entire table goes still.

You glance up, catching the unmistakable smirks forming on Fernando’s, Charles’, and Max’s faces. Max leans back in his chair, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who’s eaten the canary. Charles casually reaches for his glass of water, but his dimples betray him as he struggles to keep a straight face. Fernando? He doesn’t even try to hide it — he leans back with a look of pure satisfaction, a smug tilt to his chin.

They all exchange a look. A look that makes your eyebrow shoot up.

“Something funny?” You ask slowly, your tone dripping with suspicion.

Fernando shrugs, reaching for the serving spoon and adding more paella to his plate. “It’s just … a tragedy.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly, though his eyes are dancing with mischief. “The man was deathly allergic to peanuts. What a terrible, terrible accident.”

Charles clears his throat, failing to hide the ghost of a smile. “Terrible.”

“Very tragic,” Max chimes in, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

You narrow your eyes at all three of them, folding your arms across your chest. “Okay, what did you guys do?”

Fernando looks downright offended. “Qué? Me? Nothing.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“It’s a shame, really,” he continues, ignoring your glare. “Somehow, his meal must have gotten contaminated. Maybe there was a mix-up. A little peanut dust here, some peanut oil there …” He gestures vaguely with his fork, as if explaining an unfortunate cooking mishap. “These things happen.”

You stare at him, incredulous. Then you turn to Max and Charles. “And you two? You’re just going to sit there like-”

Max and Charles, as if on cue, exchange a triumphant fist bump under the table. Max grins proudly, while Charles looks away, attempting — and failing — to feign innocence.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You guys couldn’t even pretend to be subtle?”

Fernando’s eyes gleam as he leans forward, leveling you with a look so serious it nearly catches you off guard. “Listen to me, mija. That man tried to take you from us. He hurt you. Whatever happened to him is nothing compared to what he deserved.”

There’s a weight to his words, an edge that makes you realize he means every single one of them.

“And if we happen to be a little smug about it,” Max adds with a smirk, “well, can you blame us?”

Charles finally speaks up, his voice soft but firm. “He’s gone. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

You exhale slowly, letting the words sink in. You know you should probably feel … something. Shock, maybe. Disapproval. But instead, you just feel relief. A strange, comforting relief that the man who tried to take everything from you is no longer out there.

“You’re all insane,” you say finally, though there’s no bite to your words.

Fernando grins. “You’ll thank us eventually.”

“Just eat your paella,” Max adds, grinning as he digs back into his plate.

Charles squeezes your hand under the table, his expression softening as he searches your face. “You’re okay, right?”

You meet his gaze, seeing nothing but concern and love in his eyes. You nod, your lips quirking into a small smile. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Fernando raises his glass, a little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “To accidents,” he says, his voice deliberately casual.

Max and Charles snicker as they lift their glasses to toast, and you can’t help but roll your eyes, though there’s a small, amused smile tugging at your lips.

“To accidents,” you mutter, shaking your head as you clink your glass against theirs.

The TV drones on in the background, the story already shifting to something else, but in this little dining room in Oviedo, the four of you sit in quiet satisfaction. The world doesn’t need to know what really happened.

Some things are better left unsaid.

***

The house feels emptier without them. Fernando, Charles, and Max left yesterday morning to return to the paddock, each one reluctant to go but eventually swayed by your insistence.

“Racing is what you love,” you’d told them as you sat on the edge of the sofa, wrapped in one of Fernando’s old sweaters. “I’ll be fine here. I need to get better so I can come back too, and the sooner you get back out there, the sooner everything feels normal again.”

It had taken more convincing than you’d expected, but eventually, they relented. Still, each goodbye was harder than you anticipated — Max with a bear hug that squeezed the breath out of you, Fernando muttering something in Spanish about keeping your phone on, and Charles pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before whispering, “Call me if you need anything.”

Now, you sit curled on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, watching the press conference from your laptop. The camera pans across the familiar faces of the drivers seated at the table, and your heart clenches seeing Fernando, Max, and Charles among them.

Fernando looks every bit the composed veteran, but you catch the slight tension in his jaw. Max leans back in his chair with his usual air of confidence, though his eyes dart to Fernando and Charles more often than usual. And Charles — Charles looks tired. There’s a weight in his expression that the cameras won’t pick up on, but you know it’s there.

The questions start out routine — thoughts on the upcoming race, opinions on the track layout, expectations for the weekend. They all give professional answers, though Fernando’s responses have just the right amount of dry wit to make you smile.

Then, a reporter raises their hand and is called upon.

“This question is for Charles.”

Your heart sinks. The tone of the reporter’s voice is already a red flag.

“There have been rumors circulating that the man who kidnapped Y/N Alonso did so because he believed you were distracted by her and not fully committed to Ferrari. Can you confirm whether there’s any truth to these claims?”

The room goes silent.

Charles sits up straighter, his grip tightening on the microphone in front of him. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his lips pressed into a thin line. You hold your breath, the tea in your hands forgotten.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of raw emotion that makes your chest ache.

“I will address this only once,” he begins, his accent thick, his eyes fixed on the reporter. “The idea that someone would use my relationship with Y/N as an excuse to justify their actions is … despicable.”

You can see the effort it takes for him to stay composed, his knuckles white as they grip the edge of the table.

“Y/N is the strongest, most incredible person I have ever known,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly. “She has supported me through everything, even when I didn’t deserve it. And to think that someone would hurt her — someone who calls themselves a Ferrari fan-” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“This is the only time in my life I have ever been disgusted to share the title of Tifoso with someone else.”

The room remains silent. Even the other drivers seem taken aback, their usual smirks and easygoing attitudes replaced with quiet understanding.

Charles takes a deep breath, glancing down at the table before looking back up. “I love Ferrari. I love the fans. But if you think for one second that I will let someone use that love to justify hurting someone I care about, you are mistaken.”

Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe them away quickly, though you’re alone in the room.

“And as for Y/N distracting me?” Charles adds, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t distract me. She inspires me. She makes me want to be better — not just as a driver, but as a person. So if anyone thinks she’s the problem, maybe they should look in the mirror instead.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other drivers, and Fernando nods slightly, his expression unreadable but his approval clear.

Max, of course, can’t help himself. He leans into the microphone, his tone sharp. “Next question.”

The room chuckles awkwardly, the tension easing slightly, but you can’t take your eyes off Charles. He sits back in his chair, exhaling deeply, his hand trembling slightly as he sets the microphone down.

You close the laptop, unable to watch anymore. Your chest feels tight, a mix of pride, love, and guilt swirling inside you.

Charles had told the world exactly how he felt. And you’d never been more sure that you loved him.

***

The air is electric as you step out of the car in the paddock parking lot. You’ve missed this — the familiar hum of engines warming up in the distance, the rush of people weaving between motorhomes and garages, the faint scent of rubber and fuel in the air. But this time, it’s different.

You barely have time to close your car door before you’re practically ambushed.

“Careful with her!” Fernando snaps, brushing past Max and Charles as if they aren’t there. He cups your face with both hands, inspecting you like he hasn’t seen you in years. “Hija, are you sure about this? We can turn around right now. No one will blame you.”

You laugh softly, prying his hands off your cheeks. “I’m fine, Papá. I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asks, stepping closer, his hand ghosting over your lower back. He doesn’t touch you, but he’s close enough that you feel his warmth. His green eyes search your face, his concern evident.

Max, on the other hand, leans casually against your car, arms crossed but his frown betraying his calm posture. “If you’re even slightly unsure, I’ll call Christian myself and say you’re taking another month off.”

“Guys,” you say, looking at each of them in turn, “I’m okay. I promise.”

Fernando mutters something under his breath in Spanish that you don’t quite catch, but the look he shoots Charles and Max makes it clear they’re all on the same page: hover over you until you give up and lets them.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling.

As you make your way toward the Red Bull garage, it becomes clear that you aren’t the only one who’s missed this sense of normalcy. People you’ve only exchanged passing nods with before stop in their tracks to greet you. Engineers, journalists, even the rival drivers you’ve barely spoken to — it seems like everyone has something to say.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Lando says, pulling you into an unexpected but warm hug.

“Good to see you in one piece,” Lewis adds, his tone light but his smile genuine.

“Don’t scare us like that again,” George says, shaking his head.

Even Kimi Raikkonen, who’s a guest in the paddock for the weekend, gives you a gruff nod. For him, that’s basically a declaration of undying friendship.

And then Toto Wolff steps into your path.

“Toto,” you say, blinking in surprise.

“Y/N.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into a hug — a full hug, his large arms wrapping around you like a protective barrier against the world.

You stiffen for a second, not because you don’t appreciate it but because … Toto Wolff? Hugging you?

You have to pinch your arm discreetly to make sure this isn’t some bizarre dream.

“Welcome back,” Toto says simply, his voice low and kind, before stepping back.

You manage to nod, your words caught in your throat.

“Alright, move along,” Fernando interrupts, stepping between you and Toto like a guard dog. He nods politely but firmly at the team principal before ushering you forward.

“Toto Wolff,” you murmur as you follow Fernando, Charles, and Max toward the garage. “I really must be dreaming.”

“You’re not,” Charles says, smiling softly. “People care about you, ma chérie. Even Toto, apparently.”

“Or maybe he’s just scouting you for Mercedes,” Max mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

You laugh, the sound lighter than it’s been in weeks. The paddock is alive, buzzing with energy, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not just watching it from afar. You’re part of it again.

And it feels like coming home.

[khioneee]

CATER 2 U

synopsis. rafe knew you weren’t a hardcore partygoer. but every once in a while, you’d indulge him and come along. pairing. rafe cameron x reader content. lowkey fluffy. dotting boyfriend (mans down bad). slight jealousy. alcohol. word count. 1.1k

the moment you walked in, rafe was already in protector mode. he found you a comfortable spot to sit, clearing the area like a professional bodyguard.

‘here, baby,’ he said, handing you your kindle, which he’d thoughtfully grabbed from the car. ‘brought this just in case you needed it.’ he crouched down in front of you, his hand brushing against your knee as he smiled softly. ‘water or soda? unless you’re planning on drinking tonight. your choice, sweetheart.’

you shook your head, amused at how seriously he was taking this. but you knew it was just his way of making sure you were comfortable in a space that wasn’t naturally yours.

throughout the night, rafe’s eyes would drift to you, even while he was in conversation with his friends. he’d glance your way, mouthing a quick ‘you good?’ from across the room.

you’d nod, and he’d give you a satisfied little smile before turning back to whoever had his attention.

at one point, he returned with a big bag of chips, setting it in your lap. ‘here, sweetheart. the kitchen’s packed, wouldn’t want you to get caught in a stampede.’ you couldn’t help but laugh at how thoughtful he was, even in the middle of chaos.

when you needed to use the restroom, he was right there, following close behind and standing outside the door like a loyal guard dog. he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the hallway for any sign of trouble. he didn’t care if anyone teased him.

he knew how unpredictable parties could get, and he wasn’t about to take any risks when it came to your safety.

when someone drunkenly stumbled too close to the door, he stepped forward, his broad frame blocking their path entirely. ‘keep walking,’ he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

and when you emerged from the restroom, his eyes immediately softened. ‘all good?’ he asked, one hand instinctively brushing against your back as he guided you back toward the main party.

it was little things like this that reminded you why you felt so safe with him.

as the night wore on, rafe found himself caught in a lengthy business interaction outside. but even then, he wasn’t about to leave you unattended.

‘lover boy’s doing business,’ topper announced as he plopped down in the armchair near you, a playful smirk on his face. ‘hi, doll.’

you looked up from your kindle, surprised but grateful for the company. ‘he sent you over?’

‘of course,’ topper said, crossing his arms and leaning back as if settling in for the long haul. ‘can’t let you fend for yourself, can we?’

you chuckled softly, pushing your undrunk beer toward him. one of the many drinks rafe had brought for you earlier. ‘want this? i’m not gonna finish it.’

topper waved it off with mock seriousness. ‘no, ma’am. i’m on duty.’

you raised an eyebrow, amused. ‘duty?’

‘yep,’ he said, leaning forward slightly, his tone teasing but good-natured. ‘rafe made it clear—keep an eye on you. so,’ he gestured toward your kindle with a grin, ‘what are we reading tonight?’

you laughed, appreciating how even his friends were roped into rafe’s overprotective tendencies. but that was just rafe, always making sure you were cared for, even when he wasn’t by your side.

as night blurred into morning, rafe wandered over to you, his steps slow and deliberate. you glanced up at him with a soft smile as he crouched slightly in front of you, his hand reaching up to gently brush a stray hair out of your face.

‘you good, sweetheart?’ he asked, his voice quiet, almost lost in the muffled bass of the party music.

you nodded, though the faint yawn you tried to stifle didn’t go unnoticed.

his lips quirked up into a knowing smile, his thumb grazing your cheek for just a second. ‘just say the word, and we’re out of here, alright? we don’t have to stay if you’re tired.’

you shook your head lightly, touched by his attentiveness. ‘i’m fine, rafe. really.’

but he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes just a bit. ‘no need to be polite, baby. you know i’d rather be with you anyway.’

rafe’s sharp eyes caught sight of you across the room, and he froze mid-conversation. there you were, sitting on the couch, your usual spot.

but this time, someone else was next to you.

a guy.

he was leaning in, his arm casually draped along the back of the couch, too close for rafe’s liking. worse, you were laughing at something he said. you were laughing, completely unaware of the tension building across the room.

rafe’s jaw tightened, the edges of his calm facade slipping as a flush of irritation rose to his cheeks. his friends followed his line of sight, their chatter dying out.

topper raised a brow, muttering, ‘uh-oh.’

rafe didn’t respond. he didn’t need to. he was already moving, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his broad frame towering over anyone who didn’t step aside quickly enough.

reaching the couch, rafe didn’t say a word to the guy. instead, he dropped onto the arm of the chair beside you, his movement sharp and intentional. as he sat, his hand brushed against the guy’s arm, deliberately shoving it off the back of the couch.

the guy flinched, looking up at rafe, only to be met with an icy glare that sent him reeling.

‘hey, baby,’ rafe said, turning to you with a smile that was a little too tight.

‘hey!’ completely oblivious, you beamed up at him. ‘we were just talking about books. turns out we’ve read a lot of the same ones.’

rafe let out a low, unimpressed hum, his arm moving to rest on the couch behind you, claiming the space the guy had just occupied. ‘is that so?’

the guy stammered something about needing another drink, his confidence wilting under rafe’s glare as he quickly stood and disappeared into the crowd.

you blinked, glancing at rafe. ‘did you scare him off?’

rafe tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smirk as he looked down at you. ‘nah, baby. he just realized he wasn’t needed here.’

you furrowed your brows but let it go, leaning back into rafe’s arm as he relaxed against the chair.

after a moment, rafe glanced down at you, his voice softening. ‘let’s go home.’

you smiled, nodding as rafe helped you up, his hand steady on your waist.

and as you left the party together, rafe cast one last glance at the guy from across the room—a silent warning that needed no words.

after a beat, rafe tilted his head down toward you. ‘you don’t need anyone else to talk books with, baby,’ he murmured, leaning in close, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. ‘you’ve got me.’

[baeshijima]

being married to duke!blade is a feat inconceivable to many.

overseeing the northern region where monster outbreaks are high and temperatures are low, he is feared by many for not only his undeniable battle prowess, but also his cold and dismissive demeanour. from all the stories and rumours passed down from those who battled alongside the duke, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say his mere presence alone is sufficient enough to take on an entire army.

but despite his infamous personality, the young duke had made rounds within high society when he first showed his face. he was handsome, having that rugged appearance expected of a blood-soaked warrior residing on the battlefied, yet beautiful with a haunting allure — those crimson-marigold eyes of his can simultaneously bewitch an unassuming victim and bring the most prideful of monarchs down to their knees.

and, as expected of someone with such descriptors, many of the nobility found themselves drawn to him in spite of the rumours which clung to his very being. noble ladies wished to be the first he ever danced with, while many families seeked to gain even a morsel of his power through arranged marriages. relentless as they were, none succeeded in swaying the stone-cold duke.

and stone-cold he was upon your first meeting, albeit in… less than fortunate circumstances.

having meandered around the foresty northern borders not too far from where your family estate is, you certainly were not expecting to stumble across a rotting corpse smack-dab in the middle of your path! okay, well, rotting may not be the most suitable term, but the slumped body, battered and bruised and bloodied, you accidentally kicked was very much a corpse.

you had contemplated leaving the body there but, upon seeing a bloodied insignia of an all-too familiar ducal household, you decided you wanted to live a little longer. of course, this led to you lugging a slumped, muscle-packed warrior of a man all the way to where your estate was, heaving and huffing with your body trembling under the weight.

(to say you were just about ready to collapse when the family knights spotted your emerging figure was no understatement!)

whisked away into a guest room near your own, your parents called for the family doctor immediately. when the blood was cleaned and his wounds were wrapped, the sight of his injuries mending themselves was sure to be a sight you would never be able to rid your mind of. it was a strange but intriguing phenomenon to see his skin stitched anew, that horrid sight of him collapsed in the forestry almost like that of a dream.

your father immediately sent word to the duke’s estate to notify them of the circumstances. in the meanwhile, the man of the hour was unconscious for three days. seeing as how you were the one to find him, you took it upon yourself to help look after his well-being. changing his bandages, regularly wiping the accumulating sweat with a freshly damp cloth, ensuring the room is well-ventilated — you did the lot!

(sometimes you would stare at his resting face, wondering just how much more handsome he would be with his eyes open; only to retract that sentiment when recalling the tales about how his eyes could burn a man alive. exaggerated or not, he is still a dangerous individual you would rather not further entangle yourself with.)

with his people having retrieved their master from your care, promises of hefty compensation for taking care of their lord ringing in your ears, you were ready to sweep the whole ordeal under the rug and never get yourself involved with a man like him again! after all, he is the fearful duke responsible for your region, while you’re just another noble within his domain.

so, naturally, when you first heard of your soon-to-be marriage, you thought your parents did something to offend him and were sending you as a sacrifice meant to appease his wrath.

because, well, why else would the very same duke infamous for having zero interest in romantic and political marriages be sending a letter for your hand in marriage of his own accord? being unconscious the entirety of the time made him unable to see you, let alone know your family, so of course that meant his staff had filled him in on what happened. but why would he initiate this proposal without even knowing who you are first???

(did you get a say in this? no. would you have refused? yes. did your parents care about you and your well-being? aside from their apologetic gazes at your slack-jawed reaction and somewhat rational reasoning of “his grace may have an infamous reputation, but he is not a cruel ruler nor man,” you would like to deny the parental affection they have given you thus far in favour of objecting the claim.)

well, no matter. there was little time to prepare for his arrival to your estate, as the letter stated he would be arriving to escort you himself.

after much fuss over your clothing and luggage, the day arrived; you were going to see him again, except this time, he would see you as well.

a regal carriage entered the estate’s gates. the door swung open. a black gloved hand was the first to appear, followed by a ducked head of long navy hair, a familiar figure donning a freshly pressed suit and black overcoat, and finally — finally — a pair of burning crimson-marigold met your own gaze.

you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline of your fight or flight response kicking in or the butterflies which ruptured within you that caused your heart rate to increase, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

he stopped in front of you, the features you once saw up close felt more complete than ever with the addition of his eyes open.

and thus, with your palm settled atop his outstretched gloved one, your fate was sealed.

(man. was this the compensation the staff were saying to you as they left…?)

that was two years ago.

savage. cold-blooded. inhumane. brute. monster. these were some of the ways in which duke blade was described. the man who currently sits on the edge of the bed watching you dress his wounds, however, is much different than the public opinion.

ever since exchanging vows at the altar and slipping sacred rings of matrimony onto each other’s fingers, you have come to know many sides of blade you never thought possible.

and while he rarely spoke in the beginning, his actions spoke louder than any voice could ever hope to measure up to. and, eventually, he became more vocal in regards to his feelings for you, just as you have with yours upon witnessing firsthand his true character.

from his battle-haggard, near manic state when on the verge of succumbing to the curse before falling into your healing embrace, to his tender fleeting touches and ever-adoring affection repressed within his gaze when in the presence of others, you have seen it all.

the process of getting to know and understand the intricacies of his life is almost like unravelling layers upon layers of thin bandage wrapped tightly around a gaping wound, hoping to block out the vulnerabilities which could be exposed. it was rocky at first, you being in an unfamiliar environment while he had his own inner battles to deal with first and foremost, but time carved its path for the two of you to partake in talks lasting late into the night, a subtle fondness growing more pronounced as familiarity grew alongside it.

and, of course, the time he returned from a subjugation battle-worn and mind having been overriden with mania. it was the first you’d seen him in such a loss of control. knights were rushing to subdue him while the servants desperately tried to usher your bewildered form some place safe, as though this had been a common occurrence well before you came into the picture. that hadn’t gone as planned, however, as the moment blade’s heaving figure locked eyes with you, a state of chaos ensued the moment he broke through the wall of knights with ease and appeared in front of you. no time was wasted when he lunged, a panic chorus of cries following suit as you remained rooted in place.

while you would never forget the blown-out, near-animalistic look in his eyes as he drew closer at an impossible speed, the gentle — almost reverent — manner in which he embraced you then, rigid body instantly relaxing against you, would forever be the turning point of your relationship, as well as a long-cherished memory of his first true feelings.

a dull sensation poking the space between your brows snaps you out of your thoughts. “stop frowning. i’ll be fine like always.”

your hands pause in their ministrations, hovering over his bare torso where you finished tying up a bandage. a blink and a sigh, another swab of disinfectant is in your hands working at the wound on his bicep.

“but that doesn’t mean i like seeing you return to me wounded,” you mutter bitterly, blatantly ignoring his stare. “i know you can take care of yourself, what with that regenerative ability of yours, but i still worry over you. you can still feel the pain, after all, and not to mention that curse—”

a swift tug forward abruptly cuts you off, your words fizzling on the tip of your tongue as a familiar warmth encases you in its entirety. instinctively, your hands grip onto his shoulders, the coarse material of bandages not unfamiliar to your touch, while blade’s hands are splayed across the expanse of your back as he holds you against his seated form.

his nose nudges along the slope of your neck, the shape of your jaw, the contours of your face, a trail of soft kisses leaving searing imprints in its wake.

a deep breath, a ticklish sensation, a thrumming heartbeat.

and when he rests his forehead against your own, crimson-marigold eyes dyed with devotion and seeping ardour, you think the world will be okay.

(even if it were to burst into flames and be reduced to ash, if it means you would be by this man’s side for a little longer, you think it will be okay.)

[chiasaaa]

— anything for you

itoshi sae x f! reader

summary: sae finds himself doing things he wouldn’t normally do. all for you.

warning: english is not my first language. apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

— itoshi sae knew he was beyond saving the moment he set his phone against his pillow and clicked the record button, holding up three boxes of what seemed to be pr boxes for the brands he’s sponsoring.

no, said brands did not require him to film the pr boxes. they only wished for him to use and test it out in an attempt to gain his brutally honest feedback. so why is it that he has his camera open to do a little review?

it’s because he’s deeply and undeniably in love with a so-called idiot named you. you have him wrapped around your finger, and sae was the one to curl your fingers around him for you. a little while ago—right after emerging from the shower of his hotel room—he sent a photo of the three pr boxes that laid on his bed. his manager did tell him he’ll drop it off around the night.

itoshi sae: they’re here.

itoshi sae: [sent an attachment]

you: ohhh! unboxing vid, pls!

itoshi sae: not my thing

you: aww :PP

you: anyhoo, don’t forget to eat dinner!

you: i’m just pinning my sketches in the new mood board, then i’ll head back home.

he knew there was nothing else to your response. sure, you were a bit dampened by how he flat out rejected your request, but you’re not one to dwell in such silly things either. sae knew that you would be the last person on earth forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do, and video reviews might as well be nonexistent in his vocabulary.

even so, he decided to give it to you. reviews of the products he’s sponsoring.

oh, may god save his soul.

“we’ll start with this one.” he holds up a pastel yellow box displaying the name of his favorite skincare brand. “i heard they’re releasing a new formula for my moisturizer that’s less sticky. if it works well, then i’ll be using that for my games.”

he takes out a tube from the box and showed it to the camera, plucking the lid open. “the bottle’s bigger than the previous one too, and the design’s more minimal. i like it.”

for the next hour, itoshi sae filmed each and every reaction he had for every product he tested, telling you his brutally honest reviews and picking out which ones he considered purchasing upon launch.

sae didn’t even bother screening the videos before sending them to you, well-aware that you prefer his rawest form than anything else. it is a factor as to why he feels so lucky being with you. though, he’d never admit it right at your face, he simply hopes he shows it enough.

imagine the look on your face when you just finished locking up your office, fishing your phone out to let him know you’re about to head home. instead, you were met with three 15-minute long videos of each promotional box sent to him.

itoshi sae: [sent 3 attachments]

itoshi sae: i have to admit, i like the new sunscreen the most. i’ll contact the company and have another delivered to you.

itoshi sae: you should also try the lip glaze. i remember you’ve been complaining about how your lips dry up in the winter. i’ll give it to you next week when you fly over.

your heart swelled at the sight of him actually filming his reactions, nearly slamming into a lamp post if it wasn’t for your driver tugging you back lightly to prevent you from doing so.

you: you really filmed!

you: i’ll watch it on the way home!

you: i love you, querido <3

and your appreciative messages were enough for sae to know that leaving his heart to rest upon your care is the best thing he’s ever done. you have always been the most positive influence in his life, and you never shame him for anything he does out of his character.

itoshi sae: i love you. head home safe.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 15: “what are you wearing?” “it’s laundry day!”

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

Reblog if you liked it!

When Spencer Reid opened the door to your shared apartment, he didn’t expect to hear the speakers in the living room blasting one of those modern songs he didn’t know the name of. You were home, that much was certain.

You had known each other for a few years, so it wasn’t difficult to agree to be roommates while Spencer found something permanent in the city. It was just his first year working for the FBI, and with the expenses required for his mother in the sanatorium, everything was becoming more financially complicated. Your parents, who already knew he was a good man, preferred to host that tenant rather than anyone else.

Your roommate tried to call out to let you know he was there, but thanks to the music, you had no hearing. Resigned, he tried to walk over to lower the volume, and that’s when he saw you.

You were holding a basket full of clothes, but the peculiar thing about the situation was that you were only wearing the bottom part of what he assumed was a bikini. Reid let out a scream at the sight of you, and you almost dropped the laundry you were holding, which would have completely exposed your tits.

“Jeez!, what are you wearing?”

“It’s laundry day!” you shouted back, as if trying to justify yourself. Spencer had already covered the side of his face with his hand, a clear sign that he didn’t plan on looking at you.

“And why are you naked?!”

“I’m not naked, Spencer. Almost.”

“It’s the same thing! Put… put on some clothes, please.”

“Have you never seen a naked woman?”

“No! I mean, yes! Just… put something on, will you?”

“You’ll have to lend me some clothes. All my clothes are in the washer.”

“Take whatever you want from my wardrobe, okay?” He couldn’t see you, but from the sounds he heard, he assumed you had dropped the pile of clothes and then headed to his room.

The young man felt his heart racing beneath his chest, and for a second, he wondered if it would be wise to leave, stay, lock himself in his room, and never talk about this again, or simply laugh at the situation.

A minute later, he heard footsteps coming back, and he hoped with all his heart that when he removed his hand from his face, he wouldn’t find you in an indecent state again. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case, but the image in front of him was still worse.

“You seldom wear these,” you observed slyly, extending the bottom of the oversized T-shirt you were wearing.

It had a faded print of a national park or something, and it was huge on you. Below, you were wearing joggers that Spencer doubted even belonged to him, as he had never dressed in things like that. He would probably donate them after this.

But Spencer didn’t feel shocked by the clothes; he was shocked by the person wearing them. The T-shirt made it clear that you were still wearing nothing beneath it, and just seeing you in something of his sent a shiver down his spine.

He lied when he said he had seen naked women. He hadn’t seen any—well, unless the beach and television counted.

“Do you know how dangerous it is for you to walk around like that? Some pervert could spy on you through the window, or if there’s an emergency and you have to leave, how will you do it?”

“Oh, calm down, honey. I knew you were the only one with keys to the apartment, all the curtains are closed, and I highly doubt that if there’s an emergency, anyone would notice me,” you laughed, as if it weren’t a big deal.

You watched him for a second, as if waiting for him to say something more, but you continued to receive that expression of disapproval.

“Just be more careful, okay?”

“I will,” you said calmly as you approached to hug him. “And I’d like you to come in with a: Hi, good afternoon, I’m back, how are you? Instead of that scream you let out.”

“I would have greeted you that way if it hadn’t been for your music blasting. One day you’re going to go deaf.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

You had already started to walk in the other direction, but he, dissatisfied, followed you.

“I’m serious! There’s a study that proves it. Loud sounds can damage the parts of the inner ear that detect sound and send signals to the brain…”

“Do you want to wash your clothes too?” you interrupted, turning to look at him. He almost bumped into you. “There’s still space in my laundry load. That shirt you’re wearing right now looks a bit dirty.”

“You’re right, it is,” he reflected, looking down at a coffee stain. “Let me go change and I’ll be right back to give it to you, okay?”

He couldn’t see you shake your head, and he also couldn’t hear your reproachful words as if something displeased you. The matter was forgotten, at least for that afternoon, and you both continued with your usual tasks. Spencer ordered Japanese food for dinner, and you shared a pleasant time before going to bed. You had his clothes on the entire time.

The next day, when Derek and Elle approached to talk to him, Reid couldn’t help but tell them about the scandalous scene he had encountered upon arriving home, hoping to rid himself of the feeling of embarrassment that had arisen in him.

Unfortunately, it was quite the opposite because both agents increased their smiles as he progressed with the story.

“My boy, I think that was a pretty direct hint.”

“What do you mean?” he murmured, looking genuinely lost. Elle just gave him an amused look, almost pitying, for Morgan to continue speaking.

“She didn’t want to do laundry! She was probably looking for something more.”

Spencer frowned and showed a thoughtful expression. The woman beside him laughed and intervened to save him.

“What Morgan is trying to say is that maybe it wasn’t an accident that you found her in that state. She knows what time you usually arrive, right?”

“Yes. But why would she want to be naked when I got here?”

His two friends shared an amused and conspiratorial look, unable to believe that a guy as intelligent as Spencer could be so bad at picking up signals.

“Maybe because she wanted you to see her naked…” Morgan began, hoping he could connect the dots. “Because she likes you, maybe?”

The young man felt all the blood rush to his cheeks. I mean, that biologically wasn’t possible, or otherwise he would die, but for this case, a hyperbole is quite valid.

“You mean she wanted… to do it with me?”

“Bingo! We have a winner.”

He didn’t even know why he had told his work colleagues that. At that precise moment, he was quite regretful for having even opened his mouth.

“But… but she’s not like that. Why would she...? She can’t like me; it must be something else.”

“Oh, come on, Reid. Is it that hard for you to accept that that skinny body and your deer eyes can conquer a woman?” Elle murmured, entertained by how things had developed.

Those two could see the gears turning in the younger man's head.

“Do you think I should talk to her? Ask her?”

“Are you crazy or something? Of course not!”

“Then what do I do?” he implored Elle, feeling completely ignorant on the one topic he couldn’t study: women.

“Return the favor,” Morgan suggested with a shrug. “You know, the next time you do laundry, just stay in your underwear, wait for her to arrive, and voila. Maybe being on the other side, she’ll dare to do what you won’t.”

“Oh God, this is horrible,” the young man lamented, hiding his flushed face between his hands. At that moment, the three were called by Chief Gideon, and they had no choice but to get up and go to the conference room. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Calm down, kid. Who do you think we are?” Morgan reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. A second later, he saw Agent Aaron pass by. “Hotch! Guess what Reid just did…”

“Morgan!” he shouted, rushing forward to prevent his embarrassing secret from becoming public knowledge.

Feeling somewhat fearful, he followed the advice his coworker had given him, and he didn’t need to ponder much about the question he had in mind. You definitely liked him.

[fangirlingpuggle]

A very very dumb Apothecary diaries AU where Lakan checks in on Fengxian before he leaves finds out she's pregnant. She can't go with him or marry him yet but instead while he goes abroad to study she stays with Luomen helping him set up pharmacy after he's cast out from his family.

She and Lakan stay in regular contact through letters, both of them gushing over letters only for someone top look over their shoulders and see letter is only a move in go They're playing long distance each letter is just the next move. At least until Maomao is born the Fengxian includes scribble drawings Maomao does or hand prints...Lakan office and room are full all walls covered in them.

The two reunite and although they live with La clan and Lakan gets headship but they still visit Luoman and the visit Verdigris house (Madame still hastes Lakan but they send good business recommending them to high ranking officials). So Maomao still has her big sisters and still learns about medicine and poison from Luomen.

She still tests on herself , Lakan freaks out but Fengxian trusts her daughter just makes sure they have plenty of antivenom and antidotes ( Basically every room in the LA family state has an emergency draw for if Maomao has had poison again)

Maomao doesn't get kidnapped, she ends up in rear palace because consort Ah-Dou she can see that Lishu is struggling she can't intervene or protect her within her own court so she contacts Fenxian who she's met at functions other the years.

Ah-Dou- Fengxian you have a daughter correct. Is she as terrifying as you?

Fenxian: Of course

Ah-Dou: May I please request a favor?

Maomao enters Lishu's court not as a noble but as a lady in waiting (and the food tester, it's how she agreed to it)

Maomao: Do I really need to go into court I want to make medicine

Fengxian: You will be testing food for poison

Maomao:....deal

She of course see's the bullying in the court and instantly Nopes, she does totally overhaul terrifying Lishu's ladies in waiting and getting rid of them, she spends time around other servants and ends up recruiting other servants as new ladies in waiting ones who will actually care for and protect Lishu. Full big sister Maomao mode with Lishu.

She keeps an eye on other departments dressing as a maid while moving around to avoid suspicion and still see's the confrontation between Gyokuyo and Lishu and sends the messages with torn dress (She didn't get chance to change and couldn't go into their pavilions in her lady in waiting clothes)

She gets dragged in the room with other maids also, she kinda gets stuck and pulled in and meets Gyokuyo having to admit so sorry can't be your lady in waiting already Lishu's. Jinshi suddenly puts together about the totally change in ladies in waiting and promotion of other servants. Jinshi is very curious but Maomao is able to divert attention.

Gyokuyo still wants to see Maomao and so she moves between both her and Lishu and gets Lishu to spend more time with Gyokuyo the two getting along well.

She also helps Lihua as before and then she is basically going between 3 of them and the 3 consorts spend time together... Lihua and Gyokuyo figure out who Moamao is but they're not saying they want to keep Maomao around and also they are all shipping Jinmao and enjoying watching this soap opera.

The banquet happens but Maomao is of course Lishu's food tester not Gyokuyo's but none of the old ladies in waiting are there to bully Lishu and swap bowls so Moamao still gets poison. (She 100% tried to get to test food for all 3 consorts ... they didn't let her)

Lakan still trolls Jinshi because he's seen letters Ah-Dou and others sent Fengxian keeping her updated and is suspicious about Jinshi and his precious daughter. (Fengxian and Jinshi are planning the wedding already)

When Maomao is still dismissed after the poisoning is revealed and Jinshi is super upset and sulky until fancy banquet and high ranking personnel and then sees Maomao again as daughter of head of La clan...

Maomao: I suppose you are upset than I hide my identity

Jinshi:...

Jinshi:Yes very upset (he says hypothetically ignoring looks he is getting form the emperor and Gaoshun)

She still comes back to rear place (The consorts missed her so much... plus they have a betting pool... a lot of people are in it Fengxian has a board plotting moves so the 2 get together when she's bet...while Lakan is pouting in corner that no one deserves their baby girl)

(Light Novel spoilers

Lahan is raised as Maomao's brother and adores his sister, the two are chaos gremlins her making medicines and him plotting how to self and market them

He is also adored by Verdegris house the beloved little brother... also everyone is pretty sure he and Maomao are twins they know there was only 1 baby but... they're sure the 2 are siblings.

The madame also adores him both coming up with schemes for money and he happily does the accounting when they visit (they're sure he's her favorite)

When Jinshi sees them together before knowing they're related he thinks the 2 might be a couple, Gaoshun is face palming and despairing while the courtesans are losing it laughing)

[jellybonbons]

Sweet Tooth or Sweet Cravings?

Kenji Sato x fem!reader

Summary: When a chocolate company sent Ken a PR package, he ate the chocolates without thoroughly inspecting them, and, well...things took an unexpected turn.

CW: 18+ (mdni), established relationship, aphrodisiac chocolates, implied panty sniffing, masturbation, fingering, squirting, creampie, unprotected sex, pet names.

Words: 1.5k

AN: this is just an excuse for me to write him like he's in heat :3

Today 4:12 PM

Ken <3: can you come home? its an emergency

The moment you saw his text, your heart skipped a beat. Without a second thought, you clocked out early and made a beeline for the parking lot. You had never driven so fast in your life, and you were sure you almost broke the gas pedal from how hard your heels were pressing on it. 

The city streets blurred past you, your mind racing with worry and a thousand scenarios of what could have gone wrong. You barely noticed the honking horns or the changing traffic lights, and your focus was solely on getting to Ken as quickly as possible.

As you reached Ken's home, you punched in the code with shaking fingers, and the door swung open almost instantly. You dropped your bag near the entrance, not caring where it landed, and stumbled inside, quickly sliding off your heels as you hurried to find him.

Rounding the corner into the living room, you saw Ken from behind, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each laboured breath. "Ken, are you ok–" The sight caught you off guard. There he was, panting heavily, glistening with sweat, eyes half-closed as he stroked his cock. It stood proudly and flushed in a deep red colour. His other hand clutched your panty from this morning.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry you have to–fuck,” the moment he saw you, his body tensed, and with a guttural moan, he finally came, his cum coating his hand and abdomen.

As he sprawled against the couch, you took a moment to look around the living room. Your eyes landed on a box of half-eaten chocolates on the coffee table. Curiosity piqued, you picked up the box and examined it closely. The label read "Aphrodisiac Chocolates" in a small, elegant script. Realisation dawned on you, and you couldn't help but let out a small, incredulous laugh. Ken had unknowingly consumed aphrodisiacs, and now the situation made a lot more sense.

You sat down next to him on the couch, eyes wide with concern. "Ken, what the hell? Are you okay?"

"I—I’m really sorry. I didn’t expect this... I think I overdid it with those chocolates."

"Those weren’t just chocolates, were they?"

"No, they were aphrodisiac chocolates. I didn’t check the label...clearly, I should have," he growled, frustration evident in his voice as he discarded your panty from his hand.

"Yeah, I can see that. It’s obvious they did more than just satisfy a sweet tooth," you smirked, leaning closer, your breath teasing against his ear.

"You’re not helping, you know." His eyes narrowed at you, a mix of frustration and desire burning within them.

Before you could respond, Ken, overwhelmed by the effects and your teasing, pulled you down onto him. He ground his hard-on between your thighs, his breath coming out in ragged bursts as he tried to find some relief.

"Ken, what—" You gasped, your voice filled with surprise.

"I need you. Right now. Please, help me." His voice was husky and urgent, his need unmistakable.

–

You lost track of time, the sky outside turning dark as the house became dimly lit. Your clothes were strewn everywhere, and he had taken you on every possible surface – from the coffee table to the expansive living room window overlooking the ocean, and now on his bed. 

He didn't hesitate for a moment, his desire insatiable. Somehow, he even managed to feed you the aphrodisiac chocolates during heated kisses, deepening the intensity of your connection with each touch and taste that seemed impossible to quench.

"Baby," you moaned, your voice trembling with need. He had your hands pinned against the headboard, his grip firm and unyielding. His chest pressed against your back, warm and solid, as his fingers delved into your wet cunt, moving with a relentless rhythm that left you breathless.

The squelching sound filled the room, adding to the erotic symphony that drove him even harder. Your back arched with every expert stroke, each thrust of his fingers hitting the perfect spot over and over, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

“Ken, wait!” you gasped, feeling a strange pressure building within you. “I feel like I’m gonna pee.”

He didn’t falter for a second, his fingers maintaining their relentless rhythm. “Just let go, princess,” he murmured, his voice a mix of encouragement and command. “The sheets are already dirty anyway.”

His words and the relentless thrusting of his fingers broke down your resistance. With a cry of both pleasure and relief, you let go, your body trembling as you squirted, the sensation overwhelming. Ken’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he continued to work you through it, his fingers drenched in your release.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, his voice low and approving. “Just like that.”

As Ken finally released your hands, you let them slide down, resting them beside you—the dampness of the wet sheets clinging uncomfortably to your skin, causing you to grimace. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the rapid pace of your breathing, and allowed yourself a moment to regain composure.

Ken, still insatiable and eager, looked at you with a determined glint in his eyes. “It’s my turn now,” he said, his voice rough with need. You, sore and spent, protested weakly, “Baby, I’m so beat... I don’t know if I can handle much more.”

He silenced your concerns with a reassuring smile and a quick, decisive movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything,” he said, his tone filled with confidence. With a firm grip, he lifted you effortlessly and positioned you on his lap, your legs spread and held against your chest. He manoeuvred you into a perfect angle and guided his hard cock to your still-sensitive cunt.

“Fuck, Ken, too deep!” you cried out, your voice trembling as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming sensation. Saliva dribbled from your lips, a testament to the intense pleasure and exhaustion.

Ken's voice was a low, teasing murmur against your ear. “But you love it when I go deep like this,” he cooed, his tone dripping with mockery. He squeezed you closer, his grip firm and possessive, restricting your movements and trapping you in place. 

The way he moved, controlling every motion and maximising your pleasure, made you feel like nothing more than his personal plaything, his fleshlight. Each powerful thrust sent your breasts bouncing. Your head leaned back against him, the sensation overwhelming as his movements were both demanding and dominant, ensuring you felt every inch of him, leaving you breathless and helpless under his command.

Finally, with a guttural groan that reverberated through the room, Ken’s body tensed, and a shudder ran through him as he reached his peak. His hot cum spilling deeply inside you, a wave of warmth that filled you completely.

He collapsed against you, his breath coming in deep, shuddering gasps as he buried his face in your hair, staying fully inside you. As he caught his breath, he managed to joke through his ragged breaths, “I think I’ll have to give that chocolate company a review —'5 stars for effectiveness!'”

You weakly slapped his arms, a small, affectionate smile tugging at your lips despite the fatigue. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, barely able to muster the energy to respond.

He then gently shifted his position, moving his hand to cup your chin and guide your face towards his. His eyes, soft and tender, met yours as he leaned in to press a gentle, affectionate kiss to your lips. 

Pulling back slightly, he whispered with a teasing smile, “But you love me.” 

“Unfortunately.” You responded with a playful sigh.

–

You were scrolling through your phone during lunch, your thoughts drifting as you ate, when a familiar company caught your eye. You paused, intrigued by a screenshot of a review with the username Notkensato07. The review was under a popular chocolate company, and as you read the lines, you couldn’t help but groan.

Notkensato07: ★★★★★

"Absolutely incredible! I tried the aphrodisiac chocolates and they were so effective, my girlfriend’s still recovering. If you want a taste of heaven—and maybe a little bit of chaos—this is your go-to. 5 stars, but if I could give it more, I would!

⤷ 241 replies

g0urmetguru: More than 5, huh? That’s some serious praise. I’m curious, how long did the effects last? Asking for a friend 😉

sillysocks76: IS THIS KEN SATO?

ChefRemyDaRat: Wow, talk about a rave review! If it’s that good, I’m buying a box for sure 🔥

chocolateroses: LMAOOO! I hope your girlfriend’s recovery is going well, man!

SweetToothSteve: Wow, this sounds wild! I’ve heard aphrodisiac chocolates are hit-or-miss, but this sounds like a game-changer. Guess I’ll be adding these to my shopping list!

jellybonbons: Nah, that’s cap.

  ⤷ chikinuggie: You’re just salty because you got no hoes.

   ⤷jellybonbons:  (comment removed for harassment) 

     ⤷jellybonbons: Wtf? why is my comment removed n not chikin for bullying?!

      ⤷ chikinuggie: The truth hurts, doesn’t it?

        ⤷ SweetToothSteve: Alright, kids, play nice! 😂

–

Shocked by the boldness of his review, you yelled out his name in disbelief, “SATO!”

Ken, who had been skipping around the living room as part of his exercise routine, froze mid-skip. The sudden outburst made him lose his rhythm, causing him to trip over his own feet. 

“Oh shit!”

Dividers by: @/chilumitos

[syluslnd]

If the pregnant MC is kidnapped by Sylus' enemies, Luke and Kieran don't know how to inform Sylus because they know how much he cares about MC and her babys. If MC miscarries her babys and falls unconscious because of what she went through there, what will happen when Sylus finds her, what will she feel when he takes her to the hospital, what will Mc feel when she wakes up? How will Sylus comfort her when she starts crying and how will he eventually take revenge on his enemies?

I think I've written this request before, but I really want to read this article from your perspective. I'm sorry if I bothered you by sending the request a second time.

when sylus enemies attack you causing you to have miscarriage

tags-angst,comforting,mentions of violence,guilt

(note-hi don’t worry it’s ok if u sent it a second time,it took me a while to write so that’s why I’m posting until now! I hope this is what you wanted 🤍)

────୨ৎ────

The room was dark, cold and the pain was unbearable. Your body ached with every breath, bruises spreading across your skin like ink stains and your mind struggled to keep up with the reality of your situation.

You had been taken, dragged from the safety of Sylus’s protection by enemies who were relentless in their cruelty. You had fought but they were too many and now, your body bore the cost of their violence.

But the worst pain wasn’t physical. It was the dull, nauseating sensation in your abdomen, the sinking, terrifying fear that something was deeply wrong.

Your vision blurred as you lay there on the cold concrete, your hands instinctively moving to your stomach, trembling as you realized what had been taken from you—not just your freedom but something far more precious.

The baby. The one thing you and Sylus had never fully planned but had begun to hope for, had begun to envision. The agony in your gut was matched only by the agony in your heart.

The door creaked open and heavy boots stomped into the room. The men—the ones who had done this—stood there, sneering at your helpless form, mocking your weakness. You barely heard their words through the haze of pain but their laughter cut through. Each chuckle was a reminder of your helplessness, of your inability to protect the life that had been growing inside you.

And then, there was a sound. A familiar, terrifyingly calm sound—the door slamming open, the faint hum of something electric, like restrained fury. Sylus.

His voice was cold, filled with a rage that he rarely showed. You couldn’t see him clearly but you heard the quiet menace in his tone, the way his words dripped with a deadly promise.

“Where. Is. She?”

There was no hesitation. You heard the scuffle, the brief yelp of one of your captors before everything went silent. Then, you felt his hands—warm, steady but trembling with suppressed anger—as he lifted you into his arms. His touch was gentle despite the tension radiating from him and for the first time since you’d been taken, you felt a flicker of safety.

He didn’t say a word as he carried you out, the sound of footsteps and the faint groans of the men behind him lost in the fog of your pain. You knew what this meant—he wouldn’t kill them now. Not yet. But they wouldn’t escape. Not after what they had done.

At the hospital, the lights were harsh, the sterile smell filling your senses as Sylus carried you inside. Nurses rushed to your side, the urgency in their movements sending a cold rush of fear through you. Your head lolled to the side, eyes searching for Sylus but all you saw was his face, stony and unreadable as they wheeled you away. His hand briefly touched yours before you were pulled into the emergency room and that touch was all that kept you from sinking completely into despair.

Time passed in fragments—flashes of doctors, machines beeping, cold hands pressing on your abdomen. You felt detached from your body, lost in the haze of pain and fear, until a voice broke through.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked, trying to focus as the doctor stood by your bedside, their expression somber. Sylus was beside you, his posture rigid, his hand gripping yours tightly, almost painfully.

“I’m sorry” the doctor repeated, their voice softer now, filled with regret. “We did everything we could, but… you’ve lost the baby.”

The words hit you like a freight train. You stared at the doctor, unable to process the weight of what they had said. The baby… was gone? No. That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely audible. “No, I… I should have been stronger. I should have fought harder. I—”

But before you could finish, Sylus’s grip on your hand tightened and he turned to you, his face a storm of emotions you rarely saw. Anger, pain, guilt—it was all there, swirling beneath the surface of his usually controlled demeanor.

“Don’t” he snapped, his voice rough, almost breaking. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

You flinched at the intensity of his words, your tears spilling over as you tried to form some sort of response. “But I—I should’ve—”

“No” Sylus interrupted, his voice low but trembling with fury. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.” He looked away for a moment, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might break, his hands shaking now as he struggled to keep himself from unraveling.

“I should have been there” he continued, his voice raw with guilt. “I should’ve protected you. This happened because of me because of my enemies. I brought you into this life and I couldn’t even keep you safe. I…” His words faltered and he took a sharp breath, trying to regain his composure.

Your heart broke at the sight of him like this—Sylus, always so calm, so collected, now barely holding himself together. You had never seen him so vulnerable, so angry at himself and it only made the pain in your chest worse.

“I should have been there” he repeated, his voice softer now, filled with regret. “I failed you. I failed our baby.”

The tears flowed freely now and you shook your head, trying to tell him he was wrong, that it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. The grief, the guilt—it was all too much.

Sylus’s hand cupped your face, gently forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, were now filled with a deep, aching sadness. “Kitten” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ll make them pay. I swear to you, I’ll make them pay for this. But you… you have to know this wasn’t your fault.”

You leaned into his touch, your body shaking with sobs as the weight of the loss crashed over you. Sylus pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the pain, from the reality of what had been taken from you both.

The baby was gone. The future you had only just begun to imagine was gone and there was nothing either of you could do to change that. But in that moment, as Sylus held you, his own grief mixing with yours, you knew that you weren’t alone in this. He was there and no matter how much he blamed himself, no matter how much you blamed yourself, you had each other.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Luke and Kieran stood guard at your door, their shadows tall against the dim light of the hospital hallway. You knew Sylus trusted them-his two most loyal men-but it did little to ease the cold dread that had settled into your bones.

Sylus had left without a word but you knew where he had gone. You knew the kind of wrath that was brewing inside him, the rage he held back only for your sake and now, he was gone to unleash it.

The basement was cold and damp, the smell of mildew mixing with the stench of fear. The three men who had taken you were bound tightly to chairs, their heads slumped forward, blood dripping from their faces from the initial beatings Sylus had given them when he'd first found you.

Their bodies were bruised and broken but that was nothing compared to what was coming. Sylus stood in the shadows, silent, watching them as they stirred, slowly waking to the nightmare that awaited them.

One of the men groaned, his head lifting as he squinted through swollen eyes. "W-Where are we?"

Sylus stepped forward, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. His face was devoid of emotion, cold, calculating. He was no longer the man who had cradled you in his arms at the hospital, no longer the man who had tried to soothe your pain with soft words. This was a different side of him— ruthless, unrelenting, and out for blood.

"You know exactly where you are" Sylus said, his voice low, a dangerous calmness to it. He crouched down in front of the man, his dark eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a shiver down the man's spine.

"And you know exactly who I am."

The man's breathing quickened, panic flashing across his face as he realized who was standing before him. "P-Please, we didn't mean to-"

Before he could finish, Sylus backhanded him, the force of the blow snapping the man's head to the side. Blood splattered onto the ground, and the man whimpered, his body trembling.

"You didn't mean to what?" Sylus hissed, standing up slowly, towering over him. "You didn't mean to kidnap my fiancée? Didn't mean to hurt her? Didn't mean to kill my child?" His voice was deadly now, each word punctuated with a barely restrained fury.

The man sobbed, his words a jumbled mess of apologies and excuses. Sylus's eyes darkened as he turned his attention to the others. "You're all going to pay for what you did."

He walked over to a table lined with tools— knives, pliers, a blowtorch. The sight alone was enough to make the men scream in terror, their bodies jerking against their restraints as they tried in vain to free themselves. But there was no escape. Sylus had made sure of that.

He picked up a pair of pliers, testing the grip with a snap before walking back to the man he had hit. "You took something from me that I can never get back” Sylus said quietly, his tone almost conversational. "So, I'm going to take something from you."

With that, he grabbed the man's hand and forced his fingers apart. The man screamed as Sylus clamped the pliers around one of his fingers and, without hesitation, ripped the nail clean off. Blood poured from the wound as the man howled in agony, his body convulsing in the chair. Sylus didn't flinch, his eyes cold and focused as he repeated the process on the next finger, and the next.

"Stop! Please! Stop!" the man begged, tears streaming down his face but Sylus was unmoved.

"You don't get to beg" Sylus said, his voice low and deadly.

He moved to the next man, who was already sobbing, begging for mercy. Sylus picked up a knife and with a swift motion, he sliced across the man's cheek, deep enough to leave a permanent scar but not enough to kill him. It was slow, deliberate, designed to inflict as much pain as possible without granting them the mercy of death.

The man screamed, his cries echoing off the walls of the basement. Sylus barely blinked as he moved to the last man, the leader of the group. The one who had orchestrated the entire thing.

Sylus leaned down close, his voice a whisper in the man's ear. "You're going to suffer the most and when I'm done with you, you'll beg me for death."

He grabbed the blowtorch, flicking it on with a soft hiss. The man's eyes widened in terror, his body shaking uncontrollably as Sylus held the flame close to his skin, the heat searing his flesh. The smell of burning skin filled the air and the man's screams were deafening but Sylus didn't stop. He burned him, inch by inch, savoring every moment of the man's agony.

Hours passed and by the time Sylus was done, the men were unrecognizable, their bodies broken and mutilated beyond repair.

They were still alive but barely. Sylus stood over them, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with the adrenaline that still pumped through his veins. The cold satisfaction of revenge washed over him but it didn't erase the pain. It didn't bring back what they had taken.

He wiped the blood from his hands and walked out of the basement, leaving the men to rot in their own misery. There was no rush to finish them off. They would suffer until their last breath.

but sylus ? He would return to you.

[l1tw1ck]

Leon's New Tattoo

Bottom!FTM Leon x Top!AMAB Reader

☆ Word Count: 1,309 ☆

AFAB Language Used | [Breaking the Thermostat (Series)]

CW: Attempted Non-Con (Consensual Sex), Womb Fucking, Breeding, Lactation, Slight Cum Inflation

“You're doing so well, Leon.” You litter kisses along his torso. “You're such a good boy…”

Leon moans softly as he feels your cock inch further inside him. Almost there.

“Just a little more, baby.” You say softly, reaching for his hand. He quickly takes it and squeezes it, looking down at his bulging belly as your cock travels deep into his pussy. So close. So—

Leon gasps as he feels your cock hitting his cervix, causing him to jolt awake.

Leon soon realizes he was dreaming and frowns. If only it was real. Although he's never thought about getting his cervix penetrated. It sounds extremely painful and obviously impossible. But for some reason, he desires it now. Very, very strongly. He turns his head towards your bed and bites his lip.

The two of you have been sharing a motel room for a few days. You got paired up and needed to go out of town for a mission. It's now the night before you head back home.

“Captain…” He murmurs. It feels like he's on fire. His pussy is drenched, more so than normal. He's always liked you but it feels so much more intense tonight. He gets up from his bed and goes over to yours. If he wakes you up, would you be willing to give him what he wants? You're married. He’s convinced there's no way you would. If he were in his right mind, he'd go to the bathroom and take care of it himself. But he's not. Not in the slightest. It's not like masturbation would fix the problem anyways.

Leon practically rips his pajamas off then hops onto your bed. He quietly pulls back your covers and then your pants. He smiles at the outline of your cock in your underwear and then pulls it down, letting your length free. He drags his wet pussy along your cock to get you aroused. He notices that you're somehow growing even larger. He moves to sit on your thighs and licks his lips hungrily at the sight of your now hard cock.

“Captain…you're too big..” Leon hisses in pain.

“You can take it, baby, I know you can.” You kiss his cheek. “Just a little more.”

Leon looks up at you with a pained smile.

“Almost there…” You hit his cervix. Leon screams in pain. “Fuck..”

Leon looks up at you. “Keep going, Captain…” He says, his voice cracking. He wants it as much as you do.

You hit it again and again and—

You wake up moaning. You look at Leon in surprise. He’s equally shocked. “Leon?”

“Captain…” He looks away from you.

You notice he's naked and that…there's…has he always had a tattoo on his womb? And is it supposed to be glowing? You reach out and touch it, mesmerized. Leon twitches and moans in response. You keep touching it and Leon keeps reacting.

“Captain~!” Leon moans, squirting on your thighs and the hotel bed.

You need to fuck him. You need to force yourself into his womb and get him pregnant no matter what. You take Leon by his waist and slam him onto the bed. You can feel yourself getting hotter by the second but you pay it no mind. All you care about is getting inside him. You hurriedly sink your cock into him, his abnormal wetness allowing for an easier slide, and slam into his cervix.

“Oh~!” Leon cries out. Oddly enough, he doesn't feel much pain. He loves pain and it seems like it was dulled just enough to keep it at a pleasurable level. “Keep going!”

He doesn't have to tell you twice. You ram into him like an angry bull. The sound of your combined moans fill the room, likely leaking out into the hall and bothering the rest of the tenants. If anyone were to check either of your temperatures, you’d both be sent to the emergency room. The both of you are flushed and incredibly horny, neither of you have the ability to spare even a single thought for your conditions.

Leon throws his head back, his moan caught in his throat as you enter his womb. “Ah–” He manages to speak. “Captain~!”

“Leon–” You moan, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You take in his sweaty scent, strangely attracted to it in the same way a dog would be. His pussy feels so sloppy and tight, you keep hearing the squelches every time you thrust. It's like climbing stairs, every time you hear a beautiful sound from Leon or every time his pussy squeezes you, you go up a stair and get closer to your orgasm. “Gonna get you pregnant,” You suck on his neck.

Leon makes joyful noises in response. “Yes– I wanna have your babies, Daddy!”

You accidentally bite him, turned on by your new pet name. A spurt of cum enters Leon’s womb, and then more until it gets filled up practically half way. He reacts like he's been struck by lightning, twitching before freezing up and squirting.

Neither of you are tired yet.

“Not enough..” You mumble. Leon nods. “Not full enough.” You touch his tattoo, his cunt flexes weakly.

Leon looks at you with a face you swear is the most seductive and sexy expression you've ever seen on his face. You grab his legs and put him into a mating press, somehow reaching deeper inside his pussy. He grabs your shoulders and moans beautifully as you resume your rough thrusts. Your minds are fuzzy and you're both dizzy with lust, any reasonable thoughts have been thrown out the window. No matter what, you're gonna get him pregnant tonight.

“Ah- ah- mm- Daddy~!” He scratches your arms hard enough to make you bleed but you surprisingly don't feel any pain. “Fuck!”

“Leon!” You let out a guttural moan of pleasure as you manage to thrust even faster. His nails sink deeper into your skin. You grab one of his breasts and push it upwards. You lean in and start sucking on his nipple, your actions starting to become more desperate as you feel sweet tasting liquid inside your mouth. Leon mewls, squirting once again. You pant heavily as you continue climbing that flight of stairs.

“Just a little more, baby–” You bite your lip. He whimpers sweetly, not feeling overstimulated at all. Your movements become slower and lose their rhythm as you reach your orgasm. You moan his name as you now completely fill up his womb with your cum, his stomach getting slightly inflated.

The both of you collapse at the same time.

Leon’s eyes flutter open, a strong feeling of shock as he realizes he's cuddling with you with your soft cock inside of him. Memories from the night before come flooding into his mind, his face red with embarrassment. He slowly and skillfully moves away from you. He gasps at the amount of cum flowing out of him. He's definitely pregnant.

The tattoo is gone now. He touches his womb from the outside, no reaction.

“...Leon?” You wake up. He turns to look at you. “....Shit.”

“I don't know how to explain it..”

“Me neither. Did I hurt you?”

“No. I…” He looks away. “It was good…The only thing I regret is not doing it sober.”

“I feel the same way.”

He whips his head around. “You do?”

“I do. I’m in the process of getting divorced…if you want to wait…”

Leon nods quickly.

You smile then frown as you see your cum on the bed sheets. “You might be pregnant. I’ll support whatever decision you make.”

Leon presses his hand against his stomach. “I don't know yet..”

“That's okay.” You hold his hand. You have a feeling that regardless of the outcome, things will only get better from here.

[yandere-wishes]

˖ ࣪⊹𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞/𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⸸ Yandere! Capitano x reader

༒︎ Summary: He's the ice bearer, the monster sent to snuff out the flames of your homeland. But isn't that just love? To kill with such passion. Wouldn't anything else just be a lie?

🗡Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, reader has a pyro vision and wields a claymore

𓌜 author's note: I made some Girlypop Capitano edits to sorta fit the vibe: One & Two

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Do you love me? Or do you love how I make you feel?

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Kachina is lost

She does not emerge from the scared flame

Nor does her ancient name echo across the skies.

Life stills, death looms.

light wanes, darkness reaches.

The glow of the sacred flame burns your eyes.

It's ambers whispering grime truths.

"I volunteer to go, too. You'll need all the help you can get."

Mavuika's flame mane rasps across her shoulders as she shakes her head. Lips taut in thought, sepia brows furled in eccentric fret. You've yet to see this shade of worry painted across your archon's face.

"I can't afford to excuse you, especially now that I fear my powers are dwindling. I need someone to have my back. Besides I'm sure the champians can handle it."

Duty first, that's the oath of the Princesses of Flame. Guard the archon with your life, protect her through any means necessary.

You force your head into a sharp nod.

The chill in the stadium air sends a nervous tang rippling through your spine. You've heard the Wayob speak of this sort of frost before. This all encompassing thing.

His boots grace the stadium floor with all the grace of falling stars. Ethereal armor glows in the soft roar of dancing flames. Icicles in dawn's first light.

The tall figure tilts his armor-clad head up at the archon's perch, with impertinence. You almost swear you hear a chuckle of mockery chime from the inside of his helmet.

"Pyro Archon" he speaks, voice distant and distorted, ice on ice through hail storms. The chill glides across your body again, how can one man be so cold? Shouldn't the cold be a sweet thing? Relief from harsh suns and harsher fires?

"Since the oath made five centuries ago remains unfulfilled, what use is the gnosis in your hands?"

He is all ice. But not the sugar-laced ice cubes that float leisurely in spiced cacao milk. No. He is the harsh verglas only spoken of in hushed tones around grisly campfires. The ice that leaves plains frozen and destroyed. It kills all things warm, all things that breathe.

There is a chill in the air.

It penetrates the skin and nests between the bones.

subconsciously you run your fingers across your neck.

"I challenge you for the gnosis, for the right over Natlan's rules" He shrugs off the heavy cape, the multilayered garment with too much wool and heat.

Strange, strange thing.

It amazes you how he hasn't melted from wearing such stout apparel in such smoldering climate. He tosses it to the side careful to never ripe the precious fabric.

"Fight, or summon your champion"

Your hand rests heavily on Mavuika's shoulder. Eyes transfixed in a silent plea.

The people need their Archon.

Natlan needs its Archon.

Besides this is your duty.

Mavuika nods.

Red eyes never once straying from the intruder.

Vicious sparks flicker across your palm. Like sparking a match across dried bark. You feel the inforno's kiss licking past your skin, weaving into the bone, as your weapon materializes. Your fingers ring across the worn, burnt handle of your loyal armament.

"I shall fight you fatui, for the honor and glory of Natlan and the Pyro Archon."

He watches you through the mask, through the ebony darkness that shields his mysterious visage. He reminds you of how Saurians watch their prey. Weighing each tiny breath, tasting each heartbeat through the air. He looks nothing less than regally monstrous.

Like death, doom, and despair.

You've tasted this before, engraved the bitterness upon your tongue, and honed your body to fight it. He will not take Natlan, he will not condemn your home to his cold.

The weight of your claymore pulls you down. Plunging into hard rock. You watch as he bats the dust with his hand. Gloved and armoured. What is he hiding? You wonder. What man truly needs so many layers? Armor, ice, frost, steel, wool. You long to peel them away, desperate to find something human underneath. Something squishy and worm. You want to feel his heartbeath between your teeth. Drink from his warm blood and relish in the sweet aftertaste. A testament to how you conquered the cold.

You've never seen someone so eager to be hidden in layers up layers.

Snow on ice.

Ice on iron.

"You're awfully young to take on such a big responsibility little girl"

his voice makes you shiver, you can almost taste his ice on your tongue.

Bitter, like barbwire and salt.

"Don't mock me Fatui" You warn, molding your body into a battle stance, knees folded almost kissing the stadium floor, weapon clasped with both hands. Eyes on the target.

Just like Mavuika taught you.

Just like you taught Kachina.

You can feel the heat from your vision coursing through your body, cracking your bones and mingling with marrow. You wait, just one more breath. You use the pyro blessing to project yourself through the air, like an arrow aimed straight for the man made of ice and lies. Swinging your claymore, ready to dent his helmet - and hopefully his head inside-  but he blocks it with his glacier sword. Just a thin dainty thing, capable of quelling your inferno-laced colossus.

Capitano advances, with a flick of his sword he pushes you back. Your heart hammers wildly, someone so skilled so strong, it's almost a shame he can never compete in the pilgrimage. That he can never be on your side.

You use the momentum of his push to frontflip through the foggy air. You land squarely on his wide shoulders, digging your foot into his trapezius muscle, while your knee scrapes his other shoulder for balance. You swing your claymore once more, trying to strike his head off. But to your shock, he parries it with the back of his rime gauntlets.

You keep pushing trying to slice through ice, armor, flesh, anything. Yet everything about this man seems to be made of inviolable steel adorned with everlasting cyro. For a second the metal of his helmet kisses the inside of your thighs. There is no shame in battle, no flirting with the opponent. There are only two bodies entwined until death and defeat. Until one rises and one falls. Still, there's something about the way his black face, regards yours that has a shy blush creeping on the hollows of your cheeks. The man, no this formidable monster is far too close, it's almost as if he's longing for a kiss. You leap back, whispering patronymic blessing to the Archon when your feet meet solid rock once more.

"You fight well little girl, but your attacks are careless, loose. You can not defeat opponents if you can not penetrate their defenses."

He dashes, so quickly you almost think he's flickering between the ground and air. You feel his familiar cold before, you feel the hilt of his sword nestle into your abdomen. He leans forward, helmet sending frostbite through the side of your head "You smell so sweet, like the roses of Snezhnaya". Capitan thrusts his sword with raw force sending you soaring into the stadium walls, the rocks crumple around you, as you struggle to lift yourself up once more.

Your eyes try to carve sight through dust and debris. The air is thick, hot and cold. You blink twice desperate for your eyes to focus. There are silhouettes dancing towards you twirling through the air like Yumkasaurus.

Capitano's ice projectiles glide through the air, they're almost beautiful if you could doubt their lethality. He commands them with flickers of his wrist, and it's only when their frost kisses your body that you fully remember this is a battle, not a dance. They lounge themselves between your ribs, underneath your heart, in the plump of your thigh, the bullseye of your shoulder. Pretty icicles cut open your flesh burying themselves deeply inside you, you'd almost dub it romantic, with how the icicles intonate to your erratic heartbeat.

The frost begins to infiltrate your vascular flow, cauterizing you from the inside. Spreading through the outside, you hiccup out a low moan. Capitano laughs, in a tone that feigns mockery. "I see my ice is to your liking". You bite your lip holding back another moan, it's so wholly painful yet so satisfying. You were right the cold does offer such a delicious relief from the blazing inferno all around.

Your opponent stalks closer, kneeling by your freezing body. You doubt Muarvirka can see through the grey air permutating the stadium. Maybe that's why, away from all prying eyes. The captain lifts his helmet revealing smirking lips. He grazes the side of your mouth with a faux kiss. savoring your warmth before, parting your lips, and deepening the kiss. Even his lips are utterly frozen, he sucks you flames from your mouth extinguishing your fires, with blood-deep frost. He runs a cold iron-clad claw across her cheek, scrapping up the skin, creating a rivulet of red. Before licking it lovingly with his icy tongue. "Why are you so cold?" you shutter, "Why so frostbitten? Has no one ever taught you the joys of the flame?"

He laughs, really really laughs this time. And while you still can't see his eyes, you swear they soften. "I've been burnt too many times, trust me the cold has its merits. But one must be willing to surrender to them."

Capitano plucks your body from the ground. He cradles you roughly in his arms.

He has no warmth to offer.

No heat.

He is only ice.

The fog yields, as you look up. Mavuika screams, her anger palpable. "I'll accept her as my prize for now archon" Capitano spits. "But next time I shall challenge you and know that I will take the gnosis too."

The flames in the stadium roar, trying to melt away the frost plaguing your body. Trying to replenish your spark. You begin to flail and kick, desperate to be liberated from Capitano's iron and frost-clad grasp.

You need to break free, to return to your archon's side, to be there when the others return with Kachina. You can not let this monster pilfer you away from your home, your people, your archone.

"Let me go!" you scream, your last attempt at a battle cry.

"Shhh, war trophies have no right to refuse."

��⋆⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆⋆⋆

Super tempted to draw the reader's outfit!!

🪐 @definitely-asexual-volcano @eth3realc0rps3  @numberonefanfury  @madara3437 @crystalkat6747 @m00nlight-mexican @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @orcasandtea @tecchoukisserr

[kmt123whatsthetea]

The wonders of ink

Fred Weasley x reader x George Weasley

‘Fred and George prank you by getting your clothes dirty, only to take you to the bathrooms to help you clean off’

A/N: I decided to repost (so nobody thought I was dead). I’ve been gone for so long and I feel guilty so I decided to deliver smut upon you all haha. My dear sister helped me to write this (Her Wattpad account is @Darkness_Donut. Feel free to give her a look if you’re in the Wattpad area)

T/W: Unprotected sex, The twins being kinda pervy, Groping, Double penetration

Fred and George put a lot of work into every prank.

Whether it was as simple as a ‘Hex Me’ note on Ron’s back or as sophisticated as creating a new type of chocolate that caused facial warts.

Not only did they put work into their pranks, but they also put pride into them. Each one was like their child, born and sent into the world to cause mischief. The prank they planned for you, however, was less like a prank and more like a plot for something even better than the typical annoyed scowl the pranks were usually met with.

While other students prepared for various classes and homework projects, Fred and George would stay locked in their dorm, perfecting the key catalyst for their interaction with you.

The twins were head over heels in love with you. While most people would approach you with a normal greeting and a proposition for a date, the twins needed to do more. Go big or go home was practically their motto. So when their newest creation was ready, all they had to do was wait for the perfect moment.

____________________________________________

You had been in the courtyard. Your nose stuck in the book that was cradled in your hands. So unsuspecting and sweet. The way the wind blew your hair, how your eyes were glued to the words.

George approached you, not too close that you’d notice but close enough that he could start phase one of the plan. He pulled out a small vial, the liquid inside a dark blue that stained the glass. He took a deep breath before uncorking the bottle and taking a step closer, ‘tripping’ over the tree branch and spilling the liquid over your uniform.

You squealed and moved the book aside, looking between the fresh stain and the redhead who threw it on you.

“George! What in Merlin's beard have you done?!”

George just shrugged his shoulders, putting on an apologetic look. The same look he gave his mum when she scolded him for putting a spell on Percy’s breakfast which caused the sausages to spout legs.

“I didn’t mean too, honest. I just kinda…tripped”

You did not look pleased, understandably so. George almost felt guilty but then he remembered the plan. It was all going smoothly, even if you might disagree.

“I feel awful. How about we go to the Prefects bathroom and get you cleaned up before it dries?”

With a sigh, you followed George.

The walk to the prefect's bathroom was filled with you grumbling about the stain and scolding George for not being careful. The bathroom was empty (all thanks to a little spell that temporarily made the door disappear). The baths were filled to the brim with hot water and bubbles, steam dampening the air.

Fred emerged from around one of the pillars, smirking as he looked you up and down.

“Good job, George. I knew you could get our girl here. You know, love, you should really clean up that stain. Wouldn’t want Snape taking away our hard earned points, now would you?”

George moved closer to you, his chest barely touching your back. Fred leaned against the pillar, staring at the black spot on your shirt. You crossed your arms, letting out a huff. You could practically see the burning desire in Fred’s eyes from across the room, the heat from George sneaking through the back of your shirt and warming your skin.

“You’d both like that, huh? Why don’t I just have a bath while I'm at it?”

George ignored your sarcastic tone and leaned closer, his breath tickling your ear.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea, sweetheart. We’ll get you nice and clean”.

Something about George’s soft tone caused your hands to rise to your top button, both sets of eyes glued to your fingers as they popped open the first button of many. One by one, your shirt slowly opened. The shirt had luckily (or unluckily) caught the liquid and stopped it from seeping through to your bra and skin underneath.

George helped you to slip the fabric from off your body before Fred stepped closer and took it from him. He held it up with a smirk.

“There’s nothing here, love. Maybe you just wanted to get naked for us”.

The white shirt was clean. Not a spot or stain in sight. The sight of your wide eyes and confused look made Fred chuckle. George rubbed your arms.

“Our newest prank, disappearing ink. We heard Harry talking about how his idiot muggle cousin had some so we wanted to make our own. We made it especially for you”.

Your hand darted out to snatch the fabric from Fred, smoothing your fingers over the fabric that was once stained to see if it was really gone. Both boys watched as your expression turned from confusion to shock to a mix of desire and anger. You were angry that the twins had tricked you and pulled you away from your book but you couldn’t help but feel hot at the thought that they made an ink just to get you in your bra. Maybe a reward for all their hard work wouldn’t be so bad.

George tugged on the bra clasp, his lips ghosting down your neck before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. A shiver ran up your spine at the feeling, but you didn't push him away. Fred toyed with the hem of your skirt, watching as your eyes glazed over with desperation.

“I need you both. Please make me feel good”

Fred tugged your skirt up, using his other hand to trace his fingers over the elastic of your underwear. He slowly trails your underwear down your smooth legs and helps you step out of them so your dripping folds are on display to him. As you look upon their faces, both of them lick their bottom lips in unison. George finally pulls your bra off, tossing it with your discarded shirt.

How could you look so innocent in just your skirt with your tits out? To the twins, you were like a graceful doe who wandered into the hunters' den. George practically growled as his hands groped your tits, squeezing the sensitive flesh. Your eyes closed and you let out a whimper that was sweeter than any sugary treat from Honeydukes.

Fred took the opportunity to unzip his trousers, shimmying them down enough to pull his cock out. Every noise that escaped your lips made it jerk in his hand. He stepped closer, his tip pressing snugly against your clit and leaving a splodge of precum. His hand wrapped around your thigh, tugging it up and over his hip while George held you upright. His head speared through your folds, your slick coating his shaft.

“Do you want this, love? You want me inside of you? Maybe we should see if that tight little hole can handle Georgie and I at the same time. I can feel how wet that makes you, Sweetheart. The thought of taking two cocks, we’d break that sweet pussy open”

George tugged at your earlobe with your teeth, only pulling back when a whine bubbled up from your throat.

“I think you want us to ruin you for other men”

Your voice couldn't have been more than a whisper, but it was filled with every dirty promise and beg that would only be privy to the twins’ ears.

“I want you two. I want other guys to look at me and know that I belong to you”

“Sweetheart, you already belong to us”

George moved his hand down to push his trousers down and pull his cock out, pressing it at your entrance before pulling you against him. His cock slid inside of you, your warm cunt hugging his shaft.

Fred brushed his fingertips against your clit, taking in the sight of your hole stretched around his brother's cock. It was gonna be a tight fit. He nudged at your entrance, his tip trying to find a space big enough to squeeze into. With a bit more persistence, he was pushing forward, the desperation to be buried inside of you fueling him.

You tried to stay still, trying not to squirm or clench. The stretch was so intense that you swore you could even feel the blood pumping through the veins decorating their shafts. Every pulse, every nudge felt like it would rip you in two.

When Fred’s tip finally pushed through the small opening, the squealed moan that left your lips was enough for George to press his hand to your lips to muffle any sound. As much as they loved the noises you were making, they couldn’t get suspended so close to graduating. There would always be other occasions to hear your pretty moans.

The sight was one to behold. The twins wished they could photograph your pussy stuffed with both of their cocks and frame it, only to watch the replay over and over.

An obscene squelching filled the room as they repeatedly stuffed their cocks into you. The stretch brings you closer to the edge than ever before. Your walls clenched, trying to both push their cocks out and pull them deeper. It didn't take long before you were cumming, clenching around them in a desperate need to be full of their cum.

George's hand stayed over your mouth, his lips whispering sweet praises in your ear. Fred lips were pressed against your forehead, giving chaste kisses here and there. Their groans echoed throughout the room when they felt you cum around them. You felt too good to be true. It took them 3 months to make that ink.

It was worth every single minute.

A mix of their cum flooded your insides, but there was so much that it started spilling out. But they didn't pull out just yet. With how much effort went into getting you between them, they were gonna make this last for as long as possible. It was only after they came down from their high that they noticed just how much of a mess you all made. Cum spots stained your skirt and their trousers. Fred’s chuckle caught your attention.

“Maybe we should clean you up for real this time”

[demonicintegrity]

“The golden age of America begins right now” my dude groceries are expensive and will not get cheaper overnight.

“We will be the envy of every nation” we’re not. And will not be.

Just. Eugh.

“A tide of change is sweeping over the country.” Sure is. That is correct observation.

“We now have a government that cannot manage a single issue from home” YOU MISMANAGED COVID?

YOU ARE BRING UP IMMIGRANTS NOW??

“They don’t have a home anymore. That’s interesting.” Those rich people have second and third homes and can always afford more. Shut the fuck up. If you care about people care about the people who cannot afford such things.

“I was saved by god to make America great again.” I cannot stress enough how much I dislike any god that could’ve sent this man to us.

“Meet every crisis with dignity, power and strength.” Remember when you sharpied on the path of a hurricane.

LIBERATION DAY??? FROM WHAT???

“Most consequential election…” yeah. Sure. Sure is.

Oh no not the historic executive orders— COMMON SENSE???

Declaring a national emergency at our southern border (and receiving standing ovation for it), beginning the process of deportations for “criminals” and sending troops to our border. Which. Surely won’t escalate violence at all.

I’m not familiar with this illegal aliens act from the 1700s but I fear I’m about to be very aware about it. I cannot imagine this is anything good.

DRILL BABY DRILL??? THATS GONNA SOLVE THE NATIONAL ENERGY EMERGENCY?? YOURE SHITTING ME.

“We will be a rich nation again, and it will be—

ENDING THE GREEN NEW DEAL, USING THE OIL UNDER OUR FEET WHILE CALIFORNIA BURNS. Fucking hell.

“We will tariff and tax foreign countries to enrich our citizens.” Somehow. I don’t believe that will enrich us.

Establishing the ERS and DOGE. Ough.

And he’s gonna bring back free speech while criticizing Seth Meyers for poking at him….. and he’s gonna stop political persecution. Yeah sure. Sure. Sure sure sure.

SOCIALLY ENGINEER RACE AND GENDER INTO PUBLIC AND PRIVATE PLACES?? THAT WAS HAPPENINGG.

It’s official policy. Only Male and Female. It’s really going to be official policy. Oh my fucking god. From a party that denies climate change. Oh my fucking god. I’m nonbinary and that’s about to be a fucking challenge.

“The wars we never get into.” Didn’t we worry about ww3 last time?

“That’s what I wanna be, a peacemaker and unifier.” YOURE NOT. YOU ARE NOT.

WHY ARE YOU CHANGING THE GULF OF MEXICO??

“foolishly given to the country of Panama” ITS ON THEIR LAND AND THEY CONTROL IT?? HELLO??? Yet China is operating the Panama Canal???

“As we liberate our nation” from WHAT. What are you liberating us from!?

“Pursue our manifest destiny” didnt that genocide natives— PLANT A FLAG ON MARS?

Yeah no this entire speech has been. A little concerning to say the least. And it just keeps going and going.

“Full of compassion, courage, and exceptionalism.” You are the least compassionate person here. Please.

I just. Don’t feel great after that. Hm.