#the hearing clinic worthing

[nowhere302]

does anyone want to donate to my laser hair removal fund I keep hurting myself trying to get this hair off of me

[iniquitousyearning]

tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers. 

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.

[floweycidal]

i keep thinking about how flowey had to construct the very concept of cruelty from the ground up.

not from watching anyone else, not by osmosis, but by cobbling it together himself in the garden where he woke up. alone.

this was a child who fell asleep to his mother's stories, who knew every inflection of his father's laugh. who spent endless golden afternoons with his sibling, both of them doubled over with giggles as they filmed their silly videos, messing up on purpose just to hear each other laugh. again. and again. and again.

so warm. so safe. where the gravest offense imaginable was maybe tracking mud on the carpet.

the worst fear, disappointing people who would love you anyway.

where could he even begin?

save. say these words that once meant comfort, but twist them just so. watch their eyes dim as something inside them breaks. load.

save. make a promise—you remember those, how snug they once made you feel—then shatter it. document exactly how hope crumbles. load.

save. try another combination. another betrayal. watch what splinters differently this time. load.

the world's loneliest science experiment.

look at the cruelty he creates, it's all so personal, specific. so devastatingly asriel.

watch how often he comes back to the idea of being replaced. of being forgotten. how he taunts you with the possibility that none of your relationships matter, that everyone will move on without you. that none of your choices mean anything in the end.

your fault. your responsibility.

if only he you hadn't made anyone love him you. If only he you hadn't loved them back.

of course he'd fixate on all that. how could he not? his mother, who used to speak his name like it was sacred, those tender words she reserved for him—for THEM—are now handed out indiscriminately, like candy to anyone who asks.

all he can do is take note: see how easily love transfers? see how simple it is to fade away?

so, he sneers. taunts you with the thought that it's all dust. you're just another passing face in the crowd. nothing lasts. nothing is worth the weight of caring. but even as he pushes that narrative, as his voice drips with contempt, he is still out there. in the ruins. checking on her.

observing from a distance, like maybe if he watches long enough, his past will solidify into something he can hold again.

flowey develops his cruelty like he's trying to solve an equation. if this word plus this action equals pain, then surely there must be some formula that yields not caring anymore.

if he'd just gotten it right. if he'd just kept everyone at a distance. if he could just be flowey. save. load. the answer has to be here somewhere.

but how do you quantify the sting of hearing her say "my child" to someone else? how do you account for the absence left in the places where joy once thrived? how do you document, in clinical terms, why you keep watching over people you swear don't matter anymore?

you don't devote yourself to perfecting devastation unless you remember, with searing clarity, what it felt like to be whole.

you don't give so much of yourself mastering the art of ridiculing attachment unless you're terrified of how much you still have left to give.

unless every attempt to prove love meaningless just confirms how much meaning it still has for you.

...point IS! flowey did an interesting job creating his own idea of a bully. it's all pathological. so crudely stemmed from his own sorrows and fears. he's created his own textbook definition of meanness...but then every chapter's just him screaming in a mirror.

[captain-huggy-bear]

In Sickness and in Health

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Talks of sickness and the grossness of it

Summary: You've convinced yourself that you're not actually that ill, mostly because setting cover for your lessons is more trouble than its worth. Quinn is having none of it.

Notes: I have a chest infection and convinced myself that I was making it up and it wasn't that bad, apparently it is. So I figured Quinn is the voice of reason that I need in my life.

Thank you for the 400 followers as well! Very much appreciated :D

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Quinn's watching you like a hawk from the doorway to the living area, you're bundled up on the couch with at least 3 blankets (far too many for how warm the apartment is), tissues piled high in a bin next to you as you wheeze into another. You've opted for your most comfortable clothes in an effort to make yourself feel better as you cough and cough and cough some more. Your cough is harsh and can only be described as hacking, for someone who has never smoked a day in her life you sound like you've smoked 20 packs a day for 50 years. Your chest crackling and rattling, wheezing in a way that sounds unnatural and decidedly unhealthy.

He hates it, hates that every single night for the past few weeks you've been awake in the night, coughing so hard you make yourself throw up violently, head hanging over the toilet bowel, his hands coming to hold your hair out of the way. He hates that you've taken to sleeping on the couch in an effort not to disturb him, worried about his sleep schedule even though he can hear you through the walls and would feel better if you were beside him in the night. He hates that you've been going into school, teaching while struggling to breathe simply because you feel guilty about taking a day off, about the extra work for others and because somehow you've convinced yourself that 'its not that bad'. He hates that he can't snap his fingers and make you better. He hates seeing you sick, worse still seeing you sick and not properly looking after yourself. Worse still feeling powerless to help.

His eyes narrow this time as you cough so hard you bend in two, whimpering as your body tries to expel phlegm from your chest and fails. Only succeeding in causing your chest to hurt even more and for you to taste blood in the back of your throat. You're practically shivering from discomfort and he decides he can't take it anymore. He's fed up of being the nice boyfriend that lets you hurt yourself further because you're feeling guilty and deluded. Because you're being a bit of a brat, a stubborn arse. A stubborn arse he loves, but a stubborn arse anyway.

"That's it. I'm taking you to the doctors." He's already reaching for your coat by the door, and bending down to pick up your shoes. Even as your head turns to him slowly, eyes half-open and fatigued, mouth opening in protest.

"I'm fin-" You're cut off by your own cough, wheezy and rattling, the sort that is definitely not 'fine', "I'm fine, it's just a cough. It's nothing, it'll go soon..." You've been saying this for 2 weeks and it's less reassuring and believable at the near 3 week mark.

"You've been up every night for 2 weeks. I'm taking you to the doctors." It's a Saturday morning and he knows the walk in clinic is open, he also knows he won't get you to agree to go on a school day. This is his best chance and Quinn's decided, as he looks at the pallor of your skin and the limpness of your body, that you're going even if he has to carry you out to his car. Even if he has to drag you kicking and scream like a naughty toddler. Even if he has pictures all over the internet and headlines exclaiming 'Canuck's Captain, Bully of a Boyfriend?'. If it means you'll get better he'll take all the press, all the stares, all the heat.

"I'm not even that sic-" Once again, your cough interrupts you and this time, Quinn cuts in before you can continue. He's crouching in front of you, your shoes placed beside your feet in their snoopy socks.

"Baby, you might have gas lit yourself into believing that, but I know better. I'm taking you to the doctors, we're going to get you some meds. That's final." Quinn treats you like a princess, always has, and sure he usually takes a more dominate and traditional role in the relationship. But, it's rare for him to lay down the law, for him to outright remove your choice. Mostly, because you usually make the wise one anyway...today, you seem determined to put your health at risk and if that means he has to force you to do something you'd rather not? Well, the captain in him will come out to play and nice boyfriend Quinn will go take the bench. Nice isn't going to keep you healthy. Letting you get your way isn't going to make you better.

"Quinn..." Even the way you say his name is wheezy and it hurts, it hurts your chest to breathe, to speak. A sort of dull ache, a discomfort that deep down you know isn't normal...even as you try to push through.

"Shoes on. Now." His voice is sharp, not unkind, but firm. It's an order, not a request. A voice he rarely uses with you. Quinn only uses it under 2 scenarios: 1) You're putting yourself at risk and he's sorting it out or 2) it's an agreed role choice for your bedroom. He'd rather not have to use it for the first reason, but you're not really leaving him any choice.

"Bu-"

"Shoes, baby." He softens the tone, pulling back a little on the captain voice even as he grabs your right foot and forces you to put your first shoe on. You seem to give in, letting him help you into your shoes, tying them so they're supportive and comfortable.

He stands, reaching for your hands to pull you to your feet, holding onto your arms as you sway, lightheaded and dizzy at the upward movement. It takes longer than he would like for you to recover and it settles Quinn's mind even firmer on the course of action he's taking, helping you into your coat before leading you out of the apartment.

It's slow going, you're dizzy and short of breath and each step seems to take you even longer than normal. But, he's just happy to get you to his car, knowing that the next step is the triage walk-in centre 15 minute away.

You practically slump in the passenger seat, curling towards the door, blinking as the streets pass by. You have to admit, even if not audibly, that Quinn's right. This isn't just a cough, you feel like death warmed over and you know there's something not quite right. Even if you're loath to admit it. Even your students had picked up on how ill you were this week, being extra nice for once and not forcing you to yell at them like they knew you physically couldn't raise your voice even if you wanted to (which you didn't). Even the two boys you'd asked to stay behind to talk to about their behaviour had been patient when you'd had a coughing fit, unable to address their poor behaviour for a good minute.

When you finally arrive at the medical centre, he's very tempted to carry you inside, but you just about accept his arm as he helps you to the door and to the front desk. He takes over, describing your symptoms to the receptionist as you wheeze beside him, pressing your face into his arm as you seek some sort of comfort and you don't stop when you sit in the tiny uncomfortable seats waiting for your turn to see a nurse. Seeking his body for comfort, Quinn runs his fingers through the ends of your hair, occasionally rubbing the nape of your neck. He hates the way you whine into him, like everything is wrong with the world. He hates that he can't immediately fix how you're feeling.

It takes longer than Quinn would like for your name to be called, in the time it takes you're so tired from the outing that you're almost falling asleep on him. Your breathing is shallow and laboured as you wheeze in and out. All he can do is offer comfort and support, even as he forces you to stand once again and make the walk to the nurse's examination room.

You struggle through describing your symptoms, Quinn jumping in when he feels you're underplaying them or have missed something out. The nurse takes your blood oxygen levels, tutting as she does, and gets up to listen to your chest.

"I know what I'm going to hear already, but let's have a listen." The stethoscope is cold as she lifts the back of your shirt and slips it against your skin. You try to breathe in and out as normal as she moves from each section of your back, the top down to the bottom, left to right.

"Just as I thought, very crackly in the bottom left of your lungs...you've got a pretty nasty chest infection, lovely." She gestures for you to take a seat and you ignore the look Quinn gives you from the corner of your eye, the sort that screams 'I told you so.'

"Right, I'm going to prescribe you a course steroids and a course of antibiotics. You need to take 8 of the steroids in the morning for 4 days, just take the first dose the moment you get home today. The antibiotics you need to take for 5 days, 2 today and then 1 a day for the remaining 4, okay?"

You nod at her instructions, not feeling much like talking. You know Quinn is mentally cataloguing each instruction so that he can make sure you take your medication right and fully. A relief because you're so tired you're not sure you'd remember right now.

She prints out your prescription and hands it to you, which you promptly hand to Quinn, who holds it tight like he's scared it'll blow away in the windless room.

You both thank her as you leave and Quinn insists on going straight to the pharmacy next door and putting your prescription in. It takes longer than he wants, 20 minutes before you have your meds in hand and he's ushering you back to the car and strapping you in because you look too tired to do it yourself. You hold the little paper bag of medicine on your lap and watch him as he drives, your blinks are slow and tired and he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, clearly worried. Quinn's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

The moment you're in the apartment, he's helping you from your coat and shoes, ushering you to the coach and helping you sink down into it, your head drooping as your arms dangle between your knees.

"I'm going to get your meds ready, okay? Just sit right here, baby." His hands run over your hair, across your shoulders, comforting strokes as he watches you struggle. He's relieved you have medicine now, even if he's angry that it took so long to convince you to get checked out. The anger isn't directed at you, but at himself and at the schooling system, the guilt its put into your head. The feeling that you can't be sick, can't take a day off. Anger that he'd allowed you to put this off for so long when he should have pushed more.

"Okay...Thanks, Quinny..." Your voice is fragile, delicate and his chest aches at the way you look up at him with tired, red eyes. Tired, hardly sleeping, fatigued from an infection attacking your body and still so thankful for him.

"No trouble at all, baby." Quinn leans down pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering slightly as you sway into him, eyes closed and nearly fall forward when he pulls away. But, Quinn's hands are there to right you, gently leaning you back against the couch pillows.

In the kitchen area he pours you as big glass of water and counts out 2 antibiotics, dark green capsules, and 8 tiny uncoated steroid tablets.

When he reaches you he hands you the glass, watching as you take a big gulp, holding it in your mouth as you gesture for the first pill. One at a time he hands them to you, watching as you swallow each with a healthy mouthful of water to make them go down easier. You shiver at little after each, like your body doesn't want you to take them, but they go down easy enough.

"Baby, I think you should go lay down in bed..."

"Mmm..." You're starting to feel sick, nausea hitting as your body processes the unfamiliar but strong medication. Your head is pounding, you feel like you're going to be sick and it's with nothing short of gentleness that Quinn scoops you up into his arms, your head nuzzling into his neck.

"C'mere..." You're not a light person, adult humans generally aren't, but Quinn has spent years as a pro-athlete training his body and in more recent years making sure he can bench as much weight as possible so carrying you isn't ever an issue. For reasons like this. The need to support you when you're sick or hurt. The idea that you might need him like this and he be unable to provide was simply unacceptable.

He moves carefully, steady so as not to rock you too much or too harshly as he walks you the short distance to your shared bedroom. He's gentle as he deposits you on the bed, helping you pull the blankets up around you as he sits beside you, fingers tracing a path over your forehead and down your cheek.

"How you feeling, baby?"

"Dizzy...nauseous...feel horrible, Quinny..." You almost sound like you might cry a little, a shakiness to your voice that pulls at his heart strings.

"I'll go make you some ginger tea for the nausea..." Quinn goes to get up but you're gripping his hand as hard as you can, eyes blinking up at him blearily, a pout directed his way that you know he can't really say no to. "No. Stay, cuddles please."

"Okay, baby, cuddles."

Quinn wastes very little time getting into bed besides you, letting you curl into him, your leg slung over his hip and your face pressed into his sternum like you could bury yourself in his chest and hide away from how you feel. All he can do he does, wrapping you up tight in his arms, hand rubbing soothing circles across your back.

Your breathing is shallow and shaky, swallowing as the nausea hits in waves. You can feel Quinn pressing kisses to your hair, your temple and it makes you feel better even if it doesn't take the sick feeling from your stomach.

"Thank you for looking after me..." You mumble it against his jaw, pressing a light kiss there, energy to do anything more none existent. Quinn responds with a kiss of his own to your hair, fingers reaching up to run through the ends as you nuzzle closer to him, chest to chest.

"I'm always going to look after you, baby. That's my job..."

"No...you're job is...your job is to play hockey." You sound a little confused and dazed, not really a surprise with the brain fog you've had this entire sickness. You seem to struggle to realise that he's not being literal, but it's cute. It's cute now he knows you're being medicated and not letting yourself get progressively worse and more and more likely to end up with pneumonia.

"Mm, that's my paying job, sure...but you're my real job. I just want to make sure you're okay, baby...especially when you're stubborn." Quinn's fingers rest on the nape of your neck, massaging the tense muscles there as you press further into his neck, little kisses being left like it's the only thing you have the energy for. It's sweet, even as you wheeze and rattle like an old change machine.

"I'm sick, don't be mean to me." Your voice is pouty and playful, and there's a slight relief in it for Quinn. That if you're being playful you're probably feeling a little better, a little more like yourself. He readjusts your leg around his hip, a hand resting there to keep you close.

"Never, baby. I love you too much to be mean to you."

"Liar." There's no animosity in it, just playful back chat that has him leaning back slightly to look at you with raised eyebrows.

"Oh, I see you're already feeling better? Absolute brat." Quinn grins at you for the first time in days, the relief that you're feeling even slightly better, the feeling of accomplishment at having convinced you to go to the doctor's, all combining to make him feel lighter than he has in a while.

"I'm sick, a sweet baby actually." Even you smile slightly as you look up at him, eyes slightly delirious and hazy like you're not all there right now which is probably about right. Your voice is croaky, but no less sweet to listen to.

"Mmm, sure y'are, baby. My sick, sweet girl who's also such a brat."

"Fuck off." You pretend to shove him away but he barely moves, your push weak and completely not serious. Even your voice has absolute no bite, just humour in it, the sort he's missed from you. You've been so down, so tired, so sullen that he's missed the banter, the back and forth, the playfulness that you two have.

"Alright-" Quinn pulls away, starting as if he's going to get up, but you're leg locks over his hip, arms practically crushing him to you as you stop him leaving your cuddle pile, the nest you've made, "No, stay! 'm sorry, Quinny...stay, feeling so much better with you here." You mean it. Maybe you still feel sick, nauseous and achy. Maybe your chest still hurts, your cough still rattling through you. But, being close to him helps, it makes you feel comforted in a way that you need right now and the idea of him going makes you want to cry. Even though rationally you know he's joking and not serious.

"Okay, sweet girl. I'm not going anywhere, okay?" He settles back into space next to you, hand running from your knee to your hip in soothing strokes as his other hand rubs circles over your back.

"Love you so much." You mumble it against his neck, face pressed as tight as you can, inhaling his cologne, the smell of his skin, the distinctly Quinn scent that brings you a sense of safety and comfort.

"Love you too, sweet girl."

Maybe Quinn hates the way you refuse to get help when you're sick, maybe this whole episode had terrified him to his core, made him worried sick, but God, he loves you enough that he'd do this every single year of his life if he had to.

In sickness and in health, right?

[drdemonprince]

I grew up with abstinence-only sex education, and it did a real number on me. But I’ve shaken off enough of my old cultural programming to realize that the transmission of bacteria and viruses is a thing that sometimes just happens when animals come together, no matter how stringently we might try to prevent it.

I have gotten urinary tract infections when a stray microbe found its way into my urethra after sex. Lube and bodily fluids have disturbed my vagina’s pH and caused a yeast infection many times. So has wearing a bathing suit for too long without drying it, yet another “risk” worth the pleasures of swimming along the sea wall.

Once or twice I’ve had an outbreak of cold sores, just like 80% of humans. If I’m like most people, I probably caught oral herpes when I was very young, sharing a sippy cup or rolling around at a sleepover.

None of this makes me disgusting, irresponsible, evil, or dangerous to others. It just makes me a living creature that exists in close contact with other creatures. I believe I have a responsibility to get tested regularly, to alert people who have been close to me when I get sick, and to use preventative measures like condoms, PreP, vaccines, toys, and masks to prevent the spread of infections as best I can. But I never imagine I can lead a life without risk — or that such a life would even be desirable.

There is no such thing as completely “safe” sex. A friend of mine can’t use condoms because they give her bacterial vaginosis. She chooses instead to fuck raw and take PreP and get anything else she catches treated. A guy I know who masks and tests religiously caught COVID while fisting someone (with a gloved hand!) at an air-filtered party. HPV is so prevalent that most sexual wellness clinics don’t bother testing for it, and can’t do much for a patient if they do have it. Our bodies are teeming at all times with various endemic viruses and microbes that we will never have the power to purge.

Then there are the possible costs of not having sex — vaginal atrophy, pelvic floor weakening, reduced access to endorphins, loneliness, touch starvation, the despair of harboring dreams that one never dares try. I can’t decide for anyone else which dangers loom the largest, but for me a gonorrhea shot is a fair trade for the hours of leg-cramping, bed-staining, hypno-kinky sex that led to it. There’s no guarantee that the next time I have sex it will be anywhere near as much fun, but the potential keeps me throwing the dice.

I hear quite frequently from sexually inexperienced Autistic people who crave an intimate connection, but desperately wish to remain responsible and “safe.” They want there to be a set of iron-tight rules they can follow that will guarantee they remain a virtuous person who never hurts anyone’s feelings, and never catches any sexually transmitted infection.

I understand why they want someone to impose order onto an unpredictable, terrifying world. But I can’t give that certainty to them, nor can anyone. All I can suggest is that they be honest with themselves about what they want, inform themselves of the costs and benefits to pursuing their desires, and then venture forward — proudly welcoming the correct risks into their life, rather than trying to avoid any risks at all.

Life is nothing but a negotiation of risk. If a person has gender dysphoria and they want to combat it, they must risk a transition they could one day regret. If an abolitionist wants to take a stand against the police state, they must plan for the possibility of arrest or political repression. When we open our hearts to love, we expose ourselves to grief — our partners will keep changing and growing, sometimes away from us. Each step that we take forward in life closes off potential paths. There is no avoiding this.

Instead of chasing after the false promise of “safety,” trying to remain completely insulated from harm and challenge forever, we must get better at admitting risk into our lives.

I wrote about all about the messy business of risk mitigation, and how the pursuit of perfect safety is used to justify isolation, theft of bodily autonomy, and political repression. It's free to read (or have narrated to you by the app!) at drdevonprice.substack.com

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Taking Viktor's Virginity [Viktor x Reader | Smut]

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Heavy Angst, Spoilers for Season 1, Talks of Death, Dying & Mortality, Descriptions of Physical Illness, Penetrative Sex, Implied Female Anatomy for Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader Except 'You'.

Word Count: 1,861

Viktor’s skin is pale and coated with sweat, his body heaving with every deep, laboured breath. His hands claw at the bedsheets beneath him as he lays upon his death bed. But it is not his illness that drives him so. Not today. For you sit atop him, hands gripping the clinical robes the doctor gave him as your hollow centre swallows him inch by delicate inch.

Viktor gasps, hands whitening as he holds onto the sheets not out of pain but of a pleasure he believed inaccessible to him — one he thought he’d experience no sooner than an untimely death. The knotting beneath his stomach tethers him to this coil, to you, and he contends with the foreign feeling of budding euphoria as it flowers within him.

He feels your body welcoming him, taking him deeper inside until he feels the skin of your lips pressed flush against the fine, tamed mass of dark hair that covers his skin. This tightness is not unlike that he feels in his lungs every waking moment as his illness takes hold, yet this is infinitely more desirable. He fights to open leaden eyelids and look upon you, both exhaustion and pleasure urging him to keep them screwed shut. The glow of the ceiling light frames the back of your head, making you appear as something biblical from a religion founded in a far-off land.

Between gasps, you smile down at Viktor, body rising and falling in a smooth pattern as you unsheathe his slender length before adopting it into your wanting core, the tip knocking some part sensitive and unseen within you. But this is not for your pleasure. You know this. This is solely for Viktor - to give him the most base and primal human experience there is before his expected passing.

Having been friends for some time and closer to each other than others would suspect, it hadn’t taken much to convince Viktor to give it a chance. In all honesty, you’d initially suggested it as a method of pain relief, but upon discovering that this would be Viktor’s first (and likely only) sexual encounter, you wanted to make it worth his while — make his borrowed time stand still for a tick.

Viktor gasps, his hips weakly trying to pursue yours as you lift from his length, a sheen of your arousal combined leaving his shaft wet and glistening. His bones groan and you hear, feel, them creak. He grips his teeth, the enamel cracking beneath not much pressure at all. Symptom of his sickness. You place a reminding hand to his jaw and he loosens, leaning into the warmth of your palm, vibrant and flush with life compared to his sallow complexion.

“Just relax, Viktor,” your voice is of resounding comfort, the gentle ringing of a bell. You lean forward and place your lips upon his, pressing hard enough that he can feel your intention but no pain. His lack of experience and his exhaustion show as he tries earnestly to take your lips in his like the interlocking of lovers’ hands, yet his teeth bite gently on your bottom lip, his tongue uncertain and sluggish as it licks a stripe across the gum behind your lips, counting your teeth. You give a well-natured chuckle and, gently, withdraw, and, much like the rhythm of your strokes, return, pressing flush against Viktor’s lips not just a kiss but all the experience you’ve cultivated, saving and using it just for him.

The arousal within you graduates to something greater, the building of pleasure between your legs becomes noticeable. Distracting. You push forward — through — focussing only on Viktor’s pleasure. You’d have time to pursue yours properly at a later date. He wouldn’t.

Once you’ve acquainted Viktor with the feeling of your mouth to his, your tongue slithers to the parting of his lips, the seam of his undoing. He parts them, and with a gentle rhythm you map the inside of his mouth, the originator of his sass, of his every comment that left you in stitches every time. Of his smiles which he rarely granted to anyone, especially nowadays after Jayce’s ascension to the position of councilman.

You consider pushing it out of your mind that this could very well be the last time you ever hear or see anything of Viktor’s personality. Your heart, your body, tightens and, unwittingly, you clench around Viktor. He gives a vocal reaction, moaning sharply despite his sluggish demeanour, his body rocking into yours. You wonder how he’d feel knowing that his pleasure derived from the reaction you had to thinking about his death.

This, you do push out of your mind. But you choose to remember that his mortality is the reason why you’re doing this to begin with, why this should be as special for Viktor as you can make it.

You press on, with renewed fervour, and take charge, driving your tongue deeper into the cavern of his maw and sliding it along his flaccid muscle within. You taste metal, the remnants of blood coughed up from somewhere within himself. You don’t shy from it. You commit it to memory. The folder of everything belonging to Viktor stored in your mind. You bring your hands to cup his face, manoeuvring him for his comfort and your convenience as you endeavour to remember every part of your beloved friend, inside and out.

Meanwhile, Viktor's cold, pallid hands are pressed against your exposed thighs, your bottoms and undergarments laying neatly folded on the visitor’s chair. Your warmth — both that beneath his hands and that which is swallowing his most underused asset — is unlike any he’s felt before. He’s been held, yes — granted those times had been few and far between, whether it was a quick embrace from Jayce after a breakthrough or the plush of your thighs brushing him when you would breeze past him in the lab, leaving him buzzing and distracted as he stifled the temptation to indulge in a human instinct he thought beneath him. Savage.

The memory of the latter leaves him humming. He entreats himself to the sight of you once more. His vision is blurry not just for the failing of his body but for the fact that his eyes can’t focus on you. You’re too close to see but perfectly within reach to taste. Your eyes are closed and he can feel the soft tickling of your lashes against his cheek, see the hollows of yours accentuating as your work your mouth with his to establish a rhythm. He tries to keep up with you, heaving breaths through his nose, wanting to give back to you even a fraction of all you’re giving him right now. He feels himself twitch and, though this entire situation is foreign to him, knows that his end is nigh. In more ways than one.

 Viktor feels himself engulfed in the same feeling as when he’s zapped by his own Hextech invention. He feels alive.

He wants you to know. He needs to tell you.

His words are only hums in his throat as you occupy his mouth with your own, pressing the heat of your eagerness to please against his dry, cracked lips and letting a pink flush take his cheeks. When the humming persists and you feel his fingers weakly grip the skin of your thigh, you withdraw, panting. He looks up at you between half-lidded eyes. 

“I... I need you to know that–“ he coughs and his hold on your thighs tightens so that you can feel the crescent indents of his brittle finger nails on your skin. You wish for him to press harder, deeper, so that the memory of him will persist, take longer to heal.

When he gathers his bearings, he continues: “This is the first time I’ve ever truly felt like...like I was living, not just existing.” His eyes, from what little is visible of them, seem to shine in a way you’d never seen before. The yellow of his irises hidden beneath a glow of white as the light above reflects in his eyes.

“My only concern is that, now I’ve had a taste of you — of life as it should be — I’ll fear to relinquish it when I go.” 

You see now that the glistening in his eyes comes from his tears, and, to stop him from seeing your own as they catch in your throat, you take a breath and press your lips to his, screwing your eyes shut. You’re aggressive in your pursuit, but neither you nor Viktor care. Your hands find his and, pitting them either side of his head, you interlock fingers. 

Perhaps it’s guilt that leads you to say what you say next, or perhaps it’s what you know you should say before it’s too late. Or maybe the guilt of giving Viktor something to fear losing convinces you to go all-out. Nothing to lose.

“I love you.”

Your voice is quiet, strained beneath the weight of holding back tears and the exasperation of your shared kiss, but Viktor hears you all the same. The tip of his nose presses to yours and his forehead finds yours. His last display of strength as his neck is lifted from his pillow, holding contact between two minds made for each other.

“I love you, too.”

The rhythm — albeit having warned somewhat during these minutes of revaluation — brings Viktor to a tidy end. He finishes, indicated only by the thin, weak spray of warmth you feel inside you, the drop of his head against his pillow as his orgasm saps the last of his strength, and the unrestrained moan that comes from Viktor, bouncing off the walls of this sterile tomb before dying quickly. 

These walls weren’t built for acoustics.

You don’t finish. And that doesn’t matter.

You hold hands with the brunette beneath you, feeling him gradually softening, his pulse weakening as he’s no longer pressed to the most sensitive and innermost part of you. When you’re sure he’s ready, and when you can bear to, you slide off him, shuffling off the edge of his bed and putting your underwear back on.

You're not even sensitive. No visceral evidence of your activity, no consequence. The only thing you can liken it to is the concern Viktor raised with you once privately, that of his legacy, of his contributions being too miniscule to be remembered.

Casting a glance at Viktor, you see him staring at you. And suddenly you’re shy, looking away and turning, hiding the flush of your cheeks.

Viktor chuckles before giving way to a coughing fit. Each wheeze makes your heart squeeze.

Fully clothed again, you tend to Viktor, wiping a cool cloth along his forehead, finding him a new, clean robe to change into. When you try to dispose of the other, he accosts you.

“No. Keep it.” He gives pause. Realises you can’t read his thoughts. “For me, I mean.” 

You cast him a curious look, the partially-sodden mass of white material rolled up in your arms. Viktor gives a laid-back, crooked smile. You wonder if it hurts for him to do so with how cracked they are, whether he opens old wounds when he gives you such a delicate look.

“You never know, I might want it someday. To reminisce, I mean”

Someday. A luxury many can’t afford. You just hope that Viktor wins the lottery.

Masterlist Masterpost

[nomie-11]

Chase After You - Part 2

masterlist! | part 1 | part 3

synopsis: vi is committed to making you believe in her as a soulmate, but you are having troubling believing in your own limits as her soulmate

pairings: vi x reader, lowkey ellie x dina

After your unexpected (and mortifying) first meeting, you texted Vi just so she could have your number—not because you secretly wanted to hear from her—but just in case. You didn’t expect Vi to follow through on her declaration to get to know you. You thought she’d chalk you up as a lost cause after you bolted like a spooked animal. But instead, she texted you. 

Every day. 

Relentlessly. 

And then she started texting you about meeting up, going out for dinner, hitting the gym together, all of these things that you weren’t sure you really wanted to do with her. And then she offered coffee after rotations, fitting herself perfectly into your existing rotation. 

You weren’t sure why you agreed. Maybe it was the way Vi’s eyes lit up when you said “fine,” or the near instant relief you felt when your headaches faded around her. Either way, you regretted it almost instantly. 

By the time the next Tuesday rolled around, you were second guessing everything. Caitlyn, however, wasn’t letting you back out. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so nervous,” she said, leaning on the doorway as you grabbed your work bag. “It’s just coffee. You’ve already met her. Plus, she’s been texting you all week like you’re her new best friend.” 

“She’s not my best friend,” you muttered, zipping up your bag with more force than necessary. “And I’m not nervous.” 

Caitlyn gave you a pointed look. “You’ve changed your shirt three times.” 

You rolled your eyes. “It’s just coffee, right? Not a date.” 

“Exactly,” Caitlyn agreed, though her smirk said otherwise. “But if it were a date, you’d totally nail it.”

You groaned, grabbing your jacket. “Goodbye, Caitlyn.” 

She waved you off. “Have fun with your soulmate!”

You ignored her as you left, though her words played on a loop in your mind all the way to the coffee shop. 

Vi was already waiting when you arrived, sitting at a corner table with two mugs in front of her. She looked up the moment the door chimed, grinning as if she’d been waiting for this all day. 

“Hey!” she called, waving you over. “Thought I’d grab you something—hope you like caramel macchiatos?” 

You hesitated, standing awkwardly by the table. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?” 

She nudged the chair across from herewith her foot, her grin widening. “Good guess, huh. Sit, relax. You look like you just ran a marathon.”

You muttered something under your breath but sat down anyway, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. Vi’s presence was… unnervingly comfortable, like you’d known her longer than a week. 

“So,” she said, leaning forward with her chin resting on her hand, “how was your rotation?” 

“It was fine,” you replied, trying to sound neutral. “Busy.” 

Vi nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Must be intense, though. I mean, clinicals and lectures? How do you even have time for… you know, a life?”

You shrugged, not sure how to answer. “I have three friends, so not much of a life.” 

Her smile softened, and for a moment, she just looked at you, like she was piecing something together. Then she leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest, the muscles in her shoulder pulling tight. “Okay, so here’s the deal: coffee, twice a week. My treat. We’ll call it stress relief.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

“After your rotations,” she clarified. “We meet here, twice a week. No pressure, no soulmate talk, just… getting to know each other.” 

You stared at her, unsure if you wanted to laugh or roll your eyes. “Why are you so insistent on this?” 

Vi shrugged, her grin returning. “Because you’re worth the effort. And I think you’ll figure that out eventually.” 

————————————

The first time Vi suggested ice skating, you thought she was joking. When she dragged you to the rink on your next ‘coffee date,’ you were certain it was a terrible idea. 

“I don’t know how to skate,” you protested as she handed you a pair of rentals. 

“That’s the fun part,” Vi said, already lacing hers up. “I’ll teach you.”

The first ten minutes were a disaster. You clung to the wall like your life depended on it, glaring at Vi every time she tried to coax you toward the center of the rink. 

“You’re doing great!” She called, skating backward in front of you with infuriating ease. 

“I hate this,” you muttered, taking a shaky step.

“You don’t hate it,” she said with a laugh. “You’re just mad you’re not good at it yet.” 

You glared at her, but her teasing grin was impossible to stay mad at. Slowly, she coaxed you away from the wall, her hands steadying yours as she guided you across the ice. 

You cling to Vi like she was a lifeline, your legs wobbling uncontrollably beneath you. Every time you felt even a hint of balance the ice seemed to betray you, and you found yourself clutching her arms tighter. 

“Okay, okay,” you hissed, squeezed your eyes shut as your skates slipped again. “I’m going to die, and it’s going to be your fault.” 

Vi laughed, the sound warm and genuine, echoing in the cold air. “You’re not going to die, Y/n. I’ve got you. Just trust me.” 

That was the problem. You did trust her—too much, maybe. Every time her hands steadied you, everytime she smiled and said, “You’re doing great,” you felt the knot in your chest loosen just a little. And that was terrifying. 

You stumbled again, and Vi caught you easily, her arms wrapping around your waist to keep you upright. “See?” She said, her voice soft. “Not so bad when you’ve got someone to hold on to.” 

You stared at her, your heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with skating. the pink of her hair stood out against the pale blue lights of the link, and her eyes were so full of warmth and patience that it made your stomach twist. She looked at you like you were someone worth catching. 

And that started you more than anything. 

“Are you okay?” Vi asked, tilting her head as she noticed your silence. 

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded natural. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… trying not to snap my ankle.” 

Vi smirked, her hands still warm on your waist. “Don’t worry. If you fall, I’ll catch you.” 

You wanted to tell her that the falling wasn’t the part that scared you. It was the way she made you feel safe, the way she looked at you like you mattered. It was the way your soulmate bond tugged at your heart every time she smiled, like it was pulling toward something you weren’t sure you were ready for. 

But instead, you tightened your grip on her hands and said, “Okay, but if I fall, we’re both going down.” 

Vi grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Deal. But only if you promise to let go of me and try on your own for a little longer.” 

You groaned but nodded, letting her guide you across the ice again. This time, you didn’t fight the way your body leaned into hers, and for a few minutes, you almost forgot why this was supposed to scare you.

Almost. 

——————————————

The rink was cold, loud, and way too busy for your liking when you walked through the doors for the second time. Vi had texted you the night before, practically begging you to come to her game, and just imagining her face when you showed up was enough to get you to come. 

Vi had said for you to come early so she could meet you by the rink before she had to stretch and warm up so she could introduce you to some people. 

Going to the game—not so scary. Meeting Vi’s friends? Terrifying. 

By the time you arrived, your nerves were frayed. The rink was packed with players warming up, families gathering in the stands, and the faint smell of popcorn wafting through the air. You scanned the crowd, trying to spot Vi, your anxiety building with every second. 

Then, you heard her. 

“Y/n!”

Vi’s voice cut through the noise like a beacon, and you turned to see her weaving through the crowd, half-dressed in her hockey gear. Her helmet dangled from her hand, her skate guards clinking as she walked toward you. She had that same easy grin that she normally does, the one that somehow made you feel both at ease and completely overwhelmed. 

“You made it!” she said, her voice warm with excitement. Before you could respond, she gently grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward a group near the benches. “Come on, there’s people I want you to meet.” 

You barely had time to protest before you were standing in front of two women and a baby. One of them, a tall brunette with a mischievous glint in her eye, was also half-dressed in hockey gear and holding a squirming baby on her hip. The other, a slightly shorter woman with strong facial features and kind eyes, offered you a small, polite smile. 

“This is Ellie,” Vi said, gesturing toward the taller woman. “She’s one of my best friends, and a total menace on the ice.” 

Ellie snorted, shifting the baby to her other hip. “Nice to meet you, Y/n. Don’t listen to her—she’d just mad I’m better at slap shots.” 

Vi rolled her eyes. “Anyway, this is Dina—Ellie’s soulmate.” 

Dina laughed softly, reaching out to shake your hand. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Vi’s been talking about you nonstop.” 

Your face heated instantly. “Oh, um… nice to meet you, too.” 

“And this,” Vi added, pointing to the baby, “is J.J. He’s kind of the star of the show.” 

J.J. babbled happily, reaching for your necklace. You couldn’t help but smile as his tiny fingers grabbed onto it, tugging gently. 

Oh my god, that is the cutest damn baby I’ve ever seen. 

“You want to hold him?” Dina asked, tilting her head. 

You hesitated, but Vi nudged your arm gently, catching the way your eyes lit up when J.J. aimlessly waved his hands in your face. “He won’t bite, I promise.” 

With a nervous nod, you carefully took J.J. from Ellie, his weight settling gently onto your arms and chest. He looked up at you with wide, curious eyes, and despite yourself, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. 

“There you go,” Dina said, her tone encouraging. “You’ve got the magic touch. He loves you.” 

Vi watched you with a softness you weren’t used to, her gaze lingering as you shifted J.J. to your hip to make him more comfortable. 

“You’re a total natural,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. 

You opened your mouth to respond, but the loud whistle of the referee cut through the air, signaling the last warning before it was match time. 

“That’s our cue,” Vi said, stepping closer to you. “Dina and J.J.’ll keep you company during the game. You’ll be fine.” 

You nodded, your throat suddenly dry. Vi’s hand brushed yours briefly before she grabbed her helmet and jogged off toward the ice, her pink hair bright against the deep blue and gold of her jersey. 

Dina must have noticed your nerves, because she gave you a reassuring smile. “Come on, let’s grab a spot. J.J. and I are pros at cheering for these two.” 

Ellie laughed, pressing a kiss to Dina’s jaw before follow off after Vi, leaving you and Dina to make your way to the stands. 

You settled into a seat with Dina and J.J. at your side, the baby happily gnawing on a teething ring while Dina explained the basics of the ame. You nodded along, half-listening, but your attention was on Vi. She was easy to spot—her pink hair stood out even with her helmet on, and her confident stride on the ice was impossible to miss. 

When the game started, you quickly realized why Vi had been so insistent on inviting you. She was good. She was incredible. She was hot. Watching her skate was like watching someone entirely in their own element. She moved with a precision and intensity that was mesmerizing, weaving through players like they weren’t even there, her stick handling the puck with ease. 

“Wow,” you murmured, leaning forward as she darted past three defenders and fired a shot straight into the net. The crowd erupted, and Dina gently covered J.J.’s ears to give a loud cheer. 

“She’s pretty amazing, huh?” Dina said, her tone knowing.

You nodded, not even bothering to deny it. “Yeah. She it.” 

For a moment, you forgot about the crowd, the noise, and the tug of your soulmate bond that always lingered when Vi was near. You just watched her, completely in awe of how effortless she made it look.

Then it happened—as she angled for the puck near the center of the rink, a player from the opposing team with a solid twenty pounds on Vi barreled into her at full speed, shoulder-checking her with enough force to send her sprawling to the ice. 

The moment she hit the ground, pain exploded across your shoulder, sharp and searing. You gasped, clutching at your arm instinctively, the sensation so vivid it made your vision blur. 

Dina turned to you, her expression concerned. “Y/n? Are you okay?” 

You couldn’t answer. The pain was too much, and it was everywhere—radiating from your shoulder to your chest and back. Panic clawed at your throat as you struggled to breathe, your mind spinning with her pain. 

“Y/n?” Dina’s voice was louder now, edged with worry. 

“I—I have to go,” you stammered, standing abruptly. The movement sent another jolt of pain through your shoulder, but you ignored it, clutching the armrest for balance. “I’m sorry—I can’t—”

Before Dina could respond, you bolted, the sound of the crowd fading behind you as you rushed toward the exit. Your vision blurred with tears, your chest tight as you pushed through the doors and into the cold night air. 

You had to get away. 

—-------------------------------

The cafe smelled like freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon as you sank into your usual seat across from Vi. You were both quiet today—a rare occurrence. Your post-rotation coffee ritual had grown into something steady and comforting over the past few weeks. Twice a week, like clockwork, Vi would be waiting for you. 

But today, there was a tension that clung to the air like static electricity. 

“So,” Vi finally broke the silence, fiddling with the paper sleeve on her cup. “Another big game next weekend.”

You nodded absently, staring down at your drink. “Against Noxus Central University, right? I heard they’re brutal.” 

“Yeah,” she said, her voice carrying a faint edge. “Real bruises. Should be fun, though.” 

Your stomach twisted, but you forced a neutral tone. “Fun, huh?” 

Vi raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” you said quickly, taking a sip of your coffee. 

She didn’t buy it. “Come on, Y/n. Spill.” 

You hesitated, the words clawing at the back of your throat. “It’s just… you always come out of those games looking like you’ve been through a war zone. I mean—last weekend was brutal. I thought you broke your shoulder, and I’m the one who has to feel it.” 

Her eyes widened, and her hand froze mid-fidget, “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh.” You set down the cup harder than you meant to. “I don’t know what crazy pain tolerance you have, but it felt like I was hit by a freight train. It’s a lot, Vi.” 

Her jaw tightened. “You think I don’t feel bad about that? I don’t want you to hurt because of me.” 

“Then maybe you should stop putting yourself in situations where it happens!” The words tumbled out louder than you intended, and you winced at your own tone. 

Vi’s expression darkened, her easy going demeanor vanishing. “Are you seriously asking me to stop playing hockey?” 

“I’m asking you to think about what it’s doing to me!”

She leaned forward, her voice dropping into something sharper. “And what about me, huh? Hockey’s my life, Y/n. It’s not just a game; it's who I am.” 

“Maybe that’s the problem,” You snapped, the words cutting like a knife even as you said them. 

Vi recoiled, her blue eyes narrowing. “Wow. So that’s what you think of me?” 

You opened your mouth to respond, but a familiar voice cut in. “Alright, what’s going on here?” 

You looked up to see Ellie approaching, her gaze bouncing between you and Vi. SHe stopped next to Vi’s chair, crossing her arms. “You guys never argue like this.”

“I’m not the one making unreasonable demands,” Vi muttered glaring at her coffee.

“Unreasonable?” you shot back, your voice rising. “I’m not asking for much, Vi. Just for you to stop throwing yourself in the path of a warm machine. Do you know what it's like to feel like your body isn’t your own because your soulmate tosses herself around recklessly.” 

Ellie’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t intervene. Not yet. 

Vi’s face twisted with frustration. “And do you know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly apologizing for just existing? For doing what I love? I can’t just stop being me, Y/n. Hockey’s my first love.”

“Maybe I don’t want a soulmate then!” The words erupted before you could stop them, and the moment they left your mouth, the room seemed to freeze. 

Vi’s expression crumbled, and Ellie’s sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the suffocating silence that followed. 

“Y/n,” Vi said softly, her voice cracking just enough for you to hear. “You don’t mean that. I thought we were past that.” 

You wanted to take it back, you wanted to take it back so badly, but the floodgates had opened. “I don’t believe in soulmates, Vi. I don’t and I never have. And Honestly? This—us—it’s just proving why I was right. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.” 

Ellie stepped closer, her voice low but firm. “Y/n, you’re upset. Maybe take a second before you say something you can’t take back.” 

“I already said it,” you whispered, your chest tight. “And it’s true.” 

Vi stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t believe in soulmates? After all I’ve done to try to prove to you that this could work?” 

You stood too, unable to stay still under the weight of her gaze. “You think this is easy for me? It’s not! I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove I’m enough, and now I’m supposed to be enough for you? Someone who’s fearless and— and perfect, and doesn’t need me slowing her down?” 

“Slowing me down!?” Vi’s voice rose, incredulous. “You think that’s how I see you? God, Y/n, you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m more than just… what I do.” 

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one compromising?” Your voice cracked, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded. 

“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” she said, her tone softer but no less urgent. “I’m just asking you to please, give this a chance. Stop being so defensive.” 

“And I’m asking you to understand that I can’t keep waking up in pain every time you decide to throw yourself into a fight on the ice!”

Ellie stepped between you, her hands up. “Okay, let’s all take a breath here—”

“No,” Vi said, her voice breaking. “If she doesn’t want this, then fine.” 

“Vi—” Ellie tried, but Vi was already grabbing her jacket. 

“Stop, Ellie,” Vi said, shaking her head as she turned to leave. “Come on.” 

You stood frozen, tears stinging your eyes as she walked out the door, Ellie close on her heels. 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Caitlyn appeared moments later, a confused expression on her face. “Where did everyone go?”

You just shook your head, unable to speak through the lump in your throat. 

Fuck. 

this is the second part in a three part series! read part 1 here! reader part 3 here!

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

[sticky-sugar]

ask you something. (iwaizumi hajime x reader) chapter two

>> you try to distance yourself from him for the sake of your friendship, leaving him extremely confused <<

tags/cw: idk if this counts as miscommunication???, IDIOTS in love, mutual pining gone wrong

chapter one || masterlist || chapter three

it takes all of twelve seconds in america to realize you still have feelings for iwaizumi hajime. 

you’d realized it before, in the year that he was gone. you’d realized it in the spaces that used to be his, now empty beside you. in the way you’d scramble for your phone in the middle of the night, hearing him call on his way to class. in the way seijoh hadn’t felt the same, hollow without him and oikawa. 

mattsun and makki had still been around for that year, slacking off at the convenience store down the road in between makki’s shifts and mattsun’s clinic hours. chatting your ear off whenever you’d come to say hi and looking at you knowingly when you’d mention iwa, because the man had kept up with all his friends since leaving, but mostly you. 

you’d realized that you’d fallen for your best friend, and you’d done your damn best in the months leading to your own departure to get over it. you’d done your best to get past him, because two kisses and a handful of moments couldn’t possibly be enough to risk a friendship. 

you should have realized it when you’d asked him to kiss you the first time, because, even that night, you could feel that you were asking for a different reason. it hadn’t been out of curiosity, although mattsun’s flirty remark had certainly triggered it. you weren’t just curious about kissing — you were curious about kissing him. 

iwaizumi hajime. 

he’d been sweet and careful and everything you love about him — everything that had ever made you trust him enough to ask all the things you knew you shouldn’t. because iwa would never let you down, never judge you or make you feel smaller than him for not knowing something. 

you fell for him because those things weren’t guaranteed of other boys, but they were guaranteed of him. iwa was guaranteed. 

but you had been able to recognize, on your own and over many long phone calls with oikawa, that it would be risky having feelings for iwa. that confessing to him may or may not work (oikawa was frustratingly elusive about this point), but that losing him would never be worth the confession at all. 

so you’d pushed it down. you’d pushed the feelings away, forcing yourself to think about him less. to care a little less when he wasn’t able to call because of exams, to get a little less excited when he could. to date other boys and ignore when their kisses never felt right. 

you thought you’d gotten it right. when you told iwa about your college acceptances and heard the overjoyed ‘fuck yes!’ he’d let out when you revealed you’d be joining him after all, you thought you’d gotten over him properly. because your heart hadn’t fluttered and your breath hadn’t gotten caught the way it used to. you’d just been happy, happy to have a friend like iwaizumi hajime. 

you realize now, heart in your throat and breath sucked out of your lungs as you stare out the window of airport terminal at him, that you’d been lying to yourself. 

he hasn’t seen you yet, typing away at his phone while he leans on the passenger’s side door of his car. he scowls at something, and your heart skips, because even that’s attractive. you stand just inside the automatic doors that lead out to the road, the hot california air smacking you in the face every time someone walks out to the street. 

he looks up whenever the door opens, and your heart lurches when his eyes come close to where you’re hiding. but he always misses, just dropping his gaze back to his phone when he realizes it’s not you. you watch his brows crease deeper and deeper with every minute that passes without your appearance, and he eventually swipes out of whatever he’s doing and jabs aggressively into a different app on his screen. 

you realize he’s calling when he lifts the phone to his ear. your phone vibrates angrily in your hand, and you have to steel yourself to answer it, your eyes on him when you pick up the call. 

“hello?” 

“hey.” his voice is rough and deep, and your body erupts in goosebumps, evidence that he’s still under your skin. “did you make it out okay?” 

“yeah,” you breathe. “sorry. i’m here.” 

his eyes lift, scanning the sidewalk quickly. “where?” 

“just… here,” you say, feeling safe in the corner where you can see him, but he can’t see you. “you look different, haji.” 

he straightens now, searching more earnestly. his mouth spreads in a bemused grin, and he humors you. “yeah? different how?” 

a shiver runs down your spine when he talks to you like that — teasing, but not mocking. 

“older.”

“i am older.”

“taller.”

“pretty sure i’m the same height.” 

“californian.”

he laughs, sharp and short and just long enough to show you that playful crinkle in his eyes. your heart betrays you again. 

“i doubt that, y/n.” 

his gaze passes over you now, and then he realizes it’s you, his double-take visible from here. he stares at you through the glass, eyes scanning all of you and then finding yours. you’re both silent for a moment, long enough for someone to pass you on the way out. the glass doors slide open — there’s nothing to protect you from him now. 

“you look different, too.” 

you swallow hard, watching him lean back against the car again, one ankle crossing over the other while he examines you. 

“different how?” 

“older.” 

“i am older.” 

“‘s not what i meant.” 

you wonder if he can see the sharp inhale you take in response. 

not so innocent, is what he’d meant. 

if he sees it, he doesn’t say anything about it. “parking’s by the hour, just so you know.” 

you straighten. “right. sorry.” 

he just smiles, more to himself than to you. “don’t be so scared,” he says, hearing everything that your ‘sorry’ had been about. “it’s just me.” 

that doesn’t help, so you don’t respond. you just end the call and stuff your phone away, hauling your suitcases out of the airport and across the street to the parking lot. 

when he hugs you, it’s not one of the friendly ones you’d prepared yourself for. 

he wraps both arms around your waist and bends to your height, dragging your chest flush to his. you’re left with your arms hanging in shock around his neck. 

“hi,” he says quietly in your ear, pressing one of his large hands against your spine to keep you close. his voice does more to your nerves in person than it did on the phone. 

“hi,” you whisper back. you don’t trust your own voice not to crack. 

you hadn’t gotten over iwaizumi hajime at all. 

—

hajime thinks you might be avoiding him. 

he’d noticed it the day you’d arrived ��� that you wouldn’t meet his eyes. you’d stared out the window while he’d driven you to your dorm, and you’d kept your eyes on your suitcases while he’d helped you unpack. and when he’d invited you to his apartment for dinner, you’d just mumbled that you wanted to wait – to meet your new roommate. 

he’d left you to it, trying not to show how disappointed he’d been. 

he’d missed you. he’d known that already, but seeing you standing there at the airport — the lost look in your face, your hoodie pulled all the way up over your head despite the summer weather — had kickstarted his heart. he’d missed you a lot. 

he’d spent the year before trying not to think about you. to call you a normal amount and text you a normal amount and not think about the boys you could be seeing or the things you might be doing. those things were none of his business. 

but he’d thought about them regardless, and he’d realized over the year that maybe he thought about you too much and in ways he shouldn’t. 

he’d reacted to the revelation poorly. he’d slept around, throwing all his firsts to the wind without care because they didn’t matter if they weren’t with you. it had been unhealthy, the amount of partying he’d done, the number of girls he’d hooked up with. 

he’d excused it as needing to get you out of his head, out of his system. he’d slept with girls that had looked nothing like you, girls who taught him things he’d never thought to learn. but there had always been a little piece of him that would think of you even then, your face flashing in his mind even when he was with another girl. 

there had been a larger piece, appearing frequently and leaving him feeling terrible without fail, that had known he was learning these things with the hope that you’d ask him to teach them to you. 

and he’s unable now to avoid acknowledging that it had all been in vain — all the unhealthy attempts to get over you. because the moment you’d appeared in his life again, all the partying and the sleeping around had stopped. 

in the three weeks that follow your arrival to california, hajime’s urge to drink and go out and bring girls home reduces to nothing. he just follows you around, the same way you used to follow him. 

he picks you up from your dorm every morning that first week, walking you to class and then showing you a new place on campus that he likes to frequent. this coffee shop has good espresso, but that shop is cheaper and still good for a quick stop. this library is closest to your dorm, but that one is quieter and open later. always go to this convenience store and never that one — they won’t have the snacks you like.

you absorb the information gratefully, smiling bright and giggling at his shitty jokes. you call him ‘haji’ with that child-like lilt you’d always had, and you give him your schedule for the next day when he asks for it every night. he feels that familiar tug of pleasure when he realizes he’s helping you, just like he always has. that he’s taken up his old post again as the boy you come to when you need help. it’s his favorite place to be. he’d missed it. 

but still, those moments only last a few hours each day. you still find awkward ways to decline his invitations for dinner or coffee. you mention your new dorm friends when you thank him for showing you things, saying you can’t wait to show them, too. you mention events that those friends want to go to — parties, bars, places he knows all too well — but there’s an underlying implication that he’s not invited. 

so, yes. hajime thinks you’re avoiding him. but he lets you, because he has no idea what else to do. you’ve never done this before, actively chosen the company of other people over his. 

at the end of the second week, he tries something dangerous. 

“i heard that you dated — last year.” 

he says it in the awkward lull he’s starting to realize comes toward the end of a meetup with you, when you’re trying to figure out how to make your escape. the two of you are at a coffee shop — you seem to be getting a lot done, but hajime’s just spent two hours scrolling through already read emails and typing away at a blank word document. 

you look up at him now, eyes wide and fingers wrapped around your empty coffee cup. “what?” 

he almost loses his nerve. “last year,” he says roughly, and then he reels it in, unsure if he’s still too mean. you don’t seem to think so, still just looking at him in slight alarm. he doesn’t like that so much has changed. “oikawa told me. that you dated some guys.” 

“yeah,” you say, looking over your shoulder toward the door. an animal trapped, locating all the exits. “i did. three guys.” 

he has no interest in pretending to shame you for dating while he was gone. he can tell your guarded look is about that, but he has absolutely no room to judge. “was it okay?” he just asks, shifting in his seat. you’re tapping one nail on your cup nervously. the sound makes him feel like he’s on a ticking clock, close to exploding. “were they okay?”

“yeah, haji,” you say, glancing at the door again and then dropping your eyes to your laptop. “they were okay. always respectful, never kissed me on the first date.” 

hajime’s face burns with humiliation, the memory of kissing you on your doorstep tearing a guilty hole in his chest. “okay,” he manages. “good.” he runs his fingers through his hair, searching for anything to say that’ll keep you here with him. “and they didn’t-they never-” the tapping stops, but your eyes are wary, and he doesn’t know which is worse. “-tried anything? that you wanna talk about, maybe?” 

the world stops, the space between you screeching to a terrifying, silent halt. hajime watches you search his face, eyes wide and shocked, because you know exactly what he’s asking. he knows exactly what he’s asking — he just has no fucking clue why he’d asked. 

he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. years later, he still doesn’t like feeling dumb around you. 

he wants you to need him, but he’s doing it all wrong. he wants you to ask him something, but he’s never been the one to bring it up first, to prompt you into it. he wants you to stay here, to cling to him like you used to. but he’s getting incredibly good at pushing you away. 

“no,” you whisper. “there’s nothing. they didn’t do anything.” and then you close your laptop. it sounds like a gunshot in his ears. “but, uhm, listen, i should go.” hajime turns his eyes away from you, disappointment seeping into his bones. “i told my friends i’d go to a party with them tonight…” 

he nods, staring out the window. he’d normally scramble to walk you to your dorm, but he doesn’t have it in him today. he wants to rot in a corner and not be seen by you. he feels stupid. 

“okay,” he says plainly. “have fun.” 

he doesn’t look away from the window until you’re gone.

—

you only manage three weeks into the school year without falling back into him. 

you’d done your very best to get past him, to get past these feelings that have started to break down every ounce of resolve you have. you start each day with a firm assertion in the bathroom mirror that you’ll resist him — that you’ll be strong enough to treat him like a friend, because that’s all he is. 

and then it goes out the window upon seeing him, every single time. 

every touch of his hand to your elbow, guiding you in a new direction. every press of his side against yours, the quad crowded with people. every brush of his mouth to the shell of your ear, explaining what he does and doesn’t like about the place he’s brought you to. 

you crave every single one, and then you bully yourself, angry with guilt and the feeling that you shouldn’t be so eager for the next sliver of attention from him.

when he asks in that coffee shop if there’s anything you want to talk about — if there’s anything you want to ask him, you realize — you know that you’ve lost this game. that you’re lost, hopeless against him. 

you give him some half-baked excuse about a party and run for your life, texting your roommate and begging her to find a frat party — any frat party — to take you to. you have one last weapon under your belt, one last-ditch effort to get olive green eyes and a rough voice out of your head. 

—

this guy looks nothing like iwaizumi hajime. he’s got blond hair and a lip ring, blue eyes and a baby-faced smile. he’s using it to disarm you, you can tell — he’s flashing that smile to make you think he’s innocent, but you can see how his eyes have roamed your body all night. he’s lying through his teeth, quite literally, using his sweet face to trick you into thinking he’s a nice boy. he’s nothing like iwa. 

he should be perfect. 

but when he backs you into a corner and pushes his lips against yours, it feels wrong. he’s wrong. when he attaches his mouth to your throat and starts marking you like he means it, it doesn’t feel good. it hurts a little, because he’s using his teeth, and you don’t like how it feels. 

iwa wouldn’t do it like that.

and when the blond starts getting a little pushy with his kisses, his lips messy and sloppy against yours, you feel that this isn’t how you want your night to go. 

you want to let this blond take you home, you really do. he’s pretty and bad for you. he doesn’t have olive green eyes or a rough voice. he grabs you like you mean nothing to him.

but god, you don’t want to be here anymore. not with the way he’s sliding his tongue against your bottom lip, expectant in a way you don’t want to fulfill. 

groaning, you push at his shoulders, putting distance between you. he furrows a brow at you, and you think you hear him say ‘you good?’ over the deep pulse of the frat house music. you give him a smile that you hope is apologetic, but it probably comes out as more of a grimace. 

“sorry,” you say. “i think i’m gonna head home.” 

when he lifts his brows and scoffs a little in annoyance, you really wish you would have been okay with him taking you home. he’s nothing like iwaizumi hajime. 

instead, you find yourself stumbling down the street at two in the morning, in the opposite direction from your dorm. you text your roommate, letting her know where you’re going. she just sends you kissy faces and asks you to stay there tonight, because there’s a guy she has her eyes on. 

you’re not sure he’ll be okay with you spending the night. not after the way you’ve been treating him. not with the hickey on your throat, warm and throbbing with the pain of bite marks.

but you show up at his door anyway, knocking quietly. there’s a part of you that hopes he’s asleep and won’t hear you. 

the door opens a minute later. 

iwa stares down at you, hair ruffled from sleep and a frown set deep in his face. he’s shirtless, sweats low on his hips and one finger scratching at the side of his neck. 

when he realizes it’s you, his eyes open properly. “y/n?” his voice is groggy, and your veins set themselves on fire.

“hi,” you say quietly. “can i come in?” 

he’s not looking you in the eye anymore. he’s got his gaze locked tight on the part of your neck that aches dully. when he looks at you again, it’s with an emotion you can’t place.

irritation, relief. hope and disappointment. back and forth, both swimming in his eyes and oscillating, the same way you’ve been feeling since you landed in america. 

he opens the door without another word, and you step into his studio apartment. 

“thank you,” you whisper, the outside world muted to nothing once he shuts you inside with him. just you and him, alone again for the first time in over a year. the last moment alone shared on the other side of your own front door, his mouth warm on yours. 

“are you drunk?” is all he says in response. 

“just tipsy,” you respond, the alcohol warming you but not doing much more than that anymore. he nods to the couch behind you and then moves to the little kitchen by the door. 

“sit. i’ll make you coffee.” 

you do as he says, comfortable in the reality where iwa tells you what to do and you follow it eagerly. because he’s always known best. 

“what happened?” he asks, head bent as he spoons coffee grounds into the machine. you stare at his back, eyes tracing the lines of his muscles as you try not to think about his bed only five feet away. the blankets are rustled there, and the space radiates heat, because he’s always run a little hot at night. 

“nothing. just didn’t have much fun.” 

you hear the beep of the machine being turned on, but he doesn’t turn to face you. 

“did he hurt you?” 

he doesn’t ask who it was or how far you’d gone, and you wonder if he’s not facing you because he doesn’t want you to know that he cares about those details, too. 

“no. i just didn’t have much fun.” and then you press your fists into your lap nervously, offering information that shouldn’t be shared between friends like you and him. “we just kissed. i didn’t let him do anything else.” 

you wonder if his shoulders actually relax at that, or if you’re imagining it in the dark of his kitchen. in the dark of his apartment, with just one dim lamp sitting on his nightstand. 

“so? what changed your mind?” 

there’s an edge in his voice, you can hear that much. he’s going to be rough with you, but it won’t feel that way. it hasn’t felt that way since you were kids, when the slightest hint of frustration would make you cry. now, the jagged edges of his voice feel like a sweet drag of his lips across your skin, because you know that’s as far as his irritation will ever go. 

he’s never been rough with you, not really. and you wonder, not for the first time, if you would mind that so much. being roughed up by the one man who’d never hurt you. 

you swallow, deciding on brutal honesty. honesty, like the way things used to be. “he tried to put his tongue in my mouth.” 

iwa snorts, shaking his head as he grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “well, yeah, y/n. it was a party — he was looking to make out or hook up. that’s what happens.” 

you wonder how he knows that. how many parties he’s been to. how many times ‘that’s what happens’ has been true of him. “have you ever done that?” 

he pours the coffee. you can see that he’s tense again, and the sharp blade of his voice confirms what you want to know. “which one? make out or hook up?” 

“either.”

“yeah.” 

“which one?”

“both.” 

you breathe out through your nose, trying not to make it audible. it doesn’t upset you that he’s had his firsts — all of them, you’re assuming now — in his year away from you. it doesn’t bother you that he knows things, that he’d learned things from other girls. you’d dated, too. even if it hadn’t been nearly the same as what he’s saying to you, you’d still dated. 

because you and iwaizumi hajime are just friends. 

“oh. okay.” 

your voice is bitter. you can hear it, and you know he can, too. 

he doesn’t address it. 

“you didn’t like that he tried to put his tongue in your mouth?”

you shake your head, watching him bring the two cups over to the table by the couch. you take one, thanking him softly. “he was too rough about it.” 

iwa flicks his gaze to your throat again. “yeah, i can see that.” he lifts his mug to his lips and looks away. 

“no one’s ever done that before,” you say. you’d resolved yourself not to tell him the specifics of your dating history, because you’d been trying to separate your friendship with him from the feelings that burn guilt into every cell in your body. 

but you tell him this, anyway. you can’t remember your resolve anymore, not after coming to his apartment in the middle of the night. you can’t fight this anymore, even though you should. 

he stares at you with wary eyes. “none of your boyfriends…?” 

you laugh to yourself. “i told you — they never did anything.” 

he grimaces. “i thought you were just trying to spare me the details.” 

“i don’t hide things from you, haji.”

yes, you do. 

he nods, staring down at his lap. “me, neither.” 

you get the feeling, without evidence or proof, that he’s lying to you, too. 

you can’t bring yourself to be upset about that. you just hope, pathetic and hopeless, that he’s lying about the same things you are. 

“haji?” you say, setting your coffee cup down on the table. his eyes lock on that decision, trapped on the mug as you set your now-free hands in your lap. 

“yeah?” he mutters, shifting his gaze to your hands. never meeting your eyes. your heart pounds in your chest, and you hope the dark of his apartment hides that from him somehow. 

“can i ask you something?” 

you’d missed that olive green in ways you shouldn’t. 

[msriri030]

Saving by a Hare:

Mobster! König x Doctor! Reader

tag: Stranger to lover, afab! female but trying most to gn idk

part 2

You walked back to your small clinic after making a house call to an elderly couple. The streets were serene, wrapped in a pristine blanket of fresh winter snow. A soft breeze carried the faint scent of pine and cinnamon from a nearby café, blending with the crisp chill of the air. Yet, your mind was miles away.

The couple’s gratitude lingered in your thoughts, their warm smiles and kind words a gentle reminder of why you had chosen this path. In a world where you often faced indifference—or worse, outright hostility—moments like those made it all feel worth it. Despite the challenges, there was purpose in what you did, and that was enough to keep you going.

As you walked, Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a small cat, sleek and gray, slipping out from the shadows of an alleyway. It meows softly before weaving between your legs, its tail flicking playfully. You crouched, extending a hand with a soft smile, but the cat darted away, disappearing into the dark alley.

“Hey, wait!” you called instinctively, curiosity tugging at you.

The alley was silent, the air colder here in the absence of light. Your breath puffed visibly in front of you as you trailed the cat’s paw prints in the snow. But something unusual caught your eye—a patch of crimson staining the pristine white.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Red snow. The metallic tang of iron wafted faintly in the air. Blood.

The doctor in you overrode every other instinct. You bolted toward the source, boots crunching against the snow as your mind raced. Someone was hurt. Someone needed help.

As you turned the corner, you saw it—a large male figure slumped against the wall, motionless. Blood pooled beneath them, painting the snow in a macabre contrast of red and white.

Your heart pounded, but your hands steadied as you dropped to your knees beside them. "Hey! Can you hear me?" you called, already reaching for their pulse.

As a doctor, you were bound by one unshakable rule: to save a life, no matter the circumstances. And right now, you were prepared to do just that.

The pulse was slow but steady—a small relief that eased the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. You let out a soft sigh, your breath visible in the icy air. Your hands moved with practiced precision as you assessed the situation.

The man’s face was partially obscured by a makeshift balaclava, one crudely fashioned from a torn shirt. It clung to his skin, damp with sweat and streaked with traces of blood. You instinctively reached to remove it, thinking it might help him breathe more easily.

But as your fingers brushed the fabric, a sudden movement stopped you in your tracks.

His hand, rough and trembling, shot up and grabbed your wrist with surprising strength for someone in his condition. His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was firm enough to communicate a clear message: don’t.

His head tilted slightly, icy blue eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver racing down your spine. Despite his battered state, his voice emerged steady, edged with a cold sharpness that only deepened his aura of danger.  

“What do you think you’re doing, kleiner weißer Hase?” he asked, the German words slipping out in a tone as cutting as the accent behind them.  

You straightened under his scrutiny, meeting his gaze despite the unease clawing at your chest. “I–I mean no harm,” you replied calmly, refusing to waver. “I’m a doctor. I was trying to remove this to help you breathe. Do you know where you’re bleeding from?”  

For a moment, his eyes narrowed, and you thought he might ignore you altogether. His grip on your wrist tightened briefly, but then, slowly, it loosened. His gaze shifted, the icy edge softening, though his expression remained distant—haunted, almost lifeless.  

“Doctor…” he muttered, his voice low and strained, as if the word carried more weight than it should. “A little Hase like you should leave. You don’t want to get tangled up with someone like me. Men like me only have one ending. The kind reserved for mobsters. So go. Pretend you never saw me.”  

His words hung in the frosty air, heavy with bitterness and self-loathing. Your jaw tightened, the weight of his resignation settling over you, but you weren’t one to back down.  

“I will not,” you said firmly, your tone unwavering as you met his distant stare. “I am a doctor, and you are not a dead man yet. So I’ll ask you again—do you know where you’re bleeding from?”  

Something shifted in his expression. His eyes widened just slightly, caught off guard by your defiance. A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, fleeting but noticeable a glam of life in his eyes.  

“Stubborn little Hase, aren’t you?” he murmured, the faintest trace of amusement cutting through his somber tone before his features darkened again. “Fine. Lower left side. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  

You nodded briskly, already moving to assess the wound. His words lingered, though, like a shadow curling in the corners of your mind. Whatever weight he carried, it was more than just physical—burdens you couldn’t begin to imagine.  

Carefully, you lifted his shirt, exposing the bullet wound oozing dark, viscous blood. Without hesitation, you reached for the tools you’d gathered: a pair of tweezers, a needle, thread, and a bottle of alcohol. The chaos surrounding you melted into insignificance as you focused, your hands steady despite the urgency clawing at your nerves.  

“Okay, hold still—”  

“König,” he interrupted, his voice low and gravelly as he offered his name. His icy blue eyes never left yours, watching you intently, as if assessing whether you were friend or foe.  

“Okay, Hold still, König” you instructed, reaching into your bag for your tools.

He grunted, his lips quivering faintly. “I’ve been still this entire time.”

Suppressing a smile, you worked quickly, sterilizing your tweezers and cleaning the area around the wound. “This might sting,” you warned.

He didn’t flinch, his jaw tight as you began extracting the bullet. His muscles tensed under your touch, and a low groan escaped his throat, but he didn’t move an inch. His control was unnervingly precise, a testament to the kind of man he was.

You gripped the tweezers and leaned in, the edges of your vision narrowing as your focus honed in on the task. With painstaking care, you maneuvered the tweezers to locate the bullet. König’s muscles tensed under your touch, his jaw clenching, but he stayed perfectly still, his control unnervingly precise.  

As the metal object came into view, lodged deep within the torn flesh, you adjusted your grip and pulled. Blood welled around the wound, and König let out a low, guttural groan, though his body didn’t move an inch.  

“It’s almost out,” you murmured, more for your own reassurance than his. With one final tug, the bullet slipped free, clinking faintly as you dropped it onto the snowy ground beside you.  

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Glancing up, you saw König watching you, his expression unreadable, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps trust.  

“Now the hard part’s done,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. You grabbed the needle and thread, preparing to stitch the wound. “Just a little more, and you’ll be good as new. Well, almost.”  

König let out a dry chuckle, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Good as new, Hase? I think that ship sailed long ago.”

“I don’t,” you replied, a gentle but firm conviction in your tone. “I believe you’d be lovely company to have around.”

Your words caught him off guard, and his lips quirked into a faint, almost disbelieving smile. He let out a low chuckle, this one lighter, more genuine than before. You couldn’t help but smile back, though your focus quickly returned to the task at hand.

With careful precision, you finished stitching the wound, your hands steady as you tied off the last thread. Grabbing a clean cloth, you cleaned the area around the stitches and reached for the bandages.

As you wrapped them around his waist, your fingers brushed against his skin, warm and solid beneath your touch. Despite the lack of defined abs, his build was undeniably strong, and you couldn’t help the slight blush that crept up your cheeks.

König noticed immediately. His icy blue eyes studied you with quiet curiosity before he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of amusement, “Are you okay, Hase? Your face is red.”

Your head shot up, and you stammered, “I’m okay! I’m fine!” You quickly glanced away, fumbling for an excuse. “It’s just… the cold, that’s all.”

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as if he didn’t entirely believe you, but he didn’t press the matter.

“We should call an ambulance,” you said, reaching for your phone. “You need proper medical care—”

Before you could dial, König’s hand shot out, gently but firmly grabbing your wrist. His grip was steady, his calloused palm warm against your skin.

“No, Hase,” he said softly, his voice carrying an edge of urgency. His icy blue eyes bore into yours, more serious than before. “But… Can I call someone? Just for a moment. With your phone.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity in his gaze left no room for argument. Slowly, you nodded, handing him your phone.

As he dialed, you shifted awkwardly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. You tried not to listen, but his deep voice made it impossible to tune out. After a few rings, a man’s voice answered, sharp and suspicious.

“Hello? Who is this?”

König exhaled through his nose, the faintest edge of irritation in his voice as he responded, “ Horangi. It’s König.”

A brief pause followed, the silence thick with tension. Then Horangi’s voice returned, his tone a mix of disbelief and reprimand. “König, what the hell happened?”

“I got shot,” König admitted, his voice lower now, almost begrudging.

“You what? Damn it, König. Where are you?”

“I’ll send my location,” König muttered, groaning lightly as if he were already bracing for the lecture he knew was coming. He glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the call.

“Can you pick me up?”

Horangi sighed audibly on the other end, muttering something under his breath in Korean before replying, “Fine. But you owe me for this. Stay where you are. I will be there in a few minutes.”

König ended the call and handed your phone back to you. “Thank you, Hase,” he said quietly, his tone softer now.

You studied him for a moment, unsure what to say. He seemed more tired than before, the weight of whatever world he lived in pressing heavily on his broad shoulders.

“You have a friend coming?” you asked gently, trying to gauge his condition.

He gave a small nod. “Yes. He’ll be here soon.”

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of wind that rustled through the alley. Your eyes lingered on König, studying his face—the sharp edges softened by exhaustion, the weight of something unspoken behind his icy blue gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder what kind of life he led, what kind of dangers waited for him beyond the walls of this quiet alley.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, pulling your attention back to him. “It’s cold. You should go home, Hase.”

You straightened slightly, meeting his tired gaze with quiet determination. “No. I need to make sure you get picked up safely.”

A deep, amused chuckle rumbled in his chest, surprising you. It wasn’t bitter like before, but rich, almost warm. “You’re protecting me. That’s ironic,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you puffed them in mock frustration, gently swatting his uninjured arm. “It’s my job,” you retorted, voice firm despite the blush creeping up your neck. “Would you do the same if you were in my shoes?”

König’s smirk lingered, but his expression softened as his gaze rested on you. For a moment, he didn’t reply, his icy blue eyes searching yours, as though your question had struck deeper than you’d meant it to. Slowly, his hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.

The gesture left you momentarily breathless, and silence stretched between you once more, heavy but not uncomfortable. You both sat there, the world around you fading into the background, neither of you daring to break the quiet.

Then, suddenly, the sharp screech of car tires shattered the stillness, yanking you back to reality.

Before you could react, König’s instincts took over. His arms shot out, pulling you close against his chest in a swift, protective motion. His body tensed, shielding you from whatever unknown danger might be approaching.

“Stay down,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding.

The tension broke only when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. Horangi appeared, sprinting toward you both with a practiced urgency, his sharp eyes narrowing as they darted between you and König.

Without missing a beat, Horangi waved over two more figures trailing close behind him. They moved with the same calculated precision, their presence commanding despite the chaos lingering in the air. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a sharp jawline and dark eyes—Oni, you guessed from the way he carried himself with silent authority. The other, slightly shorter but no less imposing, had a cocky smirk that seemed permanently etched on his face—Hutch.

“You’re reckless, König,” Horangi muttered, crouching beside him while sparing you a brief glance. “Is this what you call lying low, boss?” His voice carried an edge of exasperation, though there was an unmistakable undercurrent of concern.

König didn’t answer immediately. He shifted slightly, loosening his protective hold on you but not letting you go entirely, as though reluctant to leave you vulnerable. “I didn’t plan for this,” König grumbled, his voice gruff but steady.

Oni stepped forward, his piercing gaze briefly flicking over König’s wound before settling on you. His brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t speak, his silence unnerving yet oddly respectful. Hutch, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, his eyes darting between you and König with an amused grin.

“Well, well,” Hutch drawled, his tone teasing. “Didn’t know you had a personal medic, König. Gotta say, she’s a bit of an upgrade from the usual lot we deal with.”

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, but König shot him a warning look that shut him up immediately.

“Enough,” Horangi snapped, his tone sharp as he straightened. “Let’s get him out of here before we draw more attention.”

After Hutch and Oni helped König into the car, he leaned back against the seat, exhaustion pulling at his features. You stood by the door, briefing Horangi on König’s condition—quickly summarizing the severity of the wound, the care you’d provided, and his current state. Your voice was steady, your professionalism cutting through the tension like a beacon of calm.

What you didn’t notice, however, was König watching you intently through the tinted window. His icy blue eyes had softened, their usual sharpness dulled by something almost foreign: quiet admiration. He listened to the cadence of your voice, his gaze lingering on your focused expression. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself a moment of calm. There was something about the way you carried yourself—gentle but unwavering—that disarmed him more thoroughly than any weapon ever had.

As you finished and dismissed yourself, König’s eyes followed you. The faint breeze caught your white lab coat as you walked briskly toward your clinic, the fabric fluttering like wings in the wind. The image was seared into his mind, reforging the thought he’d had before—kleiner weißer Hase.

When you disappeared into the crowd, König’s lips twitched into a rare, almost wistful smile. For a moment, his icy exterior melted, replaced by something warmer, something yearning. A quiet vow slipped past his lips, too low for anyone to catch but himself.

“The hunt is on, Hase.”

Oni and Hutch exchanged a glance from the front seat, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and silent amusement. Horangi, leaning against the car, raised an eyebrow at König but said nothing. The three of them, seasoned in the ways of König’s unpredictability, decided it was best to leave him to his thoughts—for now.

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

part 2

kleiner weißer Hase: litte white bunny

Hase: bunny

[f1daydreamer]

HEAR ME OUT ANGST- JUST TEARS STREAMING DOWN MY FACE FROM THIS PROMPT:

Can be broken into two parts I guess…

One where driver and reader break up to focus on their career —> driver regrets it but will the reader forgive and forget or have they moved on✨

When Love Isn't Enough

A/N: crying writing this !😭🤧

Warnings: Emotional angst and heartbreak.

Intense arguments and confrontation.

Themes of sacrifice, regret, and unbalanced relationships.

Emotional breakup scene.

Part 2

The walls of the apartment trembled with the weight of unspoken words and shattered dreams. It wasn’t the argument itself that hurt the most—it was the way his voice carried the cold, clinical finality of someone who had already decided.

“Y/N,” Charles Leclerc said, his hands resting on the back of the couch as if it could support him from the storm about to erupt, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You froze in the middle of the kitchen, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. The words hit you like a sucker punch to the gut, the air forced out of your lungs as you struggled to process what he’d just said.

“What?” you whispered, your voice dangerously low.

“This… us. It’s not working,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. “I need to focus on my career. On Formula 1. There’s too much at stake, and I can’t afford any distractions.”

Distraction. That single word snapped whatever fragile thread of composure you’d been holding onto.

“Distraction?” you spat, turning to face him fully, your hands trembling with anger and disbelief. “You’re calling me a distraction, Charles?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his tone defensive, but it only fueled the fire raging in your chest.

“No, go ahead,” you said, your voice rising as you stepped closer to him. “Say it again. Tell me how the woman who gave up everything for you—her career, her friends, her life—is just a goddamn distraction.”

Charles flinched at your words, but he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, his jaw tight, his eyes conflicted.

“I left my job, Charles. My dreams. I followed you to every race, sat in the stands, and cheered for you until my throat was raw. I stopped seeing my friends because I didn’t have time for them anymore. All I had was you.” Your voice cracked, tears spilling down your cheeks, but you didn’t care.

“Y/N—”

“No!” you snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to stand there and tell me I’m a distraction when I built my entire life around you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the way he paced the room. “I didn’t ask you to do that!”

The words hung in the air like a slap to the face. You blinked, stunned, before letting out a bitter laugh. “You’re right. You didn’t ask. I did it because I loved you, because I believed in you. I believed in us.”

Charles stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping as he finally looked at you. “And I love you, Y/N. But this… this is too much. I can’t give you what you need right now. I can’t be who you want me to be.”

“What I need?” you repeated, your voice trembling with incredulity. “All I ever needed was you. But you’re right. You can’t give me what I need, because you’ve already decided that this—” you gestured between the two of you, “—isn’t worth fighting for.”

His silence was deafening.

You stepped back, wiping at your tears as the weight of his decision settled over you. “You’re a coward, Charles. You’d rather throw me away than admit that you’re afraid to let someone love you.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” you said, your tone icy, “what’s not fair is that I gave you my heart, and you’re throwing it back in my face because it doesn’t fit into your perfect little plan.”

The room fell silent, the tension so thick it was suffocating. Finally, you took a deep breath, your chest heaving as you tried to steady yourself.

“I hope you win every race, Charles,” you said, your voice laced with venom. “I hope you get everything you ever wanted. But don’t you dare come back to me when you realize it wasn’t enough.”

With that, you grabbed your bag and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind you. The sound echoed in the silence, leaving Charles standing alone in the wreckage of what he’d just destroyed.

As the elevator doors closed, you allowed yourself to cry freely, the weight of heartbreak pressing down on your chest. You’d given him everything, and in return, he’d given you nothing but regret.

In that moment, as the city lights blurred through your tears, you made a promise to yourself: you would rebuild what he had broken, piece by piece. And this time, it would be for you—not for him.

A/N

Thank you so much for this incredible plot, Evilive. I was so inspired by your idea, and I’m glad I could create something from it that hopefully does your vision justice. I’d love to hear your thoughts on it—did it capture the angst and emotion you imagined? Your creativity is amazing, and I’m so grateful you shared it!

Tag-list

@evilive

[buckevantommy]

thinking about an alternate 7x04 where buck is the one who gets hurt bc he tries to do something to show off and chim and eddie take him to urgent care in buck's jeep, and also tommy is clearly worried at the court but doesn't go with them. eddie keeps prodding buck about what happened the whole drive there and at the clinic until buck finally snaps while they're examining him basically admitting to feeling left out with how much eddie and tommy were hanging out. things get quiet after that as they all take it in, realising the jealous!buck of it all.

but later when buck is laid up at home, tommy arrives. eddie answers the door - he'd brought buck home and got him settled, and had texted tommy about what buck said but was surprised to see tommy show up. he explains how he just wants to check on him and talk to him for a minute, and eddie is just heading out anyway so tommy gets to talk to injured!buck without an audience.

buck is tired and a little drugged up but not loopy; he can hold a conversation. he admits to being jealous not of tommy but of eddie and tommy finds the way he went about getting his attention oddly endearing. buck ends up grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss - that maybe doesn't start as a kiss, just buck pulling him close to tell him something sincere and important, and close words turn into lips on lips..

tommy pulls back to watch buck's eyes open, hears his little "oh" as he realises what he did. and even though buck kissed him, tommy asks if that was ok.

buck blinks. "totally worth it."

tommy is a little confused. "what was?"

tommy follows buck's line of sight down the length of the couch to where his ankle is banaged and proped up and tommy chuckles.

"how about next time we try to avoid bodily harm."

buck smiles a little goofily. "okay."

"i'm off on saturday, if you want some company."

"saturday."

tommy grins, smitten. "i got a shift."

"okay."

tommy huffs a laugh. "i'd take you with me, but i think my captain would frown upon it, given your current state." he looks down at buck's hand still grasping his shirt.

"oh." buck lets go, and tommy already misses his touch.

"i'll see you saturday."

"saturday."

anyways, i think this should be a fic.

[madwomansapologist]

YOU LOVE BLOOD TOO MUCH (BUT NOT LIKE I DO)

★彡 synopsis: awakened in a new era, sukuna found endless opportunities to hurt and maim others. he also found you, a sorcerer with an ever-expading soul bonded to oaths of pacifism and self-control. allured by the strength you decided to hide, sukuna realized this era could be far more fascinating.

chapter one: a blinding glimpse or the one you politely offered your heart to the king of curses in an attempt of mocking him.

warnings: ryomen sukuna, meet-cute (they're actively trying to kill eachother), hate to morbid curiosity, canon level of violence, blood and gore, near death experience, cannibalistic thoughts, hot villain covered in blood, sorcerers being clinically insane, satoru gojo cameo, fight style visual.

word count: [1.2K]

kill count: [0]

Observing it all from above, scarce stars battling with artificial lights to test his blurred vision, Sukuna realized he awakened in a distant era. One that overflow with life, he assumed.

He could hear it all. At every dark street and its endless crossroads kids would bid their farewells and run back home. Wind carried the hiss of kettles and brush of soles against old rugs. Sukuna reveled in the harmony reverberating inside each and every human blissfully unaware of the hungry void lurking above.

Offenses cowardly whispered, commands shouted, nauseating confessions. How many voices. So much unnecessary noise. Sukuna’s initial deduction was proven correct in a matter of seconds. Life overflows in every moldy corner. Surviving isn’t a concern in this brand-new world, and herds born for slaughter confuse not having a predator with having strength.

It truly is a perfect era to destroy, considering the reek of sorcerers nearby.

I was brought back, Sukuna rejoiced as the receptacle resisted his presence. To a world build to be torn apart, Sukuna laughed as an extravagant sorcerer dared use him as a training dummy. Nothing good will came out of this, Sukuna felt a shiver on his nape.

A thunder silenced the world. Wall after wall shattered as the impact of a lightning bolt threw Sukuna inside the building. Involved by a dense layer of dusty, Sukuna regained balance. Pearly white waves danced above his skin. The aftermath of sheer electricity.

It didn’t burn Sukuna. It didn’t hurt him at all. A basic and quick attack lacking cursed energy and strength. Sorcerers sunk to such a low level during his slumber? Pathetic, although not surprising or disappointing. He never expected them to become stronger.

A blink later and his arrogant smile oscillated. As the energy dissipated, it was all healed. Every wound and scratch. Broken ribs and cut lips. As good as new. In an instant, all the pain inflicted in his vessel disappeared. It definitely wasn’t his doing, since Sukuna haven’t decided if this maggot was worth his time.

“Don’t ruin another school,” wind carried a new voice towards Sukuna. One tender and hospitable. It reminded him of silk. “People will question it, and then Yaga will question us.”

“His brain only works against us”, Satoru whimpered, handing Megumi the bag with his future midnight snacks. “Not an ounce of trust on our good, flawless work. When did he ever let us be?”

Looking at his pout, you giggled. “And since when did we ever let him be?”

Sukuna followed after your voice. What an alluring conversation. Two sorcerers, half-complaining and half-laughing. No remnant of dread or fright. This night, no one that spoke carried the fear of someone challenging the King of Curses.

Feeling moonlight on his flesh once more, he finally saw who dared healing his vessel. And for a moment, all Sukuna could do was stare.

A pearly mist expanded with your every breath. As if haunted by a wraith, or perhaps surrounded by a still gathering storm. It shined so brightly, floating right above your skin, in an extreme contrast with the darkness of your cursed energy.

Sukuna was staring at your soul.

A shiver travelled down your nape as his gaze burned something within you. Tilting your head, you faced Ryomen Sukuna. The weight of his presence alone could make curses beg. Staring back into his red eyes, you smirked.

The double-edged long axe on your hands glistened as you imbued it with more cursed energy. Biting the tip of your tongue, a habit you never truly escaped from, you observed the ancient predator in front of you. It was time to hunt.

Crouching down on the ground, you supported your weight on your toes. A simple change of position. Enough to make stupid curses hesitate. Why crouch down while holding an axe? Why not go straight for the throat? Why put your strength on your knees when you need it on your torso?

You saw no confusion inside Sukuna’s eyes. Only amusement.

In a fluid motion, your body floated above his. The fabric of your yukata covered the wide arch of your arm. The edge of your axe came down, cutting the concrete bellow you even far away from the ground.

As you expected, Sukuna dodged it easily. By making a fuss with your robe, you forced Sukuna to move further away in order to obtain a better view of your movements. And he moved exactly where you knew Satoru would be.

“And I am the one destroying the school?” Hands inside his pockets, Satoru forced his presence upon Sukuna. You wondered who between you three flashed the most annoying grin. “That was on you.”

In the air, you three danced. Satoru and his surgically correct dodges. Sukuna’s incessant pace of physical attacks without breaking a sweat. You forcing them both to move higher in search of the upper hand. A perfect dissonance.

 “You told the kid to let him take control”, you remembered Satoru. “Everything is on you from now on.”

“How convenient for everyone else”, Satoru hissed. “And remind me who said fighting a special curse would make this day interesting? You manifested this.”

“I can take the blame if you pay the price”, you offered. Sneaking a glance at Megumi, you checked if he was safe down there. One of Sukuna’s black nails brushed against the sash around your waist. “I’ve been craving fish and-”

Hollow.

How to define inexistence properly? How to explain the palpable feeling of lacking something? The best you can do is summarize it to a single word: red. Your teary eyes, the energy growing between Satoru’s fingertips, the fist deep into your chest. Everything was burning red.

“Don’t look away from a fight”, Sukuna mocked you, tearing your chest open. There was a certain poison in his words. “And I thought you were promising.”

Crushing your heart between his fingers, blood gushed upon his lips. Sukuna laugh echoed in the midnight sky. How uncommon. Tender and hospitable. You taste just like how you sound.

If you had cried, Sukuna would be tempted to taste your tears. If you had fallen, Sukuna would enjoy the sight of a human turning into a puddle of organs and bones. If you had screamed, Sukuna would feed on your delirious rage.

But as your right hand closed around his wrist gently, Sukuna had no reaction.

“I appreciate the compliment, Sukuna-sama”, you smiled.

Grabbing your black hairpin, the golden opal gem on the end of it reflected moonlight directly into his eyes. Wind moved your hair, framing your face and carrying its perfume directly into his nostrils.

“You can have my heart.” Piercing the still beating organ, your smile turned into a cheeky grin. “I have no need for it anymore.”

 “Yuji”, Satoru called. And just like before, there was no remnant of dread or fright in his voice. “You can come back now.”

Staring into your menacing eyes, Sukuna felt his vessel taking control over the shared body. Licking his lips, he tasted you once more. Yuji Itadori regained consciousness to find himself with a heart in his hands and teeth dangerously close to it.

Fascinating, Sukuna admitted to himself. What an interesting era to ruin.

all rights reserved to © madwomansapologist | @mwalibrary @mwashelf

[yuyu1024]

BFWB

Pairings: Mingyu × y/n x Wonwoo

Genre/tags: fwb, poly

Warning: fluff, smut/angst 🔞, pet names, cursing, dry humping, suggestive but no sex, semi public?

~~~ [lmk if i miss anything]

Words: 3.1k

Disclaimers:

- this story is just made up

- english is not my first language, please be nice 😊

A/N: i've written this... like last month? Ish? this is all over the place lol. Just an idea i got out of the blue.

And instead of deleting... i'll jus put it out there... hehe

sorry.. not proof read 😅

Masterlist

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"Be more careful and aware next time okay?" The nurse says as she carefully assists you to sit down at the clinics bed. "Especially its rainy season now... we are definitely more prone to accidents... even we are just casually strolling down the stairs."

You wince a little as try to flex your left foot. "And no phones while walking down the stairs..." you add. "I could've waited to know my result from my exams when I reach my class..."

"Did you pass though?" She smiles

"I did. My sleepless nights are worth it."

"Congratulations then..." she pats you on yout shoulder.

"Thank you."

She then places your shoes near the bed. "Did you call your parents already?"

"Ahm... not yet... I..." you look around and pat your jacket's pockets to look for your phone. "I don't know where my phone is..." you mutter under your breathe

"I have it." The curtain swhishes open. "The janitor found it near the bushes..."

"Wonwoo..." you smile, seeing your friend.

"Mr. President..." the nurse greets him and then looks at you. "She's your friend?"

"Yes... the clumsiest of them all..." he sighs as he moves closer to both of you.

"Hey!" You pout.

The nurse giggles at the interaction. "Don't worry... she's fine. She sprained her ankle but nothing serious..."

"That's good to hear..." Wonwoo then places your bag on the bed beside you. "I went to your classroom and picked it up."

"Oh right...."

"I also told your professor already what happened... so you are excused for today's class."

"As expected. Mr. President has done everything for her friend." The nurse claps his hands in tiny

"He's unreal..." you mumble, beaming a smile.

"He is..." the nurse agrees. "I'll leave you two then? And I assume you will take her home coz she can't walk with her state now..."

"I will bring her home." A voice echoes as you all hear the door opens and shuts.

"Who...?" The nurse peaker her head out the curtains and sees a talk guys wearing a sports uniform, panting and sweating.

"I'm her friend..." he goes behind the curtain where you and Wonwoo are. "Yah! What happened to you?!"

"Gyu... what are you doing here? You should be in football practice..."

"I am.... well... I was." He then goes down to his knees to check on your foot. "What happened to you?" Then he stands up and looks at the nurse. "Is it serious?"

"Ahm... No..." the nurse is a bit startled by Mingyu's presence.

"Relax... she's fine. She just sprained her ankle." Wonwoo says.

Mingyu snaps his head back to you. "I should put you on bubble wraps next time... once you heal. You are so fragile."

"Yah... that's ridiculous!" You say

"You say that but look at you! Didn't you just had a scratch on your knee a few weeks ago?"

You press your lips together, guilty of the clumsiness.

"Stop it... she's fine." Wonwoo taps Mingyu on his shoulder.

"I'll leave you three to discuss." The nurse makes her way out of the situation and leave you three be.

"Stop nagging... it's not helping." Wonwoo says

"I'm not nagging. I'm expressing how worried I am of her."

Wonwoo pinches the bridge of his nose. "Whatever..." he sighs. "Just go back to your practice... I will bring her home."

"No, it's fine. I already excused myself to coach." Mingyu then sits down beside you. "Are you sure your all good?" He softly asks you

You smile. "I'm okay... it's just my foot."

Suddenly, Mingyu reals back from basically yelling to sweet and gentle. What a switch.

"I have my car already outside the building..." Wonwoo says.

Mingyu looks at him, frowning.

"Guys... don't start..." you hold both their hands. "Let's just all go home together... okay?" You turn your head to both until you see them agree to your suggestion. "Good...I just need to call my parents to tell them what happened so they don't worry too much while they are away."

"They are away?" Mingyu's ears perks up like a dog.

"They left this morning... they are on a cruise with Dad's brother and his wife. Like a double date." You says

"I already called them when I got your phone. They were calling you that's why the janitor found it near the bushes while sweeping the floors." Wonwoo explains. "You can just message them that you're fine."

"Oh... thank you."

"Wait..." Mingyu turns your head to face him again. "They're not at home?" He repears wearing a very suggestive smile.

"She sprained her ankle... why are you being a pervert right now?" Wonwoo scowls at him.

"I'm just asking... Since she's alone... I can keep her company..." Mingyu wraps his arm around your waist and then kisses you on the cheek. "Right, babe?" He is very cheeky

"I guess..." you blush at him calling you babe.

"Y/n..." Wonwoo calls you out.

"Like I said... I'm fine." You take Wonwoo's hand and put it on your cheek. "Don't you want to spend time with me? We haven't been together for a few weeks now..." you say softly and quietly. Your eyes speaking to him through your lashes.

"It's been so long..." Mingyu breathes as he inhales your scent on your neck. "I know you miss fucking her like I do. So stop acting so noble." He side eyes Wonwoo

"I didn't said no." Wonwoo answers

"If you are busy... I can stay with her." Mingyu says

"And I didn't say I was busy."

"So what's your problem?"

"You. You are my problem." Wonwoo hiss

"Guys... guys... please... stop." You try to calm the two down. "Don't start... let's just go to my place... okay?"

"It's him who started it." Mingyu pouts.

"Wonwoo... its not a problem right... if we all... spend time together?" You tilt your head to the side

"Whatever." He sighs. "I'll start the car... just carry her." He then says to Gyu.

**

You three basically have known each other since 5th grade. They were your bestfriends and protectors to people who likes to bully you back then. They are also the guys, who you study with all the time during exam periods in highschool and the shoulder you cry onto when you are heart broken and shit from your crushes. In short they were and have been your person.

The relationship of you three was just innocent, fun and just purely loyal friendship. However the pureness got tainted a little bit when all three of you got into Uni. When all three of you hit the stage in your life that you have needs and want. That's when things got a little messy and intense.

It started from simple skinships with no malice that evolved into extreme cuddling time, dry humping and make out sessions whilst watching a movie, reviewing for an exam or whatever. You all did that with both of them. Well, first was Mingyu.

You can still remember how Mingyu started it all. He was and still is the horniest out of you three. And he's the type of person who can't hold back his thoughts and feelings very well. So he just asked you out of the blue one time that you and him are at his house, on a weekend, watching his favorite sports team on TV.

You were both on the floor sitting while your backs were leaning on the sofa. Mingyu's arm was around you. You were cuddling him like the usual. But then as the game on the TV got intense, the boner inside his pants also can't hide the excitement.

"Y/N..." Mingyu lowers his hand so he could touch you by your waist.

"Hmm...?" Your eyes were still on the TV

"Can we cuddle a bit more?" He asked cautiously

You straighten up and look at him. "What do you mean?" You were looking at his face, trying to understand him.

He looked so nervous. His eyes were shifting to you and the TV. But mostly his gazes were looking up and down of you.

"I... I can't concetrate on the game... All I can think of is... ahm..." his eyes goes to your lips and then down your boobs. "H-how big your tits are...and I... I want to touch it."

You blinked multiple times trying to proces what he just said.

"I want to feel it while I hug you... I want to know how soft it is... and maybe..." Mingyu bits his lips before saying the words. "Maybe... you'll want to sit down on my lap and then show me how does it look like?"

You were too stunned to speak. But him being naughty was not the one that surprised you. You already know how he is. He is very open with him watching porn or who are the girls he finds attractive. He talks about this shit a lot with you. What really shocked you is he taking interest with you. That's also why it took you a solid minute before you responsed to him.

"Here...?" Your voice was shaky.

Mingyu took your hand and kissed the back of it. "We're home alone... don't worry... Mom and sister just left so they will be home later... and Dad is away for work so..." he pressed your hands on his cheek. "It's just the two of us..."

Your heart was beating out of your chest. You were scared, nervous and worried. But the fact that Mingyu is your bestfriend, eased it all away. And probably having a crush on him also made you excited to do this.

He exhales his nervousness as soon as you crawl on top of him and sit on his lap, facing him. You began by moving your hips, making friction on his gray jogging pants and your panties underneath that A-line skirt you are wearing.

"Fuck..." He says as soon as you lower the neckline of your top even more, showing more skin. Or should we say, expose your tits more for him.

He then tried to measure his hand on top of your tits to check how huge they were before even touching them.

"When did they start growing like this..." he mumbles

"I don't know... And... I feel like... they are still growing..." you shyly said. "I feel like... I'll go a cup bigger sometime soon..."

"Holy shit!" He bit his lower lip before grabbing each boob with both his hands. "Your skin is so soft and its so full..." he rubs his thumbs in circle motion until he finds your nipples underneath your bra. "I'd like to do this again when they get even bigger."

You released a hum the second he squeezed your tits. "Y-you're the first person... to ever touch me like this..." you say, blushing.

"Yeah? Hmmm... Does it feel good?"

You nod, lowering your head to hide your aroused expression.

"Shit..." he was also getting so red. He can feel his erection getting hard as a rock.

"Mingyu..." you breathe. "I might stain your pants...." You can feel butterflies in your stomach.

"Please do..." his breathe suddenly shaky too. "I love to see how your body reacts when I touch you.. and when you feel my dick... coz babe, I'm turned on by you... so fucking much."

You rub your clothed core on to his bulge more harder and faster. Imagining that you are fucking him like what you see on porn videos.

"Ahhh..." you bury your face on his chest. Your pussy is clenching and you can feel the orgasm building. "Mingyu... fuck... this feels so good... ahhh... Shit..."

"Babe..." he pulls your face close his so he could kiss you. "Y-you're cheeks... are so red."

The friction is driving you insane. You've never experience this kind of exhilarating feeling before.

"I think... I'm...I'm about to... explode..."

"F-fuck...." Mingyu dives his face to you chest and starts to show them the love they deserve. "You sound so sexy... let it all out babe." He hums as his tongue finally found your sentivie tips.

"Ahh!!! Mingyu!!!"

While catching your breathe from cloud nine after experiencing your first arousal moan ever from dry humping. "Should we... do this again?" Mingyu asked. "We can try something... else if you like."

You lay down on the floor beside him, smiling and shimmying down your wet panties off. "Will it feel as good as this...?"

"Of course..." Mingyu leans down to kiss you. "Or maybe better..."

After this 'incident', the relationship you two have suddenly leveled up. You guys hang out more and became more clingy than the usual. Though of course, it's not like you always make out whenever you see each other. You still do it on the right place at the right time. You have bounderies as well. Which is good.

And since the dynamic of you two changed quiet a bit, this didn't go unnoticed by Wonwoo. Another bestfriend of yours, who you met before you met Mingyu. The only son of your mom's friend. The guy who acts like your brother but treats you like his girlfriend when its just the two of you.

Yes. Wonwoo is that guy. A friend that gives you mixed signals but never said anything or made a move. He's just there. Always present. Always available. Always by your side.

Yes he is your person and he knows a lot about you. Sometimes, more than you even know.

"Something is different." Wonwoo asked as soon as you two were left alone in the kitchen of his house, finishing doing the dishes. This happened on a night when he asked you to stay overnight just to hang out.

"Hmm? What are you talking about?" You ask as you organize all the plate and pans you wiped dry. The ones Wonwoo just finished washing.

"You've been hanging out with Mingyu lately..." he takes his gloves off and apron off. "More than the usual..."

"What do you mean? We always hang out... nothing changed."

"I'm not blind, Y/N..." he paused. "I can see how he looks at you... he even blatantly asked you to sit on his lap when we were eating lunch two days ago..."

You snorted a laugh. "Are you jealous that we are close?" You teased, giggling. It was an innocent teasing. However Wonwoo answered with seriousness and diction.

"I am."

You paused and look at his face for a few seconds. "Then... stop being busy..." You say as you close the cabinets you just filled with plates. "We only hang out together as two when you are not available... you're so busy being the leader of your club that you don't have time for us..." you added

"You know... I can make time for you..." he uttered moving slowly closer to you. "Just tell me if it will be just the two of us..."

Then you suddenly stopped breathing for a second. Frozen at your place as well.

You stutter his name. "W-wonwoo...?"

"Does this make you uncomfortable... if its...me that is doing this?"

"Ahh..." you breathed and automatically you bit your lower lip. "W-wonwoo...w-hat...?"

You were taken aback in a good way when all of a sudden Wonwoo went behind you, snaked his hands around and grab your tits and began kneading it like a dough.

"W-what are you doing?"

"I'm just doing what you like..." he whispered in your ears. "I can still remember... the night... when I caught you... pleasuring yourself..." his breathing in your ears is making you go red and squirmy. "I would've loved to see you go beyond than playing with your nipples..."

You suddenly became red. You remember that night. He said he didn't saw anything. He acted like he didn't saw anything. That gave you peace of mind. But hearing him say he caught you, that one time, that only time you got curious what it felt like doing it to yourself. Gosh! It's embarassing

"Why did you lie?" You asked before leaning your head back to his chest.

"I don't want to make you feel embarassed." His lips brushed over your skin. "And I wanted you to continue... but your mom called you and got us startled..." he chuckled. "I hid... and you pretended to sleep."

You closed your eyes. "What a bummer..." you hum

He continued to play with your tits. His thumb brushing over your sensitive bud "Does Mingyu do it better?" He whispers. "Or... I do.. Hmm...?"

"W-wonwoo..." you whine. Your hips also begun reacting to his touch. "Please..."

"Please what?" He playfully bit your ear, making you moan a little too loud. "Sshh.... if my family hears us... I have no choice but to stop... we don't want that... right?"

"Hmm..." you press your lips together tighly.

"Do you want me to stop?"

You shook your head.

You the heard him smile. "What a slut." His voice went an octave lower. "I have a new game installed in my computer... do you want to play in my room?"

"I'm... b-bad at games..." you turn around to face your friend, Wonwoo, who's face was so still and yet so captivating.

"I can teach you..." he leans down, putting both his hands on your side, holding onto the counter top. "Maybe... more than what Mingyu have taught you already..."

You nervously smiles and then pushed his glasses up his nose. "How did you know? I mean... about me and him."

He smirked. "I pay attention more than you realize. I know when something is wrong...or... different." He arched his brow. "And I noticed that you have been wearing much more... revealing tops. Subtle. But revealing enough to make Mingyu's eyes pop out of his head."

"Does that mean... it works to you as well...? I mean... me wearing tank tops and fitted shirts?"

Wonwoo didn't answered. He just kissed you and let his tongue explore your mouth. His kiss was so aggressive and with intent.

"Is... this wrong...?" You asked, breathing heavy. Pertaining to what you and Mingyu are doing and to whatever you might be doing with him later.

"No... As long as we have consent... bounderies and protection... its not wrong in my book." He softly chuckled right before he kissed you again.

"Hmmm..." you hum as he pressed his body on you. You can feel his erection. He is big too.

"We have all night to play..."

Then it hit you. "Wait... is this why you asked my mother if I can have a sleepover?"

A grin appeared on his lips. "My advantage from Mingyu is... your mom knows me more... and trusts me more..." he tugs the loose hair off your face behind your ear. "And you can trust me..."

And that was it. Since then Wonwoo and Mingyu became more than just your bestfriends. They've become your bestfriends with a lot of benefits.

[wifelinkmtg]

This was intended to be an essay about chivalry—its history, its uses, its various incarnations—medieval violence, the Romantic reinterpretation, the ideal of chivalry in the American South and its attendant lynch mobs. I would have talked about the chivalric triad: Knight, Innocent, Enemy—the way the Innocent serves as a fulcrum for the Knight to enact violence against the Enemy—the iterations of this triad in any number of places in our society, from the so-called sheepdog mentality trained into our police to the legion of revenge-fantasy Taken clones. I would have talked about the way Kierkegaard in Fear and Trembling incorporates chivalry with the sacrifice of Isaac, the theology of self-justified suffering that comes from that. I would have talked at some length about various portrayals of lesbian chivalry in media—Revolutionary Girl Utena, the Locked Tomb books, Signalis—how they use it, what they say about it, and whether at the end there is anything worth salvaging from this intrinsically violent way of relating to the world, to others, to oneself, to God.

I think a version of that essay might still be worth writing someday, but right now, there's something I need to talk about much more urgently. Right now, there's something I suspect you might desperately need to hear. Today I'm going to talk about Godzilla.

GODZILLA SAVED MY LIFE: A Polemic

Godzilla Minus One (2024) takes place in Japan in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War. Its protagonist, Koichi, is a failed kamikaze pilot who in the opening scenes is repeatedly excoriated for his cowardice and dereliction of duty. When he returns home to a bombed and desolate Tokyo, his bereaved neighbor tells him, if people like you had done their duty, this would not have happened. The film spends the rest of its runtime doggedly refuting this idea. It says, out loud, that the relentless calculus of sacrifice that turns men into things to be spent has no place in this world, that it is needless and cruel. It is not subtle about this point. It is not trying to be.

I saw this movie in its black and white version in theaters in February, on the last day of its run. Its version of Godzilla inspires in me both terror and near-religious awe. It looms over the film, an echo both of the devastation of the war and of Koichi's guilt and shame, its presence inviting—demanding—the final consummation of the mission he abandoned.

I wept in that theater. I gripped my friend's hand and I sobbed. This is unlike me (unless I'm watching Gunbuster), and it took four days for me to work out why this Godzilla movie had affected me so profoundly.

arkansas kamikaze

and she looked, and behold! a beast rose from the sea, and against the beast he breathed glory in a Zero dive. his beatified smile shone from the wreck of the Little Rock Planned Parenthood clinic. and a great wind blew out of heaven, and she woke

and made breakfast, and watched her son wholly absorbed in Bonhoeffer, found her lipstick worn down to the nub for practice stigmata, and saw for a moment the dove descending, the tongue of fire over his head.

The thing about being raised in a right-wing fundamentalist family is that you are from birth being prepared to be a weapon, or a martyr, and there is really no difference between those two things. If my mother had had her way, I would have gone to a tiny far-right college and studied law for the sole and explicit purpose of getting Roe v. Wade overturned. She would, I believe, have settled for me bombing an abortion clinic. Certainly it would have been easier for her to reconcile with that than with what I became instead.

The other thing about being raised in a right-wing fundamentalist family is, some things stick. And it's very hard to notice, as your beliefs and values and identity undergo radical changes, that there is still a whisper in you that believes in the power of the glorious death, of the ultimate virtue of strapping explosives to your chest and walking into the halls of the Enemy. And when you feel helpless, when you watch systems and institutions that ought to prevent atrocities instead encourage them, that whisper grows louder and louder and louder.

Watching Koichi fly his last mission, watching him an instant before impact eject, and live—watching everyone live through the final confrontation because they had all rejected the calculus of sacrifice—allowed me to see also for the very first time this parasitic idea that had grown coiled inside me since infancy, allowed me to see where it had come from, its whole monstrous lineage, and then it allowed me to take hold of it and pull it out.

Twenty days later, Aaron Bushnell set himself on fire outside the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC, in protest of the still-ongoing genocide of the Palestinian people. He was, like me, raised in a right-wing fundamentalist environment. He was, like one of my siblings, a member of the US Armed Forces radicalized by his experiences and his own conscience. People called him a hero and martyr—on this very site, in responses to the excellent Crimethinc piece circulating at the time, I saw people saying they felt like they should follow suit (even though the article in question explicitly and repeatedly warned against it!) As if the loss of a person of conscience and conviction could be anything other than a tragedy, as if anyone in power choosing to support the genocide could regard the death of one of their own soldiers as anything other than what soldiers are for, as if the moral response to a genocide could ever be to add another corpse to the mountain—and still I saw people lionizing him, praising his courage and his sacrifice, all but telling people to follow in his footsteps.

No. Aaron Bushnell was a suicide. He lived his whole life within organizations that taught him that he could purchase more with his death than he could ever accomplish with his life, and while we may praise his conscience, we can only mourn his loss and the grievous error that led him to it.

This is the thing about learning to see this parasite: you begin to see it everywhere. Our history for millennia is awash with human sacrifice: Abraham and Isaac, Jephthah and his nameless daughter, Agamemnon and Iphigenia, the crucifixion of Jesus—and later, litanies, row upon row of dead saints, stories of glorious last stands. The courageous martyred dead: blood and corpses, only and always, to Moloch.

In light of the recent US election, perhaps many of my American readers are feeling shock or horror or despair. I understand, and without blame, with love and gentleness, I tell you that this is because you have not correctly understood the scope of the problem. You imagine a discontinuity between the liberal version of American capitalism and imperialism and the fascist version of the same. No such discontinuity exists. Things will no doubt be different for us here in the US than they would otherwise be, and probably worse, but there is no distinction to be made between the genocide of yesterday and the genocide of tomorrow. The enemy is the same. The work is the same.

Above all else, this is to warn you: when you do this work, when you look for a place you can put your shoulder to the wheel, there will be people who want to spend their lives—or yours—like coin to purchase some great change immediately. Perhaps they mean well, and helplessness and desperation drives them to act without regard for the consequences. Perhaps they do not mean well. Do not follow these people. Perhaps they merely expect you to go to prison, and have no plan for how to support you after that. This is barely different. It is far better for you to languish in useless liberal nonprofits which will accomplish nothing of value than to attempt radical direct action with people with correct politics and no forethought, and end up dead or imprisoned—but these are not the only two options. Aaron Bushnell cannot ever again do anything for anyone. You can.

This is as much as I know for certain. I love you. Don't die.

-------

End Notes

It would not be unreasonable to ask me, in light of what I've said here about martyrdom, what I think of it in other cultural contexts, especially since a similar word is often used to refer to e.g. Palestinian people murdered by Israeli soldiers. The answer is nothing at all. Such people get to use whatever words they want to salvage whatever meaning and comfort they can.

Godzilla Minus One, as effective a movie as it is, was not solely responsible for the scales falling from my eyes. It was an important part of the process, but I doubt it would have sufficed on its own were I not in community with people I trust and talk to about such things. "Godzilla and also my trusted friends saved my life" is, alas, a worse title.

There will be a part two to this. Part one seemed more urgent.

[roosterforme]

The Younger Kind Part 45 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley is loving his life at home. Skittles continues to fit right in while you inadvertently insist on nearly finding the one thing Bradley wants to keep hidden. A family day at the beach followed by a night alone with you are the only things he wants to focus on right now. It would be great if that's what he was allowed to do.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, fluff, smut, and age gap (18+)

Length: 4000 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! The Younger Kind masterlist.

It was late by the time Bradley got home with Skittles, and you were pretty tired after assisting with an emergency at work. But Noah must have heard him pull into the driveway as he called out, "Daddy's back!" in the middle of coloring a rainbow turtle. He was out of his seat and heading for the front door before you could stop him, but it didn't matter, because you were anxious to see Bradley, too.

When you rounded the corner, he was kneeling on the floor and collecting Noah in his arms, a light blue bakery box on the floor next to him. You were used to seeing him with one arm around Noah while he held Skittles, but right now he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth his attention. It was remarkable that he still made you feel this giddy.

"Hey, Baby," he rasped. "You had a good day? Your emergency patient doing okay?" Then he stood up with his arms full and leaned down to kiss your forehead. He was still in his uniform, tall and strong, holding everything you cared about against his chest. 

"Yeah. I had a good day," you replied, somehow managing to squeeze your way between Noah and Skittles to give him a kiss on the neck while he chuckled. 

"Me too. Skittles got a clean bill of health," he whispered, and you could hear his stomach growling. It had probably been seven or eight hours since he had lunch, so you bent to pick up the bakery box, already craving a donut.

"That's good. Come on," you coaxed, tucking your index finger inside the top of his pants and earning a raised eyebrow as you tugged him toward the kitchen. "We already ate, but I'll heat up some leftovers for you while the two of you color."

"Daddy, is Skittles your best friend?" Noah asked as you set the box on the counter and took a peek. You gasped, because it was filled with crown donuts. You looked at Bradley over your shoulder where he was now sitting with his son on his lap.

"I think technically either Mommy or Aunt Natasha is my best friend, Bub."

You smiled as Noah sternly said, "No. It's Skittles. Mommy and Aunts don't count."

"Right. My bad," Bradley replied as he fiddled with something in his pocket. When he met your eyes, you noticed his cheeks were a little flushed as you bit into one of the donuts. "I got you a whole dozen this time."

"I see that," you replied, setting it down again so you could heat up a plate of food. "Did you run into Casey?"

"I did not," he replied as Noah handed him a green crayon. "It was just Skittles and I running up the credit card bill. That animal clinic is expensive."

"I believe it," you replied, taking a bite of potato from his plate to make sure it was hot enough. You'd always wanted a dog, but according to your parents, everything to do with pets was too pricey. They wouldn't even let you have a goldfish when you were a kid. 

You set Bradley's dinner in front of him before grabbing the container of ants on logs out of the refrigerator for Noah. You arranged them on a plate in a zigzag shape before giving them to him, and he had one in his mouth before the plate was all the way set down. When you turned to get your donut, Bradley reached out and wrapped his hand around your thigh, pulling you back to him. 

"Princess," he whispered. "I love you."

He looked tired, and he was clearly in a bit of a soft mood. Maybe even sentimental. The way he called you his best friend a few minutes ago made you smile even now. But his dark eyes held so much devotion as he examined your face that you ran your fingers down along his cheek and let your forehead rest against his. You knew he was starving; you could still hear his stomach growling, but he made no move to release your leg to take a bite of his dinner. So you just stayed there, your lips brushing his every time you moved.

"I love you too, Daddy."

You grinned against his kiss as Noah crunched loudly on his carrot sticks. This was where you belonged. You could barely even remember the details of your tiny rental because of all of the richness of your home with Bradley. It was overpowering. Living with Bradley and Noah had a dreamlike quality that made everything better. 

"You need to eat," you whispered, kissing Bradley one more time before returning to your donut. 

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

"I want Skittles to sleep in my bed!" Noah was practically crying, his cheeks bright red with frustration as Bradley tried to get him ready to go to sleep. He was overtired and cranky, and right now he was inconsolable. "You said after she got her cast off, she could sleep in my bed!"

"Noah," Bradley said in his softest tone as his son's arms flailed in his pajama shirt. "I said we can try, but we can't force Skittles to do things. Do you understand?"

But he just whined, "I want her to sleep in my bed!" 

Bradley sighed where he sat in the middle of Noah's bedroom floor, the engagement ring still tucked in his khaki uniform pants pocket. He didn't know where to put it. He didn't even know exactly when he wanted to give it to you. But he desperately needed to get it stashed away somewhere before he just proposed to you tonight, because having it on his person was making him feel a certain way about you. Maybe it was a good thing that Noah was kind of killing the vibe.

"Just get in bed," Bradley told him. "If you get in bed right now, I'll bring Skittles in."

He watched Noah launch himself into his twin bed and pull the blankets up to his chin. The odds that the pup would stay in Noah's room even for a few minutes were pretty slim. You had her out in the backyard right now so she could go to the bathroom, but the little pooch was almost glued to Bradley's side whenever he was home. 

As soon as you walked back inside in your cute little shorts and tank top set with Skittles at your feet, Bradley bent and scooped her up. "Noah is losing his mind. Wish me luck." He turned away from you with a smirk and kissed Skittles on her head. "If you stay in there until Noah falls asleep and long enough for me to fuck my Princess, I'll give you a treat."

You were cracking up in the kitchen as he walked away. "You're bargaining with the dog!" But he knew better. Skittles wasn't just a dog, she was his best friend after all.

Noah's eyes lit up in the soft glow from the nightlight when Bradley entered his bedroom with the pup. "She got used to her own bed, okay? So if she doesn't want to stay, we can't make her." But Noah's arms were outstretched, ready to hold his pet, and Bradley got her nestled in under the blankets next to his little body. 

As the dog looked up at him, concern for her new sleeping arrangement in her puppy eyes, Bradley bent to kiss Noah on the forehead and Skittles next to her bow. "Try to go right to sleep," he whispered to Noah. "I'm serious."

He just giggled in response as the dog licked his face, and Bradley did not see this little experiment ending well as he exited the room. He patted his pants pocket just as he had been doing all night. It took all he had within him not to open up the box and check to make sure your ring was secure, and he still didn't know where to put it for safekeeping.

When he entered his bedroom, he abandoned the idea of finding a good hiding spot when he found you in the middle of the bed wearing your paper crown. You looked so young and impossibly innocent with your glossy lips and your pajama set, but your filthy words betrayed you. "I heard you wanted to fuck a Princess."

He ran his fingers through his hair and smirked as he stood next to the side of the bed while you crawled toward him. "I always want my Princess," he whispered as your lips hovered just inches away from his zipper. When you looked up at him, every trace of innocence was completely gone, and you leaned in until your lips met his tip through his khakis. "Baby," he moaned, but before you could get his zipper down, he reached for your hands. 

"What's wrong?" you asked as he pulled you up so you were kneeling in front of him. 

"Nothing's wrong. Everything is very right."

You smiled up at him as he kissed your lips softly. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, as plainly evidenced by the ring in his pocket right next to where your hand just settled. So as he guided your fingers up to his chest, he asked, "Do you want to go on a date with me?"

You laughed against his lips. "You're asking me on a date? We're already in a relationship."

Bradley's hands settled on your hips as he nipped along your jaw until his mouth was next to your ear. "Doesn't mean I can't ask you out. I got selected to fly in the air show, and I want you to be my date for the weekend."

"Really?" you gasped, your fingers tightening around his shirt buttons. "Noah and I get to watch you fly? And you and I can tour the children's hospital?"

"Mmhmm. I wasn't about to let you go with Jake. That man only has one thing on his mind when it comes to you."

"Oh yeah?" you asked, feigning pure innocence once again through your voice. "What does he have on his mind?" When Bradley responded by tucking his hand inside your tiny shorts and stroking your bare pussy, first you gasped, and then you laughed.

His touch remained soft and tentative as he slipped one finger down to tease your opening. "You see, he doesn't want you the way I want you."

"How do you want me?" you whimpered softly, kissing his lips. 

"I want you with me for the rest of my life."

"Daddy!" you whined, kissing him desperately as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He knew nobody else had ever spoken to you the way he did, but he also knew he'd never been in love like this before. This time, when you reached for his zipper, he let you have him. His shirt and pants ended up on the floor along with your tiny pajamas, and you welcomed him into your tight pussy as you told him you loved him.

"I have everything," he groaned as he made love to you as you peppered kisses along his flushed cheeks. "You're everything."

After you came for him, Bradley let himself indulge in filling you up while thinking about your belly all swollen and pregnant, and you reached for him just as Skittle came trotting back into the bedroom. Your soft laughter as Bradley curled up behind you had him laughing, too.

"The dog will literally do anything you ask," you whispered as she walked across the room and turned three circles around her dog bed before plopping down. "She stayed in bed with Noah long enough for you to fuck me."

"Dogs are man's best friend for a reason, Princess."

You snuggled in his arms for a few minutes, fingers laced with his as you kissed his forearm. Just as Bradley was starting to doze off, you said, "I'll check on Noah before I get ready for bed." He squeezed you tight one time before releasing you and rolling onto his back to stretch. "Ow!" you gasped when you climbed out of bed. "Shit! I just stepped on something hard in your uniform pants."

His eyes went wide as you started to bend down to investigate, but he vaulted out of bed. "I'll take care of it," he practically yelled, and you dropped his pants. The ring box made a soft thud as it hit the floor, and you gave him a strange look. 

"Okay," you replied, glancing at him one more time before pulling your pajamas on and heading out of the room.

"Fuck," Bradley grunted, picking up the pants and rooting around in the pocket until the box was in his hand. He turned away from the door and snapped it open, revealing the most perfect ring he had ever seen. He was already obsessed with imagining it on your finger. But he snapped it closed again quickly and ran for the dresser. 

He could leave it with his undershirts, but when he opened that drawer, he realized you were in that one a lot, often borrowing from him. He opened the next drawer down, but it was filled with your cute underwear, so that definitely wouldn't work. He reached for the bottom drawer which was filled with his socks, but he heard you coming back down the hallway, so he dropped the box and kicked it shut.

"Aren't you going to get ready for bed?" you asked as you plugged your phone into the charger, still eyeing him a little cautiously. Bradley realized he was just awkwardly standing there naked in front of the dresser for seemingly no reason, so he was definitely going to have to move the ring later. 

"Yeah," he agreed, grabbing some clean underwear and kissing you as he walked past. "Getting ready for bed."

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

On Thursday, Bradley let you know that everyone was insisting on a beach day on Saturday, but when you texted Natasha about what kind of bathing suit she was planning on wearing, she claimed she might not even go. 

"Well I don't know if I want to go if Nat isn't going," you complained to Bradley while you made dinner. "I don't want to be the only female there. In a bathing suit. That would be weird."

"She's going," Bradley said with an eye roll. "She's just being difficult, because she's trying to pretend nothing is going on with Javy. Besides, I'm not going unless you're going." He took the spoon you were holding out of your hand and spun you around to face him. "I don't want to go anywhere without my Princess."

You let him kiss you and slip his hands underneath your top, trying not to moan as his calloused hands danced softly along your skin. When his lips skimmed along your cheek, you whispered, "You just want me there to help you walk safely across the uneven rocks and sand." You bit your lip as he eased his face away from yours to give you a cautionary look. So of course you immediately added, "Because you're such an old man."

One big hand slipped down and softly spanked you on the butt as you laughed. "Old or not, I can still get the job done. And that includes walking across the beach."

"Sure, Daddy. But I'll go, too. Just in case."

"Thank you. Now if you think you can be nice for a minute, I have something to tell you."

"I can be very nice," you said, kissing him on the tip of his nose before spinning around to check on dinner. 

Bradley patted you on the butt before reaching into the refrigerator to get two beers out. "Penny offered to take Noah home after the beach and keep him for the night."

As he opened both bottles, your gaze drifted to where Noah was sitting on the kitchen floor, building blocks while Skittles basked in the last rays of the setting sun. You licked your lips as you watched Bradley press his mouth to his beer and take a long drink, the bob of his Adam's apple capturing your attention. "We'd have the house to ourselves for the night?"

He winked at you as he set his beer on the counter and pressed the other one into your hand. "Just you and me," he rasped, pecking your cheek. "And I can think of a few fun ways to pass the time."

Then he was on the floor with Noah, and Skittles was in his lap, but he kept shooting you his smug smile that you liked so much.

On Friday night, after Noah was in bed, you started to get things packed up for the following day. "Why do we need so much stuff to go anywhere?" you mused out loud as you found sunblock and beach towels.

"Oh, hell no," Bradley said, taking you by the hips and pulling you away from the tote bag you were packing. "First of all, you used to bring your textbooks over in that bag when you were babysitting, so it gives me an instant boner." You erupted into laughter as he held you against his chest. "But second, you drastically over packed when we went to the lakehouse."

You looked up at him over your shoulder. "I know," you whispered. "But I want Noah to have anything he might need or want. And you know how my parents were." You didn't like talking about them. They never understood you when you were a child, and that's why you'd moved out as soon as you could. They were also the reason you had a hard time spending Bradley's money even though he wanted you to be comfortable.

"I know, Baby," Bradley crooned, and you melted back against him. "I love how much you love Noah. And I hate that you never got to do anything or ask for anything when you were his age, but there's no need to go overboard for a beach day."

You nodded. "Well then why don't you help me pack?"

"I'd be happy to."

But you and Bradley spent more time kissing and laughing softly than anything else. His hands were all over you, just pulling you closer and trying to keep you there. "Let's go to bed," he whined for the third time, convinced you'd packed everything the three of you could possibly need. "I want to cuddle with you."

You nearly shrieked as he picked you up, leaving the pile of gear for the beach next to the front door, and carried you back to the bedroom. "Oh, you want to cuddle?"

He hummed and nodded against your shoulder. "Yeah. Let's save all the nasty shit for when we're home alone tomorrow night." Butterflies erupted in your belly as he set you down on the bed and climbed in next to you. "Let's cuddle."

You were wrapped up tight in his arms, Bradley's soft, even breaths tickling your neck as he whispered that he loved you. This was perhaps the safest you'd ever felt in your life. Nobody was going to hurt you here. Not now. Bradley would take care of that. And you would take care of him. 

As you snuggled in to go to sleep, your eyes caught on the items lined up on the dresser. "What's all of that out for?" you asked softly.

"Huh?" Bradley grunted, probably already part way asleep. But you propped yourself up on your elbow and looked at the purple USB drive, a pile of your underwear, your purple plug, your paper crown, and the bottle of lube. All sitting in a tidy row.

"On the dresser, Bradley."

"Oh," he said with a chuckle as he pulled you down flat again. "I started packing for the weekend, too. So to speak."

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

Bradley grunted, trying his best not to let you see how awkwardly he was walking across the sand. Not after you made the claim that he'd need you to hold his hand and guide him. You and Noah pranced ahead of him, but he was stuck carrying two bags, a cooler, an umbrella and a beach chair. And the temperature of the sand was roughly that of the surface of the sun. 

"Fuck," he growled as the sand rushed into his flip flops and his aviators slid down his nose. How you were managing was literally beyond him. He just wanted to get this afternoon over with and get you back home and into bed. He had some plans for you, all of which were becoming more explicit by the moment as he watched your ass swaying in your purple bikini bottoms. 

Literally the last thing he needed right now was to become aroused, so he just pushed your delicious looking rear end from his mind. Apparently you found the perfect spot, because you finally stopped and turned around to look for him. Then you laughed and left Noah with Nat while you made your way back to him. 

"This sand is fucking hot," he complained before you could say anything at all. 

You took one of the bags and the umbrella from him as you said, "It's August, Daddy. Of course the sand is hot. Do you need me to help you along? Or, I could run back to the Bronco and get your walker?" You started to turn in the direction of the parking lot with an innocent look on your face.

"You're really looking to get it tonight, aren't you?" Bradley replied, dumping everything next to where Noah was burying Nat's legs in the sand. You looked so pleased with yourself, and he thought about the ring that he had moved to the pocket of his dress whites that he'd picked up from the dry cleaner. They were hanging in the back of the closet, and he figured you'd have no reason to look there. Before you could run off, he pulled you in for a tight hug and said, "Stay out of trouble. Be a good girl. And I'll give you anything you want later."

Your lips met his ear, nudging his aviators crooked. "I love you." His fingers skimmed your skimpy bathing suit bottom as you joined Noah who had Nat covered to her thighs. 

Javy was trying his best to casually toss a football around with Mickey and Mav, but he couldn't keep his eyes to himself. It was a good thing Bradley was absolutely convinced he was looking at Nat and not you, otherwise he'd have a problem. He left you next to the pile of everything you packed, intending to simply join the little football scrimmage that was going on, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

"Hey, that's really nice, Bradshaw," Jake drawled. "You brought the family today. The little ball and chain, and the big ball and chain."

Bradley hooked his sunglasses with his index finger and dragged them roughly down his nose. "Funny," he said without emotion. "But you weren't calling her a ball and chain back in April when you tried to hook up with her in my kitchen."

Jake hooted with laughter, and it made Bradley's skin crawl. He was such a dick most of the time, and it was always intentional. "There's a difference between hitting a tight pussy and inviting it to live with you. I know the difference. You don't seem to. I'm surprised you didn't bring your dog along, too."

Bradley snapped. "What the fuck is your problem, man?" 

Jake met his gaze, and Bradley was reminded without a doubt that Jake would love to get inside your little bikini bottoms just to say he could. "I don't have a problem, but it looks like you do." He jerked his chin toward the volleyball nets, and Bradley turned to investigate. You were standing there, holding hands with Noah while you talked to a guy with blond hair. Upon further inspection, Bradley realized it was your ex boyfriend, Greyson.

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

Well, well, well. We actually hate you, Grey. If Daddy and Princess can manage to make it to their sexy night home alone, what would you like to read about? And I really hope that ring is well hidden until Daddy comes up with a plan. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 46

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[cosyvelvetorchid]

buck/tommy: single dad tommy looses his son who wanders off after a fire engine. firefigher buck to the rescue

This was such a freaking adorable prompt! Thank you!

As always you can send me bucktommy, saltommy, or Tommy prompts to my ask. Fluff or smut or both. 🩶

*****

"Lucas can you please put your shoes on?" Tommy called out from the kitchen. He could still hear the cartoon blaring from the living room. More than once he'd imagined what harm he'd like to cause the person who invented Bluey. He finished packing their lunches, shoving them into his bag, and grabbed his phone and car keys before walking into the living room and turning off the TV. Lucas whined.

"You have 5 seconds to put your shoes on or you won't be riding the engine." He told him sternly. "5..4.." The 4 year old knew daddy meant business and quickly ran to the door and put on his shoes. "Good boy." Tommy smiled and lead him out to the car.

He was taking him to the annual community fire safety event they held down town. There were lots of exciting things for kids to do - rides, entertainers, and of course a chance to sit in a real engine! Usually Tommy would be working it but this year he had actually managed to get the day off to take his son.

Lucas had been buzzing with excitement about it since Tommy had first told him about it last week. He was counting down the sleeps like he did at Christmas. It had been the first thing he'd gotten excited about since his mom had died the previous year.

He was only 3 when she died and he didn't really understand what death meant, just that mommy was in heaven with the angels. But he certainly felt the loss of his mother. His personality was diluted. Tommy had taken him to a therapist specialising in grief therapy for children, and slowly but surely he began coming out of his shell more.

Evangelina and Tommy had been best friends since they were teenagers. The type of friendship where even when they lost contact for months or even years because of all the things they each had going on in their lives, when they reconnected it felt like no time had gone by.

5 years ago she had asked Tommy to help her get pregnant. She was desperate to be a mother but she was single and time was running out. They had many, many conversations about how it would work, how they would co-parent.. if Tommy even wanted to. They decided that if she were to get pregnant, when the kid was older they'd tell them about how they came to be, but until that point he would be Uncle Tommy.

As it happened, one trip the the fertility clinic, 1 donation and 1 insemination and Evangelina had a bun in the oven. The first few months of her pregnancy went like clockwork. Until the 2nd trimester when she found a lump in her breast. Cancer. Stage 3. She was given 2 options. Terminate the pregnancy and begin treatment, or delay treatment until the baby was born, which would risk the cancer spreading. She chose the latter. After many arguments with Tommy about it, he finally accepted that this was what she wanted.

Watching his son being born was the most beautiful thing Tommy had ever witnessed. He didn't think a human heart had the capacity for that much love. Sadly, within days of Lucas' birth they received the devastating news that Evangelinas cancer had spread to her lymph nodes and other organs. It was terminal. She fought like hell to live, but a month after Lucas' 3rd birthday she passed away.

"Come on, little man. Let's go see some fire trucks!" Tommy let him out of the car, taking his hand.

"Daddy look!" He pointed to a a giant Bluey mascot dressed in turn out gear. Tommy cursed under his breath. He couldn't get away from that little blue shit. "Can we go see him?" Lucas asked.

"Of course, buddy." He said with a smile leading him over. As much as Tommy couldn't stand that damn dog, the smile on his sons face was worth it. After that they rode the teacups, Lucas met some real life firefighters (that weren't his dad), he got to sit in an ambulance and blare the sirens, and he got given so many free stickers Tommy was already imagining having to remove them from the furniture at home.

There was one more thing to do and that was to sit in an engine. Except, what Lucas didn't know was that Tommy had organised with Capt Nash of the 118 a surprise ride in the truck. But first lunch needed to be eaten. A hangry 4 year old was not what anybody needed to deal with on a Sunday afternoon.

They found a picnic table and Tommy handed Lucas his sandwiches and chips. But in the rush trying to Lucas out of the door he'd forgotten the drinks.

"Shi-shoot!" He corrected himself. Trying to police his swearing wasn't easy now that Lucas was of an age where he repeated everything he heard. Thankfully there was a booth in the picnic area that served drinks.

"Lucas, I'm going to get us something to drink. I need you to stay right here, okay? I'll just be over there-" He pointed to the booth no more than 7 or 8 meters away "-you can see me the whole time."

"Okay." Lucas sang.

"You stay here, okay? You must not get off this bench. Do you understand?"

"Yep." He replied, peanut butter and jam smeared all around his mouth. Tommy walked to the booth, looking back every few seconds to make sure Lucas was where he should be. The lady in front of him in the line dropped her purse, spilling it everywhere. It only took Tommy 10 seconds to help her pick everything up but by the time he stood back up and looked to Lucas he was gone.

His heart immediately thunder against his chest.

"Lucas?!" He called out running over to the table. "Lucas!" He looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. Panic began to set in. He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. This had happened before in a grocery store a few months before and after Tommy spent 15 minutes freaking out, multiple calls over the annoy and a call to the police, Lucas was found at the other end of the store watching Bluey on one of the TVs.

There were tonnes of things at this event that a child would gravitate towards. He probably made a beeline for the Bluey mascot or an engine. No, Tommy wasn't going to freak out yet. He'd look for a few minutes first then get security.

***

"Buck have you given away ALL the candy?" Eddie asked.

"What? They're all just so adorable I couldn't say no!" Buck tried defending himself.

"You're such a push over." Eddie told him. "I'm gonna go get a coffee. I'll be back in 5." Buck waved him away as he bent down to the 4 year old standing in front of him.

"Hi" He said with a big smile. "Whats you're name?"

"Umm.. I'm not s'posed to say. You're a..a stranger."

"Thats good thinking. You're absolutely right." Buck looked around but there were no other adults in the vicinity that looked like they could be this kids parents. "Hey Buddy, are you parents here?"

"My daddy brought me to see the firetrucks." The kid told him.

"Well that's a cool dad you have, huh? Hey do you known where he is? Can you see him?" The boy looked around and lifted his hands up in an exaggerated shrug.

"Okay. Well you see this?" He pointed to the radio on his chest. "This is my very special radio. I can talk to some very cool people and maybe they can find your dad. How does that sound?"

"Okay." The boy said.

"Do you think it would be okay if you told me your name? That way I can tell my friend on the radio and it will help us find your dad." Buck asked. The boy thought about it for a second.

"My name is Lucas."

"It's nice to meet you Lucas. My name is Buck. You wanna sit in the truck while I radio my friend?"

"Yeah!" He said excitedly. Buck opened the door and lifted him up onto the seat, before getting on the radio. "Hey Cap?"

"Captain Nash here. What is is Buck?"

"I gotta kid here that seems to be lost."

"Im with Sergeant Grant now. Can you describe the kid?"

"How old are you buddy?" He asked Lucas.

"Im 4"

"He says he's 4 years old, names Lucas. Dark curly hair, wearing blue jeans and a black tshirt with a helicopter on it." He spoke into the radio.

"This is sergeant Grant. We have the father here. Where is the boy now?"

"I've got him in the engine."

"Keep him there, we're on the way."

"Good news, your dad's on the way." He told Lucas.

"My daddy is a fireman too." He said

"He is?"

"Yeah. He.. he flies helicopters too!" He said pointing to the picture on his shirt.

"Wow that is very cool!" Buck said. "You wanna put the lights and sirens on?"

"Yeah!"

"First things first, before we go to an emergency we have to be safe. So.." he grabbed a helmet from the back and gently placed in on Lucas' head. "There we go, now you're ready. See that button right there? Press it." Lucas leaned forward and pressed it and the sirens rang out.

"Woah!" Lucas cried out with a big smile. Buck smiled back, his heart melting at how adorable this kid was.

"Daddy!" He shouted pointing through the windscreen. Cap and Athena walked towards the engine with an unfamiliar man. Something shifted in Bucks stomach at the sight of him. He was tall, with a large muscular frame. A piece of his dark curly hair had fallen onto his face. Buck suddenly felt nervous. Buck switched off the siren.

"Lucas?" The man called as they reached the engine.

"Daddy! I got to put on the siren!" He said as Buck removed the helmet from him and lifted him down. The man bent down to his eyeline.

"Lucas, how many times have I told you, you cannot wall off like that? It really scares daddy when you do that." His voice was soft but strained. He hugged the boy tightly. Bucks chest tightened at the image in front of him of a scared father.

"Im sorry daddy."

"It's okay buddy." He kissed the top of his head and stood up. His eyes met Bucks and he caught a breath. The man in front of him was gorgeous. As tall as him with a slightly smaller build but long legs. He had an adorable pink birthmark by his left eyebrow underneath a head of gentle dirty blonde curls.

"Were you the one who found my kid?" He asked.

"Uh, yeah. Bu.. Evan. Evan Buckley."

Evan. Tommy couldn't help notice the similarity. Evangelina was all about signs from the universe, which He'd always waved away as hocum. But now..

"Tommy Kinard." He responded, somehow feeling nervous all of a sudden. "Thank you. For finding him." He smiled. Something about those smile lines around his eyes made Bucks heart beat a little faster.

"He actually found me if I'm honest." He laughed. Tommy looked at his son.

"I need to put bells on this kid I swear." He said. Buck smiled and Tommys mouth went dry.

"Hey Tommy, you still want that surpise thing?" Bobby asked walking over.

"So long as my kid stays in the damn truck, sure."

"What surpise?" Buck asked confused.

"Well-" Tommy said lifting Lucas up into his arms "-how would you like to go on a real life ride on an engine?" He asked Lucas.

"Can I daddy?" Lucas asked practically vibrating.

"I don't know. What do you think Captain Nash?" Tommy turned them to face him.

"I think that would be okay." He smiled.

"Well let's go then!" Tommy said to Lucas putting him the back of the engine.

"Buck, Eddie is dealing with a broken ankle by the teacups, so I need you to jump in." Bobby told him.

"Got it Cap." He jumped in the back as cap got in the drivers seat. Tommy buckled Lucas in, they he snd Buck sat either side of him. They caught eachothers gaze and held it for a few moments. Something sparked in both of their chests.

"You ready, kid?" Bobby called from the front.

"Yeah!"

"Here we go!" Bobby put the sirens on and turned on the engine.