#he's been fighting since day 1 actually

[yrsonpurpose]

protective!alex

[pennedinblood]

as of ten minutes ago we are officially Jobless™️. my sign to retire early and devote the remainder of my existence to writing toxic old man yaoi

[joelsgoldrush]

“crawl home to her” | 7.5k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Will he be able to control himself once he's near you? In this moment, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you. OR Like a sinner seeking absolution, he finds his way back to you after every absence, as if you're the only salvation he's ever known.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. dirty talk. some fluff. comfort. feelings. self-deprecation. miscommunication. sort of established relationship. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). petnames. religious imagery. logan's POV. chauffeur!logan. dom!logan. reader wears logan's dog tags and clothes. pussy pronouns. phone sex. oral sex (f and m receiving). 69. fingering. masturbation (he jerks off in the limo). one (1) single spank. sort of rough sex. unprotected p in v. creampie.

A/N: i wrote this as a part 2 of this story, but still, it can be read as a standalone (i'd recommend that you also read the first part as well 👀 you'll understand their relationship better). hope you like this one! <3

Logan is tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.

He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl inside his chest, teasing his lungs. Doesn’t even bother to crack the window open—why would he?—before exhaling, the haze lingering inside the limo like a fog.

One quick glance at his phone screen just to make sure his vision isn’t screwing him over—no older notifications. A pang of disillusionment settles in his being.

Not only is he fighting to keep his eyes open, exhausted from driving the same family around for the past few days while they enjoy their quality time, but he’s also bored out of his mind. 

Where the hell are you?

He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher up on the bridge of his nose, preventing them from sliding down to his lap. When his phone buzzes, he jolts, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the limo due to his excitement.

His poor heart gallops as he fumbles with the screen, unlocking it with the same urgency as a man starved for contact.

But it’s not you. It’s one of his passengers.

We’re getting out in half an hour, the message reads. By we, she means herself, her husband, and their two kids.

Logan can’t bring himself to type an actual reply, so he leaves her on read. She knows he’s not going anywhere, parked outside the arcade as if he’s rooted in place with no way out.

Family after family enters that hell on earth, kids of all ages bouncing on their heels, voices shrill with enthusiasm. He watches, half-heartedly, as parents get dragged by their little ones, who negotiate how much money they are allowed to spend tonight.

He almost feels bad for those parents. Almost. He hopes that at least they know how to say ‘No’.

All in all, he’s got another thirty minutes of solitude ahead. The radio has long since ceased to entertain him. He’s been parked here for two hours, and his mind is starting to drift. He could stretch his legs, walk around, or maybe grab a drink—but damn it.

He wants to talk to you.

You’d said he could call you after dropping the family off. That was three hours ago. The last message he received from you was still stuck in his head, replaying over and over like a lifeline. Logan knows you must be busy, probably taking care of Charles and—

Okay, he’ll get back to that later. 

You: Just got out of the shower. Call me in five?

Right now, he could die a happy man. Were he a dog, his tail would be wagging furiously, anticipation already building for the simple joy of hearing you.

Logan: Got it.

The next five minutes feel like an eternity. He finishes his cigar, flicking the stub beneath the seat without giving it a second thought. For now, he doesn’t care about being a messy fucker. He’ll deal with the mess some other time.

Priorities.

A quick spritz of some cheap air freshener he picked up from a gas station fills the car, masking the distinctive scent of smoke. God forbid the kids start whining about how ‘weird’ it smells in the limo.

With a grimace, he sprays a little more—floral, of all scents? It feels insulting.

How kind of him to still be this considerate.

His thumb hovers over your contact, and he presses the call button with an agility he hasn’t had in years (thanks to you).

One, two, three rings, and then—

“Logan,” you say softly, your voice a little breathless, like you’ve been hurrying all over the place.

He stops grinding his jaw, the tension in his shoulders easing. He unclenches his fists, fingers uncurling one by one, as if letting go of some invisible burden.

Outside the vehicle, people stop dying, babies stop being born, and the world itself pauses just for him to listen to you.

You can’t see him, but he smiles either way. “Hey, baby.”

“Gosh, I’m so sorry. I lost track of time talking to Charles. We had dinner, and then I just—I felt so gross, you know? From cooking and all that. Took a shower, and it got pretty late.”

You end with a sigh, and he imagines you rubbing a hand over your face. “Please tell me you weren’t sleeping when I texted you.”

“Not even close. Still waiting for them.”

“They’re really taking their time, huh?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmurs, his fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the steering wheel. “How was your day?”

“Great! I’m already in bed.”

“My bed.”

You laugh, that sweet sound making his heart stutter. “Well, yeah. Where else do you want me to sleep if I’m at your place? On the floor?”

If someone had told Logan a year ago that he’d let someone live in his space, let alone take care of Charles, he’d have scoffed. "Pathetic," he’d have said, rolling his eyes with that familiar growl in his throat. Pretty sure he’d also puffed his chest while saying so.

Because Logan Howlett wasn’t one for accepting help. He’s been on his own since the earth was still cooling down.

But for you? He made exceptions. Plenty of them. And if it weren’t for your altruism, he wouldn’t have accepted this job—a job that pays well enough to cover Charles’ meds and put food on the table. He needs this rich family’s money.

“You’ve got a girlfriend now?” Charles had asked, when Logan explained he’d be staying with you while he went away for a few days.

“Big word you’re using there,” Logan had replied, placing two pills into Charles’ palm. The old man gave him a death stare. “Don’t play dumb. It’s not like you don’t know the drill.”

Mumbling something incoherent before swallowing the pills, Charles had taken slow sips of water between each one, sinking back into the mattress with a weary sigh. “If she’s not your girlfriend, then what is she?”

“A friend.”

“That’s nice. Is that what they’re calling it now?”

He shakes that memory away, forcing his mind back to the call. “Try not to be so kind to him. What if he falls in love with you?” he inquires, a mocking tone weaving through his words. 

And that’s when you drop the bombshell. “You mean like you did?” 

You laugh, but Logan… doesn’t. He can’t do it. He makes sure he’s breathing on command: in and out, in and out, in and out. 

The mention of love unsettles him. He doesn’t feel safe anymore, doesn’t know what game you’re playing. Where’s the rulebook?

Is he—could he be—falling in love with you? Is that what you’re implying? And if so, do you feel the same?

In the long run, you mumble: “It was a joke.” Only then do his lungs fill with fresh air, untainted by the weight of his unease. But he can’t let it pass, the fact you sound disappointed. Defeated.

He promised himself he’d never hurt you. Though he doesn’t intend to, it feels as if he’s just stabbed you in the back, twisting the knife further into your frame—unwillingly.

“Remember the—” he pauses a moment, throwing his head back in frustration, silently cursing himself. “The pills. You’ve been giving them to him, right?”

“Yes, Logan.”

“Please, remember it’s only—”

“Logan,” you try again, cutting through the wave of his spiraling thoughts. He can picture you behind closed lids, looking at him through your lashes, your hand resting gently on his chest. “I have it under control, okay? He’s doing alright. I swear I’m taking good care of him.”

“I don’t doubt that, honey.” Casting a glance at the rearview mirror, he feels an unexpected sense of longing for your presence there, like a ghost haunting his every move, confined to the limits of his brain. “Can’t help but worry. That’s all.”

A soft hum reverberates through the line. He hears the rustle of sheets, the sound of you tossing around in his bed, and his pulse quickens at the thought.

“You said you’re sleepin’ on my bed.”

“Good memory you have.”

“You wearin’ my clothes as well?”

 Thick silence, the kind he relishes.

“Yeah,” you finally reply, shifting the phone from side to side. You take a deep breath, and add: “I forgot to bring mine.”

He hates how you easily find a way to get him riled up despite being miles away. It must be the power of words.

“I don’t believe you.” He knows he shouldn’t, hates himself for doing it, but one of his hands palms the half-hard bulge in his black slacks, suppressing a low groan. “Think you did it on purpose.”

A rush of heat, sharp and urgent, washes over him. Is he really about to do this? Get himself off in the very car he uses for work? Twisted, incredibly sick of him, he thinks.

Still, he craves more. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

You laugh at his demanding tone, fanning the flames of his desperation. “When did you turn into a horny teenager?”

“Always been, baby,” Logan purrs, undoing the button of his pants, followed by the fly. His eyes flick upwards for just a moment—no cars, no one in sight. He’s presumably alone. It’s all the confirmation he needs to say: “C’mon. Tell your old man what clothes you stole from him.”

He’s never done this before—phone sex. He’s heard about it, sure, but never imagined he’d fall so hard for the idea. The thrill of it sinks into him, electrifying.

What are you doing? Is your lip caught between your teeth? Do your eyes wander down your own body? Maybe your fingers are already skimming over your skin.

“It’s just a random shirt,” you murmur. “Plain, white.”

“What else?”

“There’s nothing else.”

Logan’s breath hitches as his hand moves to his cock, spotting the damp patch on his briefs where the tip has already started to leak. The moment he slides the elastic down past his balls, he fists his shaft in a slow stroke, going from the base to the head. “No panties? And you expect me t’believe this wasn’t planned?”

Your muffled whimper is like molten lava spilling into his ear, bringing him to full hardness. More shuffling follows on your end, driving him wild with the anticipation. “Why do you do this to me if you’re not here?”

“‘Cause I want you touchin’ yourself just like I’m doin’.” He thumbs the head, hips jerking involuntarily at the sensation. He aches to feel your mouth there instead. “Bet that pussy’s been cryin’ out for me, huh? Must’ve got used to me fillin’ her every other night.”

Your breathing grows more uneven, small gasps filtering through the speaker. “I need you here with me. This is—ugh—not enough.”

“What’s not enough, sweetheart?”

There’s a pause as the sound of your phone shifts again, and then he hears it clearly—the wet, needy sound of your fingers working between your legs, filling the silence with the loud squelching of your cunt. “My fingers,” you blurt out, more distant than before, like you’re merging with the bed, dissolving with every touch.

Logan spits roughly into his palm, the slickness of his saliva easing the drag of his calloused hand along his length, good enough to make the movement more satisfying.

He moans aloud, eyes shut tight, your name slipping from his lips, a whispered prayer, as if saying it could somehow summon you to his side. “I spoil you too much,” he rasps, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder, using every resource available to him, anything to feel something real. “Seems like you’ve forgotten how to make yourself come.”

Your moans follow his, the breathy sounds a clear sign of how close you are, hanging on the edge, your release just a heartbeat away. But it’s not enough, and you need him. He wonders if you can feel his thoughts from miles away, because— “Want your cock so bad, Lo. I m-miss you.”

He has to stop jerking himself to hold off his orgasm, stomping his foot against the pedals. “Fuck, darlin’. You keep sayin’ those things and I swear I’ll be back with you by morning.”

His sole focus now is you—getting you to come. Driven by his growing frenzy, it’s the only coherent thought that claws through the haze in his mind. “Keep talking, please,” you plead, fingers still lost in the heat of your body. “Tell me what you’ll do to me when you see me.”

Logan picks up the rhythm again, his movements faltering as his chest heaves, ragged breaths spilling out while his hand works faster. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep, just how you like it. Face to face, so you can kiss me as much as you want, ‘cause I know my girl loves that, am I right?”

My girl. He’ll regret that one the second the high fades and clarity sets in.

Word after word falls from his lips without thought, uncontrollable, as though he’s surrendered to the storm of desire raging in his being—a storm in which your name is the eye of it all.

You are everywhere, and you take up all the empty spaces he thought were impossible to fill, sinking into the depths of his unconsciousness.

Not a single part of him is left untouched by you, by the power of your presence in his life, consuming him in ways he never imagined.

Your airy mewls ripple through the line, feeding his ravenousness, adding to the tightening knot of pleasure coiling low in his abdomen. His muscles strain, thighs tensing. Each stroke of his hand prolongs this sweet torture. 

“Come for me, princess. You’d make me so h-happy if you came right now.”

And you do, because it’s not just his touch anymore—it’s his voice, and the way he commands you without force. How you’ve become accustomed to him, nodding along to each instruction he mutters.

Beneath your fingers, your swollen clit pulses, and though he can’t see it, he imagines it perfectly, having spent enough time worshiping it.

He knows, even from a distance, what your body must be doing. Your back arching off the bed, thighs quivering and clenching tight around your own hand. Those perfect legs of yours trembling as you reach your so-desired climax.

Loud and unrestrained, you moan, and for a moment, he wants to be with you so badly that he ponders if the theory of traveling across time and space sounds that far-fetched after all.

Logan doesn't need much after that for the thread to snap at long last, his groans dying on his lips as he stares in awe at the spurts of his seed landing wherever his eyes fall: a bit on the top of his pants, on his hand, his briefs. His cock twitches in his grip as he continues stroking himself through the aftershocks, gulping when it becomes too much to handle.

So phone sex is off the list now. Great.

“Miss you, too,” he mumbles once he’s caught his breath, tossing his glasses onto the passenger seat. His forehead feels damp to the touch, and he contemplates when was the last time he came this hard.

The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet. He knows you expect him to say more, something deeper and rawer, but that’s all he can force himself to spit out.

Sometimes, he forgets that you can’t read him all the time. Although you know him better than anyone else, there are certain thoughts and memories locked tightly inside him, things you'd never discover on your own. Secrets he admits he should share with you, but he’s at a loss for how. Words aren’t doable when he needs them the most.

Maybe it's a matter of age—you’re a natural at voicing your feelings.

At some point, you ask: “When did you say you were returning?”

One thing’s clear: he can’t afford to lose you. He’d be an idiot if he let that happen.

“In five days, I think.” Were he with you, he'd hold you in his arms, kissing your lips. God, how he misses kissing you. All of you. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“It’s okay,” you respond, and in his mind, a blank canvas fills with the familiar image of you lying on your side, curling into a ball the way you always do. “I should go to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Thank you for everything. “Get some rest.” Are you still in love with me? “Bye.” I’m coming back. You know how I feel about you, do you?

So much left unsaid, words he lacks the strength to speak. That, along with his come-stained clothes. And, of course, the limousine now perfumed like a flower shop.

Exhaustion clings to him again.

His luck has never been this good.

The next afternoon, one of the couple’s kids falls ill. Must be something he ate, the woman tells Logan, her voice light, though he can hear the shuffle of urgency behind her words.

Her husband packs their bags in the background, the muted thuds of luggage hitting the floor. You know how children are. Their hands are always filthy!

What she doesn’t realize is that Logan, in fact, doesn’t know how children are, because how could he?

He’s holed up in the hotel across the street, his only responsibility being to wait on their call, ready to drive whenever they needed him. Needless to say, his accommodations are nothing like theirs. Not that he minds it—he’s not one for luxury, has never needed it.

Truth be told, he’s no stranger to beds that groan if you shift slightly, clogged toilets that spit back water like they’re alive.

Joy rushes through him when he hears the news. He’s coming back earlier than expected, a thrill building in his chest. Twelve days he’s been away, his greed growing with each second in that desolate hotel room.

Now, the beating of his heart quickens, a faint thrumming as he stares out the window. He debates whether to let you know about his early return or keep it as a surprise. Would it be better if he just showed up?

How would you feel, knowing that, by the time the lights are out, he’ll be yours again?

He knows he should feel sorry for the poor kid, but all he can muster is a look of concern that barely reaches his eyes. Each time they pull into a gas station, he listens to the hurried slap of footsteps as the boy rushes for the bathroom to empty his insides.

He watches in the rearview as the kid’s father shakes his head, clicking his tongue with disapproval. “Do you have kids?” he asks, his voice forced into a casual tone, like he’s trying to break the silence that’s settled between them. 

Logan’s only response is to turn up the radio, some pop song he’s never heard spilling from the speakers. The lyrics are a blur of nonsense to him, but it’s enough to drown out the man’s words and the boy’s misery.

Some things never change.

As the sun dips below the horizon, he’s finally free, no longer at anyone’s beck and call. He contemplates the possibility of getting a speeding ticket, weighing his options. It hardly matters. The pull to see you, to feel you, is stronger than anything else.

Even though he tries to think of another time in his life when he felt such a raw need, no memory comes close.

When he does pull up to his place, he does it quietly. Parking the limo, he doesn’t honk, doesn’t announce himself. Fumbling with the keys ever so lightly so as not to wake you up, fitting them into the lock.

His wrist twists, and the door gives way with a soft creak.

Anxiety ripples through him as he steps inside. The smell of freshly cooked food hits him, but it only tightens the knot in his stomach, reminding him of how long it’s been since he last ate.

Later, he tells himself. After. Once he’s sated his true hunger—the kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by sinking his fingers into something real, fleshy, malleable. 

Hunger—yes, it’s animalistic, feral even. Will he be able to control himself once he’s near you? In moments like this, he feels more animal than human. Creeping, on the verge of crawling, back to you.

His feet take him to his bedroom, knowing the path to it very well. Fingers hovering over the knob, he takes a deep breath.

It’s already late, past midnight, yet energy courses through his veins as though he’s just woken from a long, ethereal dream.

He finds you asleep, your body wrapped snugly in the sheets, clutching a pillow close to your chest. Your cheek is pressed into it, breathing soft and steady, lulling him in. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he kicks off his shoes, then slips in beside you, mirroring your position. 

A lamp sits on his nightstand, one that isn’t his, and he figures you must have brought it from your apartment. There has to be a symbolism for that.

It’s incredible how his entire world can fit into such a narrow bed.

The smart thing would be to let you sleep, to simply watch you for a moment longer. But he can’t help himself.

His thumb lingers near your face before gently cupping your cheek, and the very first contact with your skin sends a shudder through him, the warmth of your skin grounding him. He trails his fingers down to your chin, holding it with just enough pressure to remind himself that he’s here.

Leaning in, he presses his lips softly against your forehead, your typical perfume wrapping around him like a welcome.

Welcome home, Logan.

For the first time, he feels that someone’s been counting down the minutes until his return. He’d always believed a person like him didn’t deserve this. That he just wasn’t built for it.

Countless years had he spent convincing himself he’d never be the kind of man who could inspire love. His life had already been written long ago—predetermined by some cruel hand in the sky.

Destiny, fate, call it what you want—once the cards are laid out, there’s no escaping them. Or so he used to think.

You had taken that pen into your own hands, rewriting his future. You, of all people, had changed his life. No matter what the future held for the two of you, he’d always be grateful. Grateful that you’d seen the dim spark in him that others had chosen to ignore.

Thoughtlessly, his fingers continue their gentle strokes along your cheek, your hair. You stir beside him, shifting in your sleep. Your eyes flutter open, close again, and then open once more, blinking in confusion.

“Logan?” you croak, voice still groggy and thick with sleep, coming to your senses. Before he can respond, you throw yourself on top of him, smothering his face with kisses. “Why—how—”

“Sweetheart,” he says, attempting to hide his grin, but failing when your kisses shift to his neck, your nose nuzzling against his skin. A laugh slips out, warmth flooding his chest.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming home early!”

Home. Had he heard right? Had you used that word knowingly?

Peering into your eyes, he catches his reflection in your pupils, tiredness etched into his features. “Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You could’ve told me,” you reply, fingers threading through his greying locks, massaging his scalp. You place a tender kiss on the tip of his nose. “I would’ve waited up for you at least.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers back, gaze drifting to your lips, and you close the space between you, his sigh mingling with yours as one hand cradles the small of your back, fisting the fabric of his shirt. His other hand tilts your head, inviting your tongues to greet each other in an unhurried dance.

You move languidly on top of him, and he notices, breaking the kiss and pulling back. “You’re gonna fall asleep on me, are you?”

The way your lashes flutter in response should be illegal. “I could use a human-size pillow.”

“I should shower first.”

“No.”

“Baby, I smell like gas.”

“So?”

A smirk tugs at his lips at your insistence, and he gently lays you back against the mattress. Drawn to your charm once again, he licks into your mouth, mentally scolding himself when he gets carried away, letting the kiss linger longer than intended.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, pulling the sheets over your body. Resigned, you simply nod, settling on your side.

Ten minutes later, you’re dozing off, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when he slips into bed, wrapping himself around you from behind. One arm drapes over your waist, the other cushions your head, and there’s not a patch of skin between you left untouched.

Fatigue begins to delve deeper into his bones the longer he stays curled around you, but before the weight of sleep takes him, and the silence steals his chance, he huffs: “I missed you.” His beard grazes your skin in a soft, unintentional caress.

You pull his wrist to your lips, pressing a short-lived kiss to the inside of it. “Missed you, too.”

How the roles have reversed.

In the quietness of this starless night, you leave him no other choice but to believe you.

3:34 a.m. Still hostage to the lack of light outside. The world remains submerged in the gentle tides of sleep, undulating between dreams, except for him.

Logan wakes up at 3:34 a.m. because he’s rock hard, and being flushed against your back wasn’t helping him with his situation at all. If anything, it only heightened it.

He sits at the edge of the bed, his mind running in circles, debating whether he should jump to his feet and head to the bathroom for another shower—this time, a cold one. Returning to sleep, at least in this moment, is not a viable option.

His gaze drifts to the moonlight spilling through the window, casting its pale glow across the room. Is this your doing? The question lingers, unshakable, in his thoughts. It remains as just that: a question.

When you quietly rest your chin on his shoulder, he stifles a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek. Your voice breaks through the quiet.

“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” Wrapping your arms around him from behind, you circle his frame, in an effort to persuade him to sink back into the mattress.

“It’s nothing,” he says, pulse accelerating. Please, don’t look down. “I’ll be back in a second.”

“But what is—”

He doesn’t get to hear the rest of your sentence. You do look down, finding the outline of his hardened cock straining against his briefs, stealing your full attention.

“Wow.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“And leave you like this?” One hand creeps toward his waistband, your breath warm against his ear. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”

Your nails trace a path through the coarse hair at his navel, and Logan tenses. His legs feel like jelly as you cup his balls, fondling them gently between your fingers.

Behind him, your low chuckle stirs something primal in him, making his blood thrum hot beneath his skin. He should be the one doing this to you, not the other way around.

“Darlin’, I don’t—” He’s cut off by his own guttural groan when you fist his length, pumping him in rhythm with his uneven breaths. “I don’t need this.”

“Seems like you do,” you whisper, momentarily halting your ministrations to place your palm in front of his face, hoping he takes the hint. You kiss his stubble, pausing just short of his mouth. “I want to take care of you. Always do.”

Your palm hovers before him, inviting. Grabbing your wrist, he licks it, coating it in his spit and guiding you back down to him. Together, your hands glide along his length, and his gaze locks onto yours, the intensity of it making his neck tense.

You beam with delight under his stare. That red organ caged within his ribs—a blood-pumping machine of passion—surges back to life as he sees you.

He had won the battle. He had triumphed over his past; had lived enough lives, endured enough years, to arrive at this moment.

This had to be the purpose of his existence: to share this part of his stay on earth with you.

“You’re so hard,” you say, twisting your wrist at the tip of his cock, reveling in every buck of his hips, each movement a reflection of his exaltation. “Guess you did miss me.”

With a quiet growl, he reaches behind, nudging your thighs apart until they find your mound, cupping you through your underwear. “I’m not the only one who’s been missin’ someone.” He pulls the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your wet folds. His nostrils flare as he feels how ready you are. “Why am I not surprised?”

Your breath hitches, and you press yourself closer against him, your tits against his back, mouth teasing at his neck. “That’s what happens when you’re gone.” Another kiss on his nape. “You could take me with you next time.”

“Can’t do that,” he answers, teasing your entrance. “No work would get done.”

His movements cease to a stop. Yours do too. Turning his head just enough to glance over his shoulder, he scrutinizes your expression, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in your affected state.

“You’re not goin’ back to sleep, are you?”

There’s the shake of your head. A single word escapes your lips, imbued with pure fervor: “Please.”

He captures your mouth in an ardent kiss, tugging at your shirt (which is, in fact, his) to undress you, his wandering hands roaming beneath it.

As his mouth meets your neck, something cold brushes against his lips, drawing his gaze down to what’s hanging from your neck.

His dog tags. The ones he had given you before leaving for that job, as his way of telling you I’m coming back without having to say it aloud. And you, as always, understood; had even promised to keep them safe, though he hadn’t expected you to actually wear them.

Now, with your shirt discarded, they lay against your bare skin, his name resting in the valley between your breasts.

“You like ‘em?” His fingers grip the chain and give it a gentle tug, drawing you closer so he can breathe over your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Like knowing you’re mine? You get off on it?”

You nod in agreement. Of course, you do. Though emotionally constipated and not the most expressive, Logan is a lover who knows how to awaken desire—a good lover, indeed. A decent one.

Which is why he agrees to any idea that crosses your mind, like the one you just whispered in his ear.

He may be older than you, but he’s always been more on the traditional side. You, on the other hand, are continually searching for new ways to innovate.

The round globes of your ass jiggle over his face as he spreads you apart, entrenched by how your skin moves above him, your glistening hole clenching around nothing, as if your body itself is calling to him.

With his head propped against the headboard, he watches you take him deeper, your saliva dripping down the wiry hairs of his cock. The slick heat of your tongue traces over his slit, back and forth, driving him to the edge.

When he hears you gag, it stirs something inside him—a deep need to return the favor, to match your devotion.

At the end of the day, he’s a man on a mission, and right now, that mission is you.

Right there, with his nose and mouth buried in you, he wonders why he hadn't thought of this sooner. If he could choose a natural end like any other man, he'd wish for it to be by suffocation—your body his last breath.

Logan inhales deeply, like a man starved, working two of his fingers inside your throbbing center, his tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit, punching moan after moan out of you. Each thrust of his fingers, each stroke of his tongue, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you.

His beard, streaked with gray, leaves a trail of fire wherever your hips meet his face, pushing back against him. Every so often, you pull off his cock just to ramble, panting, about how good he's making you feel.

From where he lies, you’re a sight to behold, nothing short of divine. “Just what I needed, doll. You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he blurts out, your frantic cries pouring into his ears as he sucks the swollen bud between his lips. “Can’t believe you let me do this to you. You love makin’ your old man happy, don’t you?”

He used to think he'd burn in hell for indulging in the desire to know you like this—raw, ungraceful.

His judgment must be fucked up, because now, all he sees in you is heaven incarnate. You must be the closest thing to it he’ll ever find.

“Shit, I…” you trail off, gasping as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, drinking from your arousal and tasting every bit of you. “I thought about you every day.”

“Bet you did, just like that night I called you. You know how I felt when you told me you were wearing my clothes?” His hand comes down with a firm slap on your right asscheek, drawing a whine from you as your movements falter. “Can smell you all over these sheets. Makes me wonder how many times you made yourself come while I was away.”

You slip the tip of his cock back in your mouth, your hands and lips working in sync. His nose brushes against the plush skin of your thighs before his teeth graze your flesh, biting down just enough to leave a sting. His fingers curl inside you, hitting that perfect spot again and again, and you moan around him, your throat vibrating against his length.

He makes you come like this, knuckles deep inside you while his thumb circles your clit. Overwhelmed by pleasure, you let go of his dick, and it hits Logan’s stomach with a wet pop. His strong arms tug you closer to his face, eyes falling closed as you ride the wave of your orgasm against his mouth, palms pressed flat on his chest.

For a brief moment, he can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but you, your scent, your taste filling his senses.

Later, he rolls you onto your back and climbs on top of you, uncertain of how much time he has spent lapping at your wetness. His hard length glides along your folds, and he lines himself up without pushing in, looking right into your eyes. 

“Remember what I told you that night over the phone?” he asks, his breath coming in quick bursts, and you nod, head lolling back as he pinches your lower lip between his fingers. “Repeat it.”

“Logan—”

“You say it, and I’ll make it happen.”

Perplexity clouds your features. “You said you’d fuck me slow and deep, just h-how I like it. Face to face, because—”. The words escape you, a sob tearing through your throat as he eases the first few inches of himself inside you, your walls instinctively making space to wrap around him.

He’s home.

“Go on. What else did I say?” he teases, relishing in it. He’s guilty as sin. “Or were you too lost in thought touchin’ yourself?”

“F-face to face,” you slur, nails digging into his scarred back, and he keeps plunging his length into your interior to the hilt. Your lips part slightly, craving the kiss that only he can give you. “You said you’d do it face to face so I could kiss you whenever I wanted.”

He hums, low in his throat, as he gives the first thrust of the night, taking great pleasure in your expression: open-mouthed, eyes scrunched, and a slight crease forming between your brows.

Smoothing his thumb over your forehead, he tsks, pausing his movements. “None of that, princess. Look at me, c’mon.”

You obey, forcing your eyes open, and in that instant, he swears he can feel every tremor coursing through you. “Logan,” you coo, your voice aching as you stretch your neck toward his mouth.

The way you say his name—seductively, charged with a fascination that riles him up—manages to ignite a fire only you can kindle. It’s all the invitation he needs.

“I know. Too much, huh?” His tone drips with condescension, teasing in a way that feels almost cruel. He can’t help it, though: it’s in very his nature. “Need to hear you say it. Need you to tell me how much you want this.”

Like everything else in your world, your patience begins to wither, hips instinctively bucking beneath him, seeking even the slightest bit of friction. But he still withholds the kiss you long for, dangling it just out of reach.

“Please,” you beg, voice breaking as you plead. “Fuck me, baby. Missed you so much while you were away. Please, please, please—”

Logan enjoys hearing you beg. He won’t pretend otherwise. There's a satisfaction in knowing he holds this power over you, that he's the only one who can unravel you this way, your body splayed open beneath him.

The thought of others who may have once been in his place, making you fall apart just like this, sets his blood on edge.

Jealousy, sharp and corrosive, crawls up his spine, and it spurs him on, guiding the tempo of his thrusts.

He wonders if he’s ever fucked you this fiercely before, with a passion that pulses from every part of him. You’re given no space for thought, no moment to catch your breath—just his unforgiving pace and the sounds spilling from your lips.

He has a way of breaking you down, turning you into a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him, and you surrender willingly, craving each second of it.

So fuckin’ tight. Can y’hear her? How badly she needs me?

Sex had never felt like this before. He’d grown accustomed to quick, meaningless fucks in poorly lit bars, fleeting encounters that left him questioning if this was all there was. If this wasn’t the best he’d ever know. 

For a while, he’d tried to solve that emptiness, searching in nameless lovers and hollow hearts for the very thing he feared most: love.

And yet, he wanted it, yearned it, guarding his desire like a secret he barely admitted to himself. Until one day, you stumbled into his life, and all the strength he thought he had wasn’t enough to push you away.

He presses deep into the back of your thighs, bringing your chests so close they're nearly brushing. Claiming your mouth in a maddening kiss, all teeth and tongue, leaving no space for softness. As he nibbles at your bottom lip, he feels you tighten around him, your cunt pulling him under, clouding his thoughts.

“Close?” he murmurs, hips snapping against you with an utterly obscene rhythm that drowns out the world, better than any song ever made. “Such a good girl. Gonna come, sweetheart? Let me see how gorgeous you look when you fall apart, making a mess just for me.”

The constant, steady drag of his cock doesn’t seem to get old for you. He’s leaving his mark within you, inside you, carving a space for himself. His tip keeps hitting all the right spots, prompting you to tilt your pelvis to meet him halfway, telling him there, yes, there. More, please.

His hand slides down, rubbing your clit with his fingers. Doesn’t need any extra help when doing so, your arousal providing all the slickness he needs. He feels like a runner on the final stretch, the finish line within reach, so close he can almost touch it, savoring the euphoria and bliss of crossing it.

The way you sing his name never loses its allure, despite all the times he’s heard it spill from your lips. Especially at this moment, with him buried deep inside you, every thrust a promise to make you feel good.

You shamelessly come while he keeps driving into you, vigorous and untamed—like a caged animal unleashed, tasting freedom for the very first time.

Ankles digging into his lower back, a trail of persistent kisses along his beard. You want him inside, that much he can tell.  It’s not like he ever finishes anywhere else, but the reminder doesn’t bother him. It only serves as a reassurance: that you still want this, want him. You haven’t changed your mind.

He sinks his teeth into your neck the instant he feels his orgasm tearing through him, hips stilling and sagging as a string of grunts abandons his being, dampening your skin even more.  He loves to fill you up, it consumes him entirely.

Such an intimate, visceral act, and then he gets to see his seed trickling down your thighs. He realizes that he doesn’t need much to be happy.

You keep kissing him, his neck, his face. It may seem absurd to say that every kiss feels like the first, yet it’s true.

Even after he’s traced all the contours of your mouth and committed every detail of your body to memory, he can’t help but feel that same thrill of excitement he experienced months ago when he dared to push beyond the boundaries he had set for himself.

Staring at each other, naked, all the love in the world seems to fill these four walls. The compassion and tenderness in your gaze remain unchanged. You’re a dream come true.

It can’t end like this. He can’t allow you to drift back into sleep without saying what needs to be said. Something has to happen, something only he can conjure.

“I think…” He hesitates. Starting with I think carries an air of uncertainty. “I don’t—”

“Logan,” you interrupt, your hand finding his. “I know.”

Yes, you do. You always seem to know everything, but that can’t be enough. He can’t lean on your unspoken understanding of his feelings.

“You still deserve to hear it.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

More silence. The moon is the solitary spectator of his upcoming declaration. 

“You were right,” he begins, drawing your intertwined hands closer to his face, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours. His voice drops to a murmur. It’s not just his body that feels completely exposed anymore; something deeper within him stands bare. “I’m in love with you.”

You scrutinize him as if he’s revealing the secret to eternal life. Again, you kiss his cheek, cupping it gently with your palm.

“It won’t get any better than this. There are no more layers to peel away, okay?” He offers explanations you never even asked for in the first place. “This is what I am.” Much to his dismay, you overlook his choice of words: what instead of who.

He glances away, his gaze landing on the dog tags resting against your skin. The same old guilt threatens to engulf him, as it does each time without fail, and that seems to be your cue to lower yourself to his eye level, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not with you because I’m waiting for you to change. I like you just as you are, Logan. And I want all of you, both the good and bad stuff.” A gentle smile breaks across your face as you stretch your arm to retrieve his glasses from the nightstand. Placing them on your nose, your eyes twinkle with contentment. “Do they look good on me?”

“You don’t need them yet.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t pull them off.”

“Come here,” he mutters, sighing when you nuzzle his chest, cradling your head between his hands. He ponders what to say, what to do next, but no clear idea sounds promising.

And so it gives you the chance to speak up: “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

I hope I don’t, he thinks to himself as he brushes your hair away from your face, fingers caressing your temples. I hope I never do.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[nikkento-writes]

Babysitter - Part 1

Pairing: dad!Toji x babysitter!reader

Rating: Explicit – MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~1.7k

cw: age gap (reader is 21, Toji is in his 30s), language, cheating, smut – PIV sex (doggy style), breeding kink, daddy kink

Summary: You're hired to babysit little Megumi for the summer, but you end up taking care of his father, Toji, as well.

Author’s Notes: This is repost from my old blog! I initially got this as a request and it became my first Toji fic ever, and certainly not my last lol. I'm posting this again because I actually wrote a Part 2, check it out! Thanks for reading! Divider credit to @/fic-dumpster.

You stand in front of a quaint house, checking your watch for the time. It’s been almost ten minutes now since you knocked, no answer. You gave the number from the listing a call, still nothing. Rolling your eyes, you take a seat on the steps leading to the door, waiting.

It’s the summer before you head back to university for your senior year. In an attempt to make some extra cash, you took a job as a babysitter through local ads in the paper. The first two clients were completely normal; this one is already leaving a bad taste in your mouth. 

Fifteen minutes have passed. You try once more, pounding on the door with your fist as loud as you can. Heel turned, ready to leave, it suddenly swings open, revealing a muscular man with black hair, glaring at you. “What the fuck do you want?” 

You step back, startled by his intimidating presence. Stuttering, you answer, “I’m the babysitter.”

He continues to stare at you, eyes following your body up and down, studying it. “Babysitter?”

Before you can explain any further, you hear a car rolling into the driveway. A woman in professional attire steps out quickly. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” She rushes towards you, holding her hand out to shake yours. “We spoke on the phone. I got stuck in traffic, I’m so sorry.”

You smile at her. “It’s okay.”

She faces the man, expression switching from cheery to dreary in an instant. “Toji, where is Megumi?”

He scratches his head. “Huh?”

“Megumi. Our child.”

He sighs. “Right. Uh, I’ll go get him.” 

While he’s gone, the woman pulls you aside, speaking in a hushed voice. “That’s Toji, my husband and Megumi’s father. Unfortunately, he’s a complete deadbeat. That’s why I want to hire you. I started my new job and I need someone to take care of Megumi while I’m gone during the day.”

She swallows hard, blinking to fight off oncoming tears. “I have no one. I’ve been shunned by my family, my husband doesn’t give a shit about ours, and I’m all alone trying to give Megumi a good life. I know this is a lot to ask, but I’m desperate. This is just until I can save enough money to hire a full-time nanny.”

She grips onto your wrist with both her hands, begging for help. Truthfully, it’s a lot to unravel, more drama than you anticipated. But the anguish in her eyes tugs at your heartstrings. Plus, knowing it’s temporary doesn’t make it seem so difficult. How bad can it be? “Okay. I’ll do it.”

Relief washes over her. “Oh thank god. Thank you. Thank you. Let’s go inside and I can give you a tour.” She leads you through the entrance, removing her shoes as you follow her. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Sure.”

“Toji is home most of the day, but he’s always couped up in his room, doing god knows what. Just leave a meal or two outside his door twice a day. That should be enough.”

“Huh?!” 

She glances at you with a nervous smile on her face. “Yeah. I told you, he’s good for nothing.”

You don’t respond while you maneuver through the house, barely paying attention while she shows you around. It almost sounds like you’ll be babysitting two children…

~~~

The first two weeks of your new job go by smoothly. Megumi is an adorable baby; he’s almost two-years-old with hair as black as his father’s. While he never really smiles, he doesn’t cry either, expression usually stern, unless he needs a diaper change. He’s self-sufficient, always immersed by his own toys until it’s time to eat. Overall, he’s easy. 

Toji, on the other hand, is another story. 

You follow his wife’s instructions, leaving two meals outside his door, breakfast and lunch. And this asshole has the audacity to critique it! The bread wasn’t toasted enough. The eggs were too runny. There wasn’t enough seasoning on the meat. All this criticism while each plate is licked clean, not a crumb to spot. He’s never even uttered a simple thank you. 

But what he lacks in social skills or personality, he makes up for in his physique. In between meals, he works out in the living room lifting weights, doing push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups at the frame of the door. It lasts for over an hour, and by the end of it, he’s shirtless, dripping with sweat. You’ve done everything in your power to avoid staring but it doesn’t prevent your mind from conjuring all types of lewd thoughts about him. You’re ashamed to admit that he is physically attractive, only because everything else about him is utter trash. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look, right?

On the third week, there’s a shift in energy between you two. When he isn’t working out or going out to meet with his sketchy friends, he’s usually couped up in his bedroom, ignoring you and Megumi. This morning, he actually joins you in the kitchen. You stare blankly at him, stunned by his sudden appearance. Megumi is unfazed by his father as he tries to pull your wrist towards him to get a spoonful of mushed up peas. 

When he catches you, Toji glares. “What?”

“Um, nothing. Just surprised to see you here.” You clear your throat, focusing back on the baby. 

He rolls his eyes. “This is my house. I can do whatever I want.”

“Yes, of course. Sir.”

For some reason, this triggers him. He stands up abruptly, stepping to you, leaning his face towards yours. The scar on the corner of his lip twitches when he gives you a wicked grin. “That’s right. I’m in charge here.”

You flinch from him, scared, maybe even slightly aroused. He’s intense, that’s for sure. But part of you finds it exhilarating to be in his presence. 

Megumi whines for more food, to which Toji grabs the utensil from your hands to start feeding him. “Damn kid, he’s hungry all the fucking time.”

You sit up in your seat, regaining your composure. “You shouldn’t curse in front of children.”

He faces you, chuckling. “Curse? Seriously? What are you, five?”

You cross your arms, answering, “I’m twenty-one.”

“Interesting.” There’s that naughty smirk again, as if he’s thinking something obscene in that twisted head of his. And while you should be turned off, you’re not. You squeeze your legs together, pussy throbbing between your thighs. And of course, he notices this. He must, because he leans forward, lips grazing your ear, whispering, “Come by my room whenever Megumi is taking his nap. That’s an order.”

~~~

This is bad. Very, very bad. 

You're supposed to be better than this. Clearly, you aren’t, because you’re currently getting railed by your employer’s husband while his child sleeps peacefully in the next room.

“Fuck, this pussy is tight,” he groans, pumping his thick cock in and out of you. You’re bent over the edge of the bed, his hips smacking against your ass as he thrusts into you. He’s got a tight grip on your hips, nails digging into your flesh, pounding away at your greedy pussy, absolutely drenched with arousal and lube. Your face is sticky with perspiration, pillow soaked with sweat and drool. It’s a fucking mess, but it doesn’t matter, because all you can think about is Toji fucking you until you’re seeing stars. Until your head is empty and nothing but his fat cock is occupying your thoughts.

“God, you’re squeezing me so fucking hard, princess. You gonna come again?”

You nod erratically, reaching your fingers to your clit. He smacks it away, doing it himself, his thumb flicking against your swollen bud. “Fucking come on my cock then. Make it nice and creamy for me, got it?”

His cock is buried deep inside you, hitting your sweet spot over and over until you unravel, gushing around him once more. You’ve lost count on how many orgasms you’ve had in this short amount of time. 

After your climax, he doesn’t pull out, fucking you even rougher. Your body is pliant around him, yielding to his every touch like putty. You’ve lost control of yourself, completely enraptured in the intense pleasure he surrounds you with. 

He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, lips brushed to your ear. “I’m gonna knock you up. Give Megumi a little brother or sister. Would you like that?” He’s crazy. Completely unhinged. Absolutely fucking psycho. 

“Fuck yes, I want that,” you moan. “Give it to me, daddy. Breed me.” 

And apparently, so are you. 

“Oh fuck yeah, take my fucking cum then,” he growls. The bed creaks violently below you, his backshots brutal and frantic now, cock desperate for release. “I’m gonna get you fucking pregnant. Make you mine.”

He shoots his hot load inside you, stuffing you full of his cum. He doesn’t stop until he’s fucked it deeper into your pussy, watching with that sexy look on his face as his creamy cum leaks out of your slit.

Lifting you up to lay comfortably on the bed, he rolls beside you, kissing you sloppily until Megumi’s whimpers blare through the baby monitor, indicating that he’s awake. Toji laughs, smacking your ass as you crawl over him to return to your real job. 

~~~

You spend the remainder of your summer employed at the Fushiguro household until you have to go back to school. You and Toji continue to fuck each other silly every day that you’re working. 

The day before you leave for college, you say your goodbyes to the family. Megumi’s mom, who remains blissfully unaware of your sins, hugs you tightly. “Thank you so much for all your help. I’ve finally saved enough money to afford a full-time nanny, so we’ll be fine.” 

“It was my pleasure. I had a lot of fun. With Megumi,” you clarify, avoiding Toji’s gaze as he watches from the kitchen. 

“Seriously. You’re a good person. I hope you know that.” She smiles, truly grateful. “And thank you for taking care of my good for nothing husband too.”

As the guilt of this dirty, filthy secret eats away at you, Toji stares at you from across the room, smirking. 

[bonsubear]

You're Dead Everywhere But Here │ Invincible Variants x Female! Reader x Mainstream Invincible │#2

#1, #2, #3

tysm for the comments on the previous post, it was a blast seeing the traction it got !! I hope update is satisfactory, decided to make this a full fic series so more to come

CW: OOC Cecil(?), mention/talks of suicide, violence, slight freakiness but eh not really

WC: 6,7k

@weaponxgames, @martinys-world, @lagataprrr, @lizurich, @katsukiswiife, @oxymorondemon, @sweetb3rry, @ashleeytrx, @pixviee, @pookiei-bookie, @cheesycheddarr

Cecil approached the big screens, his hands in his suit pockets as he narrowed his eyes. "Donald, what is this? What going on with now?" He asked, his voice stern but confused. The dots on the map indicate that multiple Invincible variants were gathered at one place—and you were smacked in the middle of it.

He had given orders to throw you out there in hopes to help the war effort, strapping you with an electric dog collar with a tracker embedded into it. With Evil Invincibles causing havoc all over the world, everything was getting stretched thin. He needed more manpower to pour into this war, and he wasn't against using a criminal to achieve that.

Cecil had seen multiple times you hold your own against their Invincible, hell, even had the upper hand a couple of times with how you left Invincible riddled with injuries.

Whatever reason why you chose to injure him than kill him wasn't something Cecil was going to do gymnastics to understand. Donald's running theory was that you more so enjoyed causing destruction than killing anyone. There's been times where you have, but they were so rare it's been assumed to be more of a 'last resort' thing for you when cornered.

Honestly, all of that didn't matter to him, you were still a destructive piece of shit at the end of the day.

But having collected data about you, he was confident that you could at least remove one or two of the evil variants when push came to shove. The 'shove' being a shock collar and the threat of never seeing daylight again.

Though it appears you were surrounded by four variants, and while you were one tough cookie, you should certainly be dead. There was one of you and four of them, it was a no brainer to guess who would lose. However, the blinking green dot on the screen indicated you were alive and well.

"It seems like they're not fighting her. She's been more of the aggressor so far, actually." Donald noted, pushing his glasses up. "She was fighting this one," He pointed at a red dot on the screen, "then these three showed up." His finger drifted to the other circles.

"Pull up the cameras around there." Cecil ordered, and Donald's fingers were quick on the keyboard to pull up the surveillance around the area.

A window appeared on the screen, and while the lens was cracked it was clear to see that you were surprisingly not beaten up and battered as he would expect. He watched you leap into the air, bolting through the sky and an Invincible dressed in a white uniform followed suit, the two of you becoming a blur in the distance.

An Invincible dressed in a similar fashion as Omni-man crossed his arms, speaking to the others. Whatever he said made the others upset, the one with a fully covered black mask shaking his head while the variant with the mohawk rolled his eyes as he stomped his foot.

"Is there no audio on this thing?"

"Nope."

"Great." Cecil popped his lips, his grainy voice filled with sarcasm. He continued to observe the three variants—they obviously didn't like each other, their body language tense and ready to pounce if one of them moved yet held the conversation anyway.

He squinted, trying to decipher what they could be discussing about. The men would occasionally glance over at the direction you had sped off to.

Donald spoke up. "I think they're discussing (Y/N)."

"(Y/N)?"

"(Y/N) (L/N) is Vandal's real name." Donald mentioned, looking over at Cecil. Vandal had become your nickname since you never proclaimed a villain identity for yourself. From the heaps of destruction and damage you caused to property before your capture, it was a fitting name. Albeit a little lazy.

He let out a sigh, turning around to step away. His mind was turning gears as he thought about you, his mind drifting to Mark who was still by Eve's bed side.

What he was thinking of was an... odd idea, but it couldn't hurt to give it a shot. Mark Grayson always held this odd air towards you. It was hard to not notice how he practically jumped at the chance to be the first to respond to a scene that had something to do with you, always butting heads with other superheroes that tried to respond first.

The weird behavior was subtle, but Cecil noted a few things.

Whatever harm that he'd inflicted would conveniently be places where it wouldn't hurt too badly.

You would always somehow end up escaping from his grasp after each fight. Even with how Mark had improved, you always seemed to run off.

When you were finally captured thanks to a G.D.A agent, Mark threw quite a fit.

"I had it all under control!" He yelled, glaring at Cecil with so much anger. Possessiveness seeped into his voice as he spat his words, and Cecil was taken aback with how worked up he was over you. "You guys didn't have to step in like that."

"Talking to her, throwing a couple of punches and letting her escape each time is not you having it 'under control,' Mark." Cecil rebutted. "She needed to be contained, and you were doing a lousy job at doing that."

"I was gonna—"

"If I had let this ridiculous method of yours play out, she would've continued to destroy more property. That means more tax dollars are being poured into rebuilding the constant messes she leaves behind." Cecil lectured, stern and logical. Not giving him a moment to defend himself. "That money is better off spent on better things, not Little Miss Vandalism."

His logic and common sense only seemed to fuel Mark's anger. Cecil paused, before releasing an exhausted sigh as he flickered his gaze away from Mark to stare at a wall.

He needed to calm him down, having him upset would get in the way of calling him for help. Cecil's eyes flickered back to Mark.

"Kid, she'll be in jail at the G.D.A. Fed, clothed, and away from being a menace." He continued, and he noticed how Mark seemed to become calm about you being fed and clothed than the fact your destructive habits would now come to a halt. "You can... even visit her."

"... I can?"

He was a little too happy to hear that, his anger completely evaporated.

"Yeah. After we deal with everything first, I'll authorize how many visits you want."

"I'm going to pay a visit to Mark. I'm sure he'd love to hear what his favorite villain is up to." Cecil turned his head to Donald who only stared, clear he didn't understand what telling Mark about this would achieve.

Without elaborating, he teleported with a flash of blue.

You took another glance behind you, the wind rushing past you. It howled in your ear as you met the intense stare of the evil variant in white. His features were unmoving as the wind pushed his hair and his eyes hard.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" You shouted. His eyes were unblinking as he was unresponsive to your words, and you just rolled your eyes as you tore your eyes off him.

Even though you would love to continue being in the air for longer, if you do it was evident he would catch up to you. With each glance he was inching closer and closer, and there were a number of things that would go against your favor if this White Invincible got ahold of you in the air.

You scanned up ahead, seeing a large building. The path you were on currently would've made you slam your head against a solid wall. Shifting to the right, you brought your arms to your head as you braced for impact.

The glass window immediately shattered as you rammed through it, different sizes of glass shards falling. You dodged the walls of the office floor, breaking through windows and passing by cubicles.

Breaking out of the other side of the building, the sunlight basked on you as you pushed yourself to be above the building. Not a minute later, the building vibrated widely as the sound of walls breaking filled the air.

You let out an amused scoff. He continued the flight path you were previously on and busted through the walls.

The white variant broke through the final wall, leaving a gaping hole on the side of the building. He looked to the left and right of him, searching for a sign in which direction you went.

"Up here!" You sang out, diving down with your hands raised together and joined together to make a ball. You brought it down, sending him flying downwards to the road. The Invincible's reflex was incredible, his arms quickly rising to protect his head before being slammed to the ground.

The harsh impact made a big crater on the ground, with him in the middle. The abandoned cars near the crash site began blaring, the headlights flashing crazy.

"You're strong." He flatly commented, his eyes gazing up at you as the dust settled. With Mohawk, his laugh lines were prominent and bold. Yet with this variant, his face was completely smooth with no form of wrinkles in sight.

His arms tingled from your attack, and he tilted his head. A corner of his lip raised slightly. "You were never strong in my dimension."

"Does that burst your bubble, Whitey?" You fake whined, copying the tilt of his head as you stared down at him. "Disappointed I'm not a damsel in distress? Not the perfect little girlfriend for you?"

"I'm not disappointed." He shook his head. "You were always perfect, (Y/N). Perfect for me and I made Viltrum perfect for you. You're still perfect, no matter the differences across universes." He replied, hovering towards you. There was a deep-rooted longing in his eyes.

You gritted your teeth as you heard his monologue. You hated how he was speaking to you as if you were the version he knew personally. It was already becoming insufferable.

"I've missed you, my wife. The spot I carved out for you remains empty since the day I lost you." He whispered, looking like a battered dog lost without its owner. "You miss me too."

"Is that a question or a command?" You rolled your eyes. "I'm not her. Do you hear yourself?"

"You are her."

"I'm not. And I'm going to put that through that thick skull of yours." You didn't hesitate to dash towards him, your hand grabbing a hold of the top of his head as you slammed it down—the back of his head hitting the cracked concrete of the crater.

You dug your nails inside his scalp, lifting it and smashing it back down repeatedly. The hole inside the ground deepened as you continued.

Viltrumite Mark let his head be slammed against the pavement, your fingernails digging inside his scalp. The dulling pain at the back of his head ached at him, but he didn’t care. How long has it been since he last felt your touch? How long has it been since you committed suicide? How many long nights did he go without you?

It’s been so long since he felt your fingers through his hair. The throbbing pain didn’t mean anything with the sensation of your hand holding him. It was always blissful when he would come back to you after having to deal with the responsibilities of the Viltrum Empire, welcoming him home with open arms.

Oh, how he loved laying his head on your stomach while you massaged his head—running your delicate fingers through his hair as you asked all sorts of questions. Usually about what he did, Viltrum, and what was happening outside the walls of the home you two shared. Mark didn’t like to think about the outside world when he was inside the haven of the bedroom, but indulging in your curiosity was always cute and made you happy.

You were also eager, albeit more than he liked, to learn any updates about Earth. Even if it was something minor, you always liked hearing about the planet you once lived on. Sometimes you'd ask if you could "finally go out" and be somewhere else on Viltrum beside the house, even hinting the idea to go visit Earth—but Mark always shot it down.

He guessed he understood in some capacity why you would ask that, it was natural for any species to think about home and long to go back to it. Though, that doesn't mean Mark didn't find it ridiculous—you shouldn't want to go back to Earth even for a visit. Viltrum is your home now and a much better suited place for you because he was here.

Mark would've granted permission for you to walk around Viltrum alone, but when you had first arrived at this planet you had such antsy feet. You would go run off, trying to escape from the planet and it was always a hassle to bring you back. You could've gotten into danger and if he hadn't been alerted each time you ran off and arrived at the nick of time. You could've hurt yourself.

You cried, you begged, and you pleaded whenever you were caught. It hurt to see you like that, he couldn't bare for those situations to happen anymore so he had momentarily removed those privileges.

He was going to give them back, he swore he would've at one point. However, he hadn't noticed so much time had passed.

For him, it seemed so short—while for you it had been excruciating years. You couldn't take it anymore; Mark's monopolization was suffocating.

So, one day when Mark arrived back home after a mission, your lifeless boy awaited him. Pale, empty, and unresponsive—but free.

For what happened, Viltrum Mark will let you hurt him as punishment for being such a neglectful husband. Being pummeled was what he deserved for being forgetful.

You go of your hold of the white variant's head, snatching a hold of his arm and standing up. You lifted him off the ground only using the arm you had just grabbed, throwing him at the loud line of cars. During the process you had twisted his arm, causing him to wince as he felt his bone dislocate before he collided with the line of blaring vehicles.

The obnoxious honks stopped, and you huffed as you straightened your back. You sneered in disgust as you realized a small smear of blood that made its way to your fingertips, being quick to wipe it on your clothes.

However, in the blink of an eye, a white flash appeared before you. Arms wrapped around your torso, and you were shoved into a wall.

As soon as your back hit the wall, you grunted, the wind being knocked out of you. You felt the Invincible nestle his face to your stomach, his arms tightening around you and you shrieked.

Even though there was a clothing barrier between your bare skin and his face thanks to the prison uniform the G.D.A had you worn, it was thin. This act was clearly intimate, and you flushed in anger as he was taking an opportunity to feel you?

“Get off of me you bastard!” You demanded, using your elbow to dig inside his back, striking down rapidly.

His grip loosened with each hit but would recover, returned to holding you. With how hard you were hitting, it was a guarantee there would be multiple splotches of bruises stretched along his back, the muscles soon to have developing colors of purple.

You repositioned your elbow that was nearest to his twisted shoulder, slamming it. A grunt howled from the variant’s throat, his arms untangling from your waist. He fell to the ground, on his knees as he hurriedly grabbed his shoulder—popping the dislocated shoulder back in place.

He picked himself up, swiping at your shin. Caught off guard, you wobbled and the viltrumite didn't waste time to place your leg on his shoulder—the one that he had corrected the displacement of the bone—and leaned forward to you.

Being off balanced and your leg being pushed up with your back against the cracked wall, you slid down. His height towered over you as you were in a compromising position. You cursed, your hands reaching behind you to grip the wall.

"That was enough to atone for my neglectful mind. Your death alone already served as punishment for how blind I was towards time." He spoke, staring down at you. A small line of blood traveled from his scalp to the back of his neck. "I'll be a much better husband for you, I swear to it, (Y/N)." the Invincible breathed out, turning his head to your leg that was lifted to his shoulder.

Even though his voice was monotonous, there was a scratch of pleading behind his voice. He said it in hopes you'll believe it and in turn that he himself would believe he'll actually be better towards you.

It wasn't hard to piece together that whatever happened to his version of you, you had died, and he played a role in it.

He exhaled; his lips parted slightly as they were just centimeters away from your leg.

“You can’t be a better one if she’s dead.”

“Don’t say that.” He snapped, pushing your leg further up, making you suck in a breath. “You’re right here. Even if you don’t remember me that doesn't mean you can't be my wife once again.“ The grip he had on your raised leg was firm, and his hand snaked up to your knee.

His hand squeezed, feeling the muscles and bone. "I'll take you back home. Back to Viltrum. Back with me."

Your breath hitched, the mention of being taken to another place caused goosebumps to crawl all over your skin. The fully masked Invincible had mentioned something about bringing you 'home’ as well, and now this one mentioned taking you somewhere else too.

Something nagged at you that this would be a pattern among the other copies—and your survival instincts screamed at you to not let any of them take you. You were better off dead than with any of them.

"I will rather die like her than ever go anywhere with you." You spat; venom laced with each word. "Whatever way she went was probably a blessing in disguise." You smirked, watching how his eyes dulled at your taunt.

Clenching your jaw, you wheeled your head forward and then slammed it behind you. The building shook behind you, cracks branching out from the point of origin. You used the back of your head to hit it once more, pooling all your strength together.

The thick wall crumbled, and no longer being shoved against a wall you wrapped the leg that was on his shoulder around his neck and your other leg around his torso, seizing his whole body and throwing him over you.

The viltrumite burst through the multitude of walls, making the building unstable. Sounds of the building cracking and falling apart filled the air, the structure collapsing. You scrambled to run, the building collapsing in your direction. Though your foot slipped on a piece of debris, causing you to trip onto the ground.

Whoosh!

The office building collapsed, and you blinked. You were looking down at the collapsed structure that once stood tall now closer to the ground than ever.

Your legs dangled in the air, and your eyes traveled to your chest as there was an arm was slung underneath your breasts—holding you loosely.

"Ha! Now that was a funny sight to watch. You really got some sweet upgrades to you—fun." He commented, pointing out the superhuman strength you possessed, a dangerous edge embedded with his words. You whipped your head around, an Invincible with a black and yellow suit grinned wildly at you.

Sinister Mark looked deeply in your eyes as he used his exceptional hearing to focus on your heart. He had memorized the way your heartbeat, pumping blood through your system. It was a window for him to decipher how you really felt at any given moment, and listening to the beating organ was like music to his ears.

He hated how he missed it. He hated how he immediately recognized it from a miles away. He hated how his ears subconsciously trained itself to zone in on that beautiful beating heart of yours, your heart so distinct that it was a melody that drew him out.

He hated that he came as quickly as he can at the first beat, knowing that it was you. This dimension's version of you, anyway.

"Another one?" You snarled, not happy to see another variant.

This dimension's version of you was feisty, just like his—though more powerful considering you did some damage to Viltrum Mark having watched from afar. Though he didn't pay much attention to that guy, more swooped up on the fact he was on cloud nine with how he was able to hold you like this again.

He let out a deranged laugh, throwing his head back. "Ha! Ha-ha! I forgot how much better you felt with your flesh still intact." He laughed, rearing his head back to shove his face to your cheek. "Soft, squishy—so much more different compared to your skeleton."

... Skeleton?

"Jesus, I went insane after I killed you." He took a large exhale, the memories of the temper tantrum he made after accidentally going too rough on you, breaking you, resurfacing.

Everyone and everything weren’t safe from his rampage, the rampage fueled with the rage of killing you. "I kept your body, watched the stages of your corpse bloat then decay—leaving the dry remains of your skeleton behind." He spoke of it with a smile on his face, but you felt the hand that was wrapped around you flinch, tightening.

"It wasn't as fun when you were alive, but it was still you, so I made do." He vaguely referenced, and your skin crawled at what he could possibly be implying. All sort of things popped in your head, and whatever you brain conjured may have been tamer than whatever this... thing did to his alternate version of you—dead or alive.

"I don’t have to know more to know you're a sick fuck."

"And I made you like it." He hissed, his hot breath hitting your skin. He tilted his head away, his eyes wandering to the electric collar around your neck. Cecil throwing you in this war and forcing you to work for him meant you were tough, and Mark was excited to see how exactly tough you were. "And I can do it again. Just this time, you won't be so easy to break.”

Cecil sighed as his eyes fell upon Mark Grayson still near Eve's bedside, having not moved an inch since the last time he saw him. Both of his hands were cupped onto Eve's hand that lay motionless on the bed.

"What do you want, Cecil?" His tired voice called out, not having to turn around to know that the old man was behind him. "I told you I wasn't working with you ever again."

"I heard that loud and clear, Mark." Cecil continued, "I figured you weren't against updates, though."

The young man merely stayed silent, his whole body language screaming that he didn't want to hear him speak anymore. Cecil grimaced, biting the inside of his cheek. The idea he had seemed like it wasn't going to work, only made up with a few clues then and there, but he was already here so it would be a waste to not try it.

"There's a lot happening out there. It's difficult to keep up with everything."

Mark stayed silent, unresponsive as his eyes were staring only at Eve.

Cecil carried on, "I had to come up with creative solutions to the issues of not having resources, people, superheroes to go out there and protect the world."

Mark stayed unmoving, not reacting an inch.

"Do you remember the criminal you helped capture? Vandal? —"

"It's (Y/N)." Grayson jolted, turning to look at Cecil with stern eyes. His hands were still on Eve's, though he noted the small pull away. "Her name is (Y/N)."

"That's interesting, I didn't find out until today that was their actual name." The older man was quick to point out, raising a brow. "How did you know that? Didn't care to share with the rest of us?"

Mark hesitated, his eyes flickering away from Cecil. "She told me it the first time we fought. Must've slipped my mind." He vaguely dismissed, clearing his throat.

He had accidentally crossed your path when he first started out his journey as Invincible. He was still getting a hang on things, training to be a great hero just like his dad.

It took him a little bit too long to register that you were a villain—a criminal that he should've jumped to stop as soon as his eyes laid on the path of destruction you caused without a care of who you hurt.

Then it took him even longer to move from his spot with how strangely enamored he was with you. Mark was overcome by this rush of attraction that he had subconsciously held his breath. If it weren't for his viltrumite make up, he would've passed out with how much oxygen he deprived from his lungs.

Did villains usually have this effect on heroes? Fascinated, interested, curious, enamored? (Mark later found out that no, villains did not have this effect—for whatever reason, it was only you).

Once he finally snapped out of it, he was quick to try and stop you. Though with how inexperienced he was with fighting and your brawniness, you won. Beaten to a pulp, his body was sore and tired as he laid on the ground, groaning from the punches.

"Ah—shit." A whine escaped his throat. Was being a superhero going to be this painful?

You crouched down to his level, eyeing his costume that hugged his body. "It isn't a good idea to jump at a girl wrecking the place while being a baby super." You commented, your eyes filled with pity. You didn't take amusement in practically beating up an infant. "Downright idiotic."

"Idiotic and invincible shares the same starting letter," he coughed, shifting to look at you but a sharp pain jolted up his spine. "Ah, that hurts—so I guess they go hand in hand." He let out a nervous smile, giddiness budding at the pit of his stomach as he wiped off the blood that had dried out his upper lip.

It's wrong to feel so... so excitedly nervous about how close you were. Sure okay, you got close so you could punch and throw him around while you two fought—but right now Mark had the time to take you in fully.

You snorted, a giggle jumping out your lips. You weren't expecting him to crack a joke like that while he was beaten to a pulp and wow—that giggle of yours was beautiful. That made his heart dance and his stomach sick with how many butterflies there were.

You quickly covered your laughter, rubbing a hand over your mouth. "Invincible is a stupid name."

"What's yours? We can compare."

"… I earned the name Vandal, it's a stupid name too." You shrugged, pushing yourself to stand.

He tried to sit up, though shots of pain riddled him to fall. He didn't want you to leave so quickly—not out of fear you would go back to destroying stuff but out of fear he may not ever see you again.

"Is there another name I can call you? I-I mean, I would like the villain who beat me up to at least like their name." Mark stuttered out, a strained smile on his face.

You eyed him, raising a brow. Unimpressed at his lame reasoning. "What kind of reason is that?"

"Uh, I—well you know, erm—" His cheeks flushed a baby pink.

You sighed, finding yourself pitying the new hero. "Fine." You’ll humor this. Giving you his name wouldn't hurt, besides even if he told others, it wasn't enough to track you down. “It’s (Y/N).”

"Hm. Okay. Moving on." Cecil hummed, not convinced. “I had her be taken out of her cell. She's out on the field."

Now that got a response out of Mark. He let go of Eve's hand, his body moving in the blink of an eye as he appeared in front of Cecil. It caught the older man by surprise, taking a hurried step back.

“What do you mean out in the field? She shouldn’t be out there. She’s supposed to be in a prison cell. She’s supposed to be safe. I remember you saying that she will be!”

“That was after this shitshow started. Prior arrangements had to be moved around and changed.” He defended himself, narrowing his eyes at how quick he was to anger when you were handled in a manner he disagreed with. This pattern of possessiveness he had over a criminal was wrong.

Cecil had chosen to ignore this, chalking it up to some petty rivalry over the fact you had beaten him a couple of times—but now it was clear as day that it was definitely way more than that.

Just how much more was what Cecil was curious about. He needed to see exactly what you meant to him and if he could use that for his own gain. “If she can handle fighting against you, then hell, she can certainly handle herself against one of those variants. I needed all the manpower I can get, and she was the perfect option.”

“That still gave you no right!” He screamed.

“It does when the guy who can go head to toe with those invaders out there won’t leave this goddamn room.” Cecil retorted.

“So—So what?! She can die, Cecil.” He huffed, his fists clenching at the idea you were out there in harm’s way.

“Why does that matter so much to you, Mark? What exactly is she to you for you to be worked over this? I don’t have to omnipotent to know she doesn’t give a damn about you—not a single thought. Yet you’re here caring for her as if you’re her friend.” He paused, “Are you?”

Mark hitched breath, a lump in his throat as he brought his hands to hold onto his face.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you, and he knew that he shouldn’t be thinking about you as much as he should, but he couldn’t stop. His mind always wandered. Day and night without fail at some point his thoughts would be consumed by you, someone he barely knew anything about—someone that he shouldn’t be thinking of.

Mark tried to stay away from you—at least that’s what he told himself to make him feel better. He always jumped at the chance to go to you whenever you were back on your rampaging antics. Other heroes noticed, offering to take his place instead but he sternly refused.

He was territorial about being the one to stop you, being the one to fight you, being the one to be with you.

Mark told himself that he thought about you so frequently because of that pitiful ‘kindness’ you showed him at your guys’ first encounter. From that, you must be much better being a reformed criminal than a villain who took pleasure in seeing destruction.

 So, he tried to convince you to change your ways.

That’s what a superhero does, right? Not just help distressed citizens but everyone, even villains. He offered to help you lead a better life than the one you are right now, guide you how to use your powers for good rather than bad.

He also offered you companionship, friendship—a chance to have a deeper relationship than the close to nothing relationship you two currently had.

Though he was hurt every time you rejected him. Not hurt from the fact you rejected turning a new leaf but hurt that you rejected his friendship. Fine, you turned down being a good guy, but why turn him down?

Couldn’t you see that Mark ran to you each time? Couldn’t you see that he had got stronger, faster, better, each time you fought just to impress you? Couldn’t you see that he craved to know you more, the girl who he knew nothing about yet haunts him every day?

The bruises that you left on his body were the only thing you gave him that held a part of you—and he would stare at them in the mirror as he traced over them remembering the fists he came to memorize.

The bruises were the only thing you didn’t reject to give, and he hoped they never faded so he can carry the ghost of your touch on his body.

Mark Grayson tried to drop it—drop you. He was driving himself crazy over a stranger that wanted nothing to do with him. He tried tearing himself away from the idea of you, but he came back running whenever he heard you were out there.

Cecil voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Well, Mark, are you?”

“No, we’re not friends.” He responded, his torn voice muffled by his hands.

“Then what is it? What is it ‘cause with how I’m seeing things no one should be caring about a stranger as much as much as you are right now.” Cecil bombarded, continuing to pile more questions on him relentlessly, pushing the boy’s buttons.

The half-viltrumite ran his hands to his hair, his fingers intertwining with his black locks as he let out an exhausted groan.

“Mark, say something. Say something Mark. For the love of God, fucking say something—”

“No! No, I don’t know her at all, I don’t mean anything to her! I’m not her friend. I’m nothing.” He snapped, his voice raised and shouting, his mouth running wild.  “That doesn’t mean that I don’t want her safe! That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her! That doesn’t mean I don’t want her.”

A tense silence fell on the room, the only sound was of the machines next to Eve’s bed.

“So that’s it. Your whipped for (Y/N).” Cecil finally broke the silence, scoffing in disbelief at what he had just discovered. “What twisted fascination do you have with her? A villain who never gave you the light of day, yet you hold this …” His face contorted, looking away from Mark. “I don’t even know what to call this. Sick? Twisted? Pathetic?”

“… Shut up. Just shut up.”

“Can’t do that because I’m not done talking.” He side eyed, “Your little crush is being jumped by multiple variants. Last I checked she ran, but got a suspicion it won’t be easy for her to get rid of them.”

Cecil felt himself slammed to the wall, the white collar of his shirt being tightly gripped. “What? Why didn’t you lead with that!”

“Sorry, kid, didn’t expect your type to be bad girls.” He grunted, staring into Mark’s brown eyes.

“Just tell me where she is.”

“Thinking of joining the fight now? Don’t want to stay here by Eve anymore? All I had to do was dangle something you can never have in front of your face to finally leave this room?”

Mark raised a fist and hit the wall behind the man he had pinned. “Tell me where (Y/N) is.”

Cecil dug his hand into his suit pocket, pushing an earpiece to his chest which Mark quickly caught. “Plug that in and Donald will tell you.” He stated. The grip Mark had on his collar loosened, pushing him aside as he went to grab his mask from the end of the bed.

As always, he comes running when he hears you’re out there.

"I am having a blast," This sinister version of Invincible smirked, his breathing heavy as he had you pinned to the ground. You made him work up quite a sweat, and he was getting quite thirsty. "You're so new, so fun, so entertaining, so enticing. I'm working up an appetite."

It felt like it has been ages since you were stuck fighting for your life against this man, but it has been only a couple of minutes.

Your face distorted in disgust. A hand of his was holding your two legs together so that you couldn't kick him away even though you were desperately trying to squirm your legs away from his tight grasp.

"Eat shit." You cursed, collecting the saliva that accumulated in your mouth and spitting it to his face—the wad of spit hitting the corner of his lips.

His smile faltered, before grinning again as he cooed at you. "That bitch of a mouth of yours needs work, though." Sinister Invincible parted his lips, his tongue licking the side of his face, collecting the saliva you had thrown at him and swallowing.

"You gross sick fu—hhmp!" You quickly got muffled as he had snaked his gloved fingers inside your mouth with his free hand, the taste of rubber filling your taste buds as you thrashed under his hold. You used your hands to scratch and slap his face, though that seemed to only entertain him further.

His fingers moved to feel your teeth, your tongue that tried to escape the taste of his gloves, and the soft as well as hard palate. You yelled muffled profanities, biting down on his fingers.

Your canine fangs broke through the rubber material of the glove, and he let out a small—was that fucking moan?—sound as that only served to give him more reason to push his fingers deeper down your mouth, his fingertips scooting to the entrance of your throat.

"Bite harder, cunt." He demanded, and you instinctively listened.

Your teeth pressed down on his skin, the bite breaking it as a metallic taste seeped into your taste buds joining the taste of the rubber gloves.

"Ouggh my god." Sinister Mark moaned; the pain brought by your fangs serving to be pleasurable. That hand he used to hold down your legs he shifted over to one, squeezing hard against the muscles and into the bone.

Crack!

"HHMP!" Your scream muffled into his glove, and you gagged soon after from his fingers hitting the back of your throat. The scratch and hits to his head were doing nothing to him, and you grimaced as your eyes darted around to find any way to get out of this.

You noticed how your broken leg wasn't immediately healing, like how it should be, and your eyes widen as you remembered the collar the G.D.A had placed around your neck. You had forgotten about it, and you closed your eyes as you knew what to do.

Your hands reached eagerly to the shock collar, digging your fingers between the metal and your neck as you began to tear away at it. It instantly began sending electricity through your body, riddling your body to the seizing and overwhelming pain that resembled the same sensation when you were hit with that gun. Your eyes opened, rolling to the back of your skull from the intensity.

You clenched your jaw as you continued to rip it from your neck, trying to keep your eyes open and not lose consciousness as the metal began to rip apart—the wires being revealed.

Whatever was sending the electricity was no longer contained to just your body, zapping in the air and reaching to the black and yellow Invincible that was on top of you.

The electrifying pain met him too, and he yanked his digits out of your mouth as the bolts traveled up to his entire body. You felt his weight lift off as you ripped the collar in two, gasping for air and rolling to your side.

Your body twitched as there was still electricity coursing through your body—and you felt an intense wave of exhaustion flood you.

No, I can't pass out, I need to get out of here. No, no—

You tried to resist, though black spots were already filling your vision as shapes and colors became a blur. Even then, you tried to crawl to distance yourself from the Invincible, but a sudden tight grip to your hair pulled you toward his direction.

"You disobedient bitch. Who told you to do that?" You heard a growl, the pull of your hair making you whine.

Your hair was suddenly released, feeling a strong gust of wind behind you as Sinister’s Mark voice off to the distance. You didn’t care to look back, trying to squint to see what was ahead of you.

Although your vision became increasingly blurry and you gagged from having his hand shoved down your throat a few seconds ago. You tried to sit up but failed, you head feeling heavy as it hit the ground.

You internally screamed to stay awake, but darkness hugged you. Before that however, you felt someone crouch next to you, a hand draped over your forehead as they said something to you. Whatever they said, you couldn’t tell, and you just prayed they were more of a friend than a foe another crazy Invincible.

sorry if this was boring, wanted to focus on Mainstream Mark in this one :P !!

Am I cray cray to think Sinister Mark loves dishing out and receiving pain

UMM anyway, we ignore how you can tell I’m new to writing action scenes tyyy 🫣🙈 oh also the plot holes shh

-bonsubear

[theonottsbxtch]

SOMETHING LIKE LOVE | OP81

an: to all of those who believe you aren't worthy of love. you truly are, it'll come xx this is apart of my 2k celly, requested!!

wc: 5.3k

summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

THE PADDOCK WASN'T BUILT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. It reeked of burnt rubber, adrenaline, and the sort of manufactured glamour that barely hid the pressure underneath. Flashing cameras. PR smiles. Men in pristine team gear pretending the world didn’t hang on lap times and tenths of a second.

She walked through it like she belonged, because she did, but never without the weight of proving it.

Two seasons in Formula 1 hadn’t made things easier. If anything, the stares lingered longer, the whispers just quiet enough to still be heard. Her VCARB rarely made it to the top ten unless she dragged it there herself. But she didn’t complain. She drove. She fought. And when they underestimated her, she made them regret it.

She was sharp. Quick-witted. Sassy, some said. A “media darling�� with a bite. The kind who could deliver a one-liner that left even the most seasoned interviewer blinking.

And Oscar knew it from the start.

Oscar Piastri, McLaren’s golden boy, all easy charm and restless ambition. Three years into his career and finally, finally, he looked like he might be on track for a proper championship run. Two wins in four races, and the papaya car was back in the fight.

To the public, he was the perfect mix of cheeky and clean-cut, messy brown hair that refused to stay slicked back, a soft Australian accent that turned heads in press conferences, and eyes that didn’t give much away unless he wanted them to.

But around her, he never quite managed to keep his composure.

They were the same age. Entered F1 within a year of each other. She arrived a storm; he remembered watching her first race from the McLaren garage, muttering “bloody hell” under his breath when she overtook three cars in two laps like it was nothing.

He’d been intrigued ever since.

But she didn’t let people in. Not really. She joked, flirted, rolled her eyes at dumb questions, but the walls stayed up. And Oscar couldn’t help but want to know what was behind them.

He didn’t push. Not yet.

Until that interview.

The sun beat down on the pit lane, heat shimmering off the tarmac as engineers scurried and photographers prowled like vultures with lanyards. Just another Saturday. Quali was done, data collected, and everyone was pretending to be relaxed when they were actually wound tighter than the bolts on the front wing.

She was sitting on the edge of her garage wall, swinging one leg like a schoolgirl on break, water bottle tucked between her hands. Her helmet sat beside her, visor up, reflecting the bustle. She watched it all with that same expression she always had post-session. Ccalm, but calculating. Like she’d already rewound and replayed every corner in her head.

Oscar spotted her before she saw him. Not that he was looking. Not exactly.

He’d just finished his debrief, race suit zipped halfway, hair doing its usual floppy rebellion. He could’ve turned into hospitality. Could’ve headed for the ice bath. But instead, his feet took him across the paddock, like they always did when she was around.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, voice casual as he stopped beside her.

She glanced up, squinting into the sun. "If by ‘view’ you mean watching your pit crew nearly drop your front jack, then yeah. Thrilling stuff."

Oscar smirked, teeth flashing. “It’s all part of the drama. Keeps the fans on their toes.”

“Right. That, or McLaren’s just allergic to calm pit stops.”

She said it with a grin, but Oscar swore there was something else behind it — amusement, yeah, but also that spark she always had when she was comfortable. Which wasn’t often. Not properly. Not unless she trusted someone.

He perched on the wall next to her, not too close. Just enough. She didn’t move away.

"You were quick today," he said, more genuine now.

"So were you," she replied. "P2 in Quali? Showing off for the cameras?"

Oscar shrugged. "Just trying to impress the VCARB girl."

She arched a brow, smile twitching like she was trying not to let it grow. "You’re three years too late for that.”

“Reckon I’ve still got time,” he said lightly, but it landed heavier between them.

She didn’t reply, just took a sip from her bottle, eyes on the track. A mechanic shouted something in Italian nearby. Her leg kept swinging.

"Tell me something, Piastri," she said eventually. "Do you ever get tired of being the fan favourite?"

He looked at her then. Really looked. “Do you ever get tired of proving everyone wrong?”

That made her go still for a beat. Then she exhaled, soft and slow.

“All the time.”

Before he could decipher what she meant, a voice cut through the buzz of the pit lane, clipped, PR-perfect, and far too chipper for the afternoon.

“Right, you two. They’re ready for you in the media pen. Sofa set-up. You know the drill.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she stood, twisting the top back on her bottle.

Oscar stood too, brushing imaginary dust off his fireproofs. “Do I at least get to sit next to you?”

She gave him a look, all raised brows and mock pity. “That desperate for moral support?”

“Obviously.”

They walked side by side, weaving through crew and cables, eventually emerging into the small, overly lit press area. The sofa, that cursed faux-leather monstrosity in sponsor-friendly grey, sat in front of a wall plastered with logos. Lance was already sitting there, on the edge, smiling at them when they walked past.

Oscar dropped onto one end, she slid into the middle, Lance on her other side. The flashes started immediately.

Questions came quick. Routine stuff. Lance was asked about his lap time, Oscar about the McLaren upgrades.

Then, someone aimed their mic toward her.

“Question for you,” the reporter said, polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You’ve had a strong start to the season considering the car you’re in. P7 in the standings. You seem sharper than ever. Do you think that drive, that edge, comes from not having distractions? You’ve said before you keep your circle tight.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, fingers laced in her lap. “If by distractions you mean relationships, then yeah. Probably.”

The reporter pushed, as they always did. “So... nothing on the horizon? Love life completely off the table?”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that hung too long to be comfortable. Her eyes flicked briefly to the floor, then back up.

“I don’t think I’m made for love,” she said, simply. Like it was a fact. “Not the way people want it. Doesn’t really fit with everything else.”

A few awkward chuckles. Lance looked down at his shoes. The journalist nodded, clearly satisfied with his viral soundbite.

But Oscar?

Oscar hadn’t moved. He was still angled slightly toward her, lips parted just a little. Because something about the way she’d said it. Not bitter, not flippant, just... tired, it punched the air clean out of his lungs.

Not made for love?

He wanted to shake her. Tell her she was wrong. That whoever made her feel that way had clearly been a coward, because she was all sharp edges and fire, yeah but there was something soft in her, too. Something no one had ever bothered to stay long enough to understand.

He didn’t say anything. Not there. Not with a dozen cameras on them.

But inside, something locked into place.

He was going to prove her wrong.

The thing about F1 was that it never slowed down. Not really.

One weekend blurred into the next, a constant carousel of countries, circuits, press calls, qualifying stress and race-day nerves. But somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah, something shifted.

It started with a cup of tea in Jeddah.

She’d had a hellish day, the VCARB car twitchy as hell through sector two, her engineer frustrated, and the media already foaming at the mouth for something to twist. By the time she stalked into hospitality, she barely noticed the cup waiting for her on the table.

Two sugars. Splash of milk. Her kind of tea, the sort no one in the team ever seemed to get quite right.

She paused.

Then saw the note, scribbled on a napkin in slanted handwriting:

Figured you’d need this after that press conference. — O

No fanfare. No performance.

Just… thoughtfulness. Simple and grounding.

She never mentioned it. But she started noticing things after that.

Miami was blistering.

Drivers’ parade meant being carted around the circuit in the back of an open-top truck like they were part of a royal procession. She hated it, the awkward wave, the sun in her eyes, and today, the fact she’d left her sunglasses back in the garage like an idiot, made it worse.

“Looking for these?” a voice said beside her.

Oscar, of course. Holding her black framed sunglasses by one arm, a smug little smirk on his face.

She stared. “Why do you have those?”

“Saw you left them by your bag. Figured I’d rescue them before someone else claimed them.”

She snatched them, slipping them on with a scoff. “Stalker.”

“Public service,” he replied, resting an arm casually behind her as the truck started to roll. “You’d owe me a favour, if you weren’t so stubborn.”

She glanced at him from behind the lenses. “I’ll add it to the imaginary tab you think I have.”

But her voice was softer. Less guarded.

Monaco, as always, was madness. She’d had a surprisingly strong quali.  P7. But the grid was chaos, press everywhere, the tight streets of Monte Carlo offering no room to breathe.

She was trying to centre herself, leaning against her garage, helmet off but earplugs in. She liked that moment, just her and the buzz of a silent track.

Until someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned, expecting her engineer. Instead: Oscar.

He held something out.

Her blue lucky charm. A little rubber tag she’d had since her karting days. She hadn’t even realised it had fallen off.

“You dropped it in the paddock,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want you going without it.”

She blinked, eyes flicking from his hand to his face. Then took it, fingers brushing his, unintentionally, of course.

“Thanks.”

He gave a half-shrug, stepping back. “Lucky charm for someone who doesn’t need luck.”

She didn’t respond. But she clipped it back onto her necklace and didn’t take it off as she slipped it under the fireproofs.

The pressure always peaked at Silverstone.

Her home race. Headlines were brutal. Fans were louder. Her mum was in the paddock, bless her, nerves practically seeping out of her pores as she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified every time her daughter got in that car.

She was seconds away from getting into her car while her team faffed about with her car when Oscar walked up to her, helmet off.

She turned her head just slightly, visor still up.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he saw her.

“Your mum said you always hated the crowd here,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the roar of the crowds. “So block ‘em out. Just you and the car. Show them why they should’ve put you in that Red Bull seat.”

Her breath caught, a flutter she couldn’t blame on nerves.

He winked, then turned and jogged back to his own car, slotting into P3 like he hadn’t just cracked something open in her chest.

She finished P4, right behind him. Best result of the year.

By Hungary, it wasn’t subtle anymore,  at least not to her.

They were seated beside each other at some PR dinner, everyone playing polite for the cameras. She wore black, sleek and unbothered. He wore a shirt and shorts, as he always did.

Someone made a joke. She barely heard who it came from.

“All that attitude and no man to handle it,” he said to one of the F1 Academy girls, grinning. “You’ll end up like our princess here, all work, no play.”

The table chuckled. She didn’t flinch. She was used to it.

But Oscar leaned forward.

“Yeah,” he said. Calm. Cool. Deadly. “Because having standards is such a crime.”

The room shifted. No one knew what to say.

Except her. She just looked at him, eyes soft.

And he looked back.

Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in all this as she thought.

Something had changed.

He wasn’t just trying anymore.

He was showing her �� in every touch, every look, every small act of care — that love wasn’t about grand gestures or promises shouted from rooftops. It was quiet. Steady. Gentle hands at your back when the world was shouting. Someone seeing you exactly as you are and staying anyway.

And little by little... she started to believe it.

She told herself she wasn’t keeping track.

Not of the way Oscar always found her in a crowd. Not of how he seemed to know when she needed to be distracted, or when silence was kinder. Not of the brief, shared glances across driver briefings, or how he never once looked at her the way the others sometimes did — like she was a story waiting to be twisted.

But she remembered it all.

Like in Monza, when her DRS failed mid-qualifying and she stormed back to the garage, helmet still on because she didn’t trust her face to hide how gutted she was. No one said a word. Not until she felt something cold press into her hand.

Oscar, offering her a can of apple juice. No words. Just a look as he took a sip out of his can.

“I hate apple juice,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said, sipping his own. “That one’s mine. Yours is in the other hand.”

She glanced down.

Peach iced tea. Her favourite.

She didn’t ask for any of it.

The sunglasses. The drink. The keyring. The silence. The noise.

But it kept coming. Him, quiet in his certainty. Like he’d already decided that she was worth showing up for, even when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

Especially when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

The next time something happened, it was in Singapore.

Hot. Humid. Heavy with expectation.

She’d just come P6 in a brutal race that chewed up tyres like paper and spat out dreams by lap thirty. Her fireproofs were soaked, her head pounding.

And Oscar was waiting by her team’s hospitality exit, arms folded, cap pulled low.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Dinner.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He shrugged. “Then sit with me and don’t eat.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He ordered for her anyway. Didn’t ask what she wanted. Just remembered. Her favourite noodle place two blocks from the paddock.

She ate in silence, and when she finally looked up, he was already looking at her.

Not expecting anything.

Just… there.

Then came Mexico.

Two weeks of media frenzy. The first whispers of contract talks for next season. Her name was in headlines again, her seat not guaranteed, everyone treating her like she was a gamble.

She was pacing in her hotel room, phone in hand, brain buzzing with what-ifs.

A knock pulled her out of it.

She opened the door.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie and trainers. Not his usual post-race gloss.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down the hall. “My sister’s in town. We’re grabbing food. Thought you might wanna come.”

She blinked. “Why?”

He blinked right back. “Because you’ve barely eaten all day and you pace like a lunatic when you overthink.”

She stared at him. Quiet. Still.

Then: “Why do you keep doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

She crossed her arms. Not angry. Just… tired.

“All of it. The tea in Australia. My sunglasses in Miami. The keyring. Silverstone. The way you stood up for me in Silverstone. The ice tea in Monza. Singapore noodles. Now this.”

He said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“You remember everything. You notice everything. You show up like you’ve got something to prove. So tell me, Oscar. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

Silence.

The hotel room was too quiet, just the buzz of a nearby light and the thrum of her heart.

He swallowed. Voice quiet.

“That you’re worthy of love.”

Her breath caught.

He looked at her then, really looked, eyes softer than she’d ever seen them, shoulders loose, like he’d been holding something for too long and was finally letting it drop.

“That day, in the media pen in Bahrain,” he said. “When you said you didn’t think you were made for it… I don’t know. It just stuck with me.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He kept going.

“Not because it was dramatic. You didn’t even say it like that. You just said it like it was true. Like it was fact. And I thought…” He paused. “I don’t know what kind of idiot made you believe that. But they were wrong.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re stubborn. And proud. And you act like you don’t need anyone, which is probably true most of the time. But you’re also… the kindest, most brilliant pain in the arse I’ve ever met.”

A breath. Then:

“And I guess I just wanted you to know you don’t have to go through this alone. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat was dry. She blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, “You’re not very good at playing it cool, are you?”

He laughed — soft and low. “Not when it’s you.”

Oscar’s words had hit too hard, too deep. She couldn’t breathe properly now, couldn’t find her voice.

“Why do you think you’re not worthy?” he asked softly, the words almost lost in the air between them.

She looked at him then, eyes blurry and strained. There was so much she could say, but it was all knotted in her throat. His quiet intensity, the way he stood there with all that sincerity, it made it hard to keep up the walls.

“Because…” She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “Because I’m a woman in motorsport, Oscar. And that’s hard enough on its own. The pressure to prove myself is enough without having to deal with all the other stuff.” She shook her head, her voice faltering. “People don't see me. They see the seat I’m in. They see the fact that I have to fight for everything. And sometimes... sometimes, it feels like it’s never going to be enough. Like I’ll never be enough.”

She was rambling now, the words spilling out faster than she could control. “I’m constantly proving I belong. I have to keep up with men who think they’re better by default. I’ve had to do more, be more, just to be seen as equal. And for what? So some guy can come in, wave a magic wand, and tell me I’m worthy of... what? Love?”

Her voice cracked at the last word.

The silence stretched between them. The tears that had been hanging just behind her eyes finally fell, one by one, streaking down her cheeks.

She felt weak. Like everything she’d fought to protect for years, her confidence, her strength, was slipping away with each tear that fell.

But Oscar... Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t pull away.

He stopped right in front of her, barely an inch separating them now, the faint heat of his body seeping into hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Don’t you ever think that about yourself. You’re so much more than any of those idiots who don’t know what it’s like. You deserve love. Real love. Not the kind they pretend to give you because of your seat or because of how they see you. The kind that just… is. The kind that doesn’t expect anything in return.”

He reached up, his thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping away the tears that hadn’t even stopped falling yet.

Her breath hitched.

And then he did the most Oscar thing he could have done.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the closeness stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t let them tell you you’re anything less than worthy. Don’t let anyone make you think you’re broken because you’ve had to be stronger than anyone else. You’re whole. You’re worth it, always. And if it takes me showing you every day, I’ll do it. I’ll spend every day reminding you.”

Her heart was pounding now, so loud she couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears. She wanted to speak, but she couldn’t, the emotions were too raw, too intense. She could barely comprehend what he was saying, not through the haze of vulnerability that had opened up inside her.

He pulled back slightly, but not enough for their foreheads to part. His eyes were soft, searching hers for something. Maybe for permission. Maybe for the answers she hadn’t given yet.

And then, without warning, his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was... slow. Gentle. His lips brushing against hers in a tender, tentative kiss. A kiss full of everything unsaid, of all the moments he had cared for her in silence, of all the things he’d done and felt that had built up to this point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was him proving, finally, that he’d meant every word.

Her hands moved instinctively, reaching up to touch his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as the kiss deepened. She felt the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his lips, the quiet way he held her like he was afraid she might break if he wasn’t careful.

The tears didn’t stop falling, but they were different now. Not from pain, not from frustration, but from something else. Something soft and tender, like she could finally exhale after holding her breath for far too long.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, her forehead leaned against his again. His hands were on her face now, cupping her cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“See?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I told you. You’re worth it.”

She swallowed hard, her chest tight with everything she felt but couldn’t say.

Instead, she just nodded. “I never thought someone could love me for just… me. Not because I’m a driver. Not because of anything other than that.”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always will be.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she believed him.

The kiss lingered in the air between them like a warm, unspoken promise. Neither of them moved. Neither of them needed to.

Her heart was still racing, but now there was a sense of calm, a quiet settling she hadn’t realised she needed until this very moment.

Oscar’s hands were still gently cupping her face, his thumbs brushing softly along her jawline as if he wanted to imprint the feel of her there in his memory. His gaze was soft but intense, still reading her like he’d always done. She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her, even now.

And she knew.

She knew that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, a one-time gesture. This was something deeper. Something that had been building for a long time, maybe without either of them even realising it.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was just right.

But then Oscar’s phone buzzed.

It broke the stillness, and his gaze shifted, momentarily pulling away from hers.

He glanced down at his screen, his fingers swiping it unlocked before he tapped out a quick reply.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Her eyes drifted to the message on his phone, just barely catching a glimpse of the text that had popped up.

"Did you finally tell her?!"

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. Her mind immediately started working overtime. Tell her? What did that mean?

She couldn’t stop herself. She leaned in just a little, trying to see if there was more.

Oscar noticed the shift in her attention, his thumb halting mid-type. He looked back up at her, eyes wary, lips pulling into a small, knowing smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice teasing but his eyes slightly guarded.

She frowned. “What was that about? ‘Did you finally tell her?’”

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Look, I —” He stopped, biting his lip as if trying to find the right words. “I didn’t exactly want you to find out like this.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flicked to the phone again, where the text from his sister still lingered on the screen.

“I’ve... kind of had a thing for you for a while, actually,” he said, his voice sheepish, like it was something that still surprised him. “And I guess, in a way, she’s been... waiting for me to actually do something about it.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed again, trying to process the words as they settled in.

“So, it wasn’t just me imagining all this?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his. “All the little things, it’s not because you wanted to prove a point but because you always liked me.”

He shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. “Nah. I’ve been a bit of an idiot, to be honest. She’s been telling me to just... tell you already. To stop being such a coward.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned back slightly, the weight of his confession landing on her.

“How long have you liked me then, Osc?” she asked, the words still foreign on her tongue.

He chuckled, eyes softening. “For a while now. Since we started racing against each other, actually. I just — I don’t know. You’ve always been so... independent. And I didn’t want to mess things up for you, you know? You’ve got enough on your plate without some guy making it more complicated.”

She could feel her chest tightening, her heart swelling with something she couldn’t quite name. “You really thought I wouldn’t want you? With all the times you’ve been there for me?”

He paused, his hand dropping, suddenly unsure. “I didn’t think I was the right kind of guy for you. You deserve someone who can... give you everything. And I didn’t know if I could.”

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. “But you already have.”

He looked at her, a flicker of hope and disbelief in his eyes. “You mean it?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

A silence stretched between them once again. But this time, it was different. There was no more hesitation. No more fear.

She could feel the pull again. The one that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. And this time, she was ready to admit it.

“I never thought anyone could feel this way about me,” she whispered. “I always thought... I was too much. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too everything.”

Oscar’s hand reached out again, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles. “You’re not too much, love. You’re exactly what I’ve wanted.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time, it felt like the weight of everything — all the doubt, the fear, the loneliness — finally melted away.

His phone buzzed again, but this time, he didn’t even glance at it.

He just leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“You’re so worthy,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Before she could say anything, before she could process the feeling overwhelming her, his lips were on hers again. Slow, tender, and full of everything he had been holding back.

This time, the kiss wasn’t just an expression of everything that had been unsaid.

It was a promise. A promise that, for once, she didn’t have to prove herself. Not to him. Not to anyone.

She was enough.

He was more than willing to remind her of that, every single day.

And he did.

He reminded her every day.

Every morning when the sun crept through the hotel curtains, he was the first thing she saw, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached out to pull her closer. Every time they woke up next to each other, whether in a hotel room after a race weekend or their small flat in Monaco in between races, Oscar was there. His hand in hers. His heart in his eyes.

There was no more second-guessing. No more wondering if she was enough. Because with him, she knew.

The world outside the bubble of their love kept moving, of course. The cars kept racing, the fans kept cheering, the pressure kept building. But with Oscar by her side, she felt like she could breathe. Like the weight of the world wasn’t too heavy to bear.

The year she got her promotion to Red Bull, she was already flying high with the confidence that came from the love she hadn’t known she needed.

She remembered how he’d been there, of course, always there. That morning, just before the announcement, she’d been pacing in her garage, waiting for the call. He had leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that patient, steady smile of his.

“You’ve earned this,” he had said quietly. “You’ve always earned this.”

She hadn’t believed it then, not fully. Not until she got the call. Until she stood in the team office, her name printed on the top of the contract for next season.

Red Bull.

It felt surreal. But when she went to call Oscar, to share the news, he’d already been there, waiting on the other end of the line.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is just the beginning, love.”

And she knew, right then, that it was.

Because then, there was that moment. The one that everyone had been waiting for.

The moment she became the first woman to win the World Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. The battle with the other teams, the constant questions, the doubts. But through it all, Oscar had been there. Through every late-night debrief, every race weekend, every difficult practice session where she didn’t think she could do it, he had been her quiet strength.

He wasn’t the loudest supporter. He didn’t shout in front of the media. But when it was just the two of them, when they were alone in their little world, he was her unwavering pillar.

After the final race of the season, when she crossed the line and knew it was done, she was overwhelmed by emotion. But when she looked out into the crowd, the first person she saw wasn’t her manager, her family, or her teammates. It was Oscar. Standing in the paddock, arms spread wide as if he had been waiting for this moment just as much as she had.

The podium ceremony was a blur, but when they met backstage, before the interviews and the flashing cameras, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I told you,” he whispered into her ear. “I told you that you were worthy of everything. You just had to see it for yourself.”

She smiled, tears mixing with the sweat and champagne, and kissed him deeply, because no words could capture what they had between them. She knew he would never stop proving it, that she was worthy of all the love, all the victories, all the happiness in the world.

And he would keep proving it every day.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @luvstappen @obxstiles

[whosmariaaa]

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 !

college! sukuna was indeed head over heels. he couldn’t stop thinking about you. you and your attitude, the way you didn’t take his shit. and maybe the fact that you were playing hard to get.

you were actually not, because you did not want him at all, and you hated his guts more than anything. especially right now.

“are you actually being for real? sukuna, the project is due in a week! and you haven’t done shit! you told me you would!” you told him in irritation. though you were growing more stressed than irritated. this project was a really big part of your grade, and if this wasn’t done right, you were screwed.

he was looking at your face with a lazy grin, though you doubted he was paying attention to anything you were saying.

“uh huh, just chill out, y/n,” sukuna shrugged, unbothered.

“chill out? i’ve been working my ass off for my part of the project, and you haven’t done a single thing!” you rejoined.

he raised an eyebrow. “are you sure? cause i’ve seen your part of the project, and it’s fucking shit—“

SMACK!

heads turned at the loud noise, but you couldn’t possibly care less. “i’m so fucking done with you! get your shit together! you finish your part of the project in two days, or i’m kicking your ass out!” you snapped before storming out of the library.

sukuna held a hand on the cheek that was starting to go a little red from the hit he just took. he wasn’t angry, or irritated. he just watched you go with a slight smirk.

no one ever dared to hurt sukuna and get away with it. that man was menacing, and could get people begging on their knees quickly.

but you? he let you. honestly, you were the most entertainment he was getting since forever. every single little thing you did out of anger, only made his infatuation for you grow. sukuna loved the thrill he got out of you.

two days later, he told you he finished his part of the project. which took a whole lot of weight of your shoulders, because you were starting to grow grey hairs at this rate.

and honestly, something in you told you to trust him. he had phenomenal grades, after all. so, not until a few hours before the deadline did you decide to check his part of the project.

you regretted it. spelling mistakes, grammar errors, nothing on the paper made sense. it was genuinely terrible. and suddenly, you felt as if you were growing grey hairs again. you called sukuna for nth time that hour, but when it send you to voicemail once more, you took it on yourself to fix this crap.

you spend your entire evening and night in complete stress, trying to fix what you could. and you eventually had to send it in, due to the dead line nearing. anxiety was surging through you. but maybe, the professor took mercy on grading projects.

the next few days, you avoided him altogether. no matter what he did or said, you ignored him and kept walking. you were too anxious about the project’s results to even start a fight with him.

and when your grade finally came in, you wanted to die. a 49%. all that hard work, and for what? and on top of that, now you were failing this class too.

after class you confronted him, angrily. but you struggled to conceal how you really felt about all this. you felt like crying, but you kept it in.

“you look pissed. what’s up, baby?” sukuna asked, leaning down condescendingly.

“what the fuck do you think? maybe the 49% on our project? you said you did your part of the project!” you retorted furiously.

he scoffed, “so? i never said i was going to try. i told you to not expect me to give a shit, didn’t i?” he taunted.

sukuna wasn’t taking you seriously at all. he just looked down at you with his stupid, stupid smirk.

you felt your legs go a little wobbly. you felt like shit, actually. and right now, you couldn’t stop the tears either as they welled up in your eyes.

“you’re a piece of fucking shit, sukuna! i hate you so fucking much! fuck you!” you snapped, your voice breaking slightly.

sukuna went silent for a moment at the sight of the tears pooling in your eyes, “shit, baby. i didn’t think you’d care this much,” he replied, though his tone was slightly less mocking.

you couldn’t take it anymore. you wiped your tears and got out of there. you couldn’t deal with all this anymore. and definitely not with him right now.

sukuna just stood there, with a weird feeling bubbling in his stomach at seeing you cry. he was quiet, with his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“damn. what’cha do? cheat on her?” gojo chimed in, placing his hand on sukuna’s shoulder. but before gojo could react, he slammed him against the wall, and grabbed his collar.

“gojo, i told you to shut the fuck up about her. when the fuck are you going to get a hint? or should i beat the shit out of you first?” he threatened.

he felt himself get pushed off. “calm your ass down,” toji huffed. gojo just scratched his head. he was used to sukuna’s aggression, but not this kind of anger over a girl.

“whatever. watch what the fuck you say, gojo,” he warned firmly. gojo just shot his hands up in defence, “okay, okay. my bad. i won’t start talking about your girl again.”

sukuna’s eye twitched, but he sighed and just let it rest. he still felt like crap about you crying. he didn’t even know why, he made plenty girl cry before. but seeing you cry, made his heart feel heavy.

“fuck is wrong with you?” toji asked, though his tone was calm. sukuna stayed silent for a few moments.

“i fucked up,” he grumbled after a while. toji and gojo exchanged glances, not really sure what to do about all this. sukuna didn’t know either, and that made him feel even more shitty.

──★˙🍓̟!! hi babes!!!! thank you so so so much gor all the love, may God bless u all💞💞 and i’m so sorry i’m very busy with school rn i have a test week so pls forgive me if im a little slow w updates! ill also attempt to do a taglist in part 6, tysm for the patience!

[midniqhtt]

sebastian sallow

masterlist • hogwarts legacy • 03/27/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs

𑣲 never forget I @zevrra

where sebastian is actually worried about MC and regrets casting crucio on them

𑣲 caught in the rain I @/zevrra

you and sebastian seek shelter inside an abandoned home where every feeling is laid to bare.

𑣲 truth or dare I @ppomumgranatum

Truths emerged and friendships were tested as you found yourself confronting two years' worth of suppressed feelings towards Sebastian. Drunk.

𑣲 the dance of love’s sweet potion I @/ppomumgranatum

When a potion meant to repel backfired, it became a mishap that turned your world upside down.

𑣲 marry me I @theealbatross

The 3 times Sebastian thought about marrying you and the 1 time he asked.

𑣲 fight the alchemy I @/theealbatross

Garreth asks why Sebastian isn’t dating you. Sebastian spirals.

𑣲 i love you, it’s ruining my life I @/theealbatross

Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him.

𑣲 never not been mine I @/theealbatross

Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.

𑣲 a habit to kick, an age old cure I @/theealbatross

you and Sebastian are now strangers but at your most vulnerable moment he picks up the pieces. only he knows. only he can.

𑣲 fever (what a lovely way to burn) I @shadowtriovibes

"since you saved Sebastian from Azkaban, he has met you in the common room every morning and you have gone to breakfast together. One morning he isn't there so you go to his room looking for him to find him in bed, poorly.”

𑣲 request I @/shadowtriovibes

Eric Northcott is relentlessly pursuing you, so Sebastian offers to act as your heroic boyfriend to get him off your back

𑣲 break a sweat part 2 part 3 part 4 I @/shadowtriovibes

sebastian makes the house quidditch team after training all summer. before his first match, you let him talk you into a bet over its outcome that will in all likelihood ruin your friendship. (merlin, you sure hope it does.)

𑣲 mind if i move in closer? I @/shadowtriovibes

𑣲 it’s a sign of the times part 2 I @/shadowtriovibes

Rivals-to-lovers Sebastian and MC use a Time-Turner to travel to the future with Ominis in search for a cure for Anne. Instead they find a girl who's the spitting image of MC trying to sneak into the Restricted Section in the 1910s, only she has freckles like Sebastian

𑣲 fissured composure I @anto-pops

After watching you hold your own against a handsy classmate, Sebastian is feeling particularly needy and steals you away to the Undercroft to show you just how worked up your right hook got him.

𑣲 possessive touch I @/anto-pops

Sebastian has never been the sharing sort. He was happy to loan people notes or quills, maybe even the occasional book from the Restricted Section. But not you. Never you.

𑣲 sudsy confessions I @/anto-pops

Sebastian confessing his long-harbored love for you while you’re naked in a bathtub.

𑣲 request I @/anto-pops

𑣲 unspoken attraction I @arthenaa

The girls and you have a talk on who they'll date amongst the students in Hogwarts. No one mentions Sebastian despite being deemed the most handsome in your year. You wonder why?

𑣲 jealously, jealousy I @awkwardauthorwrites

𑣲 i think he knows I @/awkwardauthorwrites

Sebastian helps Y/N with an interesting request

𑣲 violets and verbena I @/awkwardauthorwrites

Two years have passed since the events in Hogwarts Legacy, in which Y/N has drifted away from Sebastian. What happens when she has to spend some time in the hospital wing and he comes to visit?

𑣲 in the middle part 2 I @/awkwardauthorwrites

After a few months of knowing the reader the boys suddenly realise one day they are falling in love with the reader and start to become a bit bitter towards each other and very jealous if another guy gives her attention.

𑣲 wildest dreams part 2 part 3 I @/awkwardauthorwrites

Ten years have passed since the events of Hogwarts Legacy and Y/N is invited back as part of a reunion to celebrate.

𑣲 diesel is desire I @wttcsms

sebastian sallow is a good friend. so good, in fact, that when you find yourself under the ungodly influence of a lust potion, he's willing to help give you some relief.

𑣲 trust fall I @fairytalesandlegacies

Sebastian Sallow teaches you how to fight against the Imperius Curse late one night, and in the process, some long-kept secrets are revealed.

𑣲 i need you I @ravenelyx

Sebastian has different ways of dealing with being hurt. One of them is burying his face in your chest while you cuddle him

𑣲 who do you smell? I @roarieluz

Sebastian Sallow has had a crush on Y/N for a while now, this isn't news to him but when a strong batch of amortentia is made for potions class it is hard to keep his mind clear of anything that isn't about you and what he wants to do to you.

𑣲 the night shift part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 I @writing-intheundercroft

You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.

𑣲 a long time coming I @undergaunts

aka three times Sebastian is a flirt, one time he gets called out on it, and one time he finally does something about it.

𑣲 pining in potions class I @festivalsofmargot

Sebastian Sallow is forming a huge crush on you, and it’s hitting him all at once in a very annoying way. Something as simple as not being partnered with you in potions class eats away at him.

𑣲 pretty thoughts part 2 I @/festivalsofmargot

Sebastian is down bad for you, my dear reader. But a lot of overthinking on your part makes you blind to it. So, his only option is to keep chasing after you.

𑣲 a worrisome box of chocolates I @matchavellichor

𑣲 you look better in green part 2 I @fierymiasma

In which Sebastian sees the new transfer student wearing someone else’s scarf and proceeds to absolutely lose it.

𑣲 snow, scarves, and schemes I @spaceyaceface

Y/N is sick of Leander Prewett trying to court her. Luckily, she has a best friend named Sebastian Sallow who would love to help put an end to it. They devise a plan to pretend to court up until the Yule Ball. Should be simple, right? If only. 

𑣲 the one who stayed I @talesofesther

For a moment, Sebastian thought he lost you, and now the guilt for what happened is eating away at him.

𑣲 the winner takes all I @justauthoring

in which, leander prewett is a prick and sebastian shows him not mess with his girl.

𑣲 bludgered I @slytherizz

Sebastian never really knew what his friend saw in Isaac Cooper but he never questioned it - he made his friend happy. That is until a Quidditch match goes quickly awry and he realises his feelings for her may go far deeper than simple friendship.

𑣲 between the two of you I @cuffmeinblack

Rewriting of the events of the Shadow of the Study/Discovery quests.

𑣲 i crumble completely (when you cry) I @atlabeth

there's only one way to get into salazar slytherin's scriptorium.

𑣲 right where you left me I @anomalyaly

You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

𑣲 in the shadow of the mountain I @ellecdc

fed up with Sebastian. After admitting he "shouldn't have acted so bitterly about your goblin friend", you expect him to be in better spirits on your next quest. He keeps putting the both of you in danger, and you've had it.

𑣲 i remember I @whizzing-fizzbee

You died during your seventh year at Hogwarts before you could tell your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, how much you loved him. But when he discovers a box of your pensieve memories, he learns the comforting, yet cruel truth.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Daily fish fact #6 444 205

Fish!

The fish like to have a little drink :) Sadly as they drink the water around them they also drink their own pee, and that is the curse that they will have to live with for the rest of their life

#fish #fishfact #fish facts #fishblr #biology #zoology

( 2 notes )

🪼 clovergonads follow

Tasseled wobbegong women >>>>>>>>>>>

🐸 i-eat-skin follow

bitch those are goosefish

( 27,196 notes )

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore follow

Say what you want about fishblr updates, but I think this format for reblubs is a wonderful improvement over the previous one. One of the only times staff did good.

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore

@featherstar53 If reblub chains got too long, new reblubs would start appearing as darker and darker until you couldnt see the text anymore. It mimicked how light disappears as you go deeper in the ocean but the sunken code this webbedsite runs on never set a cap for how dark it gets, so eventually you would have to copy ad paste the text on the reblubs onto somewhere to read them.

🐍 swamplamprey follow

It sounds fake but it's true! You can still find some older fishblr post screenshots with this effect:

This even went for full abyssal mode users! In their case, the text would slowly turn from white to dark blue, effectively making it impossible to read against the black background.

🦞 fastest-claw-in-the-west follow

I think it would be super funny if they brought this back but for individual posts. Like the reblubs stay the same colour but the posts themselves get gradually and gradually darker until you can't see them anymore lol. It would be disastrous but also funny and it might finally stop some of you frys from being so addicted to this webbedsite

#im all for a bit of chaos lol #treasure trove: talking tag

( 730 notes )

🌿 invertlike-behaviour follow

Okay for the record. My eyes are Red because I'm a COMMON ROACH! RUTILUS RUTILUS! It's not because I smoke seaweed!

🌿 invertlike-behaviour

Okay Yes I smoke seaweed all day. But the specific reason my eyes are red is Not That

( 104 notes )

🦈 spiritually-placoderm follow

🫧 surgeonsturgeon follow

OP you forgot brackish water and the option for inhabiting both

🦈 spiritually-placoderm

Shut your inferior ass mouth up

🫧 surgeonsturgeon

#(i couldnt find the actual gif i wanted to use but this weird tiger shark will have to do) #(not sure why his fins look like that)

( 1,020 notes )

☀️ slenderfish follow

"ocean sunfish have over 40 parasite species" factoid actualy just statistical error. average ocean sunfish is infected with only one or two parasites. Parasites Georg, the mola who suffers from every ailment known to fish and has over 1 000 000 000 parasite species infesting his flesh and organs, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

( 193,239 notes)

🪷 trout-about-you follow

Selfieeeee :3 (ignore the two sea lampreys attached to my flesh)

🪲 toebiter follow

how did you take the picture you aren't holding your phone

🪷 trout-about-you

The sea lamprey on the left took it for me

( 58 notes )

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

FISH USED TO MIGRATE THOUSANDS OF MILES TO BREED. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!!!

IN MY DAY PUSSFISH LIKE THIS WOULD GET EATEN ALIVE BY REAL RIVER MONSTERS FOR BREAKFAST.

🐟 darting-action follow

these are Siamese fighting fish bruh.... They don't have migration as part of their life cycle lmao

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

OF COURSE THE YOUTH CAN'T PUNCTUATE THEIR SENTENCES PROPERLY. I SHOULDN'T EXPECT SO MUCH FROM THE SOFT FRY THEY ARE. ALWAYS GETTING RILED UP!

🔲 skip-hopper-deactivated

Ignore this guy, @darting-action. He's well known for saying offensive nonsense like this, I think he's bait and trying to get someone to bite.

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

YOU MUST BE ONE OF THOSE INBRED DOMESTIC SCUM OR HATCHED YESTERDAY SINCE YOU ENTIRELY LACK THICK SCALES. I SPEAK THE TRUTH AND ONLY THE TRUTH. IF YOU GET TRIGGERED THEN THAT'S NATURAL SELECTION, SON. YOU SHOULD FIGHT ME IN REAL LIFE.

🔲 walrus-tits-in-my-mouth-deactivated

You really dont know a thing about natural selection, do you? Bettas have flashy fins because they have to seem threatening to possible competitors. They don't migrate so they aren't built for that. They're built for living in ponds and marshes, low oxygen environments, and by cod, they are built for fighting territorial battles! You shouldn't underestimate a fish literally called fighting fish. They're very tough and hardy fish and can even send larger fish fleeing!

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

SIAMESE FLAILING PUSSFISH HAVE LADY FINS BECAUSE THEY'RE WEAK AND SOFT AND HAD HUMANS DECIDE WHO THEY BREED WITH FOR THEM. THEIR QUOTE UNQUOTE "FIGHTING PROWESS" SURE DIDN'T SAVE THEM FROM BEING PRISSY LITTLE PRINCESS FISHIES FOR LITTLE KIDS DID IT? THE INDUBIDABLE FACT IS THAT THEY'RE MUSKIE FOOD.

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

Wait a minute... I recongize that picture on the right! That's from @betta-than-this 's OnlyFins! How did you get that picutre hmmm? Salmonidae? How on Ocean did you gain access huh?

🐠 betta-than-this follow

"Indubidable" is a pretty specific word to use. This you @salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated?

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

LMAOOOOOO GOTTEMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🔲 aquarium-life-deactivated

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

🐟 darting-action

woag i never saw this entire chain before until it hit me on my dashboard. Why does this have so many notes

Thanks fishblr user walrus tits in my mouth for biology info i didn't know

🫖 burgle-the-turts follow

Woah woah woah we're just gonna ignore this guy using p*ssfish as an insult!!???? THE CATFISH SLUR????????? No one is going to bring this up!!!!!???????

🔲 tilapia11128-deactivated

does anyone in this thread smoke seaweed

🌊 herringageposts follow

date of origin: 28th of august, 2017

( 392,229 notes )

🟧 sponsored

Suffering all alone, handsome?

No need to anymore.

👄 pollywannacracker follow

Reblub with your favorite snack in the tags! I’ll go first: coral polyps! :}

🚬 shark-noir follow

@ninjalantern-999

#as for me #my fave is definitely my lower set of teeth when they shed #crumchy :D

( 295 notes )

🩸 must-lunge follow

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STUPID HUMAN DROPPED ITS ELECTRONIC CAMERA IN THE LAKE!!!!!!!! NEVER GETTING THAT BACK BUB!!!!!! I'M TELLING ALL MY ISOPOD AND MUSSEL FRIENDS AND THEY'RE GONNA LIVE INSIDE IT!!!!!

🧑 official-human-posts follow

ofishal human post

#ofishal human post #this post contains humans

( 891 notes )

🦦 hellofromtheotterslide follow

Wait, how come this site is called fishblr and not something like oceanblr or aquablr? Wouldn't that be more inclusive?

👑 goldielocks follow

I believe the name "fishblr" pays homage to the meaning of the word where just about everything in the water was considered a fish. It's why we have words like "shellfish", "whalefish", "jellyfish", "starfish".

Personally aquablr would work really well, too. There's a sizeable amphibious userbase on here.

🦐 worldwideshrimp follow

You forgot whale shark! Those arent fish either but are called fish

👑 goldielocks

....Whale sharks are fish. They are sharks. It's in the name.

🦎 eye-of-newt follow

But I thought it was a whale named after sharks? WHALE shark! Why else would they put whale up first?

👑 goldielocks

A whale named after a shark would be called a shark whale. You can take one look at a whale shark and see that, with its gills and fish tail, it is a shark.

⚪️ number1-seacucumber-ass-enjoyer-77 follow

Wait, then what about baby whales? Are those whales named after babies?

👑 goldielocks

If you're talking about the actual whale babies, then yeah. If you mean the mormyrids, small aquatic animals that can sense electricity, then no, those are fish. Sometimes names are inaccurate to what the animal really is.

🌌 themanta1234 follow

If you think about it, fishblr is also inclusive to aquatic tetrapods since they are lobe-fins, and therefore fish :D It's a term that can include everyone on here, the perfect catchall!

🦑 abyssal-gigantism follow

Ewwww fuck that definition. If mammals hear about them being fish on some sort of """"technicality"""" then this webbedsite is gonna get flooded with those self-important idiots! "OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOOOO LoOk At MeEeEeEeEEE i'M a MaMmAL!!11!!! I TAKE CARE of mah BAAABIEEEES!1111 I'm SUCH a good MAMAAA!!! All those OTHER STUPID HEARTLESS ANIMALS could NEVER do as I DO!!! I LOVE sweating into my BAABIEEEES' MOUTH1!1!1!111!!! I'm FLUFFY and AWSUM and ERRYBODDY LUUUVSSSSS MEE!!!!!!!!!!111!!!!!!! You should all LUV me TOO!!!!"

Is THAT how you want every fishblr post to look!!!!??????

🦛 drippohippo follow

😨

🪄 magicmanatee45 follow

DD:

🎼 humpbacked-musician-offishal follow

:'''((((

🐋 blainvilles-bitch follow

🕶️ egg-laying-mammal-of-action follow

:///////////

🐢 greenXD follow

i think jellyfish shouldn't be classified as fish because they're clearly living spaghetti

🌜 foolish-idol follow

Great fucking post everyone. Hit the air bubblers

( 60,376 notes )

🟩 ultrahyva-heihoi follow

Guys what the fuck kind of sponsors does fishblr have I just saw an ad for having parasites housed in me who are they advertising to 😭💀💀

#i swear the quality of this site keeps going down and down #if you see ads for parasites then report the shit out of em #fuck em my friend got early onset cataracts due to parasites

( 4 notes )

😃 doweopenandcloseourmouthtoday follow

Yes! :) :O :) :O :) :O :) :O

[hershelchocolate]

So many fic ideas I want to write,,,,,,,but no alas I must resist,,,,,,I gotta get SOMETHING going for my graphic novel so I can actually start drawing the thing before I write anything else 😔

BUT ALSO WHAT IF I WANT TO WRITE ABOUT THE SILLIES

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hi 👋, can I request a self aware Smilk & reader, where he’s the only one who knows of their existence, and the reader can sometimes take control of him which causes some confusion to other cookies.

(You can choose whether it’s a one-shot or headcanons)

Yess self awareness time

.......

After trying and trying again, you finally pulled Shadow Milk Cookie from the gacha, thrilled that he finally came home!

Now that you've understood all the hype surrounding him and how crazy powerful he can be after clearing his Beast Yeast episodes, you had all your star jellies, toppings, and a legendary beascuit saved just for him.

But ever since obtaining him, you've noticed some...oddities with him that made you assume it was part of his programming/AI.

When you see him walking around the kingdom or working at a station that's not the toy store, he's looking at you a lot.

Of course, some cookies may glance at you occasionally, with even fewer breaking the fourth wall (like Black Sapphire and Devil Cookie), but that's just what the devs added as a funny joke.

Shadow Milk...is different. He doesn't follow their script to a T.

The way he talks and waves at you, shows off during battles and making himself the last cookie standing in difficult arena fights, and doing his juggling trick when he knows you're looking at him.

Then he actually responded to you after you made a remark about where to put his statue...and at first you're startled, bc no way could that have been a coincidence...

In reality, he had an "awakening" of his own--in that his knowledge suddenly extended beyond CRK's borders.

Somehow, he can see and hear you, becoming 100% aware that he's in a video game.

But you assume his new antics are part of his programming...until one day the charade falls apart and he straight up tells you that he knows the truth. He even says your username, the device you're playing on, and the day you started CRK as proof in case you think he's lying.

You're stunned at first, but then you think it's actually pretty awesome....until he claims that he's the only one who knows and felt like it would've been better if he didn't.

Of course, the master of deceit would rather ignore the truth and live out a lie, like all the other cookies are....but he's stuck with this earthbread-shattering truth that's only his to bear.

In a way, being "trapped" in this game reminds him of the witches and the time he spent in the silver tree, believing he escaped one prison only to end up in another.

After you leave the game to tend to some real life matters, he tries sowing chaos in the kingdom by revealing this to other cookies, thinking they'd "wake up".

Yet none of them know wtf he's talking about. Not even the Beasts or Pure Vanilla, who thinks he's just trying to trick everybody again..although he admits that what Shadow Milk is saying sounds most outlandish.

Typically, he'd be able to conjure up some kind of "evidence" and manipulate wide masses into believing any word he says.

But you're untouchable, and he has no way of obtaining tangible proof of your existence to show the other cookies...and once he realizes this, he gets frustrated.

"Who do you think fulfills our wishes at the tree???? Who do you think indulges us with star jellies????? Keeps this kingdom from crumbling to pieces?!! We are ALL the puppets to an even bigger puppet master!"

Anyone who hears this yap from him just thinks 'is he alright? like genuinely?'

The next time you log in, Shadow Milk is gravely upset that he has to carry this burden and decides to take it out on you.

Suddenly there's lag spikes when his ability is on cooldown (so you can hardly use them in battle and lose your ranking in arena), he avoids you trying to pick him up in the kingdom (much to other cookies' confusion, as from their pov, he's fleeing something that's invisible)...and he even corrupted his own stats to make it seem like any promotions were gone and his level dropped back to 1.

You ask him why he's causing you all this trouble, and his next rant was more or less....a reasonable crashout.

"I was a god...or at least that's what I thought. But no. I've been lied to. A master of deceit...has been lied to again!! What cruel irony! This world...this life of mine....it's all been one big game from the start! And nobody knows but I!! HAHAHA!! Tell me, [username]..what's it like being the true god of this world? Do you enjoy toying with our lives? What makes you think you deserve my power?! Damn you....and damn this prison!! YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN THOSE WITCHES!!!"

Other cookies just see him screaming at nobody in particular, although his rage forms rifts in the ground, from which the other-realm creeps out to attack anyone close to him.

You end up closing the game out of fear, leaving it alone for the next several hours.

While initially scared to reopen it, you did understand why Shadow Milk lashed out like that--he thought he was in control, and couldn't comprehend the idea of it being somebody else.

You don't know why he, of all cookies, had to be cursed with this forbidden knowledge, but what could be done about it now?

Nothing.

So you returned to the game and found a plushie of him somewhere after looking around for a few minutes, and after clicking him, he turns back to normal and scowls.

"What? You've come back to toy with me more, stupid god? Or were you just worried that I did something to your precious kingdom?"

"No, and no." You say, explaining to him that while you'd never fully understand what he was feeling--and couldn't help him explain your existence to other cookies--you wanted him to see you as a friend, not a puppet master or a witch or some untouchable god like he accuses you of being.

To show him you're serious, you bought all of his decor and gave him his own little castle/spire-like area, where he can indulge in his hobbies or just retreat there whenever he wanted to.

For some time, Shadow Milk is silent as he inspects everything and for a moment...you thought he reverted back to his NPC programming...

Then he looks at you and grins a little. "Jeez, if only you put this much effort into the rest of the kingdom."

"Yeah, well...I'm working on it." You chuckled. "Black Sapphire and Candy Apple Cookie think it's "dull" and doesn't compare to your spire, but-"

"I'll deal with them later. This...is acceptable."

It's fair to say...he's content.

He seems to finally accept his new reality, as he doesn't corrupt his stats or sabotage your gameplay anymore, allowing you to use him as your strongest magic cookie again.

Now if you start shifting your focus towards pulling Awakened Pure Vanilla, however, he might stir up some trouble to make the process take even longer

[crowsofdarkness]

Bucky makes for a great teacher: pt. 1

18+ CW's below the cut(Bucky's dirty mouth, touching his cock over his jeans, inexperienced reader)

teach me masterlist

Bucky radiated body heat, it wrapping around me and causing a slick sweat to gather at the back of my neck. I tried to keep my hair down all night while we hung out in the Avengers common room watching a movie. Everyone had left awhile ago, leaving me alone with Bucky. With the way he had been watching me with sheer intensity, I quickly gathered my hair to throw it up into a ponytail. That simple action made him swallow thickly while shifting in his seat. 

“What?” I asked. “Did I do something?” 

With the way he was smirking, I could tell he was far from uncomfortable. The relationship between us was an odd one. I was still new on the team, only becoming a member a few weeks ago. But ever since my first day here, I felt this undeniable pull from Bucky. He would never come out right and say how he felt but he showed it with the way he flirted with me. 

“You threw your hair up in a ponytail after looking at my dick,” he said with a blunt tone. 

I blinked at Bucky with my mouth agape, not expecting him to say that. I’d never been around someone who spoke so straightforward like that so I expected myself to be disgusted. Instead, I found myself aroused because I definitely had been staring at his dick ever since he sat down next to me. 

“I wasn’t,” I shook my head. “Wait, what does me throwing my hair up in a ponytail have anything to do with your-.” 

I couldn’t say the word out loud. Thinking the word wasn’t an issue but actually spitting out the word gave me pause. 

Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, a movement I tracked with careful precision. 

“Dick,” he said the word slowly at first, hoping I’d repeat it. 

Instead I looked down at my lap to avoid eye contact with him which made him drag his vibranium fingers along the exposed skin of the back of my neck. 

“Do you really not know what it means when a woman throws up her hair after staring at a guy’s dick?” He wondered with a slight chuckle. 

I swallowed thickly, shivering under his touch and kept my voice quiet as I spoke. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

There was this untenable pull from Bucky from the moment I bumped into him in the hallway my first day here. Something about the darkness in his eyes told me that he’d show me the dark parts of myself that were fighting to break through. The part of me that came alive while reading those dark romance books. 

“Do you want to know what it means?” Bucky questioned. 

Slowly lifting my gaze from my lap to meet his burning one, I gave him a slight nod after thinking it over. It was just an answer to a question I had, surely it wouldn’t hurt knowing. 

Bucky sat closer to me, gathering the ends of my hair between his fingers. “Typically, when someone throws up their hair in a ponytail, it means they’re getting ready to suck someone's dick.” 

I let out a shocked breath while glancing down at his lap, directly where his dick was. My hand was so close to his thigh as it was perched in my own lap and I nearly reached for him. 

“That’s-uh-,” my words fell away again when I felt his fingers graze down the side of my neck, over my collar bone. 

When I swallowed, Bucky tracked the movement with his thumb. 

“Are you saying you’ve never done that when you suck a guy's dick?” There was an oddly comforting and playful tone to his question. 

If it were anyone else being so upfront and vulgar I would have smacked them however the voice in my mind told me to continue on with him. 

“I’ve never actually done that before,” I motioned with my eyes towards his lap. 

Bucky choked on a laugh as his hand dropped away from me only for his face to go stone when he realized I wasn't joking. 

“You’ve never given head before?”

I shook my head, feeling even smaller than I was. Embarrassment filled me as he continued to stare at me with a bewildered look. Any chance I had to possibly have something with Bucky went down the drain. 

Why do you think he’d even go for someone like you? Have you seen him? 

Ignoring not only the stabbing in my heart but the voice in my head that often chastised me, I gave a somber shrug. 

“I’ve already embarrassed myself enough tonight. I think I’m going to head to bed,” I said while rising to my feet only to yanked back down onto the couch in my previous spot. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Bucky asked with a tender tone. 

Immediately I shook my head. “No! You’re fine. It's just-I’m not used to talking about sex. I’ve been called a prude basically my entire life so to hear you be so open talking about it makes me feel embarrassed that I don't understand the reason why someone putting their hair up was a sexual act. Now I’m rambling and making more of an idiot myself and I wish someone would just shut me up.” 

“Do you want to?” 

My eyes snapped over to him after I pinched them shut. “Wh-what?” 

Bucky eased back into the couch, showing more of his lap at me; an open invitation. “Do you want to suck my cock?” 

The way he asked the question made my cheeks inflame with heat and I squeezed my thighs together when that heat spread straight to my core. With a quick flick down towards his lap, I could see the faintest outline of his cock against his jeans and didn’t stop myself from licking my lips. 

“I want to do something else,” I rushed out.

A low hum vibrated from the back of his throat. “What’s that?” 

I didn’t speak, simply kept my eyes on him, hoping he caught on so I didn’t have to say it outloud. 

“Doll, you have to use your words,” Bucky spoke while brushing his own hand over his cock causing both of us to share a moan. “Oh, is that what you want? You want to touch my cock?” 

I nodded feverishly, not knowing where this part of me came from. I’d never been this up front with anyone so I was surprised at myself. 

“Then take it,” he demanded while palming himself. 

I didn’t. 

I began shrinking into myself, becoming the form of me I was familiar with. The one that was called prude her entire life. 

“Doll,” Bucky moaned while bucking his hips into his own hand. “Take it.” 

I felt frozen in front of him, unable to push through the wall that suddenly built itself inside of my mind. All the teasing I’d gone through all throughout high school and the mental abuse from my ex were pestering inside of me, telling me I would do something wrong with Bucky and he would simply laugh in my face for how inexperienced I was. 

The loud voices seized when Bucky grabbed my hand and forced it on his cock, replacing his own hand. A gasp fell from my lips when I finally could feel what I couldn’t stop staring at it all night. 

“Oh god, it’s so-.” Like before, I couldn't finish my sentence, truly taken aback by the size I felt beneath my palm. 

My hand remained frozen, unsure what to do with it, so Bucky began guiding it. Up and down. 

“Just like that, doll. Press your palm against it,” he was breathless. 

Following his guidance, I began pressing my palm harder against his cock and he let his head fall back to the arm of the couch.

“Fuck,” Bucky hissed when I pressed to hard against his cock and I wretched my hand back. 

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” 

His head lifted from the couch and the haze look in his eyes made me whimper. 

“No, Doll. Quite the opposite,” Bucky reached for my hand again but I hesitated. 

“Maybe we should stop this. I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m sure you can find someone with more experience,” I rambled on. 

Once again he grabbed my hand and brought it back to his cock, my actions picking up almost instantly with his next words. 

“I just want you.” 

Those four words fueled the confidence in me as I began playing with his cock over his jeans again. Rubbing it as best as I could even though I wanted to slip my hand in his pants. 

“You’re doing so good, Doll,” Bucky praised. 

I whimpered again at the praise as I found myself kneeling between his legs so I could get a better angle with my hand. I dragged my finger down the length of it as his cock pressed hard against the zipper and when I could vaguely feel the head of it, I tested the waters by rubbing it between my thumb and finger. 

His hips bucked up into my hand causing him to curse before gently removing my hand and bringing it to his chest, halting my movements. I couldn’t stop the tears that began to well in my eyes for being stopped yet again. 

“No tears on that pretty face. The first time I cum, I want it to be down your throat,” Bucky explained while sitting up with a groan, adjusting himself in his jeans. 

My heart rate picked up as my hand continued to be pressed against the broadness of his chest. 

“I told you. I’ve never done that before,” I reminded him. 

With one thumb brushing against the back of my hand, the other dragged over my bottom lip causing me to suck in a breath. 

“It’s alright, doll. I’ll work you up to it.” 

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 1

Summary: You save Soap's life. It might have ruined yours. But now you're stuck with the 141 and the man named Ghost won't stop looking at you. Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N) Warnings For This Chapter: Canon typical violence, my attempt at writing Soap's accent, soft Simon, military inaccuracies, canon divergence right off the bat.

A/N: My first COD fic! I hope you guys like it. It will be a slow burn because Reader needs a hug and therapy and Simon is awkward but also needs a hug. Enjoy!

This had been your first vacation in ten years. Ten. You had wanted to wander around London, see the sites, eat pub food, try to see how much the city had changed since you had last visited, ages ago when you had a summer internship at the British Museum. And now you were bleeding out on this shitty, dirty floor. There was shouting somewhere to your left as you hazily stared up at the dark ceiling.

You had made it three days before some guy pulled you off the sidewalk and shoved you into the back of a van. There had been a sharp pain in your neck before the dark came. When you came to, your hands had been tied and you were in the belly of an abandoned tube station, if you were guessing. Your captors were speaking Russian—rapidfire and stilted, but you did recognize some of it. Most of it. Maybe. If your undergraduate studies were still holding up. But you did know something for sure: you were curled up and hiding near a bomb. To keep your mind from wandering about when you were going to be the next hostage shot or when the bomb would explode, you started repeating whatever you heard to yourself, quiet and low. Cities, people’s names, shipments, shipments, shipments. You hadn’t done this in years, your therapist would have a field day, but this was better than the waiting. This was better than the pleading your fellow hostages were doing, begging for their lives.

You kept repeating what you learned. More shipments. More cities.

An immeasurable amount of time dragged on; how many days and nights passed, you couldn’t tell, but you knew exactly how many other hostages your kidnappers had killed before you were the only one left. And you weren’t entirely sure if it was because they had other plans for you or if they had actually forgotten you were there, huddled near the bomb. Perhaps you had taken the saying, “the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm,” too seriously.

But it mattered little when the fighting started and a too warm hand clapped on your arm. And then the brightest pair of blue eyes were staring at you. The man had the most ridiculous mohawk you’d ever seen but you couldn’t really tell him that, not when he was pressing a finger to his lips. A quick glance down showed his UK flag patch on his vest and you felt the smallest bit of tension slip from your shoulders.

“I’ma get ye outta here, lass,” he said, Scottish brogue winding through your ears.

You only nodded and let him move you into a crouched position. He and another man in a ridiculous hat worked on defusing the bomb, working in tandem on either side as your eyes swept toward the door. You were nearly there. Nearly free.

You were going to get out of here. You were going to live. You were going to see your sister and her baby. You-

-Came to a hard stop when the shooting started.

You curled into a ball behind the bomb as the shouting started but then you heard that ridiculous Scottish accent again. And yes, it was stupid. But you had always been a little stupid. You were on your feet again, hands still tied in front of you, before you could think of anything else to do and ran, shoulder down into the man tussling with the Scot and another man in the dumbest hat you’d ever seen. The man with the gun let out a wet ‘oof’ when your shoulder connected with his side and you both fell to the dirtied floor. You hadn’t even heard the gun go off.

Hadn’t felt anything but a heat blooming across your shoulder.

And then your knees buckled. “Oh.”

A quick glance to the left saw your once white shirt now a dark crimson. Pity. You’d liked this top. Your blood was roaring in your ears but you did remember someone saying the bomb was defused…that was good. Great. Wonderful.

A choked gasp was torn from your throat when large hands clamped over your shoulder and you saw those blue eyes again. “Now, why’d ye go and do that? Made a mess, ye did.”

“Next time,” you ground out between clenched teeth, “I’ll let you get shot.” Dark dots were starting to cloud your vision even as the grip on your shoulder grew tighter. You vaguely heard him shouting for someone to throw him something before he turned back to you. He was bleeding, too, crimson streaked across his face and neck. More of it slithered down his arm.

“We’ll get this cleaned up. Cannae have a bonnie lass bleedin’ out in a place like this.”

And you had to smile. You did, even if you looked absolutely insane, because this was probably the first time in over a decade that someone was nice to you and you had been shot.

And then the Grim Reaper loomed over you, skull bright as he blotted out the light above him.

“Fuck.” The word slurred on your heavy tongue. “Guess I’m dead, then.” The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on you, even as the light faded and you were out cold.

Your eyes opened slowly, weighed down and scratchy. It took a moment for you to realize you were in a hospital room, small, stuffy, and a worn shade of off-white. Uncoordinated fingers plucked at the thin, bleach-stiff sheets across your hips before you tugged at the neckline of the light blue hospital gown and frowned at the large dressing taped over your shoulder. A single wiggle against the flat pillow let you know you had a matching one on your back. Wonderful.

Well, at least you weren’t dead?

The door opened and a bespectacled man popped his head in. His bright eyes connected with yours for just a moment before the door snapped shut again.

What just happened?

You got your answer a handful of minutes later when your tiny room was filled with several more people, doctors and nurses checking you over and a woman—Laswell, you think she said her name was—staring at you from her place in the corner. She was biding her time, you knew that. Her American drawl had thrown you for just a moment, a stark contrast to the English accents coming at you from all directions. You tried to keep up with all the information they tossed at you, about your stitches, the physical therapy you’d need, how to keep movement to a minimum before helping you into a sling to keep your arm immobilized. It went on and on. The pain meds were keeping you from scratching at your shoulder but it did feel a little like your brain was swimming through your skull.

And three of them said the same thing: “You’re lucky you’re alive. It nearly nicked your subclavian artery and you would have bled out.”

Comforting.

And through it all, Laswell was quiet but when she pushed off the wall, the group of medical professionals dispersed.

“You’ve been through a lot.”

You said nothing as she stepped closer and set a manilla envelope on your bedside.

Her eyes darted to the envelope for a moment, obviously expecting you to take it but she continued on, unperturbed for now, when you did not. “From what I understand, you saved a man’s life and gave them an opening to be able to diffuse the bomb. I would actually say that all of London owes you their gratitude.”

“I doubt I’ll get it though, right?”

Laswell smiled. “Good. You’re smart.” But she still tapped at the folder again.

Fine. You picked up the folder and undid the thin rope closure as best you could with one hand and tipped it open across your lap, spilling paper and pictures across the blanket. One was of the man with the mohawk. And then… “Wait. He’s real?” You plucked one of the pictures up and waved it around like a flag. “I thought he was the Grim Reaper.” A man in a skull mask was staring back at you, large and hulking, and draped entirely in black aside from the SAS patch in the middle of his vest.

“You wouldn’t be the first to think that. But probably the only one to see him like that and live to tell anyone about it.”

Again, so comforting.

You flipped the picture over to see Ghost written in neat, small letters across the bottom. What kind of name was Ghost? He wasn’t a ghost. You flipped over a handful of the other pictures and learned the mohawk belonged to “Soap.” “Gaz” and “Price” soon followed—ah, he was the one with the ridiculous hat. But it was the last picture that had your heart stalling.

Vladimir Makarov was written in that same, small script.

“He’s dead, right?” Your voice shook as you stared down at the picture. “Tell me he’s dead.”

Laswell’s measured silence was all you needed before you hurriedly stuffed the photos and paper back into the folder.

“My flight back to Chicago is leaving on the tenth. What day is it?” You asked, tossing the folder to the foot of the bed. The simple motion had your other shoulder protesting, heat rippling across your chest and down your spine.

“It’s the ninth.”

Relief flooded through you. This would be over soon and you were never going to take another vacation, no matter what your sister told you. “Great. I’ll be out of the country in a couple of hours. Do I need to sign something or-”

Laswell frowned and took a few steps toward you and tension once again wound itself through your spine with each of them. “I don’t think you understand. Makarov’s plan didn’t work because of you-”

“Debatable.”

“-and you saved one of the men who Makarov has a personal vendetta against.”

The heart rate monitor was now leaping all over the place, beeping a sharp staccato into the tense air. You didn’t like this. You didn’t like this at all. “So? Makarov doesn’t know who I am. One of his lackeys grabbed me. He barely saw me.” You had been one of many, another faceless victim to his whims.

But Laswell shook her head. “I guarantee it; he will not forget you.”

Funny. You’d been forgotten by almost everyone else and you were apparently unmissable to a psychopath. “I am supposed to be going home. I want to go home.”

She took another step. “I’m afraid that until Makarov is in custody, it is safer for you to stay-”

“Am I being arrested?” You bit out.

“No.”

“Then I’m free to go.”

Laswell’s lips rolled into her mouth for a moment. “No.”

Traitorous tears stung at your ears. Stupid, so stupid. You hadn’t cried in front of someone else in decades. Tears didn’t help with anything and here you were, crying in a hospital bed in front of a stranger. “I need to go home.”

Another step and she looked down at you, eyes just shy of pitying. “You’ll be dead before you get off the plane.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She took the folder and opened it again, pulling out one of the papers you hadn’t read and another picture. She set both on your leg with a sigh. “You were taken out of London when you were stable enough to move.”

The next breath stalled in your lungs. “What?”

“Makarov has a long reach. You were wrapped up in it the moment you saved Soap. The hospital room in London that simply had your name on the door was raided. They killed a nurse.” Every new bit of information was a punch to the stomach, leaving you wheezing for breath and throat aching. “Makarov doesn’t do half measures. And he’s in the wind right now and staying quiet since his plan for London failed.”

Something you hadn’t touched in years started to bubble beneath your skin. A rage you hated. The rage that had kept you alive as a kid. “Then do your fucking job and get him. I’m going home.”

“Any word? Movement?” Gaz asked as Simon looked over the print outs of intel and loops of camera footage from the tunnels where Makarov could have fled.

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

He hated it. He hated not knowing.

There were leads, of course. Strings to be pulled on to see where they could go.

But Makarov was in the wind. And every night, he heard the woman on the other side of the thin wall cry whenever she thought no one would hear.

You did not go home. Instead, you were bustled out of the makeshift hospital room and into yet another infuriatingly beige room, your shoulder smarting with the movement even with the sling. At least the baggy sweats they’d let you wear were comfortable. You recognized Soap as Laswell had you sit in a cold metal chair on one side of the table.

“Good ta see ye up and about, lass,” Soap said. The stitches across his face were mostly covered by butterfly bandages that crinkled when he smiled at you. He then pointed at his own sling, barely holding his bulky arm up. “We match.”

You almost returned the smile. Almost. “Glad you’re not dead, too, I guess.”

“I wanted to get a look at ye,” Soap said. “Properly thank ye fer saving my life.”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “I think it was a mutual saving. You defuse a bomb, I keep you from getting your brains blown out. We can call it even.”

He laughed, hearty and jovial. “Ye’re tough. That’s good. Ye’ll need it.”

He was trying to be nice to you, you knew that. He seemed nice. Really! But you still felt the snark and sarcasm trying to climb its way out of your throat. You bit it back, probably grimacing the entire time. “I’m not the one shipping off to Kastovia.”

The smile slipped from Soap’s face. “What?”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “I assumed that was where you were going? The guys in the tunnels mentioned it a couple of times.”

“You speak Russian?” Laswell cut in.

What was this line of questioning? You turned as best you could to look at her. “Yeah, sorta. I took a few classes in undergrad.”

“And you didn’t think to mention you overheard anything while you were held captive?”

“You’re CIA. He’s SAS,” you said, hooking a thumb over your shoulder to point at Soap. Your stitches protested immediately, knocking the wind from your lungs for a moment. “I kinda figured you guys had all the information you could get from that shitshow.”

Soap rose from his seat and left the room without a look back as Laswell rounded the table to stare down at you. “You had information and didn’t share it. You know how that looks.”

“I was shot. Did you forget that?” You bit back. “Then you tell me I can’t go home. What was I supposed to do? When was I supposed to offer up any of this? When I was unconscious?”

Laswell’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You don’t trust me.”

The scoff tore itself out of your throat before you could even try to stop it. Scoffing at a CIA agent probably wasn’t your smartest move, but, again, you knew you were kinda stupid. “Wow. Look at you. That scary CIA training is paying off, huh? Love to see my tax dollars hard at work.”

The door opened again and Ghost walked in, shoulders nearly brushing each edge of the frame.

Your entire body tensed as he quietly neared the table and took the seat Soap had vacated. Laswell nodded at him and he tipped the point of his cloth-covered chin. And then she was gone with a snap of the door behind her. You pulled your gaze back to the man…the behemoth…in front of you. His mask was no less unnerving than it had been in the tunnel when you thought he was the Grim Reaper coming to usher your soul into the ether.

But this close you could see the dark honey of his eyes and that turned something else in the dark shadows of your chest.

And you knew you couldn’t be afraid. Not now.

“Ask me anything,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. But what if they didn’t believe you? What if he really would be the last face you saw, like you had believed in the tunnel? “I’ve nothing to hide.”

He huffed. If it were anyone else, you might have guessed it was a laugh. His eyes, hooded and dark, dragged over you. “We’ll see.” In one swift movement, he placed a handgun on the table and then reached across to grab your uninjured arm. He pulled it toward him before you could even think of pulling back. He twisted his grip on your wrist to have your palm up and only then did he release you.

You knew better than to retreat. You needed them to believe you—you were the victim in all of this. You. Not them. You. If you had to sit here with the Grim Reaper to prove it, you would. But it was when he tugged the glove from one of his hands that you felt your next breath stutter behind your teeth. And you were sure he felt it when he pressed the tips of his fingers against the delicate skin of your wrist’s underbelly.

He was warm. Solid. And oh god were you really this touch starved? That the man tasked with interrogating you—to make sure you weren’t a terrorist—was making you burn all over like a schoolgirl? It didn’t help that you felt his broad legs on either side of yours beneath the table.

Get it together.

He asks you questions and you answer. Truthfully. You listed all the places you’d heard, names you could decipher, cargo, shipments, everything. Anything.

Ghost listened to it all with that same hooded stare anchored on your face. Someone else probably would have squirmed under his gaze but you didn’t. If anything, his immovable presence was weirdly comforting. What was wrong with you?

And when you were done, when you had exhausted any and every bit of information you thought you had squirreled away from your time in the tunnel, the man in front of you simply drummed his fingers against your pulse and stood, putting his gun back in its holster and pulling his glove back on.

Funny, you hadn’t realized there were more bones stitched on them, too. At least he was consistent.

He strode toward the door and then turned back to stare at you again, unblinking. “Stay put.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly allowed to leave.”

His dark eyes narrowed for a moment and he huffed. Was it a laugh? You didn’t know, but you wanted it to be. But he left the room before you could ask.

It had been a risk, he knew, and had done it anyway. She could have been a spy, a trained one, good at deception and emitting pity. But he had felt her heartbeat skitter beneath his fingers, an impromptu lie detector. Simon knew she was being truthful. An open book.

A rare thing in times like these.

Well, open enough for him to believe her answers and her muttered instance that she wasn’t “some sort of Russian plant” because she wasn’t “dumb enough to be a criminal.” She was…something else. Simon wasn’t quite sure what that something was, but he knew that he thought of the curve of her bottom lip when he left the room and reported what he learned to Laswell and Price.

The pair looked at each other, matching looks of knowing on their faces. Her knowing about Kastovia hadn’t been expected but it didn’t seem like she knew that they (Gaz and Price) had already gone and had been led on an infuriating game of hide-and-seek with the transport of the Sarin gas. If the bird had been awake (or more willing to share what she’d heard before), they would have been back on base days earlier because it had been exactly where she’d said they would be.

“We need to keep this quiet. Makarov already knows she’s alive and at least suspects that she heard something. He wouldn’t’ve sent his men to the hospital if he didn’t.” Laswell scratched at her chin. “If any more of her intel pays off, this could be invaluable.”

The two continued, looking over the points Simon had written down after leaving that tiny room. And there had been shipments and their locations, names of people who probably would receive them, and then targets. Possibly. It was so much more than what they’d had when Makarov had vanished into the belly of the tunnel.

“She’s given us gold.”

“Or an unpinned grenade.” Laswell sighed and flipped through the pages again, handing one to Price and they spoke again in low tones. Simon listened, as he always did. They would still be sent out, following those breadcrumbs, with glowing red letters.

Something twisted in Simon’s chest, behind the crooked and dark ribs, and he thought of that curve of her bottom lip. “What happens to ‘er?”

You didn’t mind paperwork. Not really. Was it your favorite thing? No. But it was a fact of life that paperwork was inevitable. You almost liked that most of it was the same: sign here, date here, birthdate here. Easy. Simple. Unchanging.

But you weren’t entirely in love with how you knew you were basically signing your life away as Soap stood sentinel in the corner, his matching sling still around his bulging arm. They’d already “handled” your job, telling your supervisor that you had been injured and would be taking a leave of absence from work.

They promptly fired you.

Laswell winced at that and then said that “they” would take care of it. Who “they” were, you didn’t know and didn’t have the wherewithal to ask at the moment. But she inferred that your bills would be paid by someone else so you didn’t really care. Whatever. You’d been an archivist at one of the many museums in Chicago, cataloging anything and everything that came in. It had been good work, to be fair. You were actually using your degrees and the fact that they had you working overnight was almost a perk. It was nice to not have to worry about coworkers’ feelings or them microwaving fish in the communal microwave when you were trying to work.

But…whatever. It was fine. This was…fine.

You were given three meals a day and sometimes a snack. Tea in the early afternoon, much to your delight. You had a warm bed. Things could be worse.

Whenever the doctors or nurses would come in and check on your stitches and your range of movement, he—Ghost—would just be there. In the background. Waiting. Silent and unmoving.

And the painkillers you were given must’ve been some good stuff because you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Or maybe his unhurried gaze was weirdly comforting. Knowing he was there, was always going to be there, was nice. A weird constant in the upheaval of your life. (And maybe you should call up your therapist after you finally get home.)

You signed your name on the last paper and then managed to stack everything neatly with one arm before handing it to Soap who took it with a small smile. “Ye’re handling this well.”

“Yeah.” Been through worse, is what you could have said. But worse was debatable. At least in some regard. You could handle being fired. You had savings. You could find another job. Your sister always said you had the uncanny ability to land on your feet. You’d let her keep that assumption. It wouldn’t be the first one she’d made about you. “Can I make a phone call now?”

Soap tapped a finger against the papers and his blue eyes were full of pity. You almost hated it. “I’ll ask Laswell.”

Well, that wasn’t a firm no, at least.

It had been a few days since your interrogation with Ghost. You had deduced that you were on a military base of some sort, with the people walking by in uniform and the staccato of gun shots at exactly eight o’clock in the morning, every morning. Probably a firing range. While you weren’t allowed out of your beige hospital room, they were kind enough to bring you a few very well worn novels to help pass the time. Again…it was fine.

The door opened a few minutes later and Ghost and Laswell walked in, a large black brick looking contraption tucked beneath Laswell’s arm. Your heart stuttered for just a moment. A satellite phone?

“You need to understand that anyone you call could be in danger. Used against you.”

The next breath rattled behind your teeth. You had expected that. You knew that. But your sister deserved at least something. “Did you see her in my file?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

Laswell’s answering quiet was all you needed. Good.

“I’ll keep it quick,” you said, stretching out your good arm toward the phone. “Promise.”

“Any funny business-”

“I’ll expect a bullet between the eyes. Yeah, sure. Can I please have the phone?”

Ghost made that huffing sound again and you felt the corners of your mouth push into a twitching smile for just a heartbeat to two. The phone was weighty in your palm as you plugged in the number and held it up to your ear. It rang twice before… “Hello?”

“Hey, Kirby.”

There was an answering giggle and it shifted a weight on your shoulders. “Hey stranger! I thought you were living it up in London for a few days more? Thought you were gonna call me when you were home.”

“Oh, um. So there’s been a change of plans. I’m gonna stay for a little longer. I’ve been asked to consult at one of the archives here.”

Kirby hummed, crackling the line. “Consult. You’re so important. That mean you left-”

“They fired me, actually.”

She gasped. You imagined her clutching her phone tighter, placing another hand over her heart. She was always so delicate. Outraged on your behalf, too. “No!”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. You said I needed a new job anyway.” You shut your eyes, feeling them burn with tears. Lying to her didn’t feel right. She was the only person in the world you trusted.

“They were awful to you. But, you always land on your feet, don’t you?”

You smiled despite it all, wobbly and crooked. God, you missed her. “I try. But I didn’t want you to worry if you didn’t hear from me for a bit as I get settled here.”

Kirby laughed. “You’re the worrier, not me.”

“That’s true.” You were. And even know, with a bullet wound and a supposed bounty on your head, you worried about your little sister. You might worry about her forever, actually.

“You’ll still be able to make it to the delivery, right?” The smallest bit of trepidation dipped into the syllables. Kirby wasn’t scared often and it twisted at your marrow. “I need you to hold my hand.”

You opened your eyes and looked at Laswell and Ghost, lifting your chin a bit. You were going to be there. Come hell or high water. Or more terrorists. “Wouldn’t miss it, Kirbs. You know that.” You eventually said your goodbyes and “I love you” and “I love you, too” before ending the call with a quiet, “give the little one a hello for me, okay?”

The phone clicked in your hand and you let it slip back into Laswell’s grip when she reached for it. “Any other family you need to call that weren’t in any of your files?” The question was tinged with exhaustion.

You didn’t feel bad. “No. It’s just her.”

Laswell frowned but said nothing else as she strode from the room.

You expected Ghost to follow. He seemed fond of doing that. But he didn’t. His unmoving stare was anchored on you. “Why wouldn’t your file show your sister?”

Well, he certainly cuts to the chase. “It’s a long story.”

His large arms crossed over his broad chest (you ignored how your heart hiccuped. God he was so big.) “We’ve got time.”

Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!

[razzledazzle247]

The only reason Season 4 seems slow is because it immediately follows season 3, which was a whirlwind, but it built up to that! Season 4, in comparison, is showing a time of peace. There is no imminent war or assassination that everyone is running around preparing for, the characters don't even know that the threat is still out there! That's literally why Callum spent most of the season mad at Rayla, because she left and broke his heart for 2 whole ass years (on his birthday!!!!) and it was literally for nothing. The moment they find out that Viren's actually alive and Claudia's still doing the most is when things start to pick up, but season 4 is literally not meant to be the action? It was there to establish how things had changed after the time jump and to further develope the characters and their relationships/motivations.

For all that literally everyone on this app wants shows that don't get cancelled and characters that get properly developed, there's lot of people eager to drop the one series that is literally doing exactly that with no hesitation.

I don’t care what anyone in the fandom says, s4 of TDP is really good and you can fight me on this

[5sospenguinqueen]

C2 or Sainz2 | Charles Leclerc x Sainz! Reader

Summary: Because being teased relentlessly by his teammate wasn’t enough for Charles, he decided to fall in love with Carlos' sister, and endure twice the bullying. 

Warnings: fluff, swearing, a suggestive comment, a tiny hint at the loss of C2

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me

F1 Masterlist

Sorry it took so long but I couldn't get inspo and then, the loss of C2 compelled me

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charles_leclerc just posted

liked by scuderiaferrari, pierregasly and others

charles_leclerc nice weekend home before we’re off again for 3 weeks 

10,161 comments

ynsainz take this down! i can’t have people seeing how cute my baby is because then they’ll want to steal him

→ charles_leclerc for everyone talking about how sweet this is, she’s talking about leo

→ ynsainz people thought i was talking about you????

user1 is that an engagement photo??

→ carlossainz55 no. he hasn’t asked me for permission

→ ynsainz he doesn’t need to

→ carlossainz55 i’ll kill him and myself 

→ charles_leclerc oh 

user2 yn looks so pretty in this post 

user3 can’t believe they’re celebrating their 4 year anniversary already 

→ user4 i love that carlos joined ferrari and charles instantly stole his sister 

ynsainz just posted

liked by fernandoalo_official, lilymhe and others

ynsainz ¡vamos! carlito. i know you’ll kick ass later otherwise you’ll be a disgrace to our home town 🇪🇸

5,516 comments

charles_leclerc you didn’t wear a monaco top when i was racing there?

→ ynsainz they don’t sell them? 

→ arthur_leclerc if you really love him, you would’ve made one

→ carlossainz55 she’s not monegasque so why would she

→ pascale.leclerc she will be one day 

→ user5 !!!

user6 i love that yn treats carlos like her little brother, instead of her being the baby sister

→ ynsainz mentally, i am older

→ carlossainz55 ay, no

user7 can charles fight?

→ charles_leclerc yes

→ carlossainz55 no

user8 yn sainz is my favourite thing about f1

user9 the sainz-leclerc family is definitely the best thing ferrari has done

scuderiaferrari just posted

liked by arthur_leclerc, olliebearman and others

scuderiaferrari our favourite thing to photograph 

13,333 comments

user10 i swear charles looks at carlos in the same way he looks at yn 

→ ynsainz try being at family dinner. i don’t exist to either of them

→ user11 i love when she roasts the both of them 

ynsainz alternative caption: they may suck on track but our drivers excel at staring lovingly into each other’s eyes

→ charles_leclerc you told me i was your favourite driver! 

→ carlossainz55 ¡vete a la mierda! it’s been me since she was born

→ ynsainz it’s actually lewis

→ iamrebeccad great, now he’s crying. thanks, yn

user12 wait until max sees this post. he’ll be asking red bull to post him and charles again

→ user13 poor yn has to keep fighting all these drivers for her polly pocket boyfriend  liked by ynsainz

→ charles_leclerc, no, ma chérie, you’re to tell them i’m big

→ user14 um, charles, that’s not something you’re meant to say on the internet

charles_leclerc just posted

liked by alex_albon, lorenzotl and others

charles_leclerc driving, dinner and… 

12,094 comments

user15 and date night! 

landonorris was she as bad at karting as carlos says?

→ charles_leclerc i mean, she is definitely not as good a teammate as carlos

→ ynsainz omg just date him already! 

→ ynsainz at least there isn’t multiple videos of me being a bad driver on the streets of monaco 

→ charles_leclerc low blow, mon amour

→ arthur_leclerc ha, she’s got you there

user16 charles saw all the comments saying we’d steal his girl and decided to remind us who she belongs to  liked by charles_leclerc

user17 …being dicked down! yn getting all the d’s liked by ynsainz

user18 countdown to carlos sainz meltdown in 3…

→ user19 2…

→ user20 1…

carlossainz55 GET OFF MY SISTER

carlossainz55 THAT IS NOT HOW YOU TREAT A LADY OF HER STANDING

→ ynsainz what if she liked it

→ carlossainz55 ew ew ew ew ew

→ charles_leclerc ma belle, stop trying to get me castrated

scuderiaferrari just posted

liked by iamrebeccad, lec and others 

scuderiaferrari competition always give us the best of C2

15,884 comments

user1 carlos being the spanish version of charles. their love was written in the stairs

→ ynsainz okay, i get it! the whole universe is against me

user2 they’re literally twins. same expressions, same body language

→ ynsainz take this down before i puke

→ charles_leclerc she’s refusing to kiss me now

carlossainz55 i definitely won. admin clearly counted the points wrong

user3 they’re always so competitive haha

→ ynsainz we’re not allowed family games night anymore because it always ends in tears

→ carlossainz55 yeah, charles’

→ charles_leclerc no! yn, tell him

→ charles_leclerc that was one time and we agreed not to talk about it! 

carlossainz55 just posted

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and others

carlossainz55 the second best couple i know just got engaged. congratulations, hermanita. i am so happy for you  tagged: ynsainz, charles_leclerc

21,667 comments

user4 did you cry?

→ ynsainz yes, he did. but only because he was losing the love of his life to his siter

→ carlossainz55 oy, you should be nice to me. i helped set up those flowers

arthur_leclerc i am so happy for yn to join the family 

→ charles_leclerc @/carlossainz55 see, this is how family reacts. not calling us the second best couple

→ carlossainz55 but i know me and rebecca 

scuderiaferrari we take full responsibility for this. after all, we made C2 teammates. we expect to see a ferrari themed wedding

→ ynsainz don’t give them ideas! 

pierregasly i cannot believe he finally did it. only taken him 3 years of talking about

→ ynsainz that is the cutest thing i’ve heard

→ carlossainz55 not if you had to listen to him plan it 55 different ways 

oscarpiastri does this make yn my step mother

→ ynsainz no. don’t you dare call me that

→ charles_leclerc yes it does, son

user5 charles better not wear that bloody ferrari suit to his own wedding

→ carlossainz55 already convincing him to do it

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request open, i write for most drivers (aside from a few) and some of the retired drivers

tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119 @raizelchrysanderoctavius @lilorose25 @sillyfreakfanparty @iloveyou3000morgan @justaf1girl @teamnovalak

[autumnscribbles]

truth part 2 | rc

pairing: bsf!rafe x reader

summary: rafe finds out about sofia’s betrayal, and tries to come back and apologize for his previous words

part 1

warnings: swearing, angst, unhappy ending lol

wc: 1.8k

a/n: thank you SO MUCH to everyone that showed love on the first part😭 i appreciate it so so so much!! i kept this one pretty angsty because i think we all wanted to see rafe not be forgiven! so it is open ended for a part 3 👀 if you guys wanna see it! lots of love 🫶🏻

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You were sitting on your wraparound balcony, book in your hand as you felt the sun warming your bare skin. It was another beautiful day out, and you wanted to take advantage. Your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose as your eyes scanned the novel in front of you.

You were taken out of a trance when you heard a commotion going on nearby. It sounded like it was coming from the Cameron house, which sat next to yours. Sofia had been staying in it, so you've heard, despite Rafe being in Morocco. You placed your bookmark between the pages, setting it down before rising to your feet. You walked to the edge of the balcony, placing your hands on the railing to lean over it slightly.

You saw Sofia, walking outside with a suitcase dragging behind her. What was she doing? She went in and out a few times, each time returning with various different items that all must have belonged to her. You wanted to ask her what was going on, if it had anything to do with Rafe. You hadn't spoken to him since the fight you got into at his house, and he was gone now. In Morocco doing god knows what with the Pogues. You didn't care anymore.

A car pulled up in front of the intimidating large property, Sofia disappearing inside of it as it drove away. The house was empty now. The house you spent years walking over to, sleeping at, drinking at, now sat there vacant. Simple as that. Everyone gone. You reflected on how quickly things change, how easy it is for everything to fall apart so quickly. You had cried about your conversation with Rafe after it happened, but since that night you hadn't shed a tear. You loathed him for what he said to you, for blaming his own emotional damage on you. You had always supported him, been there for him even when he was a complete mess. Goes to show none of it mattered in the end, anyway. You didn't know when he would return, and you couldn't be bothered to try and find out.

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Rafe busted through the front door of his house, being met with nothing but deafening silence. The air sat heavy around him. It was just...empty. Sofia had actually left. He knew he told her to, but he was hoping deep down that he had been wrong. Maybe she'd stay and tell him Groff was full of shit. Her absence was confirmation that you had been right all along. He accused you of lying, of jealousy, and now he was eating his words.

"Fuck!" he yelled, slamming his fist on the counter in front of him, dropping his head in his hands. Everything was ruined. His friendship with you, his relationship, the deal. Everything slipped through his fingers so quickly, he couldn't keep up.

He decided he needed to talk to you, to see you again. He didn't want to admit it, but he missed you. When he was in Morocco, all he could think of was you. He was too proud to admit that, though.

"Please be home," he muttered under his breath as he turned back around and out the front door.

He walked up to the entrance of your home, banging his fist on the door loudly. He continued repeatedly until you finally swung the door open.

Your eyes met his, fighting to hold back a gasp. You weren't sure you would ever see him again, and here he was. He looked anxious, his eyebrows furrowing and his gaze roaming all over the place. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly as he looked at the floor.

"You were right," he practically whispered, his stare remaining off of you.

"What was that?" you asked, cupping your hand to your ear. You heard him, you just wanted to hear him say it louder.

"I said you were right, okay? About Sofia," he admitted. "She took the money from Hollis and convinced me to take the deal. I kicked her out, we're done."

You had to admit the words were good to hear. You already knew you were right, but it felt good to hear him admit it. You were starting to wonder if the truth would ever come out, or if Sofia would just keep going on like everything was fine. Rafe almost never admitted when someone else was in the right. It wasn't that easy, though. He had a lot more to admit wrong than just not believing you. Sofia wasn't even the issue anymore.

"Great," you said sharply, starting to shut the door. He stuck his arm out, holding it open.

"I said you were right, y/n," he repeated. "I should have believed you."

"Good for you," you said dryly. "I told you not to come crying to me when she fucked you over. That remains true."

Rafe let out a long sigh, frustrated at how difficult you were being. In the past, a simple apology would make everything go back to normal. Clearly, that wasn't going to be how it goes this time. He knew you could be stubborn, and it drove him insane. His arm remained extended, stopping the door from shutting. He saw movement going on behind you, and craned his neck to get a better view.

"What's going on?" Topper asked, appearing behind you.

Topper had dropped by this morning to bring you breakfast. You hadn't asked him to. You think maybe he felt bad for you, pitied you. You were alone in a big house, your family gone. Rafe was gone. You didn't need his cheering up, though, you were perfectly happy on your own.

Being alone for so long allowed you to be comfortable and even content in your own presence. You liked the quiet mornings, the long walks, and never having to ask anyone for anything.

"You-," Rafe stuttered. "You're hanging out with Topper?"

"And?" you asked, your jaw set as you blankly stared at him.

"You don't even like Topper," he whispered harshly, leaning towards you.

"Says who?" you said. "You don't know me anymore, Rafe."

He scoffed and took a step back from the door. He took a deep breath before speaking, knowing that maybe he should think a little bit more before he speaks.

He wasn't wrong, you didn't like Topper. He was arrogant and honestly kind of a baby most of the time. He was always whining about Sarah, or John B and it was getting old. You had been spending too much time alone, though. You knew people were talking. People were always talking. Hanging out with Topper would put out a good word, and he'd tell people you're fine. Maybe then people would stop asking. There wasn't anything going on other than friendship, but you didn't mind the company here and there.

"Are you just trying to make me jealous?" Rafe asked, his eyes finally fully meeting yours, reaching you.

"Are you serious, Rafe? Again?" you asked. You took a step outside, pulling the door shut behind you. You didn't want him in your home, especially not with Topper there.

Topper probably thrived on the drama, probably couldn't wait to go run to the other kooks and tell them Rafe showed up at your door. That aside, you had to give him a piece of your mind at this point.

"I am serious, y/n!" he exclaimed.

"Rafe, when will it get through your brain that not every decision I make is about you?" you asked. "Are you seriously so selfish and self absorbed that you think every move I make has to do with you?"

Rafe's mouth stayed slightly agape, his feet pacing back and forth on your walkway. He ran his hands over his head, his jaw clenching. His brain was going a mile a minute, and he couldn't find the words anymore. He was overcome with emotions, unable to regulate them.

"Do you not remember what you said to me, Rafe?" you asked, your voice raising.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he said. "I was an asshole, and I should have believed you about Sofia. I shouldn't have said those things."

"What did you say again?" you asked, taking a step closer to him, your head held high. You would not back down this time. You wouldn't let him get away with it.

You tapped your chin with your index finger, looking upwards acting like you were trying to remember his words. "Oh yeah, that all I do is fuck with your head? That I want attention? That I use you for my benefit? That I'm a jealous liar? I almost forgot."

Rafe went to speak, but you cut him off again, immediately.

"Oh and I almost forgot," you sneered, sarcasm dropping from your voice. "That all your problems are because of me?"

"Y/n," he breathed, taking a visibly deep breath.

"Don't even say anything, Rafe," you said, putting your hand up to stop him from speaking. "If I ruin your life so much, and mess with your head, I don't need to be part of it. I'll live my life, and you live yours. You can do whatever you want, I don't care."

"I care, y/n!" Rafe exclaimed. "I didn't mean those things I-I was just angry. You know I can say stupid shit when I get mad."

"You can't just say awful things and take them back," you explained. "That's not how this works. You don't get to hurt me and then show up at my door thinking I'll forgive you because you 'didn't mean it'."

“Y/n, please,” Rafe begs, his eyes turning glossy. “You have to forgive me, I need you in my life.”

“Clearly you don’t, Rafe,” you sneered. “You told me otherwise, actually.”

“You can’t do this to me!” he said angrily, his emotions brewing and threatening to spill over. He hated when he yelled at you, but he was so frustrated. “Don’t do this.”

You couldn’t ignore the twist in your heart at the tears in his eyes. Usually you would fold, but you were determined this time. He hurt you, more than he ever had. You couldn’t let him off that easily. You were doing fine without him.

“I have to go,” you said, looking back to your house looming behind you. “Bye Rafe.”

“Please,” he repeated, his voice barely over a whisper. You closed the door, leaving him standing alone on your front lawn, exactly as he had done to you.

You still hadn’t decided if revenge was the best medicine, but it was the only way for him to listen. To truly listen. If he really cared about you, he would come back with a real apology, not excuses.

Rafe stood wide eyed, staring blankly in front of him. He bit his lip, the back of his throat burning as he tried to hold back tears. He hadn’t meant for things to happen this way.

You were all he had, the only person who really cared about him, and who he cared about. Now you were gone, and it was all his fault.

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taglist: @evermorx89 @glenpowellswifee69 @xxbirkindoll2 (🫶🏻🫶🏻)