#th: order + chaos

[tyrannuspitch]

anyway let's talk about someone i care about. "what side would thor hypothetically take in CACW", as written by a thor fan who's only managed an hour of that film so far.

i think thor would pretty clearly sympathise with team iron man: survivor's guilt; distrust of unchecked individual power; faith and identity built on judgement by a higher power; likely to see international co-operation on planetary defence as a sign of humanity "progressing".

but i'm less certain how/if thor would actually get involved.

there is a reason he's fucked off alone at this point, and it's hard to put him back in this situation without him immediately trying to re-assert that.

also, much as i like to call him a tyrant, i don't think he would necessarily feel very comfortable fighting midgardians over how they run their planet at this point? if there isn't imminent existential danger, i think he's probably going "It is not for me to meddle in the affairs of mortal men... also jane dumped me so i'm off to xandar bye"

but at the same time, he IS an anxious control freak by nature, and, out of his monarchist social context, he's the kind of guy to try to split up a fight but accidentally make himself part of it in the process.

but also, the UN probably want to have a very stern word with thor personally, and i don't think he's likely to be too co-operative about it... his diplomacy so far has depended on gravitas and vagueness; he doesn't want to actually engage with midgard as political equals, in part because he would have to reveal that they're literally not. and he will definitely not take kindly to being treated as potentially hostile or criminal; he may be theoretically pro-government-oversight, but he's also not going to let anyone push him around after everything odin did in the dark world!

hmm. all in all i think it's... probably like. he *almost* becomes a third side in the war. but then he's like well. good luck with this humanity. bye!

[tonycries]

STRONGEST - G.S.

Synopsis. The strongest. The most feraI. Gojo Satoru’s powers aren’t the only thing that goes out of control after a battle.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, fix-it, Shinjuku showdown, Gojo wins, established relationship, FÉRAL Gojo, Gojo’s powers, ínnapropriate use of jujutsu, oraI (fem. rec), fíngering, limitless, pússydrúnk Gojo, máting presses, overstím, rough s, he’s a little bit ínsane, brief male mast., size kínk, tummy buIges, squírting, cervíx kíssing, p sIapping, making him whíne, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 8.2k

A/N. I’m Gege I say this is canon mhm.

BIoody. Broken. Breathing.

Only that last one came from Gojo Satoru— the sole person in the entirety of Shinjuku’s ravaged battleground that was. 

Twitching, he could sense sorcerers rushing out of their hiding spots to inspect the disintegrating, blob-like form of the former King of Curses before they even moved. Others sprinting medical instruments towards Fushiguro’s sprawled-out - alive, Gojo made sure to keep his boy alive - figure.

Not many dared to step towards the strongest, who towered in the midst of the chaos. 

After all, it was only Itadori who could grit his teeth and force himself to walk through the waves upon waves of magnetic cursed energy radiating off of his teacher. Bulldozing, gasping- “G-Gojo-sensei!”

And all at once, the power ceases. 

For the first time since the showdown started, everyone could finally breathe without the pressure of over a thousand sorcerers emanating from the body of one man.

That is, until Gojo snaps his eyes behind and mankind flinches. “I need my wife.”

Oh.

By destroying one monster, they might just have created another. 

.

.

.

You didn’t want to be here - you couldn’t.

Planted prettily like some prized porcelain doll behind the countless wards of the Gojo Estate, its location so classified that it wasn’t disclosed to even you.

You knew why you were here; your husband may be the strongest, but that didn’t stop Ryomen Sukuna from being the most treacherous. And in the unfortunate fate where he might’ve - heavens forbid - won, it was obvious that one of his next targets would be you.

A war prize for a war-bringer.

Your chest tightens at the notion, and you’re struggling to manually lug in smoggy pants- no, that couldn’t happen. Fingers seconds away from shattering the dainty ceramic bowl of tea that you’d made out of pure nerves, it couldn’t.

“Damn higher-ups.” You’re hissing into the now-frigid drink, and yet it still blisters down your tastebuds. Almost as much as the memory of those orders to stay put lest you wanted something to happen to Gojo’s precious students. A warning. A threat. “Leaving me here to rot- fuck, when I get out I’m going to kill those ol’ toads- oh!”

Your sip of tea was a tightened ball of lead that simply refused to go past your larynx– and your brows furrow as the pale glass slips like water flowing between your fingers.

Tumbling. Shattering a puddling splash on the tatami-covered floor below.

And yet, you don’t even remember weakening your grasp - almost as if the cup was magnetized towards the edge of your decadent bedroom. 

“I must be going mad.” You’re muttering to yourself, feeling even more so as you do. Shaking your head to some semblance of clearance, you crouch down with a sigh to pick up the chipped shards-

Only to find that the ground was trembling. 

What…the fuck? Urgently smoothing the mountains of your palm flat on the firm mats below, it felt like something was thundering. Rampaging. 

Something was happening. 

You should run, you should surrender. 

But you stay rooted to where you are, feeling the tips of your ears tingle with a whirrrr of energy clashing against energy, a monstrous sort of crackling power in the air. Tummy tensing as the ancient protective jujutsu of the estate bends and bends and bends - generations of power that snaps!

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

Right in time with three sharp, repeated raps from behind the paper-thin sliding doors to your chamber. 

Impatient. 

It certainly couldn’t be one of the elders, they’d no sooner left you here to brace the impact of Sukuna’s looming victory and die rather than keep you company. Perhaps one of Gojo’s students? Shoko?

The King of Curses himself? 

Squinting at the yolky outline of shadows drawn by the setting sun, your heart soars at the shape of those familiar broad shoulders and unruly hair.

Ones you could never mistake.

“Sa…Satoru.” You’re breathing, voice strangled as if not even your own words believed you. 

Your calves sting with the impact of your running before you even register it- Satoru. Satoru was behind this door. Satoru won. 

Almost out of breath once you reach the entrance, it’s all you can do to startle out a happy chuckle as your finger knot on the lattice handle and draaaag it open– “Sato- oh.”

Except…the man behind the door wasn’t your husband at all.

At least, not a version of your husband that you knew.

Because the Gojo rampant at the door was slouching, heaving.

Loooong, rasping breaths that made the mahogany doorframe clutched underneath his tense white knuckles crack into the tiniest of splinters. Every second wheeze fills the air up with so many charged atoms of cursed energy until you could barely even move. 

Skin-tight black compression shirt torn in a jagged scratch right down the middle, billowing white pants tattered and sagging until you could almost see a few curls of creamy white. Could see allll of his washboard abs. 

It looked like he’d clawed through hell himself just to take you there with him.

As your mouth opens and gapes wordlessly, your husband takes - well, more like stumbles - a singular step towards you that makes the expensive mats underneath break into a crater. 

You’re catching the way his meaty thighs tremble through the cracks of his trousers, a singular dewdropped bead of sweat trickling down the side of Gojo’s flushed temples - almost as if he’d…run the entire way here instead of his usual teleportation.

Breath bated, your eyes cross over the lines of his sculptured deltoids to look at the destroyed mess of the hallway leading up to your room. Only your door was left untouched. 

So he did run.

“Oh- Satoru.” Your voice drops into a sweetened tone unknowingly, and that makes Gojo stiffen with a hoarse breath. 

With every pretty sound falling from your mouth, the sweltering hot atmosphere sizzled so many temperate degrees higher, until your skin was humid with power and want and power. 

Instantly fighting against the rigid air to close the distance, all you wanted to do was hold him. “Are you- are you okay- what happened-”

And then Gojo lurches- as if he’d just been struck with your presence and it had electrocuted him, until he’s raising his eyes up to meet yours and-

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Never in your life had Gojo Satoru looked at you like that.

Heavy lids only half-open, the semi-crescents of his pupils so dilated that they shone Stygian black, tendrils of miniscule blue lightning shoot from the corners of his gaze as Gojo fights to keep his long lashes from fluttering shut. 

He looked ravaged.

The very instant you’re thinking of inching yourself closer to wrap his bruised body in a long-overdue embrace, he’s flinching. 

Like he’d read your very mind. 

And maybe he did, because in mere nanoseconds, Gojo’s kissing you and kissing you until you’re tasting everything iron and him- 

Fuck, you couldn’t even stickily part your lips from his plush, puckered ones to breathe without him letting off a pained grunt. He’s so engulfing. “My wife.”

You’re gasping at the pressurized layer of power that sticks to him like a second skin - and it fights, yearns until you’re being pressed flesh-to-bloodied flesh. Drinking in the scent of candy and something metallically sharp, “Satoru.”

A few calloused fingers tighten ‘round your tender throat so that Gojo could drink all those cute wailing whimpers of yours. 

Crushing you to his toned front, you weren’t sure if your fingerpads were digging into his chiseled shoulders out of his magnetism or pure greed. Still reminding yourself to be careful of his injuries-

“You-” Words warbling like never before, the crowned edges of your digits skim his undercut. Struggling through loudly snogging crashes of his lips, “Wh-what happened? Can you stand? Does it hurt somewhere? Do you need me to-”

“My wife.”

Oh… 

“My wife.” His parched throat slackens to suck on your pinkish tongue like his favorite candy, “My wife-” Ivory lashes trickle your cheeks, and suddenly his honed canines nip your wobbly lower lip. Tugging sensually, “My wife.”

He couldn’t get enough.

“T-Toooru–” Your maw slicks with a thick gloss of spittle, and Gojo immediately catches the dangling strands on the flat of his lecherous tongue to laaaap it up like he was a man who’d been dying of thirst for eons. 

“Need you.” 

And it was the way he said it - so low, strained. A guttural groan that sounded almost like a growl, spat right through Gojo’s clenched pearly whites. 

Devotion and power overflowing so much that he simply had to have you. He had to.

Silky locks of ivory brush your sweat-simmered forehead, “My wife- you- need you.” He’s snarling against your tightly smeared lips, almost as if stringing together coherent sentences had wrenched out whatever was left of his control, too. 

In only two flaps of your shocked lashes, Gojo’s trailing his hotly opened maw down your neck. Fangs dipping right near your throat to feel the way your pulse pounds. Power thrumming underneath his touch, air stifling– “Need you always.”

Your lips buzz at the sheer cursed energy flowing through him, vocal cords too smoky to produce a proper noise, “Need- Toru–” 

But the strongest didn’t need you to struggle out your words right now.

He’s widening his blazing sapphire peripherals once your weakened legs squeeze almost unnoticeably together. Nostrils flaring slightly and-

Ah. There.

Gojo Satoru knows the exact moment that particularly gummy droplet of slick escapes from the crevice of your throbbing pussy - because he can smell it. 

Oh, that heady, hypnotic aroma that has your husband collapsing onto his knees in front of you with a resounding CRASH! 

So hard, so rough that you’re wincing at the way his very own limitless flickers and falters to make Gojo’s capped knees bruise against the floorboards. Ground now shattered underneath his inhumanly strength- “Fuck- Toru- you just came back from-” 

But any and all shrilling words evaporate on your tastebuds, replaced with the tangy excitement of having him loll his head drunkenly between your jittery legs to sniiiiff–!

“Neeeed you-” He’s croaking out, oh-so-raw. Your spine works as a runway for your goosebumps as he’s letting his cherry-pink lips twitch up into a sleazy grin. “-my wife.”

Perhaps it’s your melty brain trying to make sense of things, perhaps it’s Gojo’s teleportation working in overdrive - because one split-second you’re slouching your weight on his sturdy figure to hold yourself standing, and the next you’re being splayed out on the cool tatami floors like such a slut.

Gasping, head swimming. 

The moment your legs fall open with a slurping pop! already talking from your oversaturated pussylips, you huff. “Did- did you just teleport us onto the floor, Satoru?”

“Teleport?” He’s barely removing his glassy pupils from the adorably damp spot peeking from between your legs. Gojo’s eyes flicker with faint recognition as he airily looks around like he wasn’t even sure how he got here.

All pinning you to the mat with one massive palm clung onto your hips, shuffled downwards so that the scorched breezes of his breaths hover over your clothed cunt in muggy lil’ gusts. 

It takes your squirming buck for Gojo to finally, finally realize his position and startles out a shocked chuckle, like he himself didn’t even realize whether he teleported. 

“Are- are you okay, Toru–?” You’re breathing out, concern rippling the rational part of your brain.

Jostling back your satiny skirt to bare your slick-sheened inner thighs to the chill air, Gojo only halts his laughter to answer - airy, about five octaves higher than you were used to. 

“Do I look okay, sweetheart?”

Fuck. 

You didn’t doubt that he wasn’t.

You were fucked. 

Because the very second Gojo tugs down your skirt, “Fuck- fuck.”

“Toru, do you need h-” And riiiips it straight off of your hips to take a good - good - long look at the sodden, see-through underwear flimsily bunched at your quivering pussy, his half-opened eyes quiver shut. 

You can’t even complain about your skirt being limited edition because Gojo just looked so ruined. And you were addicted. 

Icy brows furrowed, jaw ticking, you’re watching speechlessly once he’s taking another deeeeep inhale. Pecs constricting, the curvaceous edges of his smirk dapples with a slight geyser of drool at the sweet, sweet smell of your cunt.

“Fuuuck, my sweetheart- my wife.” The flesh of your inner thighs clam with a thin layer of perspiration at Gojo’s reverent whisper. Taking in yet another deep breath- “All mine.”

And there’s something so primal in the way the edges of his sharpened teeth come snagging down on the thin layer hiding your pussy. The very slimy tip of his tongue grazes that slight moistness of your panties and the man finds himself snickering. 

Gnawing down on the fabric– you don’t know if he realizes, you don’t know if he even cares that he’s teasingly nibbling on one of your plump labia. 

“Missed you- missed this- fuck.” He’s only making his mouth grow more waterlogged, his teeth toyin’ and grinding near your aching hot pussy– Gojo slurps up another taste of you and his hips come humping down on the firm ground. “Missed her.”

Before you know it, Gojo’s superhuman reflexes have hooked a slender finger underneath your panties and he’s tearing them. Biting them. Clean off.

“T-Toru!” You’re squealing, your dripping hole slopping out yet another splosh! of sap at the act. Your heat races as your husband lazily trawls that translucent skimp of fabric up, up, up over to give it another drunken gnaw–

Groaning, “Oh, my wife-” His darkly predatory gaze snatches back open at the cloying dredges of syrup that tack onto his tastebuds, wide. Wild. “My wife- my wife.”

There it is again, and you’re just about opening your mouth to ask about his sultry little mantra- before Gojo’s bullying out every syllable in the back of your throat with a sudden, firm push of his tongue - flopped out right where your folds were leaking the utmost.

“O-oh my ngh- god!” Your dewy lashes moisten because his probin’ muscle was just so big. And he was never this urgent before, this hurried. 

Never this filthy.

Gojo only nuzzles your flinching thighs further to give you such a sinful view, gawking at the way his bubblegum-pink buds spread wiiide open to act like a lil’ road for all your ribbony wires of slick. Every puddling bead slipping from where his tongue was plunged inside you n’ down to the target of his throat, “O-oh.”

Oh?

And Gojo was stuttering, just one taste of your soaking wet pussy and he’s letting his high cheekbones burn a bright blossoming red. Hips bludgeoning forwards to press his aching, heavy bulge into the floor. 

He was a man gone.

“So sweet. Wet- s-so wet.” He’s sucking in a few breaths before veering up a single hand to plant a rude spank right on your soaked lips. 

And imagine the strongest’s raw, carnal delight when that only makes your saccharine cunt even wetter. So drenched that your globs of slick were gathering on the point of his chin and formulating a slick puddle. 

Voice wavering, stuttering. Almost like he couldn’t even believe it even though the evidence was clinging and dripping from his very maw, “So…wet. Like a waterpark- dessert- oh…So wet- f-fuuuck s’she drooling f’me? F’me?”

“For you- o-only for you.” You’re whimpering as his hand comes slamming down again. 

Slap after slap after slap, until you swear his fingertips were starting to buzz with power. Speckles of pearly sheen flying from the knobs of his fingers and straight into his parched mouth.

“Ohhh don’t say that- don’t you say that.” He’s warning, “S’gonna make me- make me…” Prolonging the crown of his tongue to take more of you and stretch and stretch inside your elastic cunt. “Oh- fuck, m’fucking you-” Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing with a gasp– he’s tasting you. He’s really, really tasting you now. “-I’m h-haaaa…fucking you.”

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, Satoru you’re being so…”

Insatiable? Depraved? 

“Can’t stop-” Comes out his ragged gulps, wanting to coo at your cutely twisting expressions and yet unable to even bear the thought of breaking his lewd French kiss with your cunt. “Can’t stop, sweetheart- fuck!”

He really couldn’t. Swabbing ridges of his tastebuds just keeping on swirlin’ into the tenderest spots of your gummy walls, and Gojo’s tongue is so long that every thrusting push past your snug hole leaves you feeling so dizzy.

You’re sucking in a sharp inhale, “T-Toru-”

Faring worse off, he couldn’t even speak. 

Instead of an actual answer, the only sign that shows he even heard is one of his visceral flinches, as if just the way you said his name was enough to drive him crazy.

The scratchy tip of his tongue scours in a welcoming heart right where your hole was and playfully back - no hesitation, no shyness.

“Puh-please, Satoru–” He was fucking into you now. A great big helping of saliva slobbers down the side of your mouth, your foggy pupils starting to circle at just the exact tempo of his dipping tongue. 

The only thing you’re able to let off is the wetly glistening gush of another clingy wave of sap. Swashing Gojo’s swollen lips until they’re soaking wet, your fingers scrape their way through his sweat-matted strands. Babbling, “M-more.”

And there you said. There. 

You knew the instant that those strained syllables ripped from your throat that it would not bode well for your poor pussy. 

Because Gojo’s Herculean shoulder muscles tense, lengthy lashes flapping, and you wonder if he’d stopped fucking breathing. 

Not even the slightest gust of air leaves him as he’s wafting his eyes to your teary ones in shock– “M-more?”

You can’t even tease your dear husband for the way his husky bass was cracking at the very ends, because simply repeating the words makes his cerulean irises spark with bolted lightning. Staring dead-on as he keeps muttering away to himself—

“More?”

You’re mewling as soon as his fat wad of spittle strikes your heated core, slimily slithering straight down your puffed-up lips. 

Just the sight of your glistening entrance so vulgar that, without even a second thought, Gojo’s once more surging his lips against your other pair until his pointed chin. So hard that he’s slapping the base of your treacly pussy until his skin’s all delicate n’ raw.

The curved ends of his jaw slipping n’ glissading up and down while his tongue sliiiides in.

“More-” He’s half-giggling to himself, the straight line of his nosebridge crushing your perked clit and sending your spine sparking. “More more more more- my wife- hah!” You swear you feel the cute crater of his dimples press against the skin of your thighs. Drooling, he’s crooning– “My wife wants more.”

And it’s the last thing said before your eyes blotch pure white with a sheer rummaging stretch. Wider n’ wider - not only was Gojo snaggling your leaking hole open with his tongue, he was adding in his long fingers, too.

The nearly six-inch length of his middle finger tucking between your slick-stained folds with a thundering squeeeelch–! 

“Want more- gonna get it-” You can make him uttering in a gravelly tone against your swollen lips, grunting. Repeatedly swervin’ his padded digits back n’ forth, “-gonna- gonna get it.”

“Toru- Toru oh my god- fuck, s’too good-” Your knees tremor weakly as they bend in the air, head tumbling backwards as your eyes roll to the dark depths of your skull.

“Raise.” 

It’s all you hear before a scouring tendril of cursed energy curls around your neck and your head is being forced to tilt upwards and stare deeply into Gojo’s dimly-lit eyes. Ravenous. 

You didn’t even think that he had the ability to do that, but with the way he was ruining your cunt from the very inside out you wouldn’t be surprised. 

And you think this might be the dopiest you’ve seen Gojo’s pretty smile. Something that would be so completely endearing if it wasn’t for the way that his azure eyes were flickering with cursed energy. “N’  let me ruin you, my wife.”

It wasn’t a promise - he was already doing it.

Barreling the tippy-tops of his two slippery digits so far deeply into your g-spot that you’re drooling. A wave of spitballing drool flapping from your gluey lips, “Are you- Toru are you- using Six Eyes?”

Fuck, that’s what it was.

That had to be it - he’s treating the treasure trove of your sweet spots so meanly. Like a lil’ dartboard that he’s carving out the exact spheroid circumferences of his fingertips, again. And again. And again.

Until his manicured fingernails were leaving that lil’ bundle so overstimulated that even the merest, slightest graze had you weeping out in slicked drool.

You’re crying out by the time that Gojo’s tucking the edges of his tongue inside your gaping entrance with three girthy fingertips - sweat-sleek brows knitting as he pushes and pushes against the resistance. 

Doubly filling you up, and it was such a stretch that it left your hip restless.

“M’n-not gonna hck! last, Satoru.” Your lips pucker into such a cute sob, the melody of it going straight to the plump, aching tip filling up his pants.

He’s rasping, mouth barely giving the time of day for anything other than making out with your creamy pussy. “Cum.” Urgent, rapid strokes of his fingers like he was dragging that stormy high from you. The faster his sloppy movements were becoming, the more crazed his eyes were becoming. “Cum.”

And even though you were too dumbstruck to notice it now, Gojo was so feral for your leaking pussy that loose pieces of furniture in the room had begun to clatter. 

Torrents of cursed energy zipping down to his fingers and concentrating there, “All f’me.” Breaths hoarse with belated pants, he’s groaning when the bzzzz–! of power on your battered g-spot makes your back arch prettily. 

Like a perfect bullet vibrator that was precisely and never-endingly whacking your favorite area, faster. Sloppier. 

So, so filthy.

Gojo was already widening his eyes and letting his spit-adhesive lips crack into a wild smile by the time you’re trilling about your orgasm - because he knew. Oh, he knew.

His Six Eyes could see it coming from a mile away; the way your heart was racing in a pitter-patter that matches the flicks of his narrowed tongue. Every sopping slap! making you clench your scalding insides ‘round him instinctively until it was almost difficult for him to press back against the mushy recoil of your g-spot.

But the strongest always got what he wanted.

And what he wanted was you cumming right now, your nails clawing adorable crimson rainbows all down his shoulders, his neck. “T-Toru- cu-cumming- ngh! M’c-cumming, fuck fuck fuck–”

Gojo would throw his head back and moan if it didn’t mean moving his rovering lips away from your pretty pussy.

“No- c’mon c’mon c’mon- wanna taste. Need to taste-” He’s letting you ride your peaks of euphoria out on slobbering drags of your hips. Face crinkling, his free hand darting up to cushion your tempo with reverse cursed energy so you won’t get too tired n’ stop.

He wouldn’t have been able to handle it if you did.

Wouldn’t have been able to bare- “Again. Again-” Slapping down a hand on the slick-shined inners you’re crying out once the energy-capped crowns of his fingers inch dangerously towards your clit. “Taste- on my face. All over my face, alright?”

He didn’t just want you to cum - he wanted you to squirt. 

“O-oh my god, Tooooru!” Your mouth clogs up with both spit and sultry whines, heels starting to dig into the dimples on Gojo’s sexily flexing back. “M’so sensitive, dunno if I can-”

“No.” He’s cutting you off, and you almost startle. A dull thud! emanating from where his v-line angrily hits the floor in a grindin’ push, another sparking spank punishes your sobbing slope. “No no no no- have to. Wanna taste- think m’gonna die without it.” 

Practically begging on his knees right now. And if you thought that the vibrating sensation of his fingerpads were bad, then you surely weren’t ready for the way that Gojo’s lacquering his sizzling tastebuds over with a flimsy layer of energy.

“C’mon- c’mon c’mon c’mon–” His reverse cursed energy bolts mindlessly from the left hand attached possessively to your waist, and you’re tearing up all over again with a fresh batch of salty tears when that thrumming tongue of his flops over your driveling hole. 

The textured vibrations just felt so good that it was making your mouth flap sappily open, you’re sure that the only reason you could even think right now was because of his reverse cursed energy.

Circlin’ your fleshy folds, where your plugged-up hole was being thrashed with all his pummeling fingers, then up, up, up to your twitchy clit. 

Gojo’s nimble muscle was drawing circles- no, hearts. No, a cursive T-O-R-U ♡ 

He wasn’t even trying - didn’t even have to - to let buzzing bursts of power flicker at your cunt. So teasing on purposeful, those shockwaves were making your thighs twitch with bliss each n’ every time. Every part of him.

“What does that saaay?”

“Toru- Toru” Right before you throw your head back and get steamrolled by your high like never before, such a crashing, blissful wave. “I-I’m…” 

You don’t even have to finish your soft gasping moan because your squelching pussy does so for you. In the loudest, rawest sluuuurp that Gojo laps up gratefully- a drink made especially for his dry throat. 

Ears popping, skin all tingly - you can only slouch your legs further open and take it.

Stringy, wadded splashes of syrupy sap that escape out of you even if you tried to stop. “Gonna fuck-” He’s grunting, throatily. Ruminating growls locked away in his chest, he spits into your fluttery cunt. “-gonna fuck you- fuck you so good.”

You’re so wet that Gojo’s finding himself soaked-through all the way from the tips of those creamy white curls by the shell of his ear down to his chin. A round goblet of slick glues to the sharp line of his jaw and makes a slithering trailway doooown his bobbing throat.

“S’here-” Letting go of your hips, he’s pointing to the mouthfuls of you that fill up his sloppy maw. “Down, down–” The very tip of Gojo’s lecherous finger points a pathway doooown his pale, handsome neck, “-down. All inside. Finally got ta t-taste ya, sweetheart.”

You’re still blinking back the full vignette of your vision by the time that your husband’s pulling his dexterous digits out with a noisy squelch! 

Letting the proud layer of juicy slick smear all over your pussylips once he’s giving your cute, quivering clit a lil’ piiiinch. “And m’s-still thirsty.” He’s grumbling, grinning. Watching as your mouth falls into an awe-struck ‘o’ when you feel his buzzing cursed energy flowing through him again. 

“Toru- fuck fuck fuck–!” It takes every ounce of strength in your body to lift yourself up onto your elbows. “Want…” You wanted him - namely that aching hot bulge you could peek at if you angled your head just right.

And even pushing your trembling thighs together doesn’t do anything to falter Gojo, because he’s simply pushing himself deeper between your gooey legs and gasping. Not for air, not for a breath, but for another taste of you.

Poking down the mushed tip of his tongue until he was pressing on your buttony clit. Hard. He’s seriously happy to die a death suffocated between your pretty thighs, “But why–?” 

Walls clenching needily, you shoot your hand to clutch the strongest’s angelic hair and pull–

“Fuh-fuck–!” Gojo’s dizzy head falls back, breaking off from your syrupy pussy with such a sinfully wet pop! Through your tears you see his right hand shake, quiver down between his trousers. 

And it makes your mouth water greedily to watch the schwf! of tattered fabric motioning back n’ forth as he’s grabbing his rock-hard bulge and thrusting. Angrily. Furiously. “Look what- look what you did- what you- ngh!”

Before you know it, Gojo’s clawing his free hand somewhere in the air hovering above you - all that it takes for him to snap his jujutsu powers and help draaaaag you down like some glorified doll. 

Charred breaths labored, his meaty knees clatter on either side of your body. So urgent that you wonder whether it doesn’t hurt him to scramble up your figure this way, alllll up until you’re finding your face straddled by a heaving Gojo Satoru.

“S’your fault.” He’s grouching out in a gruff tone, and you’re taking the moment to just fully admire him in all his sinful glory.

Skin-tight clothes still hanging off of him in tatters, back oh-so-arched, and his expression– oh, his expression almost made you regret pulling him away from your cunt. 

With a rosy blush flooded all the way from the tips of his ears to the back of his perspiration-glossed neck, heady gaze practically shuttered, lips dripping wet with all your essence still. A few glittery spatters of it slobber down from his cheeks to hit your own face once Gojo lets his lips fall into a soft oh!

Wheezing, “S’your…” You can only gape as he’s tugging down the ivory hem of his pants just enough to let his swollen, heavy cock free. “-fault.”

He was throbbing and big, flinching from the very tip of his lollipop-red cockhead just as soon as he’s feeling the cold breeze of your bedroom. Gojo’s biceps flex sexily as he nudges the moist skin of his tender shaft against your left cheek and pumps.

Sloppy.

“Didn’t have to be s’fuckin’ sweet-” Gojo hisses through gleaming clenched teeth, your blinking expression too gorgeous. “Didn’t have to be- so- ohhhh– m’gonna marry you. M’gonna marry you m’gonna marry you.” 

“Toruuu–” You’re cooing out, gazing as he’s biting back into a snarl. Drooling strawberry orifice sprinkling a wispy jetstream of white, vulgar. “-we’re already married, baby.”

Fuck- and then he’s cumming.

He’s cumming and cumming so much that Gojo’s overworked brain half-wonders when he might stop. The rounded curve of his ballsack squeezing with every elongated ribbon of seed that he’s letting out- more once he catches sight of the way it glissades in a sheeny polish down your features. 

Steaming hot and aching, just as much as he was. 

“Th-there’s so much, Toru-” You’re whining when the salted caramel flavor edges near your tongue, every fat goblet of sap positioned exactly to drool down your face. “-Toru?”

Gojo was on cloud nine, and you didn’t even know he was even listening to you.

Only letting out a dreamy sigh, the knobbly curve of his thumb comes brushing down that pooling slick mess he was making on you. 

Giggling - giggling, “Whoops.” He’s prodding over those webs of seed past your poutily puckered maw, purposefully gliding his fingerpad alllll the way down your wobbly bottom lip. “-missed a spot.”

You’re ogling with an ajar mouth once he glistens it over like some sultry lipgloss, you just looked so beautiful like this that Gojo feels his heart race. He feels his breath hitch, his wide length throbbing-

“Oh.” He hiccups, still sensitive with the shivering wracks of his high. And Gojo’s gaze hastily flickers behind him - to his second favorite pair of lips, after your mouth, of course. “Missed a spot there, too.”

Whatever shred of practicality left in him promises he’ll make it up to you later, he’ll take it slow and make mind-numbing love to you later. Much, much later, but for now: you’re being pushed against the bouncy mattress of your bed. 

You gasp, “A-again? Toru you-” Faltering weakly for just the slightest second when Gojo corners you on the bedcoils and rids of his shirt. All pale, chiseled muscles and power for daaaays. Fuck, he was so hot. “-do you even hck! realize you teleported us?”

The only answer he gives you is a savage grin, voice dipping into just deepest territory as he muses. “No.”

He didn’t. He really, really didn’t even register it when his powers were thrusting you into the bed and making the bedroom lights flicker once he all but tears off those damn overlarge pants. 

And then he gets closer.

Cornering you, a soft pant of shock lets off from you at the faint scars and cuts decorating those familiar muscles of his toned front. “W-wait, Satoru, are you feeling-”

“What? This?” With the click of his fingers, most of those bloodied injuries fade into obscurity. Leaving only a few scars and the remnants of reverse cursed tingling in the air. “Now ruin me, my wife.”

“Fuck…”

“Can’t think.” Gojo’s rasping voice wafts over your lips, making sure to draw out a wet sluuuurp when he suckles on your white-topped maw. Tasting you, tasting himself. His eyes flare madly wide, “-don’t want a-anything but you…”

You’re squirming sluttily at the faint bolts of lightning that decorate his creamy skin, flickering down from his eyes- down to where his ravaging cock was hanging low between his thighs. Slapping a wad of drooling precum on your inner thighs. 

Gojo was so big and hard that you could count every ba-dump–! his ruby crown was thumping against your poor bloated folds. Squelch after squelch, you got the feeling that he was repeatedly rubbing his chubby tip just to drive you mad.

“Don’t have- condoms.” And Gojo could merely lift himself off to grab those familiar foil packets in that bedside drawer - hell, he could even teleport himself there. 

But doing so meant that he had to be away from you and this cutely drooling cunt of yours. And though you didn’t mind if he went in purely raw, Gojo had another idea in mind. 

Whimpering, “Then give it-” Gojo’s breath catches when you buck your hips impatiently, “Need you, Sato- fuck!”

He was never one to disappoint, of course.

Your eyelashes flap tearily at the sudden snagging streeeeeetch being pressured between your glued pussylips. Gasping, struggling to take a look and-

“S’gonna work.” 

“I-it’s not.”

“It will.”

“Won’t- mmpf–!”

Pushing and pushing to try and fit the limitless-capped ends of his length into your tight hole. “Gonna-” He’s poking the reddish tip of his tongue between his teeth in a way that sends shivers down your spine, “-gonna work. Trust me- hck! Trust me, sweetheart.”

If you thought you’d ever gotten used to the maddening girth of your husband before, then you sure weren’t ready for right now. 

For when he’s coating his near-ten inches, thick inches with a layer of crackling limitless. Forcin’ your poor entrance even more full, the pointed corner of his head slips once more between your sandwiching lips and Gojo growls. 

“Fuck- fuck!” In both your carnally muddled minds, you’re barely registering the way something in the bedroom shatters. Sounding halfway through tears, “Not even the tip- Gotta fit- s’gotta. I have to.”

You’re whining with every rutting push, “Wh-why the hell are you so big, Satoru–?”

“Shhh m’gonna make it fit- gonna hah- make it.” He’s urgently soothing you with a big hand on your forehead - not just to caress your forehead, no. Gojo’s clawing your sweaty crown and pushing you down onto where his bulky length was pulsating. Desperate. 

And the smooch of his boiling hot length was so wiiide that your vision is shattering into something bleary. 

Pupils rolling until your eyes were only pure white, you almost don’t catch the rippling forearm being planted right in the middle of your line of sight. “Bite.” Gojo grits out, tension ticking. “Bite.”

So you do - hard enough to draw blood, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it. 

“Yeah- yeahhh jus’ like that.” He’s groaning underneath his breath once you’re gnawing, letting off the prettiest noises when Gojo keeps pulling his hips back and forth. Like some animal, he’s dolloping out a slimy topping of pre on top of your cunt and rutting– “Take it.” Somehow easing in his ridiculous length, “All of it, like my g-good wife now. All-”

And he meant it. 

Slamming his toned hips so hard into yours that sparks - literal, powerful sparks - are sent flying from his body. Pants raspy, maw slackening, “Where is it?” Roaming his eyes rapidly down your body, your skin prickles with atoms stood on edge. “Where- fuck! Where am I…ah. H-here.”

“Here?”

“Here.” A trembling, vibrating finger of Gojo’s comes drifting absent-mindedly up from the start to your folds. And the deeper this fat, vein-covered cock was bludgeoning in - the further his digit was drawing. “Here- m’riiiight here, sweetheart.”

It’s only then that your saccharine brain thinks to understand that he was using his Six Eyes, targeting the sight where his swollen cock was probin’ around your sweet insides.

“Watch me- watch me get deeper.”

You’re watching with an unfastened jaw as Gojo precisely draws where his bulbous tip was smearing out your walls to their maximum. Subconscious, short jabs back and forth back and forth baaack and forth.

Just to fit inside.

“S-shoooo deeeep–” 

“Not deep enough.” 

Stupidly prattling with every knock of his size. Gojo was so damn big that you didn’t even need his outlining digit, your goopy innards were already bulging with his size. A bumpy cylindrical outline that only went deeper, deeper-

“-deeper.” Gojo rests his woozy forehead on top of yours, just as ruined as you. So close now that his chiseled abs gliiiide down your front, “F-feels good, huh? My cock so ngh- deep- my limitless. So, so…deep.”

And it’s at that very second that once your husband bottoms out, that he breaks. 

SLAM!

His sanity, his palm collapsing down to splinter the headboard, and limitless. All at the same time.

Hours and hours later, you’ll both be told that there was a suspicious spike of cursed energy in this area during this exact time. One so strong that it alerted almost every sorcerer in the territory.

But right now you’re too focused on the way that Gojo’s mushy, furiously leaking tip was crashing head-first into your sponged cervix. And suddenly it’s not just the airy feeling of his limitless, it’s the feeling of you. 

Warm and wet. So so wet.

It’s then that Gojo gnaws down on his rosy, trembling lower lip and stalls. It’s then that he’s scrunching his eyes to stop the outpour of power. It’s then that he gasps–

“Didn’t work.”

Letting out a high, wild bout of laughter that makes you wonder just how high the kill count would be.

Confused, “Wh-what?”

Gojo only removes his hand from the bedframe to reveal a scalding handprint exactly in the shape of his, a few shards of wood falling onto the floor. 

“Didn’t…work.” His voice was hard, rough. And there was a jagged tone to them that you hadn’t ever heard before- “It didn’t- work- fuck fuck fuck- didn’t work. Didn’t work didn’t work.” All that he could even think to bellow out in moans every time that Gojo rocked his hips thoroughly. “And I…you…”

Running out of the fucking syllables, he’s letting go of your scalp to fully throw both of your legs over his shoulder and buck. So soft.

“S-soft-?” You’re making out through your pressured eardrums, clinging onto Gojo’s broad shoulders for dear life. You almost - almost - miss the way that his mouth drops, shit- he said that out loud?

Well, now that he started - Gojo couldn’t stop.

Spitting out nonsense between every jackhammer- “Y’feel s-so…soft.” He’s continuing on in an airy tone, gripping a good handful of either side of your hips. So strong that it barely take even a fraction of his strength to jostle you hip n’ down to meet every thrust, “So…sweet- fuck! Even sw-sweeter without a ngh- condom.”

So fucking looooong that every jackhammer from the tip of his geysering divot to his hefty hilt felt like it took ages. Your toes curled helplessly every time he was stirrin’ your insides right up to your cervix, crazed. 

“M’really hitting her-” His breath fans your face in steamy gusts that humidify your skin, “-really, really can feel her.” Peking you once, twice, thrice. “Kissing you- kissing her-” A slam to your cervix, “-there, too.”

You’re letting off mumbled whines of something that sounds like “yes!” and “Toru!” as Gojo slows his craving pace down just a tad to splash out a stringy drawing of a heart right at the bottom of your pussy. 

Long, thorough digging drills that bruise his exact circumference size, “N’ m’seeing her- seeing her take me so welllll, oh…deserves a lil’ treat.”

Too nervous to think about what he would consider a ‘treat’, you’re shoving your face into the clammy crook of Gojo’s neck and biting. Leaving him just as rawly red and stinging as his cock was, the action was enough to make him nibble his bottom lip.

Babbling, “Yeah- yeah, a t-treat. A treat for my good girl- my wife.” You’re feeling it before you register it, that stickily sweet buzzzz–! of cursed energy coating Gojo’s fingertips. 

He unabashedly drags it all the way across your hardened nipples - giving just a lil’ pinch - down your tummy, that bulging outline he was fucking into you, down.

Until Gojo had his sparking fingerpads locked around your throbbing fat clit and refused to let go- “You like that? Yeahh fuh-fucking like that-” Hiccuping, every new roll of his hips plapping against yours made him twist your perked nub just the way you liked. “-like seeing me like this? Th-the strongest fucking you like this?”

“Yes-” You’re sobbing out, your hip gyrating lewdly upwards in tandem with his. And it makes both you and the ancient bedsprings sing in unison when Gojo reaches so deep, “-like it, like it- ngh! Love it.”

Oh.

Oh. 

If you thought that Gojo had nothing left to lose at this point then you were wrong, because with a rummaging spank of skin-on-skin, he’s probin’ a kiss so deep into your g-spot that you can almost taste Gojo’s candied caramel flavor. 

Swiveling his hips just right to maze his lustrously crowned head into that filthy, filthy target. Thumping veins bloated enough to circle your elastic walls and make you remember each lightning bolt pattern. 

Pulse leaping through your mouth, your head bangs backwards into the plush pillows, “There- there, Toruu–!”

“I already know.” Fuck, did he know - and he almost wished you could see the way he could with his Six Eyes. Just how lecherously you glutinous walls were bending to gulp him up straight into your plush g-spot. Every whack thrashing dead-on into that bullseye, “There- there. M’right there- fucking you right there.”

He was pounding into you like he was crazed at this point, and with every white-hot star of pleasure bursting behind your eyes, you could feel yourself sinking further into the cushy bed.

“-the bed, huh?” If you were in any better state of mind, you’d have been wondering about the fact that your husband seemingly had the ability to read minds.

But even Gojo doesn’t seem to realize.

A simpering smile falling over his features as he hoists your boneless legs further up his shoulders - locking them with a simple curl of his cursed energy. Before bending down, down, down until you’re all folded in half like a lawnchair and helpless. 

Completely at the mercy of his sloppy, spanking cadence, “S’what I k-kept thinking about- ngh- a-allll today.” At just the mere mention, Gojo’s throwing his head back with another wave of excess power.

“R-really?” You’re questioning cutely, and he’s forced to concentrate on a lil’ patch of limitless on top of his weepy crownhead to stop himself from fucking cumming right then, right there. 

“Thought about you- ngh- your lips. Your smile.” That explained why he was so ravenous, biting back grunting whimpers at the throbbing clench of your melty walls - molding ‘round his barreling girth. “And your…pussy.”

“S-so filthy, Satoru.”

Your features crinkle with a tiny, blissful twitch - so faint that you almost don’t even register it. 

But Gojo does.

Fuck- of course, he does. He’s slouching forwards until the drenched tufts of his stark white happy trail scratch your already-buzzing clit. Until his superhuman senses can distinctly make out every slurring mwah-! being pulled out from your soppy folds, nodding along as if in conversation. 

“Yeah- mhmmm–” He’s tittering at your starstruck expression, kissing away the clumps of dumbfounded drool splattering from your lips. Gojo squeezes the bullet vibrators of his fingers harder ‘round your clit and lets his eyes glow once you squeal, “-knew it. You’re close, my sweetheart.”

“I-I am?”

“Mhmm—”

And his Six Eyes was never incorrect.

Within only a few more vulgar, touching strokes you could feel that familiar tightness at the bottom of your tummy. Gojo’s giving your cunt another good spank to keep your legs twitching, “C-close.”

“Yeah? Yeah?” Taking on that maddened tinge, “Gonna cum- gonna cum f’me.” He’s giggling into your open mouth, letting a few oodles of spit let slip. “Can tell- so close so lose that- ooooone—”

Your hips jiggle hysterically up into his feverish pace, chasing your high with every uncontrolled thrust. Every spark of power– “Two- two.”

“Twoooo–” He’s calling out after a confirming glance downwards with his Six Eyes, manhandling your restless body pliably. Spattered specks of sweat hit your chest when he’s aligning his tip for once last crash into your tenderest spots. One. last- “Thr- fuck–!”

Right on time. And it wasn’t just you crashing into your high, it was Gojo, too.

Every bedroom light shattering, loose furniture hovering copious inches. 

Gojo was like a monster, his skin decorating with sparks of blue lightning after every long, aching bout of overstimulated euphoria that make the strongest’s famed eyes blur with big, fat goblets of tears. 

Whimpering - whimpering - in muffled noises as he fucks you full with a roped, creamy sap. It knocks around your deepest insides and pushes up in fat wads against your cervix, that little puddle swashing around to and fro with every pump. “Milk me- yeah yeah milk me.”

He’s fucking and fucking you until his rock-hard cock rubs red n’ raw.

Your own high simply zapping tingles by now from the arched curls of your toes up to your sweltering head, Gojo slides his puffy veins just past your g-spot and your legs go weak.

“P-pleeeease–” You’re mumbling through streaky cries of your own, the feeling so filthy that you didn’t know whether you wanted more or to crawl away.

Before a splat! of something wet and viscid on your shoulder jolts you out of you reverie - and only then do you realize that Gojo fucking Satoru was drooling. 

“Don’t you fucking run.” Before you know it, both Gojo’s handless cursed energy and his own right hand curl around your throat to draaaag you back into his ruthless hips. 

His shivering thighs against yours, the stony ridge of his v-line grinding into your stinging ass cheeks just so. Gojo’s pounding you so full of his seed that you feel oh-so-sluggish, “But- but Tooooruuuu–” You could already feel every ounce of blood in his body rush to make his cock twitch, dangerously. Oh. “-a-again? More?”

It’s like the very word is enough to make him jolt. “More?”

“Will it even ngh- fit?” Your lower lip juts out into a pout, feeling the gluey mess of syrup sticking your thighs together. A few gumdrops of pearly cum already pouring out of your sheened hole and dripping right down onto his base. 

“Well…” Gojo’s peripherals were so very hazy now, and they take their languid time falling to the cumflated bulge he’d jackhammered into you. Chuckling - pitched high, he’s plugging those escaping ribbons back into your milky pussy and licking off the excess. “-how many?”

“Wh-what?” You’re gasping as he leverages the hold at your throat to spit the mess right back onto your tongue. 

“How many kids d’you want, hmmm-?” Gojo purrs right back, nuzzling the sweat-stuck side of your face. He’s whispering into your ear, “Because my Six Eyes tells me it h-hasn’t taken-” One thrust, and just about millions of angels and stars flashing behind your lids. “-yet.”

Reversed curse technique was just seeping out of Gojo, and for a second you wonder what time it was. What day- sore arms wrapping around his neck, you’re muttering your answer.

And he only chuckles– “B-because- limitless void, my wife.” And there’s a soft breeze of cracking energy washing over you - soft, loving, and so Gojo. Twinkling eyes drifting meaningfully to your humming cunt, “-m’gonna make you my ngh- cum…dump.”

He…did he just- your eyes widen, he did. Abusing that limitless void on your bawling pussy…oh, how it made you clench with need. 

Power having him crazed.

The bedroom air prickles with a gush of energy so thick it makes your skin burn slightly, and makes Gojo throw his head back with a whine. A whine. 

Eyes ablaze until only its faint bolts and the dusky sun were your sources of light right now - yet, little did you know that none of Tokyo had power, either. None of its wards. None of Japan.

The surge of power so ridiculously high that your comfy bed was sagging on one end, furniture unruly, the flowers of the estate’s gardens blooming. 

He’s letting go of your skin with a faintly steaming handprint, breath catching at the mark- Gojo similarly guides his own zapping fingers to brand your own steaming initials on his v-line. Electric. Twitching. 

“N’ who knows…” Giving you a probin’ dig of his swollen, ravaged cock, your husband grins. “-maybe I'll summon my haaaa- clones for this next round.”

A/N. Also I know most of y’all probably don’t celebrate but happy Sinhala and Tamil new year! Smooching all you lovelies <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

[divinedomainn]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

PROLOGUE ▷ || play next song? summary : You started an OnlyFans to pay rent. Then came Fuck-a-Fan Fridays, one lucky subscriber, one masked hookup, all caught on camera. It’s anonymous. It’s hot. It’s getting you more subscribers. All good right? 'Till it turns out the ones watching you are your classmates and professors.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, reader is kinda... willfully ignorant

A/N : hii this is my first time writing something like this but im SUPER excited. let me know your thoughts who do you think should come first :))

Being broke wasn’t a personality trait, but sweet neptune, it was starting to feel like your entire identity. Third-year cursed techniques major at Jujutsu University? Check. Half-assing your degree with the enthusiasm of a soggy napkin? Also check. Part-time job that paid in existential dread and maybe $11 an hour? Triple check. You were one bounced rent payment away from selling a kidney, and honestly, that kidney was looking pretty damn optional.

So yeah, when the idea of starting an OnlyFans first crossed your brain—mid-scroll on TikTok, wine drunk on a shared bottle of cooking wine with your equally poor friends, and flopped on your shitty single bed—you didn’t laugh it off. You snorted, scoffed, and muttered something bitter, "Bet her rent’s paid," while watching some girl with lip fillers and a Gucci hoodie flaunt her brand-new car, courtesy of her tit pics. You sighed and stared at the water stain on your ceiling like it held the answers.

Then rent day came. Your bank account proudly displayed a majestic $7.24. Your landlord's emails had shifted from "gentle reminder :)" to "we will pursue legal action," and you had a full-blown spiral that ended with you Googling “how to fake your own death” before switching to “how to start an OnlyFans without your mom finding out.”

And somehow—somehow—you were fucking good at it.

Not just good. Thriving.

Turns out all you needed was a ten-dollar ring light, some bargain-bin lingerie that only looked expensive if you angled your body like a Tumblr-era contortionist, and perhaps the illusion that the people that were viewing your content weren't real. You didn’t even show your face. Just your body - though sometimes doing private videos for the right price, some sultry poses, a well-placed pout you’d perfected in the mirror while pretending to be some sort of pornstar bombshell, and boom—you were in business. Real business. Like, able to pay your rent in full and order takeout everyday no sweat.

It escalated fast. One day you’re nervously posting some artsy nudes, the next you’re getting tipped fifty bucks just for answering questions like, “What’s your favorite color (and can you say it while biting your lip)?” You were sitting in your crusty dorm room still, surrounded by your influx of takeout boxes and cursed technique textbooks you hadn’t opened in weeks, realizing you were somehow becoming a one-woman empire.

So naturally, the next step was chaos: livestreaming. You had heard that could bring in thousands in one night - and honestly? You were starting to build up at least a few hundred subscribers.

“Fuck it,” you said, setting up your laptop, adjusting your ring light, and channeling your inner seductress while fighting back a nervous breakdown, ensuring your mask covered your face fully and that your wig covered all your real hair. Your first camgirl stream was a whirlwind. You were shaking, sweating, probably looking one glitch away from buffering into another dimension with your cracked setup - but the chat?

Tips flying. Comments rolling. People calling you a goddess. Practically throwing money at you to get you to do stuff you had (ashamedly) done for free for other men. Another said they’d sell their soul for a moan.

That was the moment you knew.

You’d made it. Well, all things considered atleast.

Rent? Paid. Groceries? Not a single ramen pack in sight anymore, just takeout bags. Your mental health? Still dicey, but at least now you could afford therapy.

What you didn’t know, though, what no part of your clout filled brain could have prepared for - was that some of the top tippers in your chat? The ones dropping money and borderline-feral compliments like... SixEyesOnly: stretch like that and make that noise again and i think i miiiight just send you an extra 100. OfficeAfterHours: Tipped 50. Please buy yourself some food. And wear socks. It's cold out. (For some reason you followed what he said.) EmoWithaBoner: squeeze the toy harder. pretend its my fuckin neck. Yeah. You saw them every damn day. In class. At the cafeteria. In the fucking jujutsu training hall at college. In all honesty you perhaps weren't the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to connecting the dots. Really.

But that disaster? That story comes later. For now, you were just a broke, horny, slightly unhinged college student who had accidentally stumbled into a side hustle that was by all means paying more than anything you could possibly do with a degree.

And baby, business was booming.

[sunsetmade]

Grumpy?

Bucky Barnes x Receptionist! Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes— who is cold and curt with everyone— always lingers by the front desk smiling and flirting with the receptionist.

The Avengers Tower was a well-oiled machine—structured, efficient, humming with the quiet chaos of genius and responsibility. There was a rhythm to it all: debriefings in the morning, security rotations in the afternoon, and the occasional power surge from one of Tony’s questionable late-night experiments in the lab.

But nothing in the building ran more smoothly—more dependably—than the front desk.

She sat at the heart of it, tucked behind the sleek counter with a sharpened pencil between her fingers and a soft, welcoming smile on her lips. She was the calm in the middle of a storm of superheroes, double agents, and billionaire tech mishaps. She knew every name that walked through the lobby, every coded schedule shift, and exactly which agents tried to sneak in late without scanning their badges. She remembered who took their coffee black and who needed two sugars. She remembered birthdays. Allergies. Dog names.

And when the lobby was quiet, like it often was early in the morning, she pulled out a folded crossword from her bag. Always in pencil. Always neat. She’d sit with her brow furrowed and her lip tugged gently between her teeth, fully focused, as if solving those little squares could somehow bring order to everything else around her.

And every morning—every morning—Bucky Barnes walked by just to see her do it.

To the rest of the Tower, Bucky Barnes was an enigma wrapped in leather and combat boots.

He was cold. Quiet. Always two steps ahead and impossible to read, with a stare sharp enough to cut through glass and a silence that seemed louder than most voices. He moved through the halls like a ghost—efficient, intimidating, all coiled muscle and mission focus beneath that black leather jacket. He didn’t make small talk. He didn’t attend team dinners. He didn’t linger longer than necessary.

And he never smiled. Not at anyone.

Except at the front desk.

There—just there—he was different. Softer, somehow. Less winter soldier, more man. He’d slow his stride before he reached the counter, his posture easing, the tension around his eyes loosening the moment he spotted her behind the desk. Sometimes it was just a glance. Sometimes it was a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he caught her mid-crossword, her pencil tapping against the laminate as she chewed the end of it in thought.

But other times—on the mornings when the sun streamed through the tall lobby windows and she was already laughing at something under her breath—he’d stop. Lean one elbow against the desk. Say something in that low voice of his, rough with sleep and just the tiniest hint of amusement. And when she looked up at him, wide-eyed and smiling, something would flicker behind his carefully guarded expression. Something warm. Real.

No one else ever saw that version of him.

So when agents passed through and caught a glimpse—when they saw Bucky Barnes smiling, actually smiling, as he leaned in a little too close to the girl at the front desk—they usually did a double take. Whispered to each other in disbelief.

Because everyone knew Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt.

Bucky Barnes didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He didn’t laugh, and he definitely didn’t smirk.

He was the kind of man who carried silence like armor—sharp, impenetrable, and constant. Most people in the Tower had never heard him say more than a few clipped words at a time, let alone seen him do something as human as chuckle.

But then there was her.

And somehow—impossibly—he was doing all of those things. Because of her.

Because of the way she’d look up from her crossword puzzle with that curious little tilt of her head. Because of how she smiled at him like he wasn’t a weapon in a jacket, but just a man passing through her morning. Because she didn’t flinch or force conversation—she just saw him, and he didn’t feel the need to disappear.

So yeah, Bucky Barnes was grinning at the front desk now. Letting out quiet laughs under his breath when she got frustrated retelling a story. Teasing her gently, just to see that spark of amusement in her eyes. The unshakable Winter Soldier—grinning like a fool because she told him he looked tired and then offered him a travel-sized coffee creamer from her purse like it was contraband.

To anyone else, it would’ve seemed impossible.

But to him, it felt like the most natural thing in the world when he was with her.

“Hey, doll.”

His voice was smooth, low, and unmistakably fond as it drifted across the lobby, cutting through the usual morning quiet like it belonged there.

She looked up from her crossword puzzle, already smiling without meaning to. Bucky Barnes was leaning both elbows onto the marble counter, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the edge of his metal forearm, posture relaxed like he had nowhere else to be. As if the world outside didn’t expect him to be a weapon.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she teased, pencil still in hand.

He groaned, dragging a palm down his face in mock frustration. “I told you not to call me that.”

She shrugged, unfazed. “I like it. It suits you.”

He didn’t answer right away—just stared at her, trying not to smile. The way her eyes crinkled when she teased him, the softness in her voice… it undid him more than it should’ve. His stomach flipped like it always did around her, and he prayed it didn’t show on his face.

Then she laughed. That warm, honey-sweet sound that filled the wide, sterile lobby like sunlight through the glass-paneled windows. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just easy. Natural. And it made something in his chest settle.

She twirled her pencil between her fingers before tapping the paper in front of her. “Stuck again,” she sighed. “Ten-down: ‘Hard exterior, soft center.’ Five letters.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Me.”

She blinked at him, then let out a small chuckle. “That’s not you.”

He raised a brow. “It fits though.”

“It does fit,” she admitted with a hum. “But you’re more of a marshmallow all around.” He smiled liking the way she thought of him as.

He leaned in slightly, looking amused. “Told you I’m good at these.”

“I thought your specialty was knives, not wordplay.”

He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I have layers.”

She gave him a playful look. “I’m starting to see that.”

He tried not to react, but the words struck a quiet chord. His gaze drifted to her hands—delicate, thoughtful, a little lead-smudged from the crossword—and he watched as she absently brought her nail to her mouth, chewing gently while focused.

His lips twitched, eyes fond. “You do that when you’re thinking.”

She looked up, surprised. “What?”

“That thing with your nail,” he said, tone casual. “You do it when you’re thinking too hard.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “You notice that?”

He shrugged, doing his best to play it cool even as warmth crept up his neck. “I notice a lot of things.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Like what?”

His voice dipped just a bit, low and steady. “Like how you hum under your breath when you think no one’s listening. Or how you always read the clues out loud, like you’re hoping someone’ll come help—even though you act like you want to solve it alone.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head, smiling despite herself. “I might be,” she said quietly.

Bucky grinned, unguarded for a moment. “Well,” he said, voice teasing but soft, “keep waiting for me, doll.”

And she laughed again—just for him.

Unaware that moments like this didn’t happen with anyone else.

Unaware that Bucky Barnes didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. Didn’t linger.

Except at the front desk.

Except with her.

Meanwhile, Sam Wilson had just stepped into the Tower lobby, sunglasses still on and a fresh coffee in hand. He wasn’t planning to stop—he rarely did on the way in—but something caught his eye.

Or rather, someone.

There, at the front desk, was Bucky Barnes.

Again.

For the third time this week, Sam slowed to a stop near the entrance, brows drawing together as he watched the interaction unfold from a distance. Bucky was leaning on the counter like it was his second home, posture casual, shoulders relaxed. He was smiling—an actual, real smile that reached his eyes—and laughing softly at something she said. He even nudged her pencil with the edge of his finger before giving her a lazy little wave, like he was any other guy.

Sam’s jaw was practically on the ground. Bucky Barnes—Mr. Scowl and Grunt—had waved. Waved.

“The hell…” Sam muttered to himself, lips pressing into a line as Bucky finally turned and strolled past, his usual cold stare meeting him. Classic.

But Sam didn’t let it slide.

He changed direction and walked straight to the desk, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion as he approached.

She looked up, bright and cheerful as always. “Morning, Sam! How’s it going?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, setting his coffee down with a thunk and eyeing her. “Don’t ‘morning’ me. What’s going on with you and Bucky?”

Her eyes widened slightly, innocent and confused. “What do you mean?”

Sam crossed his arms. “Don’t play coy. I just watched that man smile—smile—like he wasn’t a certified menace fifteen minutes ago.”

She laughed, the sound sweet and light. “He’s always like that.”

Sam’s brow shot up. “No, he’s not. Not with anyone. The man barely makes eye contact with the rest of us, and he just waved at you like y’all are in a damn Hallmark movie.”

She tilted her head, still looking genuinely puzzled. “Really? He’s never been anything but sweet with me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What does he even talk about?”

“Books. And puzzles. And snacks.”

Sam leaned in eyebrow raised. “Puzzles?”

She nodded looking at him as if he was going crazy— which may or may not be true.

Sam stood back like he’d just solved a case. “You’ve cracked the code. Bucky Barnes has a crush on you.”

“Sam.”

“I’m serious. I’ve known the guy for years. He’s glared at me more than he’s spoken to me. But you? You get crossword help and puzzle talk.”

Sam leaned in slightly, half-conspiratorial, half-stunned. “You realize you’re like… his favorite person in this building, right?”

Her cheeks warmed, and she gave a shy laugh. “I think he just likes the crossword banter.”

“Sure,” Sam drawled, grabbing his coffee. “That’s why he acts like a golden retriever who just found his favorite tennis ball every time he sees you.”

And with that, he turned on his heel, leaving her blinking after him—confused, smiling, and maybe, just maybe, starting to wonder what exactly Bucky Barnes saw when he looked at her.

⸻

Sam’s words stuck in her head.

She started paying closer attention—something she was usually great at. It came with the job. She noticed things. Like who avoided eye contact after a rough mission. Who needed to be buzzed in early on Mondays. Who always brought back an extra pastry for the agent next to them without ever saying why.

But now, she was noticing Bucky. (Way more than she usual did)

And he was… not like he was with her. At all.

With everyone else, Bucky was courteous, in that distant kind of way. Polite nods. Quiet acknowledgments. He spoke when necessary, nothing more. Even around the people he trusted—Natasha and Sam—he always held part of himself back. Like he was there, but not fully. Always watching, calculating. Like his presence was borrowed, temporary. Controlled.

But with her?

It was different. So noticeably different that almost everyone already picked up on it.

He lingered.

He’d drift by the front desk in the late afternoon, when the tower was quiet and the air felt still. Sometimes, he mumbled something about needing to double-check the mission schedule or update his clearance log—things she knew damn well he could’ve done from his tablet or comms.

But instead, he’d end up leaning on the counter with his forearms, half-facing her, voice softer than usual. He never seemed in a rush to leave. And on multiple occasions, he would laugh at something she said—not a breathy huff, but a real laugh. Low and warm and surprisingly easy. The kind of laugh that curled around her like a blanket, and made her freeze for half a second with flushed cheeks.

That sound stuck with her. It came back to her later, in the quiet of her apartment or in between elevator dings, like a little reminder she hadn’t imagined it.

And then there were the smaller things.

Like when he walked by two days after Sam’s visit.

She hadn’t even noticed him coming. One moment she was scrolling through reports, and the next, his knuckles tapped gently on the marble edge of the counter—soft enough not to startle, firm enough to pull her attention.

“Hey doll,” he said, his voice almost careful. Not shy, but not overly confident either—just… gentle. Thoughtful. “Brought you something to have with your crosswords.”

She blinked, gaze dropping to the small brown bag he set in front of her. A blueberry muffin peeked out the top.

Her favorite.

She stared. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it,” he said, tone quiet, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Last week, when you said the banana ones ‘scarred you for life.’” He gave a slight grimace, mimicking her dramatic tone, and it made her smile.

“You remember that?” she asked, still a little caught off guard.

Bucky leaned forward just enough to rest his arms on the counter, head tilted, eyes steady on hers. “Told you,” he smiled. “I notice things.”

The air between them felt softer somehow. Still. Like it had narrowed to just that space—just them.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the bag without opening it, eyes still on his. Her heart fluttered. She wasn’t sure what to say, but it felt like she didn’t have to say anything at all.

Because in that quiet look he gave her, there was a kind of ease she hadn’t seen in him before. Not even with the people who knew him best.

A few days later, it happened again.

She was seated at the desk, trying to pull herself together after a chaotic morning. Her hair was scooped into a rushed bun that wasn’t quite secure, strands already slipping loose. One sleeve of her cardigan was pushed up, the other still falling over her wrist. There were two half-finished coffees beside her keyboard, and she looked—by her own admission—a bit of a mess.

She didn’t even notice Bucky until he passed by, slowed, then took a step back like something had caught his eye. He leaned in close enough that she glanced up, startled.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice low and even.

Before she could respond, his hand reached out—delicate but sure—and tugged gently at a loose thread unraveling at the shoulder seam of her cardigan.

She froze.

Not because he touched her exactly, but because of the way he did it. So careful. So familiar. Like it wasn’t a big deal at all. Like fixing her sweater was second nature.

His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, and then he let the thread fall into his palm.

“There,” he murmured, standing straight again, a small curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smirk—something softer. “Didn’t want you walking around looking like a walking unraveling mystery.”

She blinked, still caught between the ghost of his touch and the way his eyes had flicked down so briefly, so purposefully.

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.

He was already turning, already moving away down the hall in that unhurried way he always did. But he glanced over his shoulder, soft, a little smug and a knowing glint in his eye.

“Only if you want it to be.”

And then he was gone again.

She sat there for a long moment afterward, eyes on the empty hallway, lips parted slightly in surprise. He always did that—left her sitting there, a little breathless, a little confused, like she was still trying to catch up to whatever moment just passed between them.

It was maddening. And a little addictive.

⸻

But then came the moment that shifted everything.

She was kneeling near the cabinet by the elevator, half-crouched with a clipboard balanced on her thigh and a box of laminated visitor tags in her lap. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, and she was quietly humming to herself, content in the calm of a late morning.

The ding of the elevator barely registered at first—just another routine sound in a day full of them—until the doors slid open and she glanced up.

Bucky stepped out, flanked by two unfamiliar agents.

She smiled without thinking, her automatic greeting already forming on her lips.

But something happened.

He didn’t spare so much as a glance at the others. Barely a grunt of acknowledgment as they moved past him, mid-conversation, unaware or maybe just used to his silence.

But Bucky—he looked straight at her.

And just like that, everything about him changed.

His shoulders relaxed, tension sliding off like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. His expression softened, that faint edge in his jaw smoothing into something gentler. His eyes brightened—not wide or dramatic, but unmistakably warmer, like the sight of her tugged some invisible thread inside him loose.

“Hey, doll,” he said, low and fond, like she was the only person in the room.

She froze, lips parting as her breath caught for half a second. She was used to his visits, his little teasing comments, the quiet smiles he saved only for her—but this?

This was different.

He walked toward her without hesitation and crouched beside her, his long legs folding with casual ease. He didn’t ask what she was doing. Didn’t make it awkward. Just reached for a neat stack of folders beside her and handed them over, his sleeve brushing hers.

“You always do this stuff alone?” he asked, glancing briefly at the mess of papers and lanyards around them.

She nodded, adjusting the clipboard in her arms, still caught off guard. “Usually. It’s just part of the prep for tomorrow’s visitor batch.”

“Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to hers. “You shouldn’t have to do it all alone.”

The words weren’t dramatic. There was no flourish, no deliberate charm.

But the way he said it—quietly, like a simple truth—made her chest go warm.

Their fingers brushed as he passed her the folders. Neither of them pulled away too quickly.

And then he hesitated—just for a beat. His gaze dropped to her hands, then lifted again, slower this time. She felt it before he even said anything, like the air shifted.

“Hey,” he said, licking over his bottom lip. “You got plans after your shift?”

She blinked. “Um… no, not really.”

Bucky gave a tiny nod, thumb grazing the edge of one folder like he needed something to fidget with. “There’s that little coffee place down the block,” he said, eyes still on hers. “I was thinking… maybe you and I could go. If you want.”

The way he said it—low and nervous—sent her heart into a full stumble. It wasn’t just coffee. It was a date.

Her mouth opened, then closed again, and when she finally managed a breath, she nodded—too fast, maybe, but smiling. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He stood, the faintest tug of a smile playing on his lips—not cocky, not proud. Just quietly pleased.

“We can do your crossword while there.” He said smiling. She chuckled and rolled her eyes, “You’re such a dork.” He only smiled harder in response.

The two agents, now at the far end of the hall, had turned back to look.

They were staring.

And for once, she didn’t blame them.

Because in that moment, it clicked. He really was different with her.

Not just less guarded—but open. Gentle. Grounded in a way she hadn’t seen him be with anyone else.

And maybe—maybe Sam was right. Maybe this wasn’t just one-sided. Maybe it hadn’t been for a while.

Because the Bucky Barnes standing in front of her wasn’t the cold soldier everyone whispered about. He wasn’t sharp-edged or haunted or unreachable.

He was steady. He was thoughtful.

And he looked at her like she was something soft in a world that had never been kind to him.

And she was starting to realize—with a quiet, breathless sort of clarity—that she liked this version of him far more than she’d ever meant to.

[miaoua3]

Ghost of Your Dreams

Pairing: bf!scoups x f!reader

Genre: smut (MDNI), size kink, no protection (don’t be silly wrap the willy), dom!scoups, spanking, choking, spitting, degradation(slight), praise, cosplay! ghost

Description: all it took was one comment of your and here he was, embarrassed and shy but ready to commit to the fullest in order for him to fulfil your fantasy

Note: everyone went berserk last year when i posted on my tiktok as what characters id like to see svt as for halloween and put coups as ghost from cod so naturally i had to bring even more chaos and write a whole fanfic about it…enjoy hehe (post writing edit of the notes: i passionately hate this my bad guys i suck so bad. and again, not proof read so…yeah lmao)

you knew what you were getting into the very minute you first stepped a foot into your boyfriend’s s home and saw a whole professional pc set-up, with headphones and the kind of keyboard that lights up in rainbow light every time you press any key on it. you knew what to expect from him-late night gaming sessions between him and his friends, him yelling whenever he got annoyed, and a whole lot of cursing.

these are just some of the things you knew to expect.

cheol, on the other hand, never even thought what kind of an effect his hobby could have on you. he knew you would be supportive, and that you would probably use his gaming time to do and practice your own hobbies.

but now, several years into the relationship, he never even expected for you to take any special interest in his hobby, never mind for you to make such an…out-of-character comment like you did two weeks ago.

he was just starting a new game, concentrating on the plot and character dialogue so he knew what to do, when he felt you approach him from behind, carefully watching the screen right beside him.

after a few seconds, cheol sees your pretty pointer finger point at one of the characters from the screen and hears your sweet voice ask “who is that?”

cheol looks up at you with his pretty and big boba eyes, a bit of confusion visible in the way his eyebrows furrow.

“his name is simon riley, but they call him ‘ghost’.”

you only hum in response, tilting your head to the side as you carefully watch the character move around the screen. after a few seconds, you deliver a comment that will forever change seungcheol and who he is as a person.

“he’s hot.”

cheol looks at you, both in confusion and in offence, totally blindsided by the two words that have just left your mouth.

“what- why? how? you can’t even see his face because of the mask. plus, you have a boyfriend, miss. how dare you find another man other than me attractive?”

you finally look at the boyfriend in question, only to see his big cherry lips set in pout, making you smile in amusement. you bend down to hug him around his neck, softly kissing his cheek to comfort him. after you see the corner of his mouth twitch in weakness, you answer his questions.

“i don’t know, something about him is attractive, maybe the way he carries himself and the mysteriousness because of the whole mask thing.”, you muse as you go back to watching ghost on the screen.

cheol does the same, the pout still present as he looks at his favourite character, now with a bit of disdain due to your newfound attraction to him.

after a few seconds of silence, you chuckle before you add another comment that will play a big part in both your futures.

“plus, he kind of reminds me of you, baby. with all the dominance, confidence and that deep voice.”, letting another chuckle, you look him directly in the eyes, you faces only inches apart so he can see your eyes clearly as you add “who knows, maybe you should cosplay him sometime. i know i would love to see that.”

you smile at him before you let a brief kiss land on his lips before you part your body away from his and go back to laying on the bed.

you may have said it in the joking manner, but cheol knew. he saw that look in your eyes, the way your pupils were dilated, the way your smile hid something a bit darker, a bit more sinister in the corners of your lips.

he knew that you weren’t joking.

so here he is, two weeks later, on a saturday night, in the full cosplay, waiting for you to get back from work, his blushing and red face hidden behind the balaclava and mask.

he fondles with all the little belts around his body, namely his waist, chest and thighs. a bit uncomfortable, but nothing cheol couldn’t handle.

hey, anything for love, right?

cheol looks around the apartment as if it will give him an answer as to what he should do, what the plan to surprising you is, but to no avail. the nervousness and sort of excitement is getting more and more unbearable the closer your arrival is getting.

finally, he settles on hiding in the bathroom, knowing that your first move will be to check your shared bedroom to see if he’s there, making the bathroom the perfect place to hide, as it is directly across the bedroom and he can then quietly sneak up behind you.

just like he planned, cheol skilfully hides behind the bathroom door, leaving the light off and the door slightly open as to make you think he isn’t inside. he stills his movements the moment he hears the keys jingling behind the entrance door before the door click open.

you drop your keys into the little dish beside the door before hanging your bag and coat on the hanger right beside it. he hears you sigh deeply, probably meaning that you have had a long day and that you need some relaxation.

perfect.

after you take your shoes off, he hears you still for a moment, carefully listening to the sounds in your own home. after a second, he hears you call out “cheol? are you there? i’m home!”

but to no avail. because he doesn’t answer.

right in that moment, cheol's belief that he knows you better than anyone else was solidified.

because just like he predicted, he hears you take a few steps before you lightly open the door of your bedroom, peaking inside to see if your boyfriend is inside.

showtime.

ever so quietly, cheol moves until he’s standing right behind you, his eyes looking at the top of your head. he just had to smirk at your cluelessness, how you are so cutely looking for him while he’s standing directly behind you.

not being able to resist the temptation, cheol leans in until his covered lips are right by your ear before he utters in his deepest voice possible.

“looking for something, m’love?”

you gasp in shock, eyes wide as you quickly turn towards him, stumbling back so much that if it weren’t for his hand catching your arm, you would’ve fallen right onto your ass.

you gape at his tall and darkly clothed silhouette, being somewhere between shocked and in awe of your beautiful muscle-y boyfriend standing in front of you in a costume you never could’ve imagined seeing him in.

the shock lasts all but 5 seconds before the widest smile he has ever seen on you takes over your features, your pupils blown out, so much so that they appear almost completely black.

with excitement you start word-vomiting “oh my god, i can’t believe you really did this. i think this is the best day of my life. oh my god, are you gonna spank me and say that i’ve been a bad girl? or maybe-“

something about the way you look little too excited, like a kid on a christmas morning that can’t wait to open their presents, the way you smiled so wide, maybe even too widely. like cheol just walked right into your trap.

it rubbed him the wrong way, blood boiling slightly.

although that just might be the multiple layers of clothes that he’s wearing.

oh well.

wasting no time, seungcheol suddenly grabs you by your neck and pulls you towards him, making whatever words you wanted to say die on your tongue and a gasp slip out instead.

the moment your body collides with his, he uses his big and broad body to push you against the wall by your bedroom door, harshly.

your body slams against the cold white wall, and cheol has the oh shit- thought for all of half second that he might’ve pushed you too hard and that he might’ve hurt you.

that is before he hears you moan loudly at the action, throwing your head back.

little masochist.

cheol then immediately comes closer to you, crowding your space so much, until the only thing left to focus on is the mask that covers his face. his chest pushes into yours, making it that harder to breathe, and his knee finds its home right between your legs, pushing upwards until he can feel the warmth between your legs on his thigh.

your beautiful and cute eyes are already teary as you look upwards at him, desperation forming on your waterline in the form of tears.

you don’t have to see it to know that cheol is smirking at the effect he has on you, smugness dripping in his voice as he says.

“what do we have here, hm? your pussy already desperate for me, baby? but we haven’t even started.” he pauses for a second to press his covered forehead against yours before he continues “is this all it took to reduce you to what you really are? a desperate, cock-hungry little bitch? so hungry for my cock hm? can’t even wait for it to enter that little pussy of yours, already rubbing yourself on me.”

it is only when his glove-clothed hand suddenly runs over your front, right where your pussy is desperately rubbing on his thigh, that you even notice what you’ve unconsciously started doing, his fingertips digging until he finds the slit of your pussy lips, pressing hard until he reaches your clit, despite two layers of clothes being in his way.

you moan at the contact, hands grabbing at his wrist, somewhere between pushing his hand away and closer to where you need him the most.

seungcheol won’t let you have any control tonight, he wants you to completely surrender to him, to let him use you and move you however he wants, to just accept whatever he gives you with a fucked out smile on your face.

hence why he grabs both your hands into his before slamming them onto the wall above your head, quickly switching his hold onto your wrists.

with a purposefully made angry face, he looks into your teary eyes. something dark and far more sinister than he thought he could ever feel awakens inside of him, the feeling of giddiness overcoming him as he watches your eyelashes get wet by the tears gathering in your eyes, neediness and desperation swimming in them.

with a deep voice overflowing with warning, he says “no touching tonight, are we clear pretty girl? you are at my mercy tonight. everything i want to give you…”, he pause for a few seconds so he can remove the skull mask from his face and reveal the identical balaclava beneath it, before he pushes his face closer until his cloth-covered nose meets your own and continues “…you will take like a good girl i know you are. understood?”

you watch his dark eyes, purposefully covered in black paint, as you process his words. your mouth are agape, shaky breaths leaving the opening until the sound hits cheol’s ears. his free hand that isn’t holding your wrists comes to hold your cheek gently, a touch of love to show you that this isn’t real, that this is just a bit of a fun game to both of you, that he still loves you despite his harsh words.

with wide eyes, you slowly nod your head to his demand, showing him that you understand.

contrary to his tone just a few seconds ago, cheol gently whispers in the little space between you two “use your words baby, i need to hear you say ‘yes’ before we continue.”

you heart squeezes in love that you have for this man. the fact that he basically interrupted his own fantasy in the name of having you consent to him with your own words makes you love him that much more. sure, it may be the bare minimum to the rest of the world, but to you, who never experienced such gentle love by the previous partners? it means the whole world.

with hoarse voice, you whisper “yes. i understand.”

cheol looks at your eyes for a second, looking for doubt and fear, only to find excitement and trust instead. nodding his head, he pushes his balaclava until his lips are freed, and using the newfound freedom to lay a gentle and light kiss to your mouth, letting them linger just for a second before he pushes the balaclava back in place, now fully ready to push you to the point of tears of pleasure.

within a second, that old flame of desire returns to his eyes. for a second you could’ve sworn that his eyes had a tinge of redness in them, almost like they were literally set on fire.

his hand slowly but firmly wraps around your neck, the leather material making the squeaky sound as he repositions his hand so his fingers are only squeezing the sides of your slender neck. the last bit of air leaves your lungs as cheol squeezes your neck, making you feel lightheaded within seconds.

your boyfriend uses your distraction and hazy mind to just observe you-the way your eyes flutter shut and how tears gather at your water line, how your hands try to grasp onto something to no avail because he’s holding the hostage above your head, how your mouth can’t decide if you want to bite your lip and keep the gasps and moans from escaping or opening them as wide as possible and letting all those pretty sounds flow like a river straight out.

he watches how your hair is already messy, a complete opposite to how you usually style it for work. then to how your pretty neck bobs in an effort to take in more air. the way his black leather glove wraps prettily around it.

his eyes fall onto your chest, and the way your button up shirt gives him a peak of your cleavage, as well as the necklace with his initials engraved on the back of the pendant hanging from the chain. the way your chest raise and fall at rapid speed, the way your tits move with every exhale.

his pupils follow the curvature of your waist, and the way your pants hug your hips-the hips he loves to hold, grab, squeeze and use as his anchor while he’s fucking you from behind.

lastly, cheol observes the movement of your hips, how you slowly roll your hips in slow and small circles on his leg that is pushed between your legs in an effort to relieve the uncomfortable tingle on your clit, the warmth from between your legs making his mouth water in need to taste you, in need to have your tight pussy wrap around his cock.

fuck, he needs to fuck you. right now.

his head drops beside yours, a groan hitting the shell of your ear before he demands “take your pants off, need to have that needy pussy around my cock right now.”

no sooner than when his hand lets go of your hands that were hanging above your head that you immediately got to work, unzipping your pants and missing the zipper a few times. the minute it was unzipped enough, you pulled your pants down, along with your panties, before you kicked them to the side.

while you were preoccupied by taking your pants off, cheol did the same to his. well, he couldn’t really take them off due to insane amount of tiny belts hugging his big thighs. instead, he just unzipped them and pulled them down just enough to free his aching cock from his boxers, precum leaking from the tip the moment it bounces upon being taken out.

your eyes immediately get drawn to the sight, how big he looks, the tip the slight pinkish colour due to lack of stimulation.

but it’s not just his dick-cheol as a whole, right at this moment, looks like something straight out of your wet dreams, like a desire or a kink you can’t talk about, keeping it locked inside a box instead, hidden deeply inside your closet.

the black balaclava with the skull printed on it hugging his head and currently hiding his beautiful face, the black turtleneck that is covered with the fake black military vest, with tons of tiny pockets. the way his big biceps bulge out, protruding even with the longs sleeves trying to keep them hidden.

the black leather gloves that are trying to keep his pants below his cock, kind of frustratedly fumbling with the material because it’s not obeying to his orders. the black pants that hug his legs, the black boots-simply everything.

it makes your whole body feel hot, so hot like somebody poured hot lava all over it.

fuck, i need to suck him off dry right. now.

just as cheol was about to grab you, you let your knees drop, kind of painfully hitting the floor, and as gently as possible due to the hunger grabbing his dick.

cheol confusedly looks down at you, mouth open to say “wha-“ but gets cut off with a moan the moment your warm mouth wraps around his cock.

normally, you would go slow, paying attention to his tip for a minute or so before trying to swallow his whole length.

normally. but not now.

the moment you open your mouth and lean in towards his dick, you start bobbing your head up and down his cock, you hand working on the base that you can’t reach with your mouth just yet. you other hand pulls on his pants, trying to keep them in place while you suck his length.

feeling overwhelmed by your sudden actions, cheol gasps a moan and slams a hand onto the wall to keep him balanced, knees buckling due to the sheer force of your movements.

your mouth haven’t even been around his dick for a minute and he can already feel his balls ready to burst, breathing deep and looking towards to the ceiling (or the heavens, whichever way you want to interpret it), praying that he doesn’t cum so quickly.

you continue with your movements, tongue wrapping around and licking his cock as you drag your mouth back before you suck his length back in, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

cheol watches you in awe and fascination, the way your eyebrows furrow not in concentration, but due to the neediness to have yourself choking on his big cock, moaning every few seconds in pure enjoyment.

never thought sucking a dick could be so good and so…sexually full filling.

you look up through your eyelashes at your boyfriend. even with the balaclava you can tell that his mouth is opened, letting those beautiful and loud moans flow freely out of them, that his eyebrows are furrowed because he’s trying to contain himself and not fuck your face.

which is exactly what you want.

you pull away, both to let yourself and himself breathe, though you keep the eye contact going.

and cheol sees it. that look in your eyes that is begging him to fuck your mouth.

how could he ever deny his baby anything?

just as you were about to go back to sucking his dick, cheol grabs your hair and pulls you away, and keeps pulling on it, making you move your body with it. he only stops once your whole body is back to leaning against the wall, legs kind of awkwardly bent before you readjust them.

your glossy eyes look up at him, needy and demanding for him to fuck your mouth, now.

tapping your cheek with two fingers, he's only able to rasp out "open your mouth."

your lips fall open without a second thought, poking your tongue out as you wait for him to give it to you hard and fast, just like how you like it.

cheol wishes that he could take a mental picture of you like this-eyes glossy, face littered with sweat and mouth calling his name. this right here, how you like right now.

this is everything cheol has ever dreamt about.

ever so slowly, cheol pushes his pelvis foward, his cock held tightly in his hand as he guides it straight to your mouth. he smears the head a bit on your tongue, letting you taste him yet again, but immediately pulling away once you try closing your mouth around it, a sound of disapprovement escaping his lips. once you look at him confusedly, eyebrows furrowed, he's adds "don't move. let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours like i know you want me to, like a good slut i know you are. just relax and enjoy, hm?"

you nod your head quickly before opening your mouth again, an amused chuckle echoing in cheol’s mouth.

very carefully, cheol pushes his cock back into your mouth. his eyes are fully trained to follow your every move, eyes cloudy with desire as he watches you close your mouth around his girth, pretty eyes looking right back into his. he continues pushing his pelvis until he feels the back of your throat close against the head, pearly precum falling down your throat, before he pulls back.

he continues repeatedly doing this a few times, getting you used to the motion and pace, before he speeds up slightly.

your fists are clenched against your thighs, desperate to touch him but resisting the urge to touch him, to pull him closer until you feel yourself choking on his thick cock. instead, you focus that energy to let all the little sounds that you know cheol definitely loves, your humming and moaning creating vibrations on his length.

cheol moans right back, throwing his head back every so often because it just feels so good. the warmth of your mouth as he rocks his hips, the way you try swirling your tongue around the head, the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only man ever for you.

it all messes with his head.

naturally, he loses himself in the pleasure, unconsciously speeding up his movement until his cock is repeatedly hitting the back of your throat, choking sounds hitting the shell of his ear every time he pushes his cock back in.

after another few minutes of him fucking your pretty mouth, of him letting little comments like “fuck, just like that pretty girl” and “yeah chock on my cock, just like that”, cheol feels himself being so so close, almost a second away from cumming. and although he would like nothing more to paint your pretty face with his cum, to smear it around, almost like he’s marking his territory, to see tears spill from your eyes and mix with his fluids, he would much rather cum inside of you. now.

harshly, he pulls all the way out, hissing once the cold air meets his wet length, before grabbing your jaw harshly with one hand. using that hold, he quickly picks you up, dragging you up to meet him.

you gasp at the action and the way it cuts your airway off, hands quickly grabbing his forearm as he drags you to your feet.

the moment you are close enough, he pulls his balaclava all the way off and clashes your mouths together, tongue swirling around your own, stealing yet another breath away from you.

just as quickly as he kissed you, he pulls away, lips swollen from both the kiss and biting on his lips while fucking your mouth, eyes dark and cloudy like a stormy night.

you’re still gasping because he still has a hold on your cheeks with one hand, nails digging into your skin in a painful yet delicious way, your own hand squeezing his wrist in indecisiveness, unsure if you want him to squeeze it even more or to let you breathe.

pushing his forehead against your own, you can clearly see him struggling to control himself by the way he’s harshly breathing. in a dangerously low and warning tone, he just says “i’m gonna fuck you so hard, just like you want me to. gonna fuck you like a slut i know you are. gonna make you beg me to let you cum. now jump.” before he bends down and grabs you by your legs, picking you up like you weigh nothing and wrapping your legs around his waist.

your heart jumps to your throat in excitement, everything about this so new and so unfamiliar-the face fucking, the cosplay, the degradation. you previously told him it was something you’d like to try, just to see if you would like it more than when he praises you and worships you, and although you like how every time he called you ‘slut’ a shiver went down your back, his praise and calling you his love and baby while he’s fucking you will always be number one place.

cheol quickly grabs his dick and slaps it a few times against your clit before he pushes it inside of you, gliding much easier due to your arousal. you both moan loudly at the contact, cheols eyebrows furrowing almost like he’s in pain. his eyes focused entirely on how your pussy is swallowing his big cock.

you feel heat on your cheeks at the sound your cunt makes every time cheol pushes back inside you and pulls back, it’s all wet and loud, and it makes you want to hide your face in embarrassment. you can’t remember the last you were this aroused, so much so that the slick was staining cheol’s pants that were still just pushed right under his dick.

in the matter of seconds, cheol starts fucking you hard and fast, your loud moans echoing in the hallway, probably making it a show for the neighbours to hear. head thrown back against the wall, you focus on gripping cheol’s shoulders like your life depends on it.

his hands are harshly gripping your thighs, both to hold you up and keep you in place so you don’t slip due to sheer force of his movements, but also because he adores your thighs-if it were up to him, his face would be permanently squished between them while eating you out, all day, every day.

you can quickly tell that neither of you will last much longer, the long foreplay already getting you close to the finish line. for yourself you can tell by that funny feeling in your tummy and in the quiver of your legs that are wrapped around cheol’s hips. for cheol, you can tell by how his movements have lost the rhythm, only focusing on fucking you as fast as possible, desperate to cum inside of you and make you cum on his dick.

cheol presses his sweaty forehead against your own, his glassy eyes looking directly into your own. despite how dirty this all feels, you can still feel love pouring from his eyes into your own. you feel his adoration for you, you feel that his heart is beating for you and for you only. al of that is enough to make the knot inside of your tummy slowly start to unravel, your pussy squeezing around cheol’s dick stronger than ever before.

at the feeling of you milking him dry, he moans loudly, his movements sloppier than ever, holding out his orgasm and stopping himself from cumming just so you can cum together with him.

“that’s it, baby, cum around me. take it, take what’s yours. lemme feel that pussy-“

the rest of his words don’t register in your brain because cheol lets go one of your thighs so he can rub your clit, thumb pressing harshly into it as he moves it side to side in quick movements, and in a few seconds you are cumming.

cheol moans as he feels you cumming around him, his own finish following your own immediately. he tries to ride your orgasms as long as possible, but then he feels liquid drench his pants, only to see you squirting on him, his brain short-circuiting at the sensation.

he successful holds you up through your orgasms despite his legs shaking like crazy from how hard he has come. using the fact that you are leaning on the wall, cheol pushes you further into it in the name of getting closer to you, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he feels the last of your orgasm drenching him, his own dick pulsating almost painfully inside of you.

for a minute or so, you two just stand there, hugging each other as you breathe heavily, trying desperately to regain your vision. you pat his hair slowly, just like how he likes it. cheol, in return, hugs you impossibly close to himself, whispering beautiful nothings into your ear like “good girl” and “i love you so much baby”, just how you like it.

after another moment or so, he finally pulls back, his big brown eyes looking you over to see if everything is good, only to be met with your spent but satisfied expression, eyes unfocused as you try to look back into him.

he uses one hand to slowly move your hair away from your face, grimacing a little at the feeling of sweat that sticks to his hand as he wipes your forehead.

he watches you for a few seconds, eyes so gentle and full of love, he can’t resist kissing you slowly, his lips a bit chapped from continuously biting it, but still somehow so soft.

you close your eyes and just enjoy the feeling of his love, arms lazily wrapped around his shoulders, fingers twirling his hair at the back of his head.

he slowly pulls away, eyes searching your own. once he sees you finally being able to focus on him, the first thing he says to you is

“i love you so much baby.”

and for some reason, probably due to all the adrenaline and because of how gentle he is being, you feel your eyes prickling with tears, quickly hiding your face in his shoulder and hugging him closer than ever, seeking out his comfort.

cheol tries prying a bit worriedly, gently asking things like ‘what’s wrong baby? hm? tell me so i can make it better’ but all you have strength for is to whisper quietly to him “i love you too. so much…bedroom, please.”

cheol gets the hint, quickly pulling out of you so he can carry you to your bedroom so he can cuddle you and take care of you, lips kissing your temple as he kicks the door open and walks to your bed.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

you stir awake, eyes blurry as you try to find your boyfriend.

only to see his side of the bed empty.

you quickly get up in panic, still a bit needy and in need of his touch, looking around with furrowed eyebrows.

only to see the bathroom door open, cheol standing in front of the mirror as he’s trying to take off the black paint from his eye area, softly and quietly cursing at how stubborn the paint is, only smudging around instead of getting off his face.

you immediately stop panicking, observing his half naked form, his soft muscles and little tummy getting all of your attention.

he’s so effortlessly beautiful, it makes you wonder how he is even yours. he’s just standing there, only in his black towel, yet he looks like a god, wet hair falling into his eyes as he’s still trying to take the makeup off, pouting at how unsuccessful he is at getting it off.

slowly, you get out of the bed and walk towards him, arms immediately wrapping around his waist from behind the moment you are close enough to him, nuzzling your face into the soft skin of his back.

he smells fresh, like his body gel. luckily your boyfriend isn’t one of those people who uses 36 in 1 shower gels, instead of opting for the regular one, this time having grabbed the one that smells like…cucumbers maybe? nevertheless, he’s clean and smells great, and you enjoy every second of it.

cheol drops one hand across your own that are rubbing his tummy, still trying to take the paint off.

you watch him across his shoulder, smiling in amusement for a few second before you use your hands to slowly turn him around so he’s facing you.

he immediately starts pouting at you, hands quickly finding your waist under his shirt that is hanging from your frame.

in whiny voice, he starts complaining “it won’t come off baby. what am i supposed to do? i have an important meeting tomorrow morning.”

you smile as you take the cotton pad from his hand and take your own micellar water, dabbing the pad a bit with it before you gently start rubbing his eyes.

you feel his thumbs rubbing slow circles on your hip bones in comfort, enjoying the sensation and his touch to the fullest.

“you need to use a micellar water that has some oil in it as well, so the oil can break off the paint particles. your micellar water isn’t strong enough for it apparently.”

cheol just hums in response, fully taking advantage of you taking care of him, eyes closed in enjoyment.

after a minute or so, you pull your hands away to see if everything has come off successfully, nodding your head as you see his open eyes clear of paint. you tell him that he can wash his face now, but before you can pull away and let him get back to it, cheol uses his hold on your hips to pull you into a hug. his lips immediately find yours, tongue slowly entering your mouth so he can deepen the kiss. you kiss him right back, melting in his arms because of how gently he’s kissing you.

your hands rub his chest as he’s kissing you, his own hands travelling up your back, pulling your (his) shirt with it, cold air greeting your ass that is only in a pair of panties.

slowly pulling away, cheol again looks at you with those eyes, making you feel something catch in your throat at the look he’s giving you.

smiling gently, he bends down a little so he can kiss your forehead, the whole action performed slowly and gently.

pulling away yet again, he smiles again as he uses one hand to cup your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing your skin as he looks at you.

seconds go buy as he just watches you before he lightly says in the little space between you “i am so in love with you. you don’t even know it but you own my whole being. i want to give you the world. i want to spend eternity with you, if you would let me.” he pauses so he can push his forehead against your own. almost inaudibly, he adds “in this world, it’s just you and me, love. i don’t need anybody else as long as i have you.”

and as you kiss him to shut him up before he says something else and makes you cry yet again, you think to yourself.

if only you knew, choi seungcheol. if only you knew.

[s1rawb3rry]

Out of my Hands!

Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of motorsport, an engineer and her star driver at Ferrari fall into a connection as electric as the circuits they race on. But when one mistake on his part threatens to fracture everything between them — on and off the track — the race isn’t just for championship, it’s for redemption as well…

Pairing: F1driver!enhypen jay x engineer!reader

Genres: “second chance” romance, established relationship, forced proximity, F1 driver AU (?)

Warnings: jungwon mention lol, possible F1 racing inaccuracies, sun (jay) x moon (y/n), sub!jay x dom!yn, contains smut (mdni), is actually v smut heavy lmao i used this as an excuse to write subby jay (i love him sm), smut with plot, rom com if you squint, happy ending i pinky promise, angst-smut-fluff (in that order), body worshipping to the fucking max, fucking a closet, oral (f!rec), hes a munchhhh, hes v stupid but v adorable, jay is so unbelievably in love, yn is a little mean tbh sorry (not sorry), will probably add more 

Word count: 7.6k 

a/n: here's the little request from my anon hehe i hope you like it hun <3 just a reminder for all my girliesss it's unacceptable for your partner to forget your anniversary! This is pure fiction!

Taglist: @seungsoftly @xylatox  @orxngebloods @yooonjnng @jaehoodies @hoonieyun @heesmiles @hoonsluvr @flowerwinds  @cunty4hee @bambieheeseunglee @luvashli @eczlipse @sunnygirl-kait @leehsngs @enhaeil @bxcndd @firstclassjaylee @sumsumtingz @heekolazz @amazzwon  @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @hazelira @princesslenars @heestoleurgirl @stariekis @morganaawriterr @luvashli @heekolazz  (comment if you want me to add / remove you from the list <3)

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since I last spoke to him, not a single word. Just silence — sharp and deliberate, the kind that crackled louder than any screaming engine. The smothered quietness was louder than any fight we’d ever had. And yet, duty calls — making us stand in the same garage, breathe the same air, surrounded by the same chaos that usually held us together. But this time, everything was unraveling faster than he could hold it together.

The Ferrari garage buzzed with preparation for the Monaco Grand Prix. The hum of telemetry monitors was constantly glowing with live delta updates, ‘+0.156 vs. previous lap’ blinked on screens with clinical precision. Other engineers around me murmured about tire temps and brake wear.

“The front-left’s still running hot, Y/N,” one of the newer engineers reported, eyes flicking between the tablet in his hands and the tire data streaming across the screen. You could hear the respect in his tone, but also that nervous edge — the kind that comes with not quite knowing if you’re allowed to speak yet.

“Mm, I see it,” I said, already scanning the heat map on my own monitor. The wear pattern wasn’t dramatic, but the temperature spike had been creeping session by session. “We’ll swap compounds for FP3,” I added, calm but decisive. “Harder mix should stabilize temps, and I want the pressures adjusted by half a psi.”

He nodded quickly, already tapping in the update as the mechanics rolled out tire trolleys and the metallic clatter echoed off the concrete walls. The chaos of the usual pre-race rhythm filled the garage — sharp, fast, alive. It was the soundtrack of our lives, something that usually settled in the bones like second nature. But today, it pressed down heavier, as if even the noise knew something was off.

I kept my usual composed self — steady, measured, always perfectly in control.” Which is the exact opposite of the storm brewing inside Jay, who stood a few meters away, shifting on his feet while being suited up in red. But I could feel his gaze, I always could. 

His arms were crossed over his chest like he was holding himself together with the tension and friction alone. I knew it hurt him to see me speak to others like everything is normal but not utter a word to him. The reigning world champion, the golden boy of Formula One — millions in sponsorship deals and beloved by fans — is completely helpless. 

The low hum of monitors and the muted chatter of engineers, mechanics and technicians filled the garage — numbers updating in real time, tire compounds being swapped, heat maps pulsing across displays. The sharp scent of hot rubber and engine oil hung in the air. And still, none of it seemed to register with him. Not the car. Not the lap deltas. Not even the swarm of cameras lingering by the paddock entrance, hoping to catch his shiny-boy smile. They’d get nothing either way because he wasn’t really present with them. He was somewhere inside himself, unraveling slowly, quietly. And I knew exactly why.

Because I hadn’t said a word to him in forty-eight hours.

I could feel his stare occasionally, lingering like static on my skin, but I didn’t turn. My eyes stayed glued to the downforce distribution map in front of me, fingers casually adjusting the torque simulation overlay, just going through the motions like I wasn’t breaking my own heart. 

If I looked at him, I’d remember every part of him I still ached for — like the way his smile would start slowly, tugging at the corner of his mouth before blooming fully, blinding and boyish. How he always leaned into me just a little when we talked, like his body couldn’t help but reach for mine. And the way his hands trembled after a race, adrenaline still spilling out of him — only ever steady once they were wrapped around me. 

We met a year ago, when I was first assigned to his vehicle design team — a technical partnership on paper, a set of credentials matched to a championship-winning driver. It was straightforward and professional. But from the moment he walked into the garage, there was an unmistakable pull that was almost like gravity. He’d saunter in with that trademark charm, all easy smiles and too-pretty eyes. I admired how he has a habit of pushing his car, and himself, to the edge of physics. Even if it made me want to strangle him half the time.

It shouldn’t have worked — but it did. We work perfectly together.

What we have isn’t a secret, just privately ours. Away from the cameras, away from the paddock politics and sponsor demands. Jay was always careful with it, with me. Always made sure I never felt like a footnote in the shadow of his spotlight. Even when the weight of being the reigning world champion began to bear down on him — every appearance, every test run, every simulator hour — I never doubted he cared.

However, caring wasn’t the same as remembering. And on the night of our first anniversary, he didn’t.

We’d just wrapped a grueling 14-hour prep session — final calibration meetings, last-minute aero tweaks, and endless briefings. His world was racing, tunnel-visioned, every second accounted for in his pursuit of perfection. I knew the weight he carried. Knew how much pressure came with defending a world title. I’d seen it in the lines beneath his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched against his thighs even when he was still.

So I told myself I understood, that I do not expect much. But when I walked into the garage that night of our anniversary, still smelling faintly of burnt rubber and carbon fiber, and saw him bent over data sheets, not even glancing up — I knew.

He forgot. No flowers. No message. Nothing. Nada.

And when he found out by himself that he forgot — there were no tears, no dramatic exit, no slammed doors. It was like he hadn’t noticed he was walking on a tightrope until it snapped. He stood there stripped of the easy polish he wore like a second skin, and asked — softly, earnestly — if there was any way to make it right.

However, it wasn’t only the feeling of disappointment I felt, but also the weight of being invisible in the one place I thought I never would be. He remembered tire pressures and compound cycles and brake bias down to the decimal — yet somehow, not this.

I just told him I needed space. And when I said it, I watched his whole face change — He looked gutted. Like the words knocked the breath right out of him. His voice cracked when he asked, “How much?”

“I don’t know yet.” i responded. I meant to sound firm, but I'm not sure if I conveyed that. The silence wasn’t out of spite of him or as a punishment. But because I didn’t want to shrink myself to fit into the background of his life. Not when I’d stood by him, through every pit stop and podium.

He didn’t try to argue or try to talk me out of it. He just nodded slowly, like he was trying to respect my words even as they cut him open.

And I was trying. God, I was trying — gritting my teeth, white-knuckling the line I’d drawn, even though every part of me was screaming to step over it. Every shift of his boots on the concrete, every sigh from his chest, chipped away at my resolve.

Every fiber of me was aching to reach for him. I missed the way he’d find me in the chaos of the garage, eyes soft even when his voice was sharp from that driver’s rush like I intensively calmed him. The way his fingers used to find mine under the briefing table, brushing knuckles in quiet touches when the room was too loud with strategy calls and tire compound debates. I even missed that smug little whisper he’d drop when he leaned in just close enough — pretending to fuss with his earpiece during the final checks, but really just looking for an excuse to be near me. Just low enough so no one else caught it, his voice thick with that familiar tease, “still my favorite shade on you.”

It was ridiculous, really. Didn’t matter what lipstick I wore that day — scarlet, berry, nude — I could swear he had a different favorite every morning. And those quick, almost impatient kisses he’d press against me before striding out to the grid, always with that faint smudge of my lipstick still teasing the corners of his mouth.

But I reminded myself: I was the one who asked for this space, I had to honor that.

“Jay, it's time.” The call came sharp and sudden over the radio: Jay was needed for a test run. The garage suddenly shifted — tires rolled, tools clattered, and the hum of anticipation filled the air. The team moved with practiced precision, but the chatter… it was different today.

Everyone noticed immediately. Two days without a single word between Jay and I was an unspoken record. They knew how we usually were — quiet smiles, casual touches, the kind of softness that didn’t need announcing. So this silence? It spoke volumes. They weren’t subtle about putting two and two together.

“Hey,” one of the engineers — Jungwon, always the first to break tension — leaned over, glancing my way as he wiped grease off his hands. “Is he… okay?” He asked, referring to Jay. 

I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to the screen in front of me. “He’ll be fine,” I said, voice steady and flat, though inside I was anything but.

Jungwon nodded slowly, unconvinced but trusting. “It’s just… two days? That’s new for him.”

The telemetry graph overhead flickered with live data again — sector times, tire temps, brake wear. Numbers, curves, pulses of color that painted a perfect picture. But none of it matched with what we were seeing, because no matter how precise the car was running, Jay’s driving was the real glitch in the system.

“Bring the car in for pit lane after the run,” I said to the team, eyes still on the telemetry, “i want to do some tweaks.” I lied, the car is fucking perfect. However, with no hesitation, they all gave me small nods. 

He loves me, I know and believe that. Truly, maddeningly, desperately in love. From the moment we met, it was like his heart found a home and decided mine was it. Without me he's all noise and no direction — like a car with no grip, spinning in the same corner over and over again. He’s a puddle in my hands, always was. And in these past two days, I’ve felt every quiet attempt he made to reach me, I can read him like a book. I see it in the way he stands too long near the telemetry table where I’m working. I catch the way his hand twitches toward mine before he remembers. Or the way he leans in out of pure instinct when we pass too closely.

Jay, the reigning champion, the media darling, Ferrari’s golden boy — reduced to a man struggling to remember how to breathe without me reminding him.

And yet, he never pushes.

Every morning, my coffee has been sitting on my station before I arrive. Just the way I like it — two sugars, no lid, sleeve already on. Whenever I step out of my hotel room or get back at night, there’s a fresh bouquet waiting outside my door — peonies, or roses, or marigolds, or tulips. Wrapped neatly with the team’s garage tape. All these gestures never had a note or a name or anything, but I didn't need it to know who they were from.

He never knocked at the door either, but his actions — conscious or subconscious — spoke how he felt. The guilt bleeds off him, he wears it in the slump of his shoulders when I walk past. In the way his fingers tighten around his gloves like there’s something else he wants to hold. In every look he shoots me when he thinks I’m not watching, eyes full of ache and apology and that quiet ‘please’ that he never says out loud but I hear anyway.

Jay pulled the car into pit lane with a smoothness that, to the untrained eye, might’ve looked fine. But to us — to the team that knew his driving like gospel — it was obvious something was off. He unstrapped himself with methodical hands, slower than usual, and stepped out of the cockpit, fireproof gloves already tugged halfway off as he handed his helmet to one of the mechanics.

His race suit clung to him, streaked in sweat and dust from the circuit. Normally, after a run, he’d have that boyish glint in his eye, shoulders loose, lip curled in a smug half-smile as he asked about throttle trace and corner exit velocity.

But today he looked like a man dragging his heart behind him.

“Jay,” one of the technical directors called out as he approached. “What’s up, son?” the director asked, slapping a hand gently to Jay’s back as they started walking toward the engineering bay. “You’re lifting too early. Car’s fine — hell, it’s better than fine. But you look like you’re driving through a fog.”

Jay blinked, then shrugged with a tight-lipped expression. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. I could feel his eyes flick over to me before quickly darting away, like even looking in my direction burned.

Miserable didn’t even begin to cover how he looks.

-*-

That night, the garage was quieter than usual, the usual roar and chaos of the paddock fading into a low, distant hum, as if the whole world was exhaling after a long day. The faint scent of burnt rubber and engine oil clung stubbornly to the air, a reminder of the day’s relentless pace.

The heat of Monaco clung to the space like a thick, invisible blanket — heavy, stifling, and impossible to ignore. It pressed down on everything, curling into the edges of the garage, seeping into concrete walls and steel beams. I shifted in place, uncomfortable in my worn-in denim shorts that are sticking to my thighs with every move. The waistband dug just slightly as I leaned forward, a sheen of sweat gathering at the back of my knees.

Most of the team had already left or were wrapping up their own tasks elsewhere, but I stayed behind, focused on finishing up Jay’s gear prep. His equipment was a silent extension of him — every buckle, every clasp needed to be perfect. This was his armor, and I was the one tasked with ensuring it fit just right.

The HANS device still wasn’t quite where it needed to be, not by my standards. I set it down and glanced up as Jay lingered near the entrance, hesitant. “Jay,” I said quietly, almost commanding. “Come here. Let me check your HANS.”

When our eyes met, something flickered in him — hope, or maybe desperation. For a moment, he seemed to brighten up, like the mere act of me talking again was a small victory. But I was still a block of ice, my expression unreadable, carefully guarded.

He nodded without saying anything, and slowly setting his helmet somewhere. Strands of his dark hair clung damply to his forehead, plastered by the long hours under the sun and the strain of the test run. He lowered himself onto the stool in front of me without a word, his movements quiet.

He was still wearing his Nomex shirt which looked like it was painted onto him. The material clung to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp line and sinew beneath. It hugged the swell of his chest, stretched over his shoulders, and clung to his biceps, the fabric pulled taut with every breath and subtle movement. The collar was tugged halfway down, exposing the clean slope of his throat. 

As I leaned in to clip the device into place, my fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw — light, barely a whisper of contact, but electric all the same. The stubble there was coarse against my skin, familiar. It should’ve been a clinical motion, routine, muscle memory. His gaze locked with mine, eyes dark and searching, filled with something unguarded and raw.

“I miss you,” he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper. His lips trembled as they moved gently, pressing a tentative kiss to my wrist, then my palm. I didn’t speak at first. I just looked at him — really looked. The flushed pink in his cheeks from the heat or the yearning, I couldn’t tell. The way his eyes had gone heavy-lidded, hooded. 

He looked wrecked. Needy. Not the Jay the cameras knew, not the star boy of the paddock — but mine. Just mine.

I slowly unclipped the HANS device and set it aside behind me with a deliberate click. The air between us buzzed, electric. I could feel the tension vibrating in his fingertips as they hovered just near my knee, waiting.

I leaned down slightly, voice low. “Show me, then.”

His breath caught, and before I could blink, his hands were at my waistband — unbuttoning my shorts with tentative, shaking fingers. He stripped them down in one smooth motion, panties sliding down with them to the garage floor, pooling around my ankles. Without hesitation, his hands smoothed up my thighs like prayer. Reverent. He kissed the inside of my knee, then higher, and higher still, each press of his mouth more devoted than the last.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered against my skin, voice breaking like a vow. “I’ll do it. I’ll fix it. I swear.” I looked down at him — still kneeling, still in his sweat-drenched Nomex, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full race stint. But this? This was his real endurance.

His hands curled around the back of my thighs, placing them over his shoulders with that practiced ease, thumbs brushing reverently along the curve just under my hips. His head dipped, the collar of his Nomex shirt tugging just a little further down, sweat still glistening along his collarbones as he exhaled against my skin.

He traced my clit with his lips like he owed me something, “Fuck, I’ve missed you. Every part of you.”

I didn’t guide him, I didn’t have to. He recalls every soft spot, every sound that caught in my throat, every twitch of my fingers as they tugged in his hair — not tender, but possessive. Testing him. Tethering him.

“Jay,” I gasped, my voice barely recognizable as my own. He looked up at me through his lashes, lips wet and parted, swollen. “Don’t stop.”

His grip on my thighs tightened — not painful, no, never — but full of desperation, like letting go meant losing me all over again. Every movement of his mouth was frantic, like an apology written in tongue and breath.

When that heat coiled in my stomach and snapped, one of my hands flew behind me to brace against the workbench, the other buried itself in his hair, yanking just enough to make him groan against me. 

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if the taste of me was his salvation.

When he finally pulled back, I could properly see those glassy eyes, faint sweat caught on his soft curls that clung to his forehead. But instead of leaving, he rested his head against my inner thigh, breathing hard, grounding himself like he needed the contact to keep from falling apart entirely.

My slick was still glistening on his chin, dripping slowly down his jawline. He made no move to wipe it away, too intoxicated by my taste to wipe it off. His eyes closed slowly like the world had finally gone quiet in his head.

A man of many talents, my Jay. Precision braking, top-speed control, knew how to make me come — except remembering dates, apparently. 

- ᯓ -

The next morning arrived laden with humidity and tension, Monaco’s sun already spilling searing and merciless over the paddock before the engines had even started. I stood by the telemetry monitors, eyes trained on the scrolling data, but my attention kept wandering back to him.

Jay stood beside the car, half-listening to the race engineer walk through setup changes, nodding absently, helmet tucked under his arm. His race suit clung to him in the heat — red and branded, gleaming as usual — but his posture gave him away. There was a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw set rigidly.

In every post-breakup interview, every carefully worded press conference, I spotted the moment his fingers drifted up to tug gently at the curve of his ear. It’s a nervous tic he’d never quite managed to shake. He only did it when he was dodging something real — an uncomfortable truth, an emotional landmine, or just when reporters prodded a little too close to the subject of us. 

‘You’ve had a stellar season, but are there any concerns heading into tomorrow’s race?’

‘You looked a little frustrated after FP2 — is there something off with the car or just track conditions?’

Tug.

‘You’ve always credited your inner circle for keeping you grounded. Everything alright mentally heading into this one?’

Tug.

I had watched it unfold on screen more times than I could count — his picture-perfect media-trained mask, every answer crisp, charming, noncommittal. But the nervous tug of his ear was his tell, the soft confession his mouth never made.

It didn’t fool me. It never had. I knew the difference between race nerves and something deeper. He was thinking about me, and he knew I noticed.

He was back in the garage after his morning media rounds and microphones shoved in his face, the sharp scent of heat and engine oil trailing faintly behind him, laced with just a hint of cologne clinging to the collar of his undershirt — one I recognized instantly. He moved through the space like someone half-present, greeting a few crew members with nods, polite but distant, eyes scanning out of instinct more than curiosity. 

I didn’t look at him at first, I just did what I always did. I focused on the checklist in front of me, fingers moving over gear I could prep in my sleep. Torque specs, harness calibration, tire temps — all second nature by now. If I kept my hands busy, maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t claw its way upward.

Around us, the team operated with quiet efficiency. A couple engineers moved toward the car, final checks being logged off with tight nods and murmured confirmations. One of the techs helped him shrug into his race suit fully and zipped it up, another crouched to help adjust the cuffs around his boots.

My hands moved on autopilot, finding his gloves on the workbench without needing to look or think. I folded them the way he liked: neatly, palms down, index fingers tucked in slightly, so they didn’t crease awkwardly when he slipped them on. The small reflex remained in my body, no matter how much I tried to unlearn it. It’s a habit stitched into my bones after months of doing it for him.

He stood there in front of me in full gear, helmet on, waiting. Not for the gloves. For something else — for the kiss.

It had started as a joke, once — something stupid and impulsive in the rush of his early podium days. I had leaned in and kissed the visor of his helmet before a race, laughing as my lipstick left a perfect red print over the clear polycarbonate. He won that race. And the next. And the next. And suddenly, it became a ritual — not a superstition, he’d insist, but something more sacred. “It’s not just the kiss,” he told me once, helmet already strapped beneath his chin, gloved hands resting against my waist. “It’s you. You win the races. I just drive.” He swore by it too, that faint kissprint above his line of sight calmed him, makes him focus, like he was already halfway to the checkered flag. He never raced without it. 

Until now.

I handed him the gloves wordlessly, ignoring the way he tilted his helmeted head slightly forward like instinct. And when I brushed past him, his shoulders tensed because the kiss didn’t come. He froze and looked away like he could swallow down the sting.

“I can race without the kiss,” he said. “I just… don’t want to.” His voice cracked like worn leather.

Just then, the garage radio crackled to life, slicing the tension with mechanical precision: “Car 17, radio check.”

He blinked and turned slightly, fingers lifting to adjust his earpiece below the helmet. “Loud and clear,” he answered, but his voice was tight, strained. He gave a quick nod to the race engineer, murmured something clipped in return, and then turned on his heel, the movement precise but not relaxed like usual.

Honestly? After seeing him like this — so tormented, so stripped of that usual indestructible veneer, the one he wore so convincingly that even the cameras believed it — it did something to me, like a needle under my ribs. I had already forgiven him. Last night something cracked open in me, and the light had started to creep back in before I even realized it. 

Seeing his restless hunger for my attention, still looking at me like I was the only way he remembered how to breathe… it poked at something low in my stomach. I could feel it coil every time his gaze flicked toward me, aching, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands unless they were on me.

And maybe that’s why I let it drag out a little longer. Just a little.

He made it too easy, like he couldn’t help himself. His body spoke volumes, louder than anything he’d said out loud. I wasn’t really being cruel… I just wanted to see how far I could push before he unraveled completely.

The pre-practice runs had already started, tires shrieking in bursts as Jay darted around the track — or tried to. I watched the monitors in silence, arms crossed, the sound of engines blending with the low hum of telemetry feeds.

“Telemetry is fine. Car is good,” one of the engineers mumbled beside me, his eyes narrowed at the stream of data pouring across the screen. His voice was clipped, laced with confusion. “But he’s still lifting too early, way too early.”

Another voice chimed in behind me, sharp and uneasy. “Throttle trace is inconsistent. He’s overthinking in sector two.” I’d seen this before — not often, because Jay was usually a machine behind the wheel. But when something emotional had its claws in him, it bled into everything.

“Driver feedback doesn’t match what we’re seeing,” someone muttered further down the pit wall. “He said brake bias is off—”

“But it’s not,” I cut in before I could stop myself, eyes fixed on the track display. “It’s him. Not the car.” No one argued back at me, they knew I was right. I knew my work was flawless.

A static crackle split through the comms: “Box, box, Jay. Let’s reset.”

A few more laps ticked by, each one dragging like an exhale held too long. The kind of silence that felt heavier than any noise — not because no one was speaking, but because everyone was waiting for something to snap back into place. But it didn’t. Jay was off. I could see it in the throttle curves, the braking points, the hesitation creeping into corners he used to crush. He wasn’t himself.

Then I heard his voice, faint and scratchy over the comms. “Coming in,” he said, just that, layered in a quiet kind of defeat that settled into my chest like weight. The static gave way to the overhead broadcast. The announcer’s voice cut through the background hum of the garage: “We’re on a 30-minute hold before second practice resumes.”

Jay pulled into the bay a few seconds later, the car rolling in clean but the atmosphere around him anything but. He was already wrestling off his gloves by the time the engine cooled — slow, mechanical movements like he wasn’t really present. His helmet was off, hanging from his hand, his hair matted to his forehead from the heat.

“What are you doing?” one of the assistant directors barked, arms flung wide in frustration. “The race is tomorrow, Jay. Tighten the fuck up.” but Jay didn’t flinch, just went to sit somewhere.

He wasn’t driving like the car was part of him anymore. He was second-guessing every movement, every intuitive knee and arm jerks that used to come without thinking. His mind was clouded, heavy, pulled somewhere else. To me.

And maybe the cruelest part wasn’t just knowing it — it was also knowing how easily I could fix it. 

He sat on the edge of the bench beside the telemetry table, silent, water bottle in hand. His lips were parted slightly as he took small, unfocused sips, his eyes glued to the industrial fan spinning nearby like it might give him answers. But he just looked… hollowed out. Like someone had scooped the fire out of him and left the shell behind.

God.

Fuck.

Fine.

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose once I noticed how the team was too focused on whispered commentary and screen replays. “Jay,” I said, just loud enough for only him to hear. “I need your help with something. Now.”

He blinked slowly, stunned, like his brain couldn’t quite catch up with my words fast enough. But something flickered and rushed in, filled the space behind his eyes, and before he could think too hard about it, he stood and followed me without a word. Just like a lost kitten.

I led him down the narrow hallway, the hum of the garage fading with every step. We passed racks of spare parts and stacks of unused tires wrapped in warming blankets, the faint ticking of cooling engines echoing through the stillness. 

I knew the sound of his footsteps behind me — cautious but eager, like he wasn’t sure if he was walking into forgiveness or fire.

The storage room door creaked slightly when I pushed it open. I stepped inside, the dim light flickering overhead like it, too, was unsure of what this was. He followed me in, breath hitching when the door clicked shut behind us.

“Y/N…” he started, voice rough and uncertain. I turned slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his chest rise harder with the weight of it. “You really think I don’t know how you operate, Jay?” I asked, stepping into his space. I was close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, see the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

Just one more push to his buttons. Just one more time.

I tilted my head just slightly, lips brushing his — not quite kissing, just grazing. Enough to make him chase it. “You drive like shit when you’re heartbroken,” I breathed against his mouth.

That did it for him, his hands that were already on me tightened their grip. A quiet groan escaped his throat when his lips crashed against mine in something too messy to be called a kiss.

His hands were everywhere — roaming like he couldn’t decide which part of me he missed more. One palm flattened over the curve of my lower back, while the other gripped my hip with bruising certainty. He squeezed my ass like he was trying to re-memorize the skin he already knew by heart.

Clothes peeled away fast, forgotten. His hand palmed its way between us to pull at the waistband of my shorts, rough from haste. My back arched against the wall with a moan from me once his cock sank into me. His fingers dug in, dragging me down harder onto him with every thrust.

I gasped as his other hand slipped beneath my thigh, hooking under my knee and hauling my leg up, opening me wider for him. The shift had me taking him deeper, impossibly so. “God, you feel so—” he choked out, voice unraveling into a groan.

He moved his pelvis like he couldn’t stand the thought of space between us. Every roll of his hips, every bruising grip, every trembling inhale was a silent plea. 

His fingers laced through mine, lifting them to his lips mid-thrust like he couldn’t stop himself. “You steady my fire,” he murmured, his mouth warm and shaking slightly against my knuckles. The way he looked at me made my breath catch. “You know that, right?”

I swallowed hard, a sound catching in my throat as his hips pressed deeper into mine. I couldn’t answer — not with words — just a soft whimper and the way my legs tightened around him in response, pulling him impossibly closer.

He drank in every sound I made like it was water after drought, his lips ghosting down my jaw, over my shoulder, anchoring himself in the softness I tried so hard not to show him anymore.

I couldn’t think, barely holding on to a single coherent thought as he moved against me. Every part of me felt stretched tight, strung up in the kind of tension that hummed just under the skin, raw and unrelenting.

Jay wasn’t being gentle. No, he was desperate with it — like he needed to feel every inch of me to stay grounded. 

The pressure coiled low in my stomach, slow and burning white-hot. It was too much and not enough all at once. My breath hitched as my nails dug into the back of his shoulder. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, chasing something just out of reach. And still, he was murmuring things under his breath — words I couldn’t quite catch, but felt more than heard. 

Heat shattered through me, sharp and overwhelming, like a wave crashing over every nerve ending. My breath was caught between a gasp and a moan as I came around him, my muscles clenched tight and then shuddered. 

His breathing was still uneven, chest pressing firmly against mine as we stood locked together. My fingers traced slow, wandering circles along the tense muscles of his back, feeling the heat and pulse beneath my touch.

A moment or two passed when then it just bubbled up in me — a laugh. Small at first, then unstoppable. I buried my face in his shoulder, trying to suppress but can’t quite manage.

Jay shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to glance down at me, confused and a little alarmed. “What’s so funny?” he asked, voice still rough around the edges, hair a total mess.

I bit my lip, still grinning. “I forgave you like… maybe ten bouquets ago.”

His brows furrowed. “Wait, what?” he blinked, trying to do the math. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head, still laughing. He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half an exhale of disbelief. “Oh, you’re evil,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder with a groan. “Cruel, evil woman.”

- ᯓ -

I was late. Of all fucking days to be running behind, today of all days — the race day. 

The roads to the circuit felt like they stretched on forever, endless. Every red light taunting me, every delay was a reminder of how close I was to miss the beginning. My heart pounded as I dashed through the chaos of the paddock, adrenaline mixing with a creeping panic. Every second wasted was another second I wasn’t at the track, wasn’t with him. My phone buzzed — phone calls and messages — none from him. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t know, was that I was racing against time just to get there. 

I barely caught my breath as I rounded the corner into the paddock, the thrum of engines and radio chatter crashing over me like a wave. I nearly tripped over the edge of my own boots, one hand steadying myself on the garage frame as I spotted Jungwon adjusting his headset.

He turned, brows lifting in surprise. “You made it,” he said, pushing his mic aside. “He’s already in the car. They’re rolling him out.”

My heart jumped, a mix of guilt and adrenaline pulsing through me. “Can I watch from the track?” I blurted. “I mean — pit side. Not from the monitors. I want to see him… really see him.”

Jungwon tilted his head. “You mean instead of the garage feed?”

“Yeah,” I nodded quickly, fingers twitching at my side. I’ve watched every lap of his from behind a screen. Every corner, every throttle trace, every sector split. But I don’t want to see him through data right now. I want to see him, live.

He studied me for a second, then gave a short nod toward the track edge. “Go. You’ve got two minutes before lights out.”

I thanked him under my breath and jogged toward the barrier that edged the pit lane. My lanyard flipped in the wind behind me, chest rising and falling too fast as the distant red blur of Jay’s car rolled into formation.

The moment his car rolled into view, a loud wave of sound exploded from the stands. The roar of his name wasn’t just noise; it was devotion, hundreds of voices rising all at once like a war cry for their champion. I felt it deep, the way the energy cracked through the air and wrapped around the track. They loved him, adored him. And as the scarlet flash of his livery passed, I could swear he soaked it in like fuel.

The lights went out, and with it, everything else in my head did too. The race started with the world narrowing to the sound of engines screaming down the straight, tires clawing at asphalt, and that flash of red — his red — slicing through the chaos. I watched him push, fight, every inch of the track a battleground for more than just speed.

Every corner he took with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be engineered. He was relentless, dancing that dangerous edge between brilliance and madness. And as the final laps blurred past, I realized I hadn’t unclenched my hands in minutes.

Then, just like that — it was over.

The finish line came fast, sudden and final. The scoreboard lit up a second later, and the numbers punched the air out of my lungs, flashing the impossible results that no one expected: a tie. 

Meaning there was one more round. One more chance.

My chest tightened the moment I saw him. Helmet off, fire suit unzipped halfway, sweat clinging to the curve of his jaw — he looked utterly wrung out. His eyes scanned the paddock like he was searching for something he couldn’t name. Like he was still racing, even after the car had stopped.

He sipped from a water bottle someone handed him, barely swallowing before pushing it away. The crew buzzed around him, adjusting things, calling out data — but he barely registered them. I could see it in the way he stood, like his body was here, but his mind was miles away.

He didn’t know I was here yet.

Until I stepped into his line of sight. His shoulders dropped, like some invisible anchor had finally been cut loose. Relief hit him so hard, he stumbled toward me without thinking — like instinct, like gravity.

“Hey,” I whispered, catching him as his arms wrapped around me tight.

He buried his face into the crook of my neck, breathing me in like I was the only clean air he’d had all day. I stroked the back of his head, gently, grounding him.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before the first round,” I murmured against his hair. “I got caught up, the traffic — everything. I was late. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh...” His voice was hoarse but sure. “You’re here now. That’s all I care about.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, soft eyes flickering.

Then someone called out from the other end of the paddock — “Jay, you're up. Let’s go, round two!”

He sighed, long and quiet, as he adjusted the strap of his helmet. I could tell that he wasn’t entirely ready to walk away, but he was about to with seconds ticking against his chest.

“Wait,” I whispered as I reached out, lightly touching his arm.

He paused mid-step, turned back toward me. Even though I couldn’t see his face through the tinted visor, I knew him well enough to feel the way his breath caught. That slight hesitation in his stance, the tilt of his head — like muscle memory pulling him back to me.

I stepped in close and lifted myself just enough to lean in, lips pressing against the visor in a kiss — right where my lipstick always left its mark. “Be safe,” I murmured, letting the words settle between us. “And win.”

He didn’t speak, just a firm nod, then his gloved hand found mine and gave it a gentle squeeze, like a silent ‘thank you’. Then he jogged off toward the car, his steps lighter — like he’d just been handed something back, like a reborn man.

I watched him leave — not as his engineer, not as a strategist or teammate — but as someone who knew the rhythm of his breath better than telemetry ever could. My chest felt tight again, like my heart was being held between two trembling hands, trembling with awe, with nerves and with love tucked in the space between every beat.

I’d made my way back to the viewing area, blending in with the sea of spectators. Just one among thousands, waiting for that light to go out. The countdown felt like it echoed inside me.

Three. 

Two. 

One.

The start lights disappeared again for the last time today, and the roar of the engines came back. His car launched forward, surging like it had been waiting to be unleashed, finally. The corners he took now are done with surgical precision, every overtake like a challenge flung down and answered without mercy, every sector time had my heart climbing higher into my head. 

He wasn’t just fast, he was fierce. Clean lines. Ruthless moves. This wasn’t just him racing — this is him alive in that car, completely himself again.

Each lap was a war of nerves. Each sector bled seconds. When the checkered flag waved and dropped, it was like the entire circuit inhaled at once.

He won.

For a second, I didn’t hear the explosion of cheers around me. It was like I’d gone under, submerged in disbelief and wonder. I was still watching the scoreboard, hands over my mouth, eyes wide. Then the noise came rushing in all at once like a wave of sound. Applause, shouting, all strangers around me screamed his name and I smiled through my shock, hands still pressed to my lips.

Somehow, I knew what he believed with every fiber of his being that the kiss — that little touch of lipstick on his visor — had something to do with it. 

The cameras cut to parc fermé, but he didn’t go to the others. He didn’t even look toward the podium gates. With his helmet in hand, freeing his wild hair, gloves forgotten, Jay ran.

He bolted straight past the team, past the press, past the sea of microphones and congratulations, the kind that usually dragged him in. He didn’t stop, he didn’t even hesitate. He made for the barrier like it was the only thing keeping him from breathing.

Then — he leapt over the pit wall.

Security shouted, startled. A few mechanics turned in confusion. But I saw him, eyes locked on mine like he’d never looked away. The world blurred around us.

He reached me in seconds, arms crashing around my waist, lifting me off my feet with the full weight of everything he’d held in. And when he buried his face in my shoulder, it wasn’t just relief — it was release. 

“Don’t ever make me race without the kiss again,” he choked out, breath coming fast, smile blooming with that stupid, boy-ish recklessness I’d fallen for in the first place.

His earpiece was still buzzing: “Box for podium protocol, Jay. Jay? Jay — where the hell did he go?”

I laughed, half-shaking, half-melting into him. My hands slid into his sweat-damp hair, curling around the base of his neck, pulling him back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t need luck,” I whispered.

He smiled, forehead resting against mine, sweat-slick and beaming, his eyes shining. “Yeah,” he breathed, “you’re right. I don’t need luck.” His lips brushed against mine, soft and sure, “I need you.”

[zaynessbeloved]

He let you get away with too much.

The teasing. The eye rolls. The smug little smirks every time you pushed his buttons and got away with it. Zayne, the stoic one. The doctor with nerves of steel and hands steady even in chaos. You liked to test him. You loved it. Because every time he narrowed his eyes at you, every time his jaw clenched just so—you knew he was keeping himself in check. And you were the one rattling him.

But tonight? Tonight you pushed too far. You’d been snappy all day. Rolled your hips against his thigh during a kiss. Bit his lip harder than necessary. Whispered a filthy dare in his ear right before his scheduled surgery. Left your underwear in his coat pocket.

And when he came home—exhausted, drained, still in his scrubs—and found you sprawled on the bed in nothing but a shirt that wasn’t yours, asking in your sweetest voice, “Are you gonna fuck me or just keep pretending you’re not losing it, Dr. Zayne?”

He cracked, but not loudly. No. Zayne didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t bark orders. He just locked the door, walked to the foot of the bed, and gave you a look so quiet and cutting it made your stomach drop.

“On your knees.”

You blinked and hesitated. He stepped forward—calm, collected, commanding. “Now.”

And you moved. Because there was no room for bratty behavior in his tone. No space for giggles or eye rolls. Just the raw weight of his control finally slipping into place.

He undressed you slowly—shirt first, then the little gasp you made when his fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face up.

“You wanted my attention, my love.” he murmured, voice soft as silk and sharp as glass. “Now you have all of it.”

The next few minutes were a blur of command and contact. Face down, ass up. His palm against your skin—no fury, just purpose. Deliberate, measured swats that had your legs shaking. Your moans were half apology, half praise, but he didn’t let you speak. Every time your lips parted, he pressed a finger to them or pushed your face deeper into the mattress.

“You act like I won’t put you in your place,” he whispered into your neck as he lined himself up behind you. “But you forget, sweetheart…this body belongs to me and it knows it.”

He didn’t slam into you. He sank in. All the way in. One long, devastating push that left you crying out, clenching down, back arching in surrender. And once he was buried deep—hips flush, breath shaking against your spine—he stilled.

“You’re going to take every inch like a good girl,” he said softly. “And tomorrow, when you’re limping, when you feel every bruise, you’ll remember this is what happens when you act out.”

And you did. Because Zayne didn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you. He just needed to decide he wanted to, and you were already too far gone.

It only took a few days for you to regain courage. At first, you swore you’d behave. After the last time—after he left you sore and breathless, legs trembling for two days—you said all the right things. Promised you'd be good. Promised you’d learn.

You didn’t. Not really. Because by the end of the week, you were right back at it—this time more subtle, more teasing. At breakfast, you bent over in front of him in nothing but his shirt, letting it ride up just enough to show that you weren’t wearing anything underneath. When he reached for his coffee, you took it and sipped instead, licking the rim slowly while staring him dead in the eyes.

“Thought you liked it when I misbehaved,” you purred.

Zayne didn’t react, not at first. He just stared. Calm. Cool. Collected. But you knew that look too well now. His fingers clenched slightly around his fork. His shoulders held a quiet tension. And when you finally turned around to walk past him, his voice cut through the air—quiet and controlled. “Bedroom. Now.”

You glanced over your shoulder, feigning innocence. “But I haven’t finished my—”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

And that was it. Because this time, Zayne didn’t plan to be patient. The second you stepped into the bedroom, the door slammed shut behind you, and before you could so much as gasp, he had your wrists pinned against the wall.

“You don’t get to act like a little brat,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, “and then pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I was just—”

“No. You were testing me.”

His hands slid down your sides, slow and firm, grounding you in that way only he could. Your breath caught when he lifted your leg, forcing it around his waist, pinning your body between him and the wall.

“No warmup today,” he whispered. “You think you can play games? Fine. Take what you asked for.”

He pushed inside you in one brutal, perfect thrust. Your head slammed back against the wall with a moan, fingers clawing at his shoulders, nails digging into skin through his shirt. His pace was unforgiving, breath hot against your neck, hips snapping forward with punishing precision.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, voice still maddeningly calm. “To limp again? To cry because I’m too deep?”

You couldn’t even answer. You were already gone—voice breaking on every thrust, legs shaking, walls fluttering around him like your body couldn’t decide whether to take him or worship him.

And Zayne?

Zayne was unrelenting. Not angry. Not cruel. Just... intentional. Every thrust. Every grip. Every soft, cruel whisper in your ear.

“You want to see how far I’ll go, my love?” he breathed, kissing your jaw just before biting it. “Keep pushing. I’ll make sure you remember just how badly I can wreck you.”

[princesssukunalover]

Inconsiderate

Toji Fushiguro is a cocky and inconsiderate scumbag.

CW: NSFW, Toji Fushiguro x Female reader, age gap, unprotected sex, hate sex, missionary, doggystyle, degradation, begging, creampie, squirting, size kink, ball sucking, oral sex (both receiving), slapping, spanking, spit play, choking, face fucking, dacryphilia, VERY ROUGH SEX, dubcon elements, overstimulation, him being a nasty pervert, lack of aftercare. (I'M SORRY) Not proofread. 

Wc: 5027

A cheerful bell above the door rings, signifying the start of another tedious shift at the ramen restaurant that you work in. Like clockwork, you tie a black, stained apron around your waist, sighing as you look at the customers coming in. Every week is the same. You spend your weekends dishing out food, and clearing it off the tables. It’s simple enough. And every week is the same as you keep telling yourself ‘Just a little longer.’ until you finally graduate from university and you can finally leave the job that funds your studies. The restaurant that you work at is far from perfect. You deal with the same sleazy customers every week; the same scum that come in with a scowl on their face, gamble, lose, and leave with a scowl on their face. There’s really no pleasing any of them, so you don’t even try. Most of them don’t even care, their minds too occupied by whatever horse race is airing on the rundown, static television in the corner of the room. 

And then there’s him. Toji Fushiguro. You only know his name from your boss, who seems to be an acquaintance of his. But an acquaintance is definitely not the word you would use to describe your relationship with him. Toji Fushiguro is a cocky and inconsiderate scumbag. He spends his weekends at the restaurant, gambling and causing chaos with other customers. Toji finds any little thing to complain about when he knows that you’re on shift. He ordered tea? It’s too cold. He ordered ramen? There’s not enough meat. He ordered a desert? It’s too sweet. And on the rare occasions that the food is to his standard, the tables are a mess and the choice of seating is inadequate. 

Fushiguro finally makes his appearance. He treads towards the counter, an irritated look already plastered on his face. The scar on his lip does nothing to help him. It makes him look even more intense than he actually is. “Morning, doll.” He smirks. You try to mask your annoyance, but he knows how you hate when he calls you that. And that’s precisely why he does it. “What would you like today, Fushiguro?” You ask the man, mentally preparing yourself for the bullshit yet to come. “How about some sake?” He flatly responds.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too early for drinking?” You ask the well-built man, tilting your head in a way that Toji finds adorable.“Don’t you think you should mind your business?” He bites. You simply nod, not having the time or energy to deal with him. 

He stares intently as you prepare his drink, purposely provoking you, reminding you not to mess it up. When you bend down to grab a clean cup from below the counter, his eyes wander like the pervert he is. Toji knows that you can’t be less than 21 years old, but you’re nowhere near the same age as him. There’s some sick part of him that likes it. He likes how no matter how much shit he gives you, you’re going to do nothing but take it like a good girl, respecting her elders. This continuous cycle of Toji giving you more reasons to despise him continues for weeks, until the day you finally see him, outside of the restaurant. 

–

On a night out with friends, you’re sitting at a bar, ordering drinks while the rest of the group are on the dance floor. The ice cold metal from the bar stool brushes the bottom of your thighs, visible from the short dress that you regret choosing to wear. It leaves little to the imagination and you can feel the lustful stares from the men around you, trying to ignore it. Of course, you are not aware that one of those lustful stares is coming from Toji Fushiguro. The same man that spends his weekends finding ways to aggravate you is now spending his evening, thinking of how he’s going to rip you away from those pesky friends of yours. He wonders why you are even in such an establishment. You seem like the type of girl that would be home by 8, in bed by 9 and asleep by 10. The type of girl that wouldn’t be ordering shots like nobody’s business. Toji is pleasantly surprised when he watches you let loose and he wonders just how far you’ll go for the night.

When you’re about to pay for your drink, the bartender informs you that somebody has already done the honours. “Who?” You ask him, a confused look on your face. You turn to where the man is pointing and the confused expression on your face turns into a skeptical one. Toji stands up and you sigh. He strides towards you, a drink already in his hand, before he takes a seat beside you. He has that same smug look on his face, but you can tell he’s already been drinking. The alcohol gives him a dazed look that you find oddly attractive. You take his appearance in completely, eyeing the dark compression t-shirt that he’s always wearing, only in this lighting, it makes his muscles look even more defined. The black jeans that he’s wearing fail to conceal the absolute monster that he’s ‘hiding’ in his pants. For a moment, you even wonder if he’s hard. “You know, my eyes are up here, darlin.” Toji teases, looking down at you. You roll your eyes at him, going back to your drink. “Jeez, I don’t even get a thank you. How unappreciative.” He mumbles, staring into your eyes.

“Get lost, old man.” You spit out, to which Toji’s grin widens. He starts to play with your hair as if you’re some kind of toy. “Is that how you talk to me when the boss isn’t looking? You usually treat me so well at that shitty restaurant.” He jokes, resting his head in his hand as he leans on the bar counter, eyeing you up. Your eyes flicker between the zip on his jeans and his face, struggling to concentrate on his words. “I wouldn’t even piss on you, if you were on fire.” You snarl, the alcohol clearly taking effect. Toji moves the drink from in front of you, letting out a loud laugh, one that you’re used to hearing. “Damn, sweetheart, you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Do you need something? Toji?” You reply, clearly getting annoyed. The tall man hums before he responds.  “Do you need something? Doll?” He questions, his face inching closer towards yours. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You ask Fushiguro, moving away from him. “I don’t know, doll. It’s just that, the entire time if you've been sitting here, you’ve been struggling to look away from my dick.” He growls in your ear, before licking the shell of it. Toji doesn’t miss the way your thighs clench together. 

“Oh, shut up. Don’t you have other things to do?” You try to avoid his remark and your face warms with the mix of lust and shame. “I can think of something I’d like to do. Or someone.” He tells you, his hand resting over your right thigh, which is shaking with anxiousness. You don’t realise it’s there until he squeezes your thigh and you turn to look at him. “The last thing I wanna do is fuck you. You asshole.” You attempt to lie, struggling to make eye contact. “Oh yeah? Is that so?” Toji asks you teasingly. You nod. Toji forces you to look into his eyes. “Then why haven’t you moved my hand from your pretty thigh?” You glance down at his hand. Sure enough the lengths of his fingers are rubbing circles into your thigh, waiting to be stopped. 

It takes you way too long to shove them off you. “You’re the worst.” You mumble.

“I know, baby. I know. But if you come home with me tonight, I’ll make it up to you.” Toji tells you. It’s the last time he tries to lure you in. And it’s the first time that it works because you find yourself holding his hand, following him out of the crowded club. You don’t have the means or time to say bye to your friends, your mind only focused on Toji’s defined biceps as he pulls you out through the door. Fushiguro suddenly crouches down before you feel his strong hands grip onto your thighs. You yelp in shock as he lifts you up, carrying you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. “Put me down, Fushiguro!” You shout. He laughs at you, carrying you down the street as if to say you’re his property. It only takes a minute before he reaches his house. He unlocks the door swiftly and practically slams it behind you and then he carries you upstairs. 

Toji throws you on his bed. You sit up, ready to scold him for his lack of care and tenderness, but he speaks first. “I’m gonna give you one last chance to leave. Otherwise, I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you.” He tells you, staring into your pretty eyes. “Are you staying?” He asks you, to which you nod. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, doll.” He informs you.

“I want you to fuck me.” You quietly admit, clenching your thighs together like a needy slut.

“Huh? Say it a bit louder.” He orders you, tapping on his ear as he leans closer to you.

“I want you to fuck me, Toji.” You shamefully cry out. He smirks, blood rushing to his dick, which is now throbbing in anticipation.

“That’s a good girl. Lie down.” The man instructs, the praise making you blush. 

You remove your tight, black dress before you lie down. Toji wastes no time pulling your heels off. You hear two thuds as he discards them onto his bedroom floor. He grips your legs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and he kneels down. Your pussy throbs expectantly. The skin of your pussy is met with the cool air as Toji peels away your underwear. “Slutty little panties.” He mumbles, pocketing them into his jeans, which he unzips, freeing his cock. Toji groans as he lays his eyes on your pussy. “Such a pretty little pussy.” He mumbles, pushing one of his fingers in. You moan at the praise. “You’re already so fucking wet for me.” He pushes another finger in before he leans forward, kissing your clit.  

Toji allows his tongue to play with your pussy, flicking up and down your clit, sucking it little by little. It’s teasing, cruel, almost. You whine desperately as his long fingers thrust at a quicker pace. “That’s it, baby. Tell me how good I’m making you feel.” He slurs, the vibration of his voice bringing you even closer to an orgasm. “Don’t stop..” You moan, tugging at his hair to bring his face closer to you. He groans in response, curling his fingers inside of you until you jolt. “Hmm… So that’s where you like it..?” He teases, repeating his movements. Your moans turn into cries as he starts ruthlessly fingering you, curling his fingers to hit that sweet spot. Just when you’re about to cum, he stops. “Need you to finish in my mouth.” Toji mumbles before you feel his tongue poke inside your pussy. It feels so dirty, his wet tongue playing inside of you. But it feels too good. The man eats you out like he’s starved. He eats your pussy like it’s his favourite meal. You start to grind your hips on his face and he licks your folds before circling back to your clit. “I.. I’m gonna cum..” You moan sensually. Toji grips onto your thighs, pulling them apart to make sure that no part of your pussy is left unloved. 

Fushiguro’s tongue has your legs shaking as you cum rapidly. He doesn’t stop licking your pussy, nor does he remove his grip from your plush thighs. “Toji, stop. It’s too much..” You tearfully wail while he laps up your cum. He ignores your pleas, completely absorbed in your twitching pussy. While Toji over-stimulates your needy cunt, you almost cry, trying hard to close your legs. You can’t take it anymore. Your ears ring as he forces another orgasm out of you. You cry out, begging him to stop, which he doesn’t. His tongue endlessly toys with your cunt. It makes you slowly start to lose your mind and you lose your ability to even speak. He notices you stop begging, your words turning into slow, erotic moans. “Poor girl, can’t even take my mouth. I wonder how you’ll even take my cock.” He groans as he finishes abusing your pussy. He plants soft, loving kisses on your pussy and inner thighs, rubbing them soothingly. Toji watches as your pussy is still twitching, begging for more. The tip of his cock leaks with pearly white precum, waiting to be swallowed by your tight hole. 

“Tell me, baby, you ever sucked a dick before?” Toji asks you. You hum in response, nodding shamefully. He tuts. “Dirty fucking girl.” He teases. You sit up and kneel before him on the bed. He towers over you, staring in awe as you submissively gaze at him. Your tits are perfectly plump and perky, nipples perfectly hard, both ready to be toyed with. Toji starts to grope your breasts. “You’re such a good fucking slut..” He groans. Although his constant praise turns you on, all you want is for him to hurry up and pound you. “Just hurry up and fuck me, Toji.” You burst, catching the man off guard. He stops playing with your breast and grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. “Who do you think you are? Ordering me around in my own house?” He asks you, stroking your face. You stay silent. “I think you should be punished. Punished for being such a slut. Punished for not respecting your elders.” He continues. You do nothing to defend yourself, preparing yourself for whatever punishment Toji has prepared for you. “Open your mouth.” He orders. 

Toji spits inside. You keep your mouth open, partly from shock, partly because you want him to do it again. He spits in your mouth a second time, this time slowly, allowing it to drop into your mouth. You close up, swallowing his spit like a shameless whore. He smirks, undoing his belt and putting it on the bed. His trousers drop to the floor and his cock springs completely free. It’s huge, perfectly veiny and way too thick. Toji notices how your expression falters a little. “Too big for you?” He teases.

“I’ve seen bigger.. It’s nothing impressive..” You lie, a smirk forming on your face, which is quickly wiped off as Toji’s hand meets your cheek. “Fucking bitch. I’m tired of your fucking attitude.” He grabs your hair, yanking you down from the bed and onto the floor. It’s utterly humiliating. He forces you to look at him, your face right below his balls. And although you hate Toji Fushiguro, although he’s 10 years older than you, although you already came twice, your pussy is throbbing, begging to be abused by the man in front of you.

“You gonna shut me up, old man?” You tease, digging your grave a little bigger.

“Hmm yeah..” Toji hums, rubbing the flesh of his penis on your soft face. You pout, fluttering your lashes at him. “You gonna teach me a lesson?” You ask submissively. Toji continues rubbing his dick on your cheeks. “Sure..” He tells you. You giggle in response. He’s had enough. “Open your mouth for me, sweetheart?” He asks with false kindness. Toji positions the tip of his cock at your glossy lips, prompting you to open up. Big mistake. He grins and you realise just how much trouble you’re in. Toji forces himself into your mouth, but it’s not just the tip, it’s all of him. All eight inches of cock are now inside your throat as you begin to choke. 

You try to breathe through your nose, the scent of his crotch is intoxicating. It’s absolutely fucking degrading. You’re ashamed of yourself and for a moment, you wonder what your friends might think if they saw you like this. Toji moans as he feels you physically swallow his cock. Your throat warms his dick perfectly until he pulls out. Before you can even speak, his dick is back inside your mouth. He starts to fuck your throat, spit collecting and acting as lube. It’s painful and demeaning, but there’s a sick part of you that enjoys every second of it. “Stupid little brat. That’s what happens when you run your mouth.” He laughs, fucking your face. You gag on his length. If you weren’t already crying, you definitely are now. Toji grins, watching as mascara runs down your face. Your fingernails dig into his thighs for support, though he doesn’t mind the pain. 

The constant abuse of your throat makes you lose your mind. You stare up at him, a pleading look in your precious eyes, which is ignored as Toji mockingly stares back at you. He pulls out and you gasp for air. Your relief is short-lived when Toji grips the base of his cock, lifting himself so that his balls can rest on your face. “Suck my fucking balls, bitch.” He orders. You whimper lowly before licking his balls. One lick turns into two, which turns into you slotting both of his balls into your mouth, sucking gently. Toji pumps his cock with his rough hands, moaning as you pleasure him like a good slut. “Nasty little whore..” He almost laughs. “Use your hands.” He instructs, allowing you to take over and rub his dick. Toji groans vulgarly, watching while you do your best to get him off. The way he looks down on you has your stomach fluttering, even though it shouldn’t. 

Your lips part from beneath his dick, returning to form kisses on his shaft. “I love your dick.” You tell him, mesmerised. His dick twitches at your words. You start to lick his length and suck at the tip of his dick, getting a taste of his precum. Toji intervenes, pushing his cock back into your mouth while you suck him off. “Let me see you play with your pussy while you suck my dick.” He grunts and you do exactly that. Toji’s dick twitches as he watches you. You’re playing with your pussy and fingering yourself while you suck him off. The sound you make, sucking and swirling your tongue around his dick is almost enough to have him cum down your throat, but when you moan from toying with your clit, Toji’s just about ready to cum. “Stick your tongue out..” Fushiguro slurs, while he pumps his cock. Thick ropes of cum paint your tongue white as he finishes. He slaps his dick on your tongue a few times, spreading it out before he moves to cum on your face. 

When he’s completely bottomed out, he stops for a moment to admire his little masterpiece. Mascara is running down your eyes and there's an erotic blush on your face, which is covered in cum. Your lips are swollen and his cum drips from your mouth, down onto your tits, little by little. You’re on your knees before him and your hair is slightly dishevelled from him tirelessly gripping it. You stare up at Toji, whimpering from his wrath. He hums before speaking. “I don’t think we should let that cum go to waste..” He tells you, swiping a little off your face with his index finger, like icing on a cake. He doesn’t even have to tell you what to do because you’re opening your mouth and sucking Toji’s cum off his finger. And just like that, he’s hard again, feeling as your tongue swirls around his finger. He watches carefully as you swallow his cum.

Fushiguro leans down to lift you up gently. Although he just completely ruined your face and your throat, he is still somewhat a gentleman. He sits you down on his bed and you move back a little. Toji moves closer to your face, his two arms supporting him as they rest beside your face. “Come here, doll.” He mumbles before placing his lips onto yours, which are soft and plump compared to his own. Your tongue grazes on the scar of his lip before he pushes his own into your mouth. Your heart pounds dangerously as you make out with him, wrapping your arms around him to pull him in closer. Something about it feels so right, but you tell yourself not to get hooked. It's difficult when he’s kissing you so tenderly. You moan against his lips and you lift your legs up, allowing him to place his dick against your pussy. Toji groans at the contact, grinding himself into you as reciprocate. 

Toji pulls away from your lips before he’s, kissing your cheek sweetly. His kisses migrate down your jawline until his lips are on your neck. The kissing turns into light sucking as he teases you. You mewl in response, feeling his lips curl into a smile. “Hmm.. She’s sensitive there..” He teases before he continues to leave love bites along your neck, moving down towards your breasts. You expect him to start toying with your nipples until he sits up, properly aligning his length with your pussy. “Fuck.. Your little pussy’s just begging to be filled.” He murmurs, eyeing as you twitch around nothing in anticipation. Toji uses your arousal as lubrication to push his dick inside you. A visible bulge forms beneath your stomach. He’s so fucking big compared to your tiny pussy. He could almost cum as you start to whimper, telling him you can’t take it. “It’s okay, baby, you can take it.” He reassures you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size while his dick stretches you so good. “You’re so big..” You moan, your pussy throbbing on his length. 

Toji lets out a light chuckle before he leans closer to you, his face inches away from yours. He starts off slow. Slowly thrusting himself in and out of your pussy, which feels heavenly around him. Your pussy is nice and warm, tightly squeezing him, but it’s still wet enough for him to fuck you good. “God.. You feel so fucking good, squeezing my dick like that.” Toji groans into your ear, making you moan in response. He whispers praises into your ear before he bites it tauntingly. “Stop teasing me.” You cry out. Toji fakes his sympathy.

“I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me.” He murmurs before kissing your soft lips. You moan into the kiss and he speeds up his thrusts, fucking himself into you. Your hands make their way around his back, pulling him in closer. 

The way you’re moaning has Toji completely entranced. The feeling of your soft hands caressing the hard muscle of his stout back hypnotises him. He pulls away from your lips and looks you in the eyes. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since the day I met you.” He confesses, your eyes widening as you look at him. “What.?” You ask him, stuttering as he continues fucking you. “You’re so fucking cute.. Such a pretty girl..” He mumbles, clearly drunk on your pussy. You smile knowingly before you pull him in for another kiss. You can feel that Toji’s about to cum when he twitches inside of you, speeding up his thrusts. His right hand makes its way to your pussy, teasing your clit while you take his cock. His fingers are fast and resolute as he works to make you cum. All of a sudden, it becomes too much. The smell of Toji’s cologne is intoxicating, paired with the faint smell of cigarettes coming from his bedroom. He’s now fucking you so rough and so good, abusing your clit with just his fingers. “Toji.. I think I’m gonna cum.” You squeal, clenching your pussy on his cock.

“Come on, baby. Cum on my dick.” He groans, pounding into you with purpose. 

And just like that, you let out the most erotic moan that Toji has heard in a while. You’re a blabbering mess the man above you continues to fuck you, chasing his own orgasm. “Where do you want me to cum?” He asks you, to which you weakly respond.

“Inside..” He groans in anticipation. The thought of him filling your pussy with his cum riles him up. “You want me to breed your little pussy? Hmm? Want me to use you as my personal cum dump?” Toji questions and you nod beggingly. He kisses you on the forehead before he leans back away from you, gripping onto your thighs. Toji pulls your body closer to him, using you like a fleshlight as he pounds into you. He moans passionately as he bottoms out inside of you, filling you up with his cum, just like you wanted. “Fuck..” He slurs, slowing down his thrusts and wrapping his thumb and index finger around the base of his dick. He slowly pulls out halfway, allowing the rest of his cum to stay inside of you. 

When he finally pulls out, his cum slowly oozes out of your pussy. Toji wishes he could picture this moment forever, watching as you collect your breath, completely in a daze and all fucked out. “You’re letting my cum go to waste.” Toji teases, slapping your thigh tauntingly. You mewl from the feeling. The sight of cum dripping from your pussy is enough to make Fushiguro want to fuck you again. He’s not sure how, but he knows that he has a few more rounds in him and he just hopes that you’re the same. “Think you got one more round in you?” He asks. You freeze and he notices.

“I can’t..” You whine, completely ruined by Toji’s huge dick.

“Aw.. Come on princess.. Just one more? Promise I’ll be gentle.” He urges. You know he’s lying and so does he. “Just one more.” You repeat. Toji doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he rapidly flips you over, pulling your ass closer to him and you yelp. 

“I wanna fuck you from the back.” Toji growls as you lay your face down on the bed with your ass up to him. You look and feel like a complete slut, ready to be bred a second time by Toji Fushiguro. Testing the waters, he delivers a harsh slap to your ass, which recoils so beautifully. You let out a pleasing hum in response and that’s when Toji knows that you’re a little slut who gets off from being spanked. “Fucking little, slut.” He slaps your ass again. You whine as you feel Toji’s thick, wet cock line up with your entrance, yet again. He uses his cum as lube and pushes himself into you. Although you’ve already been fucked by him, it still feels too big for you and you need time to adjust. But Toji doesn’t care. He starts to fuck you, completely absorbed in the way your ass bounces off his dick. The only thing you can do is lie there and take it. 

Toji’s hands grip at your waist, pushing his dick further inside you than before. You’re sure that the tip of his dick is hitting your womb and the feeling drives you insane. As he’s fucking you, Toji loses interest in your comfort. He’s too busy pulling you back and forth on his dick, desperate to fuck his cum into you. You cry out in pain as he spanks you continuously, muttering degrading and sensual words that bring you closer to orgasm. He spends the next couple of minutes fucking your pussy from behind like a beast before he’s gripping your hair and forcing you to arch your back completely. “Toji… ahh! It’s too much!” You cry out, gasping for air. He ignores you. “Please…” You beg him. He ignores you. “I can’t take it..!” You start to sob. He wraps his right arm around your neck. “You can’t take it?” He asks you as if you are even capable of responding. “No.. baby, you’re gonna take it.” He tells you as his hard biceps start to choke you and he pounds the fuck out of you. 

That’s when you realise that you should’ve stayed at the bar. Once again, you are reminded that Toji is a cocky and inconsiderate scumbag. He doesn’t care about making you comfortable. He’s already given you three orgasms and that’s enough. All he cares about is ruining you and leaving you full to the brim with his cum. Toji plants kisses into your scalp, telling you not much longer. Your back is seriously starting to ache and you can no longer feel anything below the waist. Your hips jerk up abruptly as Toji’s dick hits your special spot. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continuously attacks your sensitive area until you're squirting on his dick, crying and drooling as you cum from the abuse and overstimulation of your pussy. Your orgasm is followed by Toji’s when he drains his balls inside of you, filling you with his cum. He slows down and lets your body drop back onto the bed, your perfect ass still in the air. 

The older man watches as his cum drips out of your pussy, which is now red and swollen from being tormented by his dick. He bites his lip, enthralled by how out of bounds you look. He rubs your ass apologetically but you don’t move until he pulls your legs back, allowing you to completely lie down on your stomach. You’re a whimpering mess, unable to form a sentence and in complete ruins, trying to recollect your breath. “You’re an asshole..” Is the only thing that you can mumble before you close your eyes. You hear him grab something from the pockets of his trousers before he answers.

“I know.. Baby. I know.” Toji murmurs, lighting a cigarette.

I'm so fucking sorry for this. LOL.

Lowkey wasnt nasty enough for me 😝

Likes, comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3 lmk if you want to be tagged for more posts like this.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

i saw your prompt list and was hoping for number 6 with Aegon <3

‘’Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.’’

Request: Aegon married Rhaenyra's daughter. When the king dies, Alicent lock her in the dungeons so she won't go to her mother and ruin the coronation. Aegon ask where his wife is and get you out himself. Tells the guard that his wife is not to be made prisoner

—

You always knew Alicent had madness running through her blood, but you never thought she would have you taken to the dungeons and imprisoned. 

After dressing in your day dress, you were walking down the corridors, looking for Halaena when you heard voices coming from the small council chamber talking about sending men to Dragonstone to kill your mother and Daemon. Before you could get to your bed chamber and write her a message to send by crow, one of the guards saw you and brought you to the dungeons. 

You tried to scream for help, but the sounds were killed by the stone walls. So you sank to the floor and curled on yourself, praying to the gods that someone would come get you out. Someone must have noticed your absence. 

At his return from the dragonpit, Aegon walked into your chambers and called to you. He assumed you were with his sister, so he went to Halaena’s chambers, but she told him she had not seen you. On his way back from his sister’s chambers, Aegon heard the servants whispering about ‘the blacks’ daughter’ and stopped them. 

With fury in his eyes, the prince stormed down to the dungeons. He didn’t have his sword on him — only Aemond wore it on the daily —, but he had his dagger. Whoever would try to oppose freeing you will end their day bleeding out. Aegon was not afraid of a fight. 

His footsteps echoed off the stone walls and the torches flickered as he passed. As he reached the entrance to the dungeons, Aegon clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw tight with determination. Without surprise, two guards were stationed at the entrance. They moved to block the way when the prince approached. 

‘’We cannot let you go past, my prince. Orders of the Queen,’’ one of them said.

‘’The King’s dead, which no longer makes her Queen. And as the rightful heir to the throne, it is my command you obey.’’ Aegon tried to go past them, but the other guard pulled out his sword. ‘’I could have you removed from the kingsguard for pointing your sword at your future King.’’ His jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger as he stared the defiant guards.

The threat hung heavy in the air, a silent warning of the consequences should they continue to defy him. After a tense moment, the guard who had brandished his sword reluctantly stepped aside.

‘’My wife is not to be made a prisoner,’’ Aegon declared, his voice ringing with authority, holding his dagger at the guard’s throat. 

The guard gulped. ‘’Yes, my Prince.’’ 

Aegon walked past them, wondering how his own mother could do this. A part of him was not surprised, though. Her determination often goes too far. 

Finally, he reached the row of cells. All were empty, except one. His heart was pounding in his chest as he saw you sitting with your knees pulled to your chest on the cold stone floor. He said your name and you looked up, tears welling up in your eyes as you stood and reached out to him. You knew he would come for you. 

‘’Aegon!’’ Your voice held relief. 

He grabbed your hand through the bars, cold from being down here, holding it. ‘’Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.’’ Aegon reached out to caress your tear-streaked face, his touch a tender reassurance in the midst of chaos. 

Using the keys he stole from the guards, Aegon unlocked the door, a harsh creaking sound echoing in the silence of the dungeon when it opened. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if afraid to let you go. 

‘’Are you alright?’’ he asked, stepping back to look at you. 

You nodded. You were cold, and very thirsty, but not hurt. ‘’I heard your mother and her father speaking to the Lord Commander. They sent men to murder my mother,’’ you said, a tear slipping down your face. ‘’I was sent here so I wouldn’t write to her and risk ruining your coronation. I need to get to the dragonpit. I have to go to Dragonstone and save my mother.’’ 

—

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[tyrannuspitch]

on a more serious note re: mcu asgard set design: i like a lot of what TDW does, and i see the *reasoning* behind making it physically grimy and old, but honestly i do really like the idea of it being polished, uniform, perfect and surreal as an indication of tyranny, ego, and unrelenting control. it's like that english village where the king decides the colour of your curtains, or that marble city in turkmenistan. it doesn't need to be dingy to be dystopian! the lack of flaws IS the dystopia!

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; as dawn breaks, you tend to sybil and the remains of the wreckage left by the attack. determined to root out the force behind this dark chapter, you turn to an old friend for guidance.

⚠️ warnings; slight descriptions of injuries and blood

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Morning breaks with the first faint light creeping through the cracks of your blinds, and the relentless scratching at the door finally ceases. Exhausted but relieved, you uncurl from your spot on the floor, where you spent the night huddled with Sybil. Her breathing is steady now, though a quiet whine escapes her occasionally. You gently stroke her white fur, matted with dirt and dried blood from the night’s violent encounter.

You rise cautiously, the movement tugging at the pain in your ankle. Sybil stirs beside you, lifting her head as if sensing your intent. Before focusing on her, you steal a peek through the blinds. The street below lies empty, no sign of any lurking danger. Then you check outside your apartment door, and there too, it's empty.

Reassured for now, you bend down, wrapping your arms around Sybil and lifting her up with a pained grunt. The adrenaline that had fueled you the night before has vanished, leaving only raw, trembling determination. Step by agonizing step, you make your way down the stairs, each descent slow and labored, every creak of the wood magnifying the weight of your exhaustion.

The shop is unrecognisable.

Shelves that once held carefully labelled jars and vials are toppled, their contents spilled across the floor in a kaleidoscope of shattered glass and stained herbs. Your cauldron lies overturned near the counter, its contents long soaked into the wooden floorboards. The air still smells of the burnt potion that had scorched Ghost’s skin.

The destruction around you is overwhelming, but Sybil’s soft whine pulls you back to the present. You set her down gently on a comfortable patch of floor, cleared from the chaos.

You scavenge what’s left, finding a few unbroken jars of salve and bandages hidden under the counter. Working methodically, you tend to Sybil's wounds, cleaning and wrapping them with as much care as your shaky hands allow. She remains still, enduring the discomfort with quiet patience.

Once she is cared for, you turn to your own leg. Your ankle is swollen and caked in dry blood, bruised from where Ghost had dragged you across the floor, his claws tearing into your flesh. You bite your lip as you clean the puncture wound. Wraith poison. It seeps slowly into the bloodstream, and if not treated, it can be lethal. You rub a poultice into the marks and wrap your leg tightly, knowing it will take time to heal, but at least it’s no longer a death sentence for either of you.

As you move to clean and pick up the remains of your shattered apothecary, every movement feels like an effort. You work slowly, but you push through, driven by the need to restore some sense of order.

While sweeping debris near where Ghost had writhed in pain, you freeze. Embedded in the floor, glinting faintly under the dim light, is one of Ghost’s nails, sharp and black, splintered into the wood from his violent struggle. You kneel down, inspecting it closely—its edges are jagged, coated in dried blood, and it radiates an eerie, dark energy. Carefully, you take a cloth and extract it.

Holding the nail in your hands, an idea begins to form.

You know of someone who can and will help. You swallow hard, the decision settling heavily within you. She’s not someone you reach out to lightly, but this time… there’s no other choice.

. . .

You leave Sybil resting on your bed, and only when her eyes flutter closed, do you leave her side, the familiar warmth of her presence a small comfort in the back of your mind.

You gather what you need, moving with purpose despite the clammines in your hands. The bathroom becomes your makeshift altar, and though the tub is humble, it will serve.

Carefully, you sprinkle the salvaged herbs into the water, watching as they drift across the surface. Each herb was chosen with intent—rosemary for protection, thyme for courage, lavender for clarity. A handful of salt follows, grounding the mixture and cleansing it.

With a slow exhale, you press your own nail hard against your thumb with a flinch, allowing a drop of your blood to fall into the tub. The water shudders, rippling outward in response, as though alive to your plea. Then, you murmur her name.

The surface of the water begins to glow with a faint, silvery light, casting soft reflections on the walls. The air thickens, each breath becoming heavier as the veil between worlds trembles before finally falling open.

Slowly, deliberately, she emerges from the tub. The top of her head, crowned with dark, damp hair, breaks through first, followed by her sharp, regal features, her eyes pale pools. She rises until her neck and shoulders hover just above the waterline, her arms gracefully settling over the edge of the tub.

Her gaze finds yours, calm but penetrating, a knowing smile flickering across her lips as she studies your face. The familiarity settles comfortably in the air between the two of you.

"Thou art troubled, mine old friend," she speaks, her voice a soft echo in the space. "What darkness doth plague thy heart?"

Her presence, while comforting, still commands your respect. You were taught from childhood to call her name only when truly needed, for she was an ally to your bloodline, but not a spirit to be called upon lightly.

Her eyes fix upon your battered state. “Thou art a sight most grievous,” she says, her voice rich with the cadence of old English. “Fear gnaws at thy bones, and pain hath left thee ragged, hollow. Wounded, indeed.”

You breathe deeply, pulling yourself together as you lift the cloth-wrapped object from your side. Silently, you offer her Ghost's nail, dark and deadly. Her gaze sharpens as she accepts it, her slender fingers turning it over in quiet, focused examination.

“Reveal to me the source of his madness,” you plea, “and of the others’. Please, show me what’s driven them to this.”

She studies the nail, tracing its jagged edges. Finally, she speaks.

“Aye,” she begins, voice grave, “thou seeketh the truth behind his descent. Yet, be warned: the truth is not what it seemeth. She, the one they pursue—she is not untouched, not unscarred by the same darkness. Though she is the centre, she is not the cause. She is but human, and another hand doth shape this tale.”

Your pulse quickens, mind racing as her words sink in. Leah—she was a source, but not the architect of this obsession. Her eyes hold yours, unreadable but certain.

“There is a design here, a careful orchestration. Another, cunning and cloaked, doth play upon thy pack’s nature, bending their hearts to obsession, their minds to ruin. This plan hath taken root already; what was begun is now well underway.”

Leah is as much a victim in this as the pack—only a piece in someone else’s scheme. "Who?" you ask, desperation slipping into your voice. “Who would do this?”

Her expression softens, but she shakes her head. "The shadow hath yet to reveal itself. But know this: as long as the threads go unseen, the madness shall deepen. The one who drives this seeks not thy destruction alone. Their aim is vast—boundless.”

With a slight tilt of her head, she turns back to you, holding the nail delicately between her fingers. She then extends it to you, resting it on the cloth. Her cool hand closes around yours, a silent reminder of the weight and danger that this fragment carries.

“Hold this close, child,” she murmurs. “For it may yet serve thee well. In times of shadow, such remnants of truth may be weapons against the dark.”

Then her hand releases yours, trailing up to your cheek with a tender, cool touch, thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line as her gaze holds yours, unyielding and steady.

“Do not let thy heart waver,” she whispers, voice soft yet powerful. “Thou art not so easily uprooted, nor cast aside by such an evil. Thy roots run deep, born of stronger stock than this darkness anticipates. Hold fast.”

Then, as swiftly as she’d come, she begins to sink back beneath the water, her fingers slipping from the edge of the tub, leaving you with more questions than answers. Alone in the dim light of your bathroom, each revelation settles like stones in your chest.

You’re not without fault either. You’d fed your own resentments, let jealousy twist your perspective until you’d unknowingly played into the hands of whatever force sought to divide and conquer. And that needs to end here.

With clarity finally settled on your mind, your thoughts turn again to Laswell. She’s always been the town’s first line of defence, and whatever is lurking here has crept under her watch. If anyone can help you make sense of things, it’s her.

With Ghost’s nail clutched tightly in your hand, you gather yourself and start moving. You leave Sybil behind, resting and safe as you focus on Laswell. It’s time to face everything—to confront whatever has been taking root here.

. . .

On the other side of town, Alejandro and Rudy moved through the quiet, pre-dawn streets, taking care of some early business that couldn’t wait for full daylight. Alejandro was scanning over the market supplies they’d been tasked to retrieve while Rudy jotted down some notes, the calm routine a welcome reprieve.

The usual scent of bread and spice mingled with the morning chill—until something sharp, unsettling, cut through it.

Alejandro stopped short, head tilting as his trained nose caught the unmistakable hint of blood. A slow tension crept up his spine as he recognized it, mixed with something familiar and wrong all at once His grip tightened around his gear, and he motioned for Rudy to follow.

They followed the faint trail toward the edge of the Rose District, its shadowy streets still cast in the muted dawn light. And there, half-shifted and sprawled against the stone, lay none other than Ghost. A mix of something matted his clothes, his form slumped but menacing even in partial human form.

Alejandro moved closer, but as Rudy reached out instinctively to help, Alejandro’s hand shot out, stopping him. “Espérate,” he hissed, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Ghost's red-stained neck and knuckles. The fury building within him found confirmation in the scent lingering on the half-wraith's skin—it was unmistakably yours.

“It’s her blood,” Alejandro said, voice low and furious.

Rudy’s eyes widened, and before either could demand answers, Ghost’s eyes shot open, wild and feral. With a snarl, he surged to his feet, tearing away from their reach and disappearing back into the shadows, leaving only their unanswered questions and a trail of dread in his wake.

Rudy turned to Alejandro, jaw clenched. "We need to check on her. Now."

Without hesitation, they both turned on their heels, abandoning their morning duties. The journey back to your shop felt longer than it should, the urgency of what they might find gnawing at both of them.

The strange behaviour of the pack had lingered at the edges of Alejandro's thoughts. He remembered how odd they’d been the last time he and Rudy had delivered your tonics and potions to them—unsettled, like they were barely holding themselves together. He cursed at his carelessness. Whatever had been brewing beneath the surface had clearly boiled over, and now, you were caught on it dead and centre.

When they finally arrived at your shop, the destruction greeted them like a wound left open. Clearly someone had attempted to clean up, but shelves remained overturned, dried patches of blood staining the wooden floor. Alejandro could smell Ghost’s all over. But you were already gone. His eyes flickered upstairs when a soft whine from upstairs reached his ears.

“Sybil’s here,” Alejandro murmured. Rudy followed him cautiously up the stairs, where they came face-to-face with the door of your apartment—warded heavily with a spell they both recognized. It allowed only those with genuine intentions to pass.

A moment passed before the door clicked softly open, just enough to let them through. They ventured deeper inside and into your room, where the found Sybil laying in your bed, her head lifting as the pair approached. Her intelligent eyes locked with their, and though she couldn’t speak, her exhaustion told them everything.

"Pobrecita (Poor girl)," Rudy sighed, eyes soft as he looked at the injured familiar.

Alejandro, as a Perro Negro (Black Dog), possessed a bond with spirits, especially those of dogs or wolves. He knelt by her side, hand resting gently on her fur. Their connection deepened, and in the quiet of the room, Sybil communicated what she had witnessed. Through her thoughts, he saw the chaos that had unfolded—the fight, the terror, the injury. And most importantly, he saw where you had gone.

“Se fue a buscar a Laswell, (She went to look for Laswell)” Alejandro said, standing, his voice heavy with understanding. “That’s where we need to go.”

banner credit

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Sign Here… Wait, What?! | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Two strangers hit the courthouse for a ticket and a typo fix—next thing you know, they’re accidentally married. Chaos, a clerk who couldn’t care less, and a fiancée on the verge of a meltdown, convinced it’s all some evil plot. Spoiler: it’s not.

"For the last time, Brittany, it wasn’t on purpose!"

A/N: Inspired by my writer's block for my other fic and that one video of Charles just randomly signing anything he's handed.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

The courthouse was an absolute disaster. It was understaffed, overcrowded, and seemed to be held together by the fragile thread of everyone’s fraying sanity. You had been stuck there for hours, and all for a minor spelling error in your legal name. At this point, you were half convinced you’d be old and gray before they got to you. The whole place felt like a purgatory of paperwork.

The guy sitting next to you looked equally miserable. He had a baseball cap pulled down low and sunglasses on like he was trying to go incognito in the world’s least glamorous place. You hadn’t exchanged many words, but the mutual annoyance simmering between you two was almost palpable.

“This is hell,” you muttered, crossing your arms tightly. “Who knew fixing one typo would take all day?”

The guy let out a long, weary sigh. “Tell me about it. I’ve been here for hours. And all for a stupid speeding ticket.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “A speeding ticket? In this city? I didn’t think that was even possible.”

He gave a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, I guess I just had to be that guy.”

The shared complaint was enough to crack a small smile out of you. But that was the only bright spot in this nightmare of a day. Every time the overworked and increasingly agitated clerk called someone forward, she did it with the enthusiasm of someone trapped in the seventh circle of customer service hell. Her eyes screamed “don’t even think about making my day worse,” and the way she barked out “Next!” like she was calling people to their doom wasn’t helping anyone’s mood.

Finally, the fateful “Next!” came again, and both you and the guy next to you jumped up at the same time. You both stared at each other, disbelief and irritation flaring up.

“I think it’s my turn,” you said, arms crossed.

He raised his eyebrows under the brim of his cap. “Uh, no, I’ve been waiting way longer.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been waiting forever for a typo correction!”

“And I’ve been here since this morning for a stupid speeding fine!” he shot back, his voice rising in frustration.

You both stormed toward the counter, practically shoving each other out of the way, bickering like children. The clerk didn’t even look up from her screen, clearly sick of everyone and everything. “Names,” she demanded with the enthusiasm of a broken vending machine.

“Charles Leclerc,” the guy said, jumping in before you could even open your mouth.

You blinked at him in surprise. Charles Leclerc? Who just throws out their full name like that? You barely had time to process before the clerk barked out her next order.

“Both of you, step forward.”

“Wait, what? Why me?” you blurted out, confused as hell.

The clerk didn’t respond. She just jabbed her finger at the space in front of her, signaling for you both to step up. You shot Charles a questioning look, but he seemed just as lost as you were, though he didn’t argue. Sighing in defeat, you stepped up beside him.

The clerk slapped two pieces of paper on the counter with the grace of a war general deploying a tactical nuke. “Sign here.”

Charles didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed the pen and signed his paper with an alarming speed, as if this was something he did every day. You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, still unsure why either of you were signing anything.

“I dunno,” he muttered back, not looking up. “People give me stuff to sign all the time. It’s muscle memory.”

Muscle memory? Who just signs things without reading them?! You were about to protest when the clerk shot you a look so sharp it could have pierced through solid steel.

“Sign,” she repeated, her voice low and dangerously calm.

Your stomach twisted in confusion, but the clerk’s death stare was enough to make you scribble your name down without another word. It didn’t feel right, but you were too exhausted to fight. The ink had barely dried on the paper when the clerk slammed a stamp down and said, with zero enthusiasm, “Congratulations, you’re married.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then chaos erupted.

“WHAT?!” you and Charles screamed simultaneously, both of you staring at the clerk in absolute horror.

Charles dropped the pen like it had just burned his hand. “Wait—what do you mean married?!”

“I’m here for a speeding ticket!” he continued, his voice cracking in disbelief.

“And I’m just here to fix a typo!” you added, throwing your hands up. “How did we just get married?!”

The clerk just raises one eyebrow and looks at her computer screen “But it says here that a Charles is supposed to get married today”

“Well clearly it’s not me!” he screams.

The clerk, utterly unfazed by the chaos she had just unleashed, didn’t even bother to look up from her computer. “You signed the marriage certificate. You’re married.”

You blinked at her, feeling like the room was spinning. “How—no, there’s got to be some mistake. We can’t be married. Can’t you just, I don’t know, not register the paperwork or something?”

The clerk slowly raised her eyes to look at you, her expression blank and dead inside. “It’s against the rules,” she said, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Against the rules?!” you repeated, your voice reaching a higher pitch.

Charles let out a panicked laugh, running a hand through his hair. “This is insane. This can’t be happening. I’m not even supposed to be getting married!”

Suddenly, a man in the back of the room shot to his feet, waving his arms frantically. “WAIT! WAIT, NO! I’M CHARLES ANDERSON! I’M THE ONE WHO’S SUPPOSED TO BE GETTING MARRIED TODAY!”

The whole room turned to look at him as he came barreling toward the counter, his crumpled papers in hand.

“YOU CALLED FOR CHARLES!” he shouted, pointing accusingly at the clerk. “I’M CHARLES ANDERSON! THEY’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE MARRIED! I AM!”

You and Charles Leclerc whipped your heads toward each other, eyes wide in absolute disbelief. “Oh my God,” Charles muttered, shaking his head. “This is an actual nightmare.”

You stared at him, trying to make sense of everything. “I don’t even know you!”

Charles Anderson was now pacing in front of the counter like a madman, his papers flailing in his hand. “My fiancée’s going to kill me! They took our spot!”

You turned to face him, throwing your hands in the air. “We didn’t ask for this, okay?!”

“Can we fix this?” Charles asked the clerk, his voice cracking slightly from panic. “Like, can we just undo it? Cancel the whole thing? Please?”

The clerk let out a slow, dramatic sigh as if they were asking her to climb Mount Everest. She clicked a few buttons on her computer, then looked up at you both with the same bored expression. “Closest annulment appointment is… this Tuesday.”

“TUESDAY?!” you both screamed, causing half the room to turn and stare at you.

Charles Anderson let out a high-pitched shriek. “But my wedding is supposed to be TODAY! WHAT ABOUT MY WEDDING?!”

You whirled on him. “NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR WEDDING, CHARLES ANDERSON!”

Charles Leclerc was pacing now, hands on his head like he was trying to keep himself from exploding. “I can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be happening. I came here to pay a stupid speeding ticket, and now I’m married?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling like you were going to hyperventilate. “I came here for a typo correction. This was supposed to be the easiest thing ever, and now I’m married to someone I don’t even know!”

Charles Anderson, still flapping his marriage certificate, looked like he was going to start sobbing any second. “My fiancée is going to leave me. She’s going to walk out of this courthouse and leave me. We’ve been planning this for months!”

You threw your hands in the air. “This is not about you, Charles Anderson! We just accidentally got married, and you’re worried about yourself?!”

Charles Leclerc spun around to face the clerk, practically begging. “Please, can’t you just… not file the paperwork? We didn’t mean to sign anything!”

She stared at him, eyes glazed over, before sighing deeply. “It’s against the rules.”

“AGAINST THE RULES?!” Charles repeated, his voice reaching a panicked squeak.

The clerk took another slow sip of her coffee. “You can get an annulment. On Tuesday.”

Charles threw his hands in the air, pacing faster. “This is insane. I can’t just—Wait.” He turned to you, blinking rapidly. “Who even are you?”

You blinked back, equally confused. “I don’t know! I mean—I’m me? Who are you?”

“I’m Charles Leclerc,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something.

You squinted. “…And?”

“And I drive in Formula 1.”

You stared at him blankly. “What’s that? A type of bus?”

Charles Anderson finally chimed in, “Oh my God, you don’t know who Charles Leclerc is?!”

You turned to glare at Anderson. “I don’t care! I just want to undo this whole mess!”

Charles Leclerc let out a frustrated groan. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Oh, you think?” you shot back, throwing your arms up. “This is not how I imagined my day going either!”

Charles Anderson was now pacing in circles, mumbling about his ruined wedding day. The clerk, unbothered by the chaos she had caused, sipped her coffee again, clearly wishing she were anywhere else.

“This is insane! Can’t you just shred the papers or something?” Charles Leclerc was practically pleading now, his hands gesturing wildly like he was on the verge of losing it. “We didn’t mean to get married! Just pretend it never happened!”

The clerk, still sipping her coffee like none of this was her problem, took an agonizingly slow sip and deadpanned, “As I’ve said already, it’s against the rules. The paperwork is in. It’s legal. You’re married.”

“WHAT RULES?!” you cried, throwing your hands in the air. “There’s no way we’re stuck because of a technicality! This isn’t an episode of Law & Order! No one’s going to arrest you for this!”

The clerk blinked at you, her expression as blank as ever. “The rules are the rules,” she said, like she had this line tattooed on her forehead. “Take it up with a judge.”

Just as you were about to lose your mind, there was a loud crash behind you. You turned in time to see a woman in a wedding gown who was most definitely Charles Anderson’s fiancée, kick a chair out of the way, marching up to him like a woman possessed.

“YOU’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE AREN’T YOU?” she screeched, pointing an accusing finger at Anderson, who shrank back in terror. “You just didn’t want to marry me, so now you’re pulling this stunt?”

“What?! No!” Anderson yelped, looking around the courthouse like he could find an escape hatch. “It’s not my fault Brittany! They—” he pointed at you and Charles Leclerc, “—they’re the ones who got married!”

Brittany wasn’t having it. “Yeah, right! You’ve been making excuses for months, and now you’re going to try and pin this on them?! What, did you pay them to mess up the paperwork?”

You waved your hands in a panic. “Lady, we don’t even know each other! I’m literally just here to fix a spelling mistake in my name!”

Charles Leclerc jumped in, looking equally panicked. “And I’m just here for a speeding ticket! I don’t even know what’s going on!”

Charles Leclerc looked like he was officially losing his mind. He was pacing in circles, gesturing wildly at the air, as if the universe might suddenly intervene. “I have a race next week! I can’t be married right now! This is insane!”

You stared at him, completely lost. “What are you even talking about? Why does a race have anything to do with this?”

Charles paused mid-panic, looking at you like you’d just said the sky was purple. “For the last time I’m a Formula 1 diver!.”

You blinked and scream out in frustration. “…YOU KEEP SAYING THAT LIKE IT SHOULD MEAN SOMETHING TO ME!?”

Charles looked at you like you’d just spoken in a different tongue. “Formula 1! It’s international. Fast cars, precision driving, circuits all over the world?”

You squinted. “So… like NASCAR?”

Charles’s eye twitched. “NO! It’s not like NASCAR! It’s—" He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself. “Formula 1 is completely different. It’s the pinnacle of motorsport. We race on tracks, not ovals, and the cars are way faster and more advanced.”

“Oh,” you said, not even pretending to be impressed. “So it’s like NASCAR with extra steps.”

Charles groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I can’t do this.”

Before you could respond, Brittany threw her hands up in the air, clearly fed up. “I CAN’T DO THIS EITHER!” She pointed at Charles Anderson, who was now trying to hide behind the counter. “I knew you were stalling this wedding on purpose, Charles! You’ve been dodging this day since we got engaged!”

“Brittany, no! I swear it wasn’t me! It’s just some kind of mix-up!” Anderson tried to reason with her, his voice cracking under the pressure. “It’s a misunderstanding! I didn’t plan this!”

“Oh, so you just accidentally handed over our wedding slot to complete strangers?!” Brittany’s voice was so loud now that other people in the courthouse were starting to stare. “And now we have to wait while you run around trying to fix your mess!”

You slapped your hands over your face, feeling the absolute ridiculousness of the situation weighing on you. “This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Charles Leclerc was now pacing frantically again. “I can’t be married! This is… this is a PR nightmare! my career is ruined! Fred's gonna kill me!”

“Oh my God, no one cares about your stupid racing career!” Brittany screeched, cutting him off. “My wedding’s been hijacked, and you’re worried about PR?!”

Leclerc turned back to the clerk, his voice rising in desperation. “Can’t you just void the paperwork? Pretend this didn’t happen? We didn’t actually want to get married!”

The clerk, completely unaffected by the chaos swirling around her, let out a slow, tired sigh. “It’s against the rules.”

“SCREW THE RULES!” you shouted, slapping your hand on the counter. “No one cares about your rules! Can’t you just— I don’t know— delete the file or something?”

“The government cares about the rules,” the clerk responded flatly, barely looking up from her computer screen.

Charles Leclerc, utterly exasperated, ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “This can’t be happening. This is the worst day of my life.”

“Your life?!” you shot back, eyes wide. “I just came here to fix a typo, and now I’m married to a stranger who yells about race cars!”

Leclerc threw his hands up in frustration. “I’m not yelling about race cars!”

“Yes, you are!”

Brittany stormed back up to the counter, where Charles Anderson was practically cowering. “And you,” she hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You think this is some big joke, don’t you? Delaying the wedding again just because you don’t want to marry me?!”

“I swear, it’s not what it looks like!” Anderson pleaded, trying to grab her hands. “I love you! This is just a mistake!”

“Mistake my ass!” Brittany shrieked. “We’ve been engaged for three years, and now, instead of us getting married, I have to watch these two idiots get hitched by accident!”

You threw your hands up, eyes darting between Brittany and the hysterical Anderson. “We don’t even want to be married! This isn’t some elaborate plan! I’ve literally known this guy for less than five minutes!”

Leclerc, looking like he was about to snap, turned back to the clerk. “There’s nothing you can do? Nothing at all? Can’t we get, like, an emergency annulment or something?”

The clerk glanced up lazily from her coffee. “Like I said next available appointment for an annulment is this Tuesday. Wait no, it’s actually next Tuesday”

“NEXT TUESDAY?!” you and Leclerc both screamed in unison, your voices echoing off the courthouse walls.

“Can’t we just get another slot today please?!” Anderson wails

“Sorry but the fastest I can squeeze in a wedding is on Saturday 25th” the clerk says sipping her coffee nonchalantly.

“The 25th?” Anderson whimpered. “But… my wedding is today! The 25th is like 2 weeks away!”

“Oh, shut up, Charles!” Brittany yelled, practically shoving him. “There is no wedding today! You’ve ruined it! And you know what? Maybe that’s for the best!”

Charles Anderson looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. “But Brittany—”

“Save it!” she snapped, before turning to you and Leclerc. “And you two? Good luck with your stupid accidental marriage. I hope you’re very happy together.”

Leclerc, who had clearly had enough, shot back, “Oh, we’ll have a blast. Trust me. This is exactly what I wanted out of today. To marry a complete stranger in the middle of a bureaucratic nightmare.”

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “This has got to be some kind of cosmic joke.”

From behind, Anderson was still shrieking about his doomed marriage, while Brittany yelled about commitment issues and a wedding that would “never happen at this rate!”

Charles Leclerc leaned over the counter, looking like he was about two seconds away from losing it entirely. “Is there nothing you can do?”

The clerk just looks at him. “Next tuesday.”

He threw his hands up and muttered under his breath, “I should’ve just paid the speeding ticket online.”

The clerk, unfazed by the circus happening in front of her, sipped her coffee and calmly called out, “Next in line, please.”

And that ladies and gentlemen is how you ended up accidentally married to Charles Leclerc in the most ridiculous courthouse mix-up of all time.

[jmliebert]

how your lover would grieve you (bg3 headcanons)

watch out for angst!! and dramatics...

Wyll

Wyll would carry on with his duties—his body present, but his spirit often elsewhere. His heart would drift to you, again and again. Those around him would notice the change: no more smiles that reached his eyes, no more easy laughter or graceful charm. He’d move through life like a man lost in a dream.

For a time, he’d endure quietly. But gradually, he’d begin to live again—not because the grief lessened quickly, but because he knew you would have wanted that for him. He still had good to do, people to protect. And while you remained in his heart, the pain would soften.

Eventually, he might find love again. Wyll has so much tenderness to give, and he would treat any new partner with gentle reverence. But it wouldn’t be easy at first. The halls around him would feel quieter—heavier. Even the household staff might whisper behind closed doors that he was never quite the same after you passed. For a long time, his charm would seem more like a mask than a truth. Still, slowly, he would begin to let someone in.

Yet, unknowingly, he would see them through the echo of you. And if he were ever blessed with a child, he’d speak of you with a distant, wistful smile—a thousand-yard stare—and tell them stories of your courage and brilliance.

Gale

Grief would hollow Gale from the inside out. At first, it would be chaos. He would retreat into his "tower", his haven turning into a prison. He'd lie in bed for days, unshaven and unkempt—looking as though he had aged a decade in mere days. His books untouched. The most damning sign of his despair? He couldn’t even read. He’d turn pages, but the words would blur, his mind drifting endlessly back to you.

If not for his friends—and for Tara with her relentlessness at the top of it—he might have faded entirely. They would force him into the sunlight, into purpose. Teaching, advising, creating… none of it would feel the same. But still, it would keep him from crumbling. So he came back to teaching, but sadly lost his spark when it came to it.

He would likely never remarry, never truly seek another. Instead, he'd write—a book of poems in your memory, quietly tucked onto his shelves, never published. At night, he might speak to the silence as if you were beside him. Sometimes he’d conjure your likeness—not as a ghost, but as a remembrance. A comfort.

Halsin

Surprisingly, Halsin’s once vibrant appetites would vanish. For a time, there would be no lovers, no flirtation—only quiet reflection and the relentless trainings till his muscles trembled and he was out of breath. He would throw himself into his work, perhaps to cope, perhaps to forget. He would blame himself for not coming to you sooner. For not cherishing you more when time still allowed.

In time, he would come to accept your death. He would understand it as a part of the natural order—something he has preached so often. But this knowledge has a bitter taste. When you live as long as he does, saying goodbye starts to feel like the price of love. And it feels so lonely.

Eventually, he would return to his open way of life—but it would never be the same. You would linger in his thoughts, in his stories, and he’d find himself telling lovers about you. Not to compare, but because forgetting you is simply not possible. You were one of a kind, and he knew he would never find someone alike. And the realisation left his hear feeling even more heavy.

Even years later, he would still see you in the rustle of leaves, in the bloom of a flower, in the golden light of dusk. And each time, his heart would ache—but he would smile too. Because in the beauty of the world, he finds you yet again.

Astarion

To say your death devastated Astarion would be an understatement so cruel, it would feel like mockery. He would retreat from the world entirely, isolating himself with a bitterness that only grief could sharpen. He always knew world is shit, but you gave him hope and then and then he lost you just like that.

He wouldn't become like Cazador—never that. But his charm would fade into something colder, and his presence would carry a quiet warning: stay away. There would be rage, too. Shattered objects. Screams into the void. One moment, he would curse you for leaving; the next, he would sob your name and whisper that he loved you more than anything in the world.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hello, you can find more of my works about bg3 ♡here♡

also, would you like me to write one of this characters in-depth?

[heliosunny]

nahhh i've got an idea, dom male reader x mydei. hehehehehehe btw if you can't or do not want to write this, it is okay tho. i like your writing style and how you literally the only yandere accounts that post literally often. thank youuuu!

Yandere!Mydei x M!Reader

The grand halls of your palace were once filled with warmth. You were a king not of tyranny, but of wisdom and justice. And yet, justice meant nothing to the blade that had pierced your chest.

You lay on the cold floor of your throne room, the warmth of your own blood seeping into your garments.

Among the chaos, a single figure remained still.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

Your body growing weaker by the second, but Mydei finally moved. He knelt beside you, his hands cradling your face.

"Who did this?"

Mydei was no mere knight in your service—he was something far more devoted.

"Don’t worry, my king." He pressed a hand to your wound as if he could hold you together by sheer will alone. "I'll fix this. I'll fix everything."

-----

The throne was cold beneath him. The weight of the crown—your crown—rested heavy on Mydei’s head, but it meant nothing to him. He had not taken it for power, nor for glory. No, this was merely a temporary position, a means to an end. Until you returned, the throne was nothing more than a placeholder.

And you would return.

The dark mage knelt before him, trembling under his golden gaze. Their face was slick with sweat, exhaustion evident from the unnatural rituals they had performed. Mydei had spent countless nights hunting them down, forcing them to bend reality itself to his command.

"I did what you asked." the mage rasped, "Your majesty..he lives. But—" They hesitated, daring to glance up at him. "Not here. His soul——was pulled into another vessel, elsewhere.."

For a moment, the room was silent. The gathered nobles, too frightened to speak, held their breath. They had already seen what happened to those who failed him.

"Is that so?"

With a flick of his wrist, he let them go.

"Send word to my scouts," he ordered, "Find him. I don’t care whose body he wears now."

His fingers traced the armrest of the throne.

"I will find you.…"

----

The scent of pine and damp earth filled your lungs as you took a deep breath. The forest stretched endlessly before you. Your fingers gripped the worn handle of your hunting knife.

You didn’t remember anything before waking up in this body.

"You're lucky to be alive... Son." the old man had told you when your eyes first opened. His wife had clutched his arm, her wrinkled hands trembling as she stared at you in disbelief.

"We thought we'd lost you"

They had told you about your last hunt, where you were gravely injured, where even the village healer had doubted you would survive.

You looked into the polished steel of your hunting dagger that night, searching for familiarity in the reflection staring back at you.

Still, you had a job to do.

If this was your life, then you would live it. The bow fit comfortably in your grip, the weight of a quiver on your back a second nature. Muscle memory, you told yourself.

Tracking prey was effortless. Another clean kill. Another hunt completed. You wiped the sweat from your brow, exhaling.

------

The weight of the deer slung over your shoulders was nothing compared to the exhaustion settling in your bones. The familiar scent of burning firewood and fresh bread greeted you home, a comforting routine after another successful hunt.

But as you neared your house, something felt off.

You saw a stranger stood at your doorstep, definitely not belong to this village.

Your parents stood before him. The old man’s fingers twitched toward the knife at his belt, his instincts sharp despite his age. The old woman clutched her apron.

Then you noticed it—the object in the stranger’s gloved hand. It glowed faintly as you approached.

The moment the stranger’s gaze locked onto you, his golden eyes widened.

He knelt after realizing that he was staring at you long enough.

"Your majesty."

The glowing object in his hand pulsed faster.

You stared at him, obviously, you didn't recognize him.

"Who… are you?"

"You may not remember me now.. But you will, soon"

Your parents had barely taken a step toward you before the guards moved. One of them grabbed your father’s arm, yanking him back. The old man grunted, stumbling, his weathered face twisting in pain. The other shoved your mother aside, causing her to fall to her knees.

A rush of heat flooded your veins.

With a single step, you closed the distance. Your hand shot out, gripping the nearest guard’s wrist. The crack of bones followed as you twisted, sending the man to the ground with a strangled cry. The second guard barely had time to react before you drove your palm into his chest, sending him staggering back.

The guards scrambled to recover, but before they could so much as lift their weapons, a chilling voice cut through the air.

"Stand down."

The guards froze in place, their faces drained of color.

"You dare lay hands on him in my presence?"

Neither of the guards dared to answer.

"We will have a discussion about discipline."

The guards paled further. You ignored them. Instead, you knelt beside your mother, gently helping her up while your father straightened with a grimace.

"Are you alright?" you asked.

Your mother nodded shakily, gripping your arm. Your father, though clearly furious, held his tongue.

"I will stay here" he announced. He turned to your parents, offering a polite smile. "Your son has lost something dear. I intend to help him retrieve it."

"Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms. "You stay, but don’t cause trouble."

"As you wish, my king."

The forest was quiet in the early morning. You pulled your cloak tighter, feeling the weight of another pair of footsteps trailing behind you.

You didn’t like it.

Every time you glanced over your shoulder, there he was, his eyes always on you. He said nothing, but the way he looked at you made your skin crawl.

You didn’t know who he was or why he called you “king” but he carried himself like a man who had bled for you—and was willing to bleed again.

Still, you tolerated his presence.

If he was telling the truth… if your memories were stolen or lost… maybe this was the only path to getting them back.

The two of you had tracked the deer for hours. Working together was almost disturbingly fluid.

Eventually, you found it grazing in a clearing, its coat dappled gold by morning light.

Mydei raised his weapon. The perfect killing stroke was only a breath away.

But something tugged at your attention.

From the thicket nearby, soft rustling—two small heads peeked out. Fawns.

"Wait!" you said, one hand reaching out to stop him.

Mydei’s movements halted instantly at your word.

He turned to look at you. "It’s wounded. One blow and it’s done."

"It has kids."

You stepped past him, lowering your bow. The mother deer limped slightly, trying to shield the fawns behind her with her body.

"We don’t take parents from children."

"You remember that."

You looked over your shoulder. "What?"

"You used to say that all the time. In war, in law, in hunting… Mercy. You always chose mercy when it mattered."

You frowned. "Sounds like a decent person. Doesn’t feel like me."

"It is you." His voice was hushed. "Even now, with no memories, you’re still.. you."

You looked away, a strange tightness curling in your chest. You didn’t know what you were expecting to find out here—but it wasn’t this.

The deer limped off, its fawns following close behind.

You turned to Mydei. "Let’s keep moving."

He nodded.

The fire crackled softly, its light casting flickering shadows across the trees. Smoke curled upward into the starless sky, carrying with it the scent of pine, ash, and the fish you'd caught earlier. Nothing fancy—just skewered over flame.

You sat on a fallen log, arms resting on your knees, your eyes half-lidded as you watched the flames dance.

Mydei sat across from you. He hadn’t touched the fish. Not yet. As if his appetite depended on yours.

You broke the silence first.

"So," you said, pulling a skewer free from the fire and taking a slow bite, "if I was really this ‘king’ you talk about… what was I like?"

Mydei’s eyes lifted, catching yours through the firelight.

"You were..." he began, "Kind. But strong. People feared disappointing you more than they feared punishment. You never raised your voice unless it was to protect someone."

You snorted softly. "Sounds made up."

He smiled faintly. "I thought so too, the first time I saw you. I thought no man could be so perfect. But… you weren’t perfect. You just chose to be good when it was hardest."

Your hand tightened slightly around the skewer. You stared into the fire, letting the warmth crawl into your skin.

"Tell me another story then." you said after a moment.

Mydei paused. Not to search for one—no, it was clear he had thousands. He just didn’t know which would hurt less to say.

Finally, he said, "There was a day when we were at war. The enemy had taken a village, used the children there as shields. Everyone advised you to wait. To let them starve the enemy out. But you refused. You entered alone."

"You negotiated with them. You carried a child on your back through the burning fields."

You could almost smell the smoke.

You shook it off. "That’s stupid," you muttered. "No one should walk into a trap like that."

"That’s exactly what you said afterward. Right before you scolded me for trying to follow you in."

Then, softly, you asked: "Who were you to me?"

"The one who followed you when no one else dared."

Your heart skipped. You looked back at him.

You said nothing, but for the first time, you didn’t look away.

It had been a few weeks since that first campfire.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere between tracking game and listening to those half-sorrowful stories of who you used to be, Mydei stopped feeling like a stranger.

He was still strange, no doubt. But beneath all that stillness, there was a fire—one that only ever flickered when he looked at you.

One morning, you gave him your answer.

"I’m not going back."

You expected resistance. But instead, Mydei bowed his head slightly.

"Understood."

And just like that, he was gone.

But the silence did not last.

Back at the palace, Mydei stood before the high court.

"The King’s return has been delayed." he announced calmly, seated on the throne you once ruled. "In the meantime… I will resume rule."

There was a murmur of confusion. But when the new decrees came, the kingdom shook.

Public executions.

"Let them hang until the birds take their eyes. Let the air know what happens to those who betray their king."

Every prisoner sentenced to death. Hung in the square, their heads severed and displayed for all to see. The message was clear:

Loyalty or death.

Mydei watched every execution himself. Not with pleasure—but with a cold, simmering wrath barely concealed beneath his gaze.

It was never about justice.

It was the beginning of cleansing.

A first step to burn away weakness, to purge every trace of betrayal that had led to your death.

You may have said no for now.

But Mydei would not stop.

He would never stop.

------

You had only come to the city to trade.

A bag of dried fish and preserved meat slung across your shoulder, a small bundle of furs under your arm. Just enough to get your parents the winter herbs they needed.

But from the moment you stepped past the outer gates, something felt… wrong.

The streets were quieter than they should’ve been at midday. Families kept their heads down, conversations died quickly, and more than once, you caught the sound of someone crying behind closed doors.

Worse still—guards. Everywhere. Standing in alleyways. Perched on rooftops.

You found an elderly shopkeeper who was kind enough to sell you the herbs at half price after seeing the pelts. When you asked about the strange atmosphere, she looked over her shoulder and whispered:

"Haven’t you heard? The Regent is purging the kingdom. Anyone suspected of betrayal, anyone who opposed him during the king’s assassination—dead. Executed like cattle."

You froze. The king?

"I thought he was—"

"Gone. But now the Regent rules in his name. And it’s worse. Much worse."

You couldn’t shake it. That tightness in your chest.

Somehow, you felt responsible.

You turned to leave the city before the sun dipped, but you didn’t make it far. Not even two streets out before they struck. A blast of magic knocked the breath from your lungs.

Mydei was sitting on the throne when the doors slammed open.

"Three mages, just beyond the east gate. They claim they caught a spy."

Mydei raised a brow, only vaguely interested.

"Let them in."

The guards dragged the mages in first. Behind them, a figure was pulled forward in enchanted chains, a dirty cloth draped over the head.

His eyes narrowed.

"Who is that?" Mydei asked coldly, rising from the throne.

One mage bowed. "A stranger to the capital. He was wandering near the restricted border. We suspect he may be—"

"Uncover him."

The mage complied, grabbing the cloth and yanking it away.

Time seemed to stop.

Your face.

Bruised. Cut. Blood on your temple. Still breathing, but barely.

Mydei slowly walked down from where he is. The blade was already in his hand before anyone noticed it had left its sheath, and then, the mage’s head rolled to the marble floor, eyes still wide in shock.

The court gasped in unison.

Mydei turned to the second. "You laid a hand on him?"

The last two mages fell to their knees instantly, screaming for mercy.

Then silence. All of them are dead.

Only your breathing remained.

"Bring a physician. Now! The best one. Touch him wrong and I’ll make your family watch as I peel you apart."

----

You awoke with a soft breath.

The scent of polished wood and roses lingered in the air.

You sat up slowly.

Someone helped you change your clothes.

And then the ache started.

Flashes behind your eyes.

A throne. Blood.

But then it was gone—faded like breath on glass.

The door creaked open. And he stepped in.

"Where are my parents?"

"They’re safe. I’ve arranged for a physician to stay with them full-time and have stationed guards discreetly."

A quiet sigh left your lips.

"...Thank you" you murmured, sinking back slightly into the soft bed.

Mydei walked closer, but kept his distance.

"I knew you’d ask about them first."

You looked down at your hands, flexing them slowly.

"...Did I live here?"

"Yes."

You had just started breathing normally again.

But then, the door opened once more.

A robed figure entered—A mage. You hated how you kept encountering them.

“What’s going on?”

The mage remained silent.

Instead, Mydei’s hand moved and pinned you by the shoulder. Not hurting you, but holding you still.

“What are you doing—?”

“They’re here to help you.”

“I don’t underst—”

“You will.”

The mage lifted both hands.

A searing light bloomed in the air between you. You struggled, but Mydei didn’t let you move—his grip grew firmer as the light bore down on you.

“Stop—Mydei, wait! I don’t—”

The spell pierced into your mind like a thousand glass needles.

And then— everything came crashing back.

You saw it all.

Your heart seized in your chest.

And you collapsed.

When you awoke, the pain was gone.

You remembered your own name. Everything that made you you.

And Mydei—he was already there, sitting beside your bed with his head lowered, still as a statue, fingers laced in front of his lips as if in silent prayer.

He looked up the second you stirred.

“You’re…”

You opened your mouth, “Mydei…”

And then he wrapped his arms around you tightly, “You’re back!”

He buried his face in your shoulder, shoulders shaking with silent relief.

-----

Mydei had always walked behind you.

For as long as he could remember, he had never needed anything more than the feeling of your voice giving him orders. That clarity, that purpose, was his reason to live.

Now that you stood once again at the top of the world—he had everything.

There was nothing to mourn. No more nights haunted by dreams of your blood-soaked body, no more empty corridors echoing with your absence.

You had returned. And he was whole.

Rumors had spread like wildfire of the lost king reborn. Nobles who once dared to plot found their heads lining the city gates.

Under your banner, armies surged. You took back what was once yours. And then you reached further. Lands that had turned arrogant in your absence were conquered.

Not all days were bloodshed.

Sometimes, when the mood struck, you would make your way to the royal training court.

Your strikes were heavier now—your absence had dulled the sharpness of your stance. But you were no novice. Mydei, however, never struck you like a teacher. He met you as an equal.

“You're still not holding back.”

“I never will” he’d say simply, offering his hand to pull you up.

In the moments between wars and sparring, Mydei would kneel beside your throne without being summoned. He didn’t need permission.

You never had to ask if he would die for you.

He already had.

Again and again.

As long as you wore that crown, as long as you ruled the world—you would never walk alone.

The palace slept beneath a blanket of stars. Guards stood silent along the halls. Outside, the wind stirred faintly through the courtyard trees, but within your chamber, all was still.

You lay in bed, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths.

And Mydei never left his place beside you. His armor was gone, but his sword still rested within reach. Just in case.

But as the hours stretched on and your breathing softened, Mydei moved. He approached your bed and lingered by the edge for a long moment.

“You’re here…”

His hand brushed yours—fingers wrapping around your larger palm, holding it in both of his like something fragile and precious. His thumb traced along your knuckles, memorizing the lines, the warmth, the proof of your existence.

He knelt.

And with a slow, aching breath, he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

When he finally pulled away, he stayed seated beside you on the floor, hand still cradling yours in silence.

The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting a soft golden glow into your chambers. You blinked, rubbed your eyes, and pushed the silk covers aside as you sat up with a yawn.

And then you swung your legs over the side of the bed— and tripped.

“Wha—?”

Your foot caught on something solid, warm, and very much not the floor. With a surprised grunt, you crashed down, dragging the blanket with you as the world tilted— And landed right on top of someone.

“Mydei?”

“Good morning, Your Majesty.”

He had clearly fallen asleep beside your bed, collapsed from fatigue without meaning to. But now you were straddling him, tangled in covers, your hair a mess and arms trapped at his sides.

You scrambled up in embarrassment, muttering an apology, trying to disentangle yourself—

Only for your foot to snag on the blanket again.

Smack.

You crashed forward, and this time, your forehead slammed right into Mydei’s mouth.

“—!”

He let out a faint grunt, and you winced at the sharp sting of pain.

You quickly pulled back, horrified to see blood already gathering at the corner of his lower lip.

“Damn it—! Stay there.” You grabbed the nearest cloth, panicked but trying to stay composed. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t even—! Ugh, this is my fault.”

“It’s fine.”

You ignored that, grabbing the small case of ointments near the bedside and unscrewing the cap. With careful fingers, you reached toward his face.

“Don’t move.”

You dabbed the balm gently over the split lip, and he held still beneath your touch.

“Done. Now get up, Mydei.”

-----

The village was quiet this morning, nestled deep in the rural lands reclaimed under your banner. You were there to ensure their peace.

You and Mydei rode at the front, flanked by a handful of guards. The villagers bowed with hushed reverence as you passed, offering fresh bread and small gifts of thanks. But you felt strange.

“Something’s wrong...”

A firebolt struck the nearest house

“Protect the villagers!” you ordered instantly, drawing your blade.

The guards leapt into action, shielding children and herding families toward safety. You turned sharply toward the treeline.

Dozens emerged—cloaked figures, former rebels from the lands you’d conquered.

They weren’t after the people.

They were after you.

“Draw them away,” you muttered, stepping beside Mydei. “Toward the ruin tower. We’ll finish this ourselves.”

He nodded without question.

The old tower was long abandoned, overtaken by moss and rot. It stood like a crooked fang on the edge of the cliffs.

The rebels chased, just as planned.

Half of them fell to your swords, the rest driven to desperation.

From the shadows of the top chamber, hidden figures lunged—ambushers lying in wait. You pivoted too late, barely fending off a strike aimed at your neck.

In the chaos, someone tackled you from behind.

And you were falling.

The wind howled past your ears as the edge of the tower vanished beneath you—until his hand caught your wrist.

“Your majesty!”

The scene unfolds in slow motion, the world reduced to crumbling stone, blood, and the weight of a choice neither of you wanted to make.

Mydei’s grip on your wrist is iron, his other hand braced against broken masonry, muscles straining to hold you both aloft. And you see it. The moment he realizes: This won’t work. The structure shudders. The math is simple. One life or none.

So you act.

The knife is in your hand before either of you can protest. You drive it into his palm and his fingers jerk open in reflex. His scream is raw, your name half curse, half plea, but you’re already falling, the wind howling in your ears as the tower collapses behind you.

You land hard. Alive. That's what matters.

But Mydei doesn’t know that.

By the time you stagger upright, wiping blood from your lip, the sky is raining something worse than rubble.

He jumped.

Because he thought you were gone, and the universe without you wasn’t worth staying in.

Then your body moves. You lunge, arms outstretched, and catch him midair with a grunt of impact, boots skidding in the dirt. His weight nearly knocks you over, but you hold on.

"You— I mean..."

You grin, all teeth and no remorse. "Miss me?"

He chokes out something between a laugh and a sob. You pretend not to notice the wetness on your collar.

The grand hall of the palace is alive with light and laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine.

You sit upon the throne, draped in royal finery, a goblet of wine dangling carelessly from your fingers. The feast is in full swing—musicians play lively tunes, nobles toast to your safe return, and the long tables groan under the weight of the banquet. But your gaze keeps drifting to him.

Mydei hasn’t touched his wine.

You smirk into your cup.

Then, with a lazy wave of your hand, you silence the musicians.

"Today," you announce, "we celebrate not just my safe return, but the loyalty of the man who would have followed me into death itself."

You raise your goblet toward him. "Sir Mydei—step forward."

For a moment, he hesitates. Then, he approaches the throne and kneels, head bowed.

You lean forward, resting your chin on your free hand. "Tell me," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear, "was it duty that made you jump after me? Or something far more foolish?"

"You know what it was"

You hum, amused. Then, in one smooth motion, you rise from the throne and pull him up by his uninjured hand. The court gasps as you press your own goblet into his grip.

"Then drink with me," you command, grinning. "And stop glaring like I’m already dead."

His fingers tighten around the cup. For a heartbeat, you think he might throw it in your face.

Instead, he drains it in one defiant swallow.

The nobles erupt into cheers. You laugh, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good job, Mydei."

[papoochu]

Okay, next on my list is Dr. Leo Anders, formerly known as Levko Andriienko. He would be a great conversationalist!

I'm going to go back and make minor changes to some of the bios that are already up (just color corrections and making sure everything is updated), so just letting y'all know!

Background

Born Levko Andriienko

Levko = means “lion,” representing strength, courage, and a fierce will to survive (ironic)

Diminutive form - implies a boyhood identity, or something emotionally vulnerable.

Andriienko = Ukrainian surname from Dnipropetrovsk region, symbolizing resilience and intellectual tradition; rooted in family and place, it connects him to the past

In Soviet context, his full name subtly marked him as "not quite Moscow"

Born 1933, in Dnipropetrovsk, Ukrainian USSR, into a modest family of engineers and educators

Showed early aptitude for physics, studied nuclear science in Moscow during the 1950s

Raised with strong faith in Soviet ideals, believed in science as a tool for progress and societal good

Chernobyl Disaster (1986):

Senior scientific advisor involved in emergency response at Chernobyl nuclear plant

Was one of the scientists who proposed the use of boron compounds to absorb neutrons and limit radioactive fallout, a key but little-known intervention

Witnessed firsthand Soviet government secrecy, misinformation, and chaos during crisis management

Worked as one of the liquidators who was not compensated properly

Exposed to high levels of radiation, suffering long-term health consequences

Deeply traumatized by the disaster and the suffering of victims, burdened by survivor’s guilt

Post-Disaster Years:

Emigrated to Graubünden, Switzerland soon after the disaster, rejecting the Soviet system and Ukrainian identity publicly

Chose Switzerland due to its priority of safety in science field as well as for its advanced healthcare

Changed his name to Leo Anders

Shedding a name with history for one that sounds clean, Western, untraceable

“Leo” is still “lion,” but now generic - a hollow echo of his true self

“Anders” is Scandinavian/Germanic - means “different” or “other”

Lived in relative isolation; worked on independent research, disconnected from official scientific communities

Physically weakened by chronic radiation sickness: fatigue, thyroid problems, neurological symptoms, lung deterioration

Haunted by memories and guilt, avoided public attention and political engagement

The Council’s Contact (1988):

Approached by the council

Initially skeptical, but accepted their offer for renewed purpose and resources

Began advising the Council on sensitive, secret projects with far-reaching ambitions

Bound by secrecy and loyalty, conflicted over his role and the Council’s shadow agenda

Life in Switzerland and Personal Struggles:

Experiences recurring nightmares and PTSD symptoms tied to Chernobyl trauma

Has obsessive behaviors and is very concerned with health/safety

Torn between hope for positive change and fear of complicity in the Council’s morally ambiguous plans

Uses work as a custodian of classified scientific and nuclear data for the Swiss government to channel his need for control and order (irony)

Present Day (2016):

Age 83, physically frail but mentally razor-sharp, a man who exerts power through knowledge and control

Custodian of classified nuclear and scientific data for the Swiss government, guarding secrets that could unravel nations - or rebuild them

"Order and method are his Gods" - Agatha Christie about Hercule Poirot

Every piece of information is meticulously cataloged and controlled to maintain a fragile balance

Obsessed with control and precision, he micromanages access to information like a vigilant, overbearing guardian - protecting the world from chaos, even if it means suffocating it

Deeply cares about the world’s survival, but his care manifests as relentless interference - an unyielding “helicopter parent” who won’t let anything deviate from his plan

Ruthlessly pragmatic, he believes the ends justify the means; innocent casualties and moral compromises are unfortunate but necessary collateral in his vision of stability

Haunted by his trauma at Chernobyl, he projects his guilt into a compulsive need to prevent further disasters through absolute order

Uses his position to manipulate political players and shadowy organizations, ensuring no secret slips, no chaos erupts

His “children” are watched closely and corrected swiftly

Lives behind layers of secrecy and detachment

Privately struggles with the suffocating burden of his responsibility and his inability to truly protect those he cares for

Design Notes/Character Study

Mirror to Victor Serdtsev

Both academics around the same age who were under the USSR but each turned out VERY different

Inverted color schemes

Take design points and swap them

Holds a handkerchief for his mild hemoptysis

Hunched

Shaky hands

Obsessive behaviors

See Poirot for reference

Very concerned with health and safety

"Helicopter parenting" - authoritative ideology comes from care, not apathy

Associations with Boron: Boron has 3 valence electrons, like the symbol on the atom

Years in isolation made him awkward in social environments

Formally dressed, but with a deeply casual, cerebral, sometimes haunted energy; rumpled, disheveled

Neutral palette

References: President Snow, David Attenborough, Richard Feynman, Noam Chomsky, Oppenheimer (Cillian Murphy in Oppenheimer)

Time has not been kind - emphasize his age

Speaks Romansh

Pictured:

Reference to Gloria Ramirez tragedy: emphasizes his ideals of utilitarianism

Reference to Polonium-210 assassination: ironic given his hatred towards the Soviet Union

Assigned a brown color scheme: he is stuck in the past despite his attempts to leave it

[7-wonders]

All the Debts I Owe

Sith!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Summary: A routine Rebellion meeting goes horribly wrong when the Empire discovers the coordinates, but the Force has other plans for you besides death and chaos. Enter none other than the Sith Lord who's become a perennial thorn in your side.

Word count: 3.8k

A note from the author: Hello there! It's been a while since I've actually written anything (like, six months), so I hope this is good! This fic is a part of my Rebel-verse, where reader is a Rebel and Anakin is Darth Vader, just without the crispiness and chopped-off limbs.

(Also, there are a couple of little Easter eggs in here that you'll hopefully pick up on if you've read my other works in this AU. Let me know when you find them!)

I sincerely hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love to hear from you! Likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make my world go round :)

“...and the cost of fighter fuel will be supplemented by our trade alliance with Endor,” General Kessyk finishes reading from the tablet in front of her, and you have to hold in a sigh of relief when you realize that she’s reached the end of her prepared remarks.

The clock ticking loudly on the wall in the meeting room of the Rebel base on Mandalore has been the only thing keeping you from zoning out during the last half hour of the special session called by General Kessyk. When you joined the Rebel Alliance, you pictured your life to be nonstop action, fighting battles and gathering intelligence in the fight against the Galactic Empire. And sure, that’s been a good chunk of your time as a Rebel. But as you’ve climbed the ranks and slowly earned your way into a leadership position, you’ve come to the unfortunate realization that being in charge of the Rebellion involves a lot more administrative duties than you anticipated.

Including sitting through a boring budget meeting, of all things, to discuss how the Rebellion will be funded for the next half rotation.

Oona, your friend and second in command when your crew is out on a mission, nudges your side and slips a piece of paper into your hand. When you open it and look down to read the message, you have to hold in a burst of laughter. “Should I bring up the General’s shiny new robes and ask where the budget for that came from?” it reads.

“I don’t know what would be the worse reaction, her getting upset at your insubordination or her pulling out a detailed expenditure report,” you scribble quickly and hand it back to her.

Oona shoots you a cheeky grin and starts to write her own response, only for you both to be startled out of your merriment by the general calling your name.

“Yes, General?” you ask, pretending like you’ve been listening the entire time and definitely not forcing yourself to count each tick of the clock to keep from dozing off.

“I was inquiring about the status of your requested budget for the Jedi recruitment mission in the Outer Rim, Commander.” Though the Togruta tries to look stern, you can see the way that her lips just barely twitch as she tries to hide the soft spot she has for your antics. Kessyk has a tough exterior, indeed, but she fiercely loves those under her command, and has to often remind herself that she’s in charge.

“Of course.” You begin to pull up your (hastily completed last night) budget request when your heart seizes in your chest. 

The Force screams danger! at you a split second before the unmistakable sounds of TIE fighters overhead ring in your ears. Red sirens alerting the base of adversaries start screeching, and everybody scrambles to well-rehearsed places to try and decipher what’s going on. You unclip your lightsaber and ignite it, as do a couple of other assembled Force users. It’s second nature at this point to assume command of a crisis situation, so you look to your trusted right-hand woman, already at a blaster cannon.

“Oona, set blasters to fire and send out a distress signal to the fleet!” She nods, and you focus on the next order of business: getting out there and fighting whatever it is that’s come to attack.

Unfortunately, bombs drop before you can even take a step, giving way to screaming and smoke and, eventually, silence.

•••

In the years since he eschewed the Jedi Order and turned to the Dark Side, Darth Vader has gotten very good at compartmentalizing. Restoring peace throughout the galaxy and carrying out the Emperor’s wishes could often be brutal and bloody, so he had to make sure that he wouldn’t crack under the strain of the horrors he both witnessed and carried out. It was a little like turning a switch on and off. Before a mission, the humanity that he held within him, that wish for no more death and destruction, was hidden away, instead replaced entirely by Sith values. He was then able to do what must be done without any hesitation. 

(The aftermath of turning that switch back on and being faced with what he had done was horrific, but he secretly felt as though he deserved it—that it was his penance for all of the pain that he caused.)

There were times when compartmentalizing was easier said than done—killing the younglings all those years ago at the Jedi Temple, for example, had truly tested his newfound ability to do so. But there are other times, such as when intelligence points the Galactic Empire to a meeting of the top forces of the Rebel Alliance, that make it easy to shut a more humane part of him down and focus on the victory ahead. And now, as he stands aboard his destroyer and stares down at the smoldering carnage of the Rebellion’s Mandalore base, victory tastes sweet.

“Lord Vader, I have good news.” Admiral Batch, one of the few admirals not petrified of him, sidles up next to him. “The Rebels were caught completely off-guard, and as a result, we can confirm there have been over 20 casualties of high-ranking members of the Rebel Alliance.”

“Good news indeed,” Vader speaks through the modulator of his mask. “Are there any confirmed names that we can take back to the Emperor?”

“None for certain, until we can get down there and see identities for ourselves. We do know that General Kessyk was in the building, as well as a number of Force-sensitive Rebels.”

The moment that last fact actually registers with Darth Vader is the moment that his carefully constructed cruel facade collapses, allowing the Force to finally come screaming at him and tell him of the major mistake he’s made. How could he have not thought of the possibility that you, his Rebel, would be involved in this meeting? Through both Empire intelligence gatherings and the begrudging revelations from you that your responsibilities had been increasing due to your importance in the Rebellion, he should have made the connection that you were now one of those high-ranking members.

Instead, he allowed his anger and his passion to cloud his thinking until the only thing he could focus on was winning. It’s a move that has brought him pain countless times in the past, and now, it seeks to do so again. Vader has to force himself to remain calm, lest he lose control of his emotions and allow his connection to the Force to wreak havoc on his surroundings. 

He takes a couple of deep breaths before feeling like he can speak in a level tone. “Thank you, Admiral Batch.”

The admiral bows his head in respect. “My lord,” he says, turning and heading back to the command center on the destroyer.

There’s not a moment to spare once the panel to the observation deck seals and leaves him alone. He needs to get down to the surface of Mandalore before any Stormtrooper teams can beat him there and start confirming the dead and injured. Darth Vader hurries back to his chambers, where he sheds his bulky uniform and switches into a set of unassuming robes. Clipping his lightsaber to his belt, he pulls his hood up over his head and proceeds to sneak out of the destroyer and into a cruiser—an easy feat when one has the Force on their side.

The Rebel base, once so well hidden in one of the capital’s abandoned industrial districts, is now completely exposed after the barrage of Empire bombs shelled through its defenses. Rubble and detritus are strewn in every direction, making his path to the coordinates of the meeting room that much more difficult to maneuver. Vader takes great care to stay hidden under any outcroppings of the ceiling still standing, hyperaware of the fact that he could be spotted at any moment.

When he finally reaches the room where the Rebellion’s best and brightest were meeting, he pauses as he takes in the carnage in front of him. It’s nowhere near the first time that he’s stood in a room full of bodies, their injuries and deaths partially (sometimes fully) attributed to him. But it is the first time that he’s been so concerned for the welfare of one of the potential bodies. Vader’s frantic eyes scan the faces of the dead and wounded, both hoping and not to see you among them. If he doesn’t see you, it either means that you’re somewhere safe and far away from here or that you’re buried so far under the wreckage that he’ll never be able to find you. Likewise, if he does see you, he’ll have concrete proof that you’re either alive…

…Or dead.

A pit opens up in his stomach at the mental image he’s unconsciously created, and he forces his eyes to work faster, to take in more and more information until there’s no doubt left for his mind to play with. Finally, in the corner of the room, he sees your face peeking out from behind a crumbling column. He has the briefest moment of deliberation, a ghost whispering in his ear that he’s gotten too wrapped up in this whole situation, persuading him to turn back now, cut his losses, and find something else to focus his attention on. Then there’s a pop and a sizzle, a chunk of ceiling breaking off and hitting a pile of embers across the room, and the ghost disappears.

It feels like Vader teleports with how fast he makes it to you, though that is not a skill that the Force grants. Falling to his knees at your side, his hand shakes as he places two fingers on your neck, terrified of the potential outcome when he tries to find a pulse. After a stressful few moments, he’s relieved to feel your pulse beating steadily under your skin. With the knowledge that you’re firmly alive in mind, he takes a moment to actually look you over. 

You’re covered in blood and soot, making it difficult for him to determine where you’re injured. Your right arm is definitely broken, and it looks like your right ankle is, too. The extent of your injuries can be determined later by a medical droid. What matters now is that you’re alive, and that you’re stable. 

Everything else is secondary.

•••

The first thing you realize upon waking up is that you have no memory of how you came to be in a position where you would need to wake up. The last thing you remember, you were trading notes with Oona to pass the time during a budget meeting. Now you’re here…if only you knew where ‘here’ was.

It’s more difficult for you to open your eyes than it normally is, and when you do finally pry them open, your blurry vision prevents you from discerning where you are. Picking a light source in the distance, you focus on that until the room finally comes into focus and you see that you’re surrounded by white. White walls, white floors, white counters. The logical part of your brain says that it could mean you’re in a medbay. But the logical part of your brain feels…fuzzy, almost. Like there’s a blanket of clouds settled over your consciousness and making silly notions like logic and reason fly somewhere far away

“Am I dead?” you ask yourself.

Somebody laughs at you from across the room, and you look to see none other than Darth Vader, sans mask and cape and all other vestments that he wears as a Sith Lord, strolling towards you. “No, thankfully.”

Blinking rapidly doesn’t get him to disappear in a mirage, but it does serve to dry out your already-unreliable eyes. “Well, now I really think that I might be dead.”

“Not if I had anything to say about it. Which, I did, and it’s why you’re not dead.”

A puff of air leaves your nose—it’s meant to come out as a laugh, but parts of your body seem to not want to cooperate today, so a puff of air is all you manage. The action makes your nose begin to itch fiercely, and as you jerkily lift your hand to alleviate the sensation, you’re stopped at the sight of the blue bacta cast that covers your arm from wrist to elbow.

“Oh.”

“The med droids did it,” he explains sheepishly, as though you might be mad at somebody attempting to heal what must be a significant injury. “Your right ankle is in a cast, too, as are your ribs. The report from the droid earlier said that your injuries are healing at the expected rate, so you should only need to be in them for a few more cycles.”

“What happened?” you mumble.

“What do you remember?” Vader asks.

“There was a meeting, and I was getting called out by Kessyk for not paying attention. Then…” you try to think, but the blanket of clouds presses down on you further and makes everything scatter. “Ugh, I feel funny.”

“Pretty sure you’re on some heavy painkillers right now.” He grabs a tablet from the end of your bed and looks at it. “You’re definitely on some heavy painkillers right now,” he amends.

“How did I get injured enough to need enough drugs to take down a bantha?”

“The Empire received intelligence that some high-ranking members of the Rebellion would be meeting on Mandalore, and the decision was made to carry out a bombing mission. I didn’t even begin to think that you were one of those high-ranking members until after the bombs had been dropped.”

“Wow, you don’t think I’m good enough at my job to be a high-ranking Rebel?” If you had full control over yourself right now, you would be slapping a horrified hand over your mouth and begging yourself to shut up. Instead, you giggle (oh, the horror) at Vader’s panicked expression and bat at his hands with your own uninjured one. “I’m just messing with you. We both know that I’m really good at my job.”

“We do,” he agrees before continuing. “I couldn’t just leave without knowing if you were there, so I commandeered a fighter and went down myself. When I saw you laying there, injured…I wouldn't leave you to whatever your fate might have been if I hadn’t interfered. So I brought you here, to my fortress on Mustafar, to recover.”

A med droid interrupts your conversation when it begins to do a routine round through the medbay and sees that you’re awake. You allow it to poke and prod you, checking your vitals and doing whatever scans it needs, aware the whole time of Vader watching you. His stare is unwavering, closely supervising the droid as though it might rebel against its circuitry and try to harm you instead of heal you. When the droid chirps at him, he glares.

“I am letting you do your job, 21-B,” he huffs.

More chirping, followed by a whistle.

“That’s uncalled for.”

“You can understand it?” you ask, watching the scene in front of you with amusement.

“I’ve been able to understand droids since I was a young boy. For better or for worse.”

When 21-B beeps, even you can tell it's displeased. Vader rolls his eyes and proceeds to argue with the droid a bit longer before turning to you.

“Your temperature is starting to rise a little, and 21-B’s worried it’s an early sign of infection. He wants to give you some medicine to combat that. Is that alright?” You’re a little surprised that Vader is both taking the time to explain the droid’s requests to you and making sure that you consent to the care plan.

You nod, and 21-B begins to fiddle with the IV in your hand before injecting what you assume is the needed medicine into your line. There must be a sedative effect to this medication as well, because your body quickly begins to feel like gravity is no longer going to be able to hold you down anymore. You try to fight the way that your eyes flutter, willing yourself to keep focused on Vader. There are still so many questions you have that need answered!

“Do you know who died?” you ask quietly, using the stores of strength you still have within you to speak.

“Not for certain. There was…a lot of carnage when I came to find you. I couldn’t see who was alive and who wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Although such a revelation certainly warrants a better reaction, one syllable is all that you can muster.

Vader smiles just slightly at your struggle. “Focus on resting, and I’ll see if I can find answers for you, okay?”

You think you mutter an affirmative answer, but unconsciousness pulls at you before you can be sure. 

Though it feels like you merely blink, when you open your eyes once more, the shadows in the medbay are much longer than they were when you last saw them. One glance around the room reveals Darth Vader sitting in a chair at the foot of your bed, watching something on a holocron. When he notices you struggle into a sitting position, he powers it off and tosses it on a counter behind him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Better,” you respond truthfully. You feel a little stronger than you did earlier; your mind is markedly clearer, too.

“Good. The droid said that your temperature returned to normal about an hour ago.”

“That’s good.” 

Even though you should be focused on yourself, asking more questions about your own prognosis, your mind is with your team and your fellow Rebels—or, you fear, what’s left of them.

“Did you…learn any of the names of the injured and dead?” you ask.

Vader nods and takes a deep breath (Does his face lose a little color? you wonder as you watch his expression for any clues). “I did. General Kessyk is dead.”

You’re almost expecting that answer, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. And in a normal circumstance, you would hide that hurt until you could break down away from anybody. But this isn’t a normal circumstance. You’re hurt and thankful to be alive and probably still a little high on pain meds, which is why you have to stare intensely down at the cast on your arm to keep the stray tears that hit your blanket from turning into full-on crying in Darth Vader’s presence. To his credit, he is incredibly patient with you, remaining silent and giving you the space to feel your feelings. 

You manage to get yourself under control quicker than expected, sniffling a couple of times before you can meet his eyes again.

“My second in command—my best friend—was there with me.” It’s hard to get the words out, as a selfish part of you wants to not ask, but instead live in this gray area where she’s both alive and not. “Did you hear anything about someone named Oona?”

The control that you had been so proud of yourself for exercising crumbles the moment that you hear him say that Oona’s injured, but alive. Tears that were vanquished mere moments ago return in full force until you’re sobbing.

Not just crying, no. Sobbing. Like, gross, heaving sobs. The type of sobbing that will most definitely leave you feeling embarrassed later for having such an emotional reaction. At the moment, though, sobbing seems like the only way to properly express your feelings. Relief, at Oona being alive. Grief, for your general and likely a number of others who have lost their lives. And something bittersweet—some emotion you can’t truly place—for yourself and the position you’ve found yourself in.

After a few moments of indecision, Vader rises awkwardly from his chair and hovers inches away from you, unsure of what to do.

“I’m so sorry, Anakin,” you try to apologize in between sobs. “Really, I’m just—”

“Please don’t apologize,” he insists uncomfortably as your breath gets caught in your throat, causing you to almost hyperventilate as you try to remember how to breathe.

Darth Vader is a Sith Lord, and you’re a Force-sensitive Rebel; enemies, that much is true. But first and foremost, you’re both human beings who possess human traits and tendencies. Vader can’t help but sympathize with you, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder before he’s even fully aware of the action. Likewise, when your body recognizes another human who’s willing to provide you comfort in a time of need, it acts by taking his hand in your own and beginning to pull him down onto the bed before logic can say otherwise. 

“You don’t want me to hold you,” Vader tries to convince you while he’s climbing onto the bed with you and carefully avoiding your various bacta casts to slide his arms around you, somehow unaware that he’s the one taking the comfort further than just the simple hand-holding and proximity that you initiated. “I–I’m the reason for this. You should be sending me away.”

“Shut up,” you mumble into his chest through hiccuping sobs. 

Already, your breath seems to come a little easier, your tears a little lighter. And the Force, which is always humming around you with something to say, has gone contentedly silent. 

When you find yourself calm enough to dry your eyes and lift your head off of Vader’s chest, you have to fight a sudden bout of shyness to be able to actually look at him. “Sorry for crying on you so much,” you mumble bashfully.

“I promise you, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Vader assures. “If anything, I’m surprised that you aren’t angry at me.”

“How can I be, when I would have done the exact same thing?”

He doesn’t bother to hide his shock. “Really?”

“Yes,” you admit with a laugh. “I absolutely would have bombed a meeting of Empire officials, and then belatedly realized you were probably there and tried to get you out safely against my better judgment.”

“Judgment seems to not be either of our strong suits right now. None of what’s happening to us follows any rationale,” Vader says.

“No,” you agree. “We should be mortal enemies.”

“Absolutely.” Vader tightens his grip around you. “Once we figure out why the Force keeps doing this to us, we’re right back to trying to kill each other without any qualms.”

“So glad we’re on the same page.”

You’re so on the same page, in fact, that neither you nor Vader let go of the other. Better to keep the Force happy, right?