#yeah yeah life kicks ya in the ass i know

[mycological-mariner]

wanna talk about your OCs I would love to hear about your OCs who are they 👀

Oh dear. Sorry I forgot I hadn’t posted this it was in my drafts lol Doing my historical OCs because, well. I wanna and I feel like if I delved into any of my fantasy/sci-fi ones we’d be here ages

Fred Norefleet.

Of all the naval and broadly maritime ocs I have conjured over the years, he’s the most pathetic. By god is he trying his best, but he has continuously come up short in everything he’s done. He tries so hard and his life until recently was just other folk deciding what he was gonna be for him. He’s silent unless spoken to, tends to miss the forest for the trees, stares at you really intently when you’re talking, wishes more than anything to disappear into the background and his first words were probably “I’m sorry.”

That being said, he’s deeply loyal and supports his sisters and uncle financially with his wages. He’s a prime navigator and very detail-oriented, a team player and quite sneaky when need be and might actually make a lieutenant if he didn’t have a spine made from celery. He’s also quite sensitive about his lack of any formal education, receiving the good chunk of it when he became a midshipman. Quite protective, especially after the wreck as a kid. Became a bit of a chronic helper and control freak after that. Absolutely shit at fighting but an excellent sailor. Once dug shot out of his own hip, made it into a coin and carved a ship on it to give to his Friend. He’s that kind of person. He’s trans.

Morwenna Norefleet.

If Fred’s first words were “I’m sorry” then Morrie’s were “WASSON MATE.” The older of the twins by a minute, she and Fred were stuck together like glue until he went away to sea. She taught herself to read by studying the Bible and writes regularly to her brother. As both of them swapped names and gender, they’re quite close. She wants to open her own public house and inn or at least buy one (all the papers in Fred’s name of course). She’s a total flirt, especially with the out of town tinners and any “foreign” sailors (upcountry), even though she’s never settled down what with the whole trans thing. Morwenna embroiders very intricate flowers and landscapes. She once tried to do a ship for her uncle and it was less of a ship than it was a box with sticks. When Fred wouldn’t speak after his shipwreck and time spent stranded when they were 11, she felt really hurt. Especially when he went away to sea the same year, she was really lonely and would often sit in the St Juliot’s graveyard and cry privately. Nowadays she’s alright! Constantly worrying about her brother but also, she’s looking after her other sisters and their children and her uncle and working in an inn and working in the pilchard cellar. Her hevva cakes are amazing. She’s the strongest person in this family, has a deeply rooted sense of self and has boundless self confidence without ever being arrogant. Community and family are what’s important to her most of all, she teaches what she knows of Cornish to her little family members and teaches them to write and read and once hit one unruly patron so hard he woke up crying.

Callum Tredwen.

A mess. Is actively being hunted down by his own brother, is an ex-navy lieutenant, a mutineer and now smuggler. He’s on a suicide mission. He’s a lesbian and has an extremely doomed and unspoken relationship with his first mate. He’s probably committed multiple war crimes, he took a 21-year old doctor hostage and kidnapped him. He ought to be dead but he just won’t die. He’s a dick. An asshole. He’s all the confidence of Morwenna but without any compassion for others (lies, he does, he just rarely acts on it), the anxieties of Fred without any of the perspective. He hits first to avoid ever being hit himself. He refuses to let himself be loved or taken care of. He’s gotten his dearest friends killed and his own self maimed. This man wants blood and he’s going to get it, whether it’s his own or someone else’s. It’s been years and his gender is still “eeeeh.” The 2nd messiest fucker.

[makismei]

can I pretty please have more pleasuredom!toji w/ sensitive!reader

ofc u can!!! cw: overstim, unprotected s*x, squirting, established relationship, prone bone, mating press my love, minimal degradation but mostly praise, cream pie 😗

“this is… oh,” you whimper, toji’s arm putting you in a light headlock while he has you laying on your tummy, beating your pussy from the back. “really intense.. mmph! toji, hold on!”

he shushes you, wet lips planting dewy kisses along your cheek. “you can take it, pretty. keep squeezing me juuuust like that…”

you’re practically choking on your moans, tears clumping in your lash line. “i caaan’t! ‘m… ‘m gonna cum!”

“can feel it,” he groans, “we just started, baby,” he teases, “ya really can’t hold it, huh?”

you whine helplessly, not able to do anything but take, take and take. your legs start quivering, hands pawing at the sheets.

“don’t fight it,” he mumbles, tone carnal and almost aggressive as he starts to put his weight in his thrusts, the telltale sign of your orgasm consuming him in greed and lust. “feels good, right?”

“yes..! yesss!” eyes practically crossed, you mindlessly cry out. “feels ‘s good, toji!”

“yeah, i bet,” he grouses, eyes rolling back when he feels you clench down on him, a squeal ripping from your throat. “fuuuck, baby..” his thrusts start to drag, forcing you to ride out your orgasm.

it’s slow, every push and pull of his cock against your quivering walls makes the pleasure unbearable.

“give me another, doll, c’mon.” he groans, thrusts picking up and you hand slaps the bed relentlessly, sobbing out moans that you came, you can’t possibly come again!

but too damn bad. toji knows better than to listen to your dramatic ass.

he offers a sloppy kiss, but it’s more degrading than it is praise. he bites your lower lip as he pulls away, laughing at how debauched you look. “look at that face,” he grins, “slut.”

his thrusts start to pick up, your moans get louder, practically uncontrollable. “hold on!” you wail, head lolling forward, “oh.. my godddd!”

he grunts, “if it’s too much, use your word baby,” he reminds you gruffly, “‘s why ya have one.”

you pout, shaking your head as you crane your neck to look at him. “nooo, don’t want you to stop… i’m.. ‘m gonna cum again, i think..”

you trail off, eyes rolling back into your skull and toji just laughs. he pulls out, but before you have time to complain he manhandles your body, flipping you onto your back and throwing your legs over his shoulders.

by instinct, you immediately press a hand against his lower tummy, just as he’s sliding back in.

he hums, “hands off if you wanna cum, doll.”

and god, you just look so pretty. tear soaked cheeks and drool all over your face. he watches as you bite your lip, feeling your cunt quiver around his shaft as you retract your hand.

toji leans down, pressing his chest against yours as he slides in to the hilt. you muffle your moans by digging your teeth into his shoulder, feet kicking out from the onslaught of pleasure.

he moans, adjusting his body so his chest is hovering over your face. his arms find purchase over your head, basically trapping you underneath him as he starts to piston his hips.

“so good for me, baby.” he groans out, “so sensitive f’me, you gonna cum? c’mon baby, give it to me.”

you squeal, shaking your head. “‘s too much! i can’t.”

he shushes you, thrusts never faltering. “breathe f’me, c’mon, you can do it baby.”

your body starts to lock up and toji’s face crumples, trying to ward off his own orgasm.

“that’s right, that’s good, baby.” he groans out, “‘m so close, doll.”

your nails dig into his biceps, holding on for dear life, back arching into him as you squeal. he feels wetness spray his abdomen and he lets go, filling you up.

toji thrusts shallowly, milking his orgasm until it starts to feel overstimulating. he’s panting, chest sweaty as he lets you both ride it out.

effortlessly, he flips you both over, his still rigid cock slipping out, thick cum oozing from your slit. he lays you on his chest, brushing hair out of your face and dotting kisses all on your forehead and cheeks.

“my baby,” he whispers, kissing your shut eyes, “don’t fall asleep, we have to clean up.”

“‘s your fault,” you argue sleepily, eyes still closed. “you clean up.”

he rolls his eyes, he always cleans up after regardless. but toji is toji, and who is he if he’s not endlessly annoying you?

“my fault huh?.. buuut you were the one squirting all over the pla— okay, chill out baby, stop pinching me.”

[emmyrosee]

Don’t know if you’re taking request, but imagine modern college au where Toji has baby Megumi (the mother isn’t in their life) and reader, his girlfriend, have class together but has to bring Megumi along cause he has no babysitter or they cancelled, so while sitting on the back seat of the class, Megumi is playing with you hair for attention and so you pick him up and hold him and Megumi kicks his legs happy while he draws you all, as a big happy family UGH

IM GOINF TO DIEEEEEE THIS IS SO PRECIOUS AUGH

And secretly, you’re kind of glad when Megumi’s babysitter cancels, because the little boy is so sweet and so well behaved it’s like he’s not even there anyways, and yet you still adore spending time with him. So when Toji knocks on your door to pick you up, and there’s a tiny Megumi in his arms, he rolls his eyes as you squeal and take Megumi into your own arms, who instinctively wraps his around you.

“Yeah, hug him before me, how nice of ya,” he scoffs, but he smiles as you press a loving kiss to his lips.

“Not his fault I like him more than you,” you coo.

He snorts and grabs your book bag from the ground, carrying it as you make baby small talk with Megumi- what he colored the other day, the pretty kitty he saw on the walk to you, and the new highest number he learned to count to; which, he eagerly displays as you conclude your walk to class.

“You’re so smart, megumi!” You praise, nuzzling his nose with yours while Toji holds the door open for you both. You’re quick to make your way to the back, plopping down on the double table. “Baby, hold megumi for a sec?” You ask, and when Toji takes Megumi back into his arms, you take off your hoodie to lay it on the ground as a slight cushion. “There. Come get comfy Megumi!”

The small boy is let out of his father’s hold and makes his way to the hoodie, sitting down quietly before blinking his big eyes at you and Toji.

“I got your coloring books hold on,” Toji says, taking his own seat as he opens his bag. He pulls out a box of crayons, slightly worn from use, and a big coloring book, filled with dragons and knights for him to fill in. Megumi’s eyes light up as his father passes him the book, and he immediately goes to work.

The class starts like normal. No one says much about Megumi being there, an occasional smile or gesture for a high five from the small boy, but no one bats a negative eye. Megumi’s small but quiet, he’s a good kid who plays with his own toys and sits in place. No one really minds his company- especially not you.

Professor drones on for hours, talking about something you can’t pay attention to- you’re too busy playing with Megumi’s hair, carding the black locks and smiling down at him as he nuzzles into your touch. You’ll get the notes from toji later. You’ve got more important things to take care of.

It isn’t until megumi uncharacteristically stands up with a few crayons in his hand and reaches a hand up to stroke your head, smoothing down any hairs. You turn to him with a smile, patting your lap for him to crawl into, which he does eagerly. You flip your notebook to a random blank sheet- definitely making a note to get a rundown from Toji later- and let him color anything his heart desires. You bury your face into his tiny head of hair and gently rock both of you back and forth, only to smile when you feel Toji’s big, warm hand lay on your back, thumb smoothing up and down your spine. Megumi’s legs dangle and swing happily as he colors, occasionally humming in thought quietly.

The professor finally, after two hours, concluded his lesson, bidding you all farewell and dismissing the class. You stretch and take a peek over to Toji’s messy notes, and you chuckle and lean over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Pay extra close attention so you could teach me, huh?”

He snorts and turns his head to kiss your lips, “you had the kid, I knew your ass wasn’t going to pay attention. Besides- I can always tutor you later,” he chuckles.

You swat his chest with a laugh before turning back to Megumi, “what did you draw, lovey? Can we see?”

You see Megumi ponder for a moment, eyes looking down in thought before he looks up at you and nods quietly. When you open your notebook again, you nearly cry from the drawing.

It’s the three of you- toji drawn as a big square, you, a triangle, and Megumi a small circle. The two of them have dark scribbles to represent their hair, but Megumi took the liberty of being extra careful coloring your hair, making it look nice and pretty. You’re all encapsulated in a big, pink, messy heart that almost fills up the entire page.

“Who’s that?” Toji asks, pointing at a small circle between you and Megumi.

“Mr. Moo,” he says simply, referring to his tiny stuffed cow he sleeps with at night. Toji hums in acknowledgment, but you’re too busy burying your face against Megumi’s, kissing his tiny cheeks and squishing him close. He wraps his arms around you, merely out of instinct.

“Can I have it, Megumi?” You ask, and when the small boy nods, toji scoffs in offense.

“Hey. You got the last one- this one’s mine!” He argues.

“Uhhh, actually, you get Megumi all the time, so I call dibs on all his drawings,” you say back. “It’s a fair trade.”

“I’ll show you a fair trade,” he grumbles, but he leans down to pick up your bag all the same. “Come on. I need a coffee.”

“C’n I have donut?” Megumi asks.

“Why not?” Toji shrugs. “You were good today.”

“He’s good every day,” you hum happily.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

HELLOOO idk if ur requests are on rn so take ur time with this request and get to it at ur own time but i was wondering if u could make a short one shot fic abt reader who is in a relationship with katsuki and is at home while he's out in patrol and she sees his location with life 360 and sees that he's beside some sort of restaurant or supermarket so she texts him smth like

i see ur beside the ramen place i like can u buy dinner tonight 😊

AND THEN KATSUKI IS JUST 🤬🤬🤬 WTF HOW DO U KNOW WHERE I AM ARE U OUTSIDE RN

all lighthearted and funny :))

THANK UUU SO MUCHH 💞💞

LMFAOOOO thjs js so funny😭😭😭 tysm for this ask i hope i did it some justice :33 hope you’re still stickin around to read it anon ! Short lil drabble, much luv xx

“since you’re by that ramen place i like you can get some for dinner 💋��”

“ ? what the fuck”

“where are you.”

“?”

before you can send another text message, your phone lights up with your boyfriend’s caller id, you giggle.

“hi, baby.”

“where the fuck are you at ?”

you snort, readjusting on your sofa “what are you talking about ?” you ask teasingly.

you catch the sound of people talking as you hear katsuki grumbling to himself “i don’t see you.”

you giggle, kicking your legs a little “and why would you need to see me ?”

katsuki groans, already exasperated and growing more and more impatient, you’re surprised he hasn’t started cursing your entire bloodline yet “quit it with that mysterious bullshit, how do you know where i’m at.”

and just to mess with him, you respond “i see you.”

it’s quiet on his end for a moment, aside from the chatter on the street “yn. i’ll fucking kill you.” you throw your head back and laugh “once i find you, you’re done for. your ass is grass.”

“i like it when you talk dirty to me.” you joke, he scoffs hard on the other end “freak.” you hear him mumble, you giggle some more.

“i’m at home, just saw your location and decided to ask you to get me some food.”

“get you some food.” he bites, scoffing in disbelief.

“us, get us some food. pretty please, suki ?” you use your sweetest voice, maybe he might even be able to imagine your puppy dog eyes through the phone.

he laughs sarcastically “right. what makes you think you deserve to get anything after that little stunt you pulled, huh ?”

you pout, whining so he knows you are “i was just kidding, was jus’ a little jokey-joke.” you can’t help but tease him a bit more.

“yeah, my ass.” you snort loudly, laughing and the huff he lets out clearly lets you know he’s not amused, you can see him rolling his eyes at your antics.

“we’ll see.” is the answer he graces you with. you squeal, cus you know that means you won. katsuki is quick to remind you he didn’t say yes, but you already know his mind’s been made.

“i’m surprised you didn’t ask me why i have your location on my phone.” you hum.

katsuki sounds utterly confused by your question when he responds “why would i give a shit about that ? s’not like i get somethin’ to hide. don’t care if you know where i’m at.” he responds simply.

“sides, i know how obsessed you are with me, so—”

“i’m hanging up now, katsuki. get me my ramen. toodles.” your bitter tone makes him laugh, and just to piss you off some more he adds in a honeyed sweet “see you later, babe. love ya.” before he hangs up. you huff shaking your head. a text pings and you swipe up to check it, it’s from katsuki again.

“i’m not getting you shit btw.”

he does indeed come back with ramen.

[writingoddess1125]

The Impenetrable

TF 141 x G/N Reader

No warnings Mainly Just Funny Shit and slight suggestive themes

Was watching a movie while finishing up some Kofi Request and wrote this really fast for shits and giggles. Hope you all enjoy!

• Everyone has been trying to get into your pants since you had joined-

• It seemed like everyone job was second nature to the ongoing project to get you in their bed. The snappy Mechanic that had fire on their tongue and a ass everyone wanted a peice of.

• However everyone at the base had their dreams crushed by you that they knew better then to take another swing, that was till Task Froce 141 landed on the Base.

• Having been stationed for the time being they had caught wind of the hot mechanic that everyone wanted a peice of-

• Soap of course was the first to take a crack at it- Especially when he saw you for the first time digging in the engine of your latest project with your backside for all to see- No military pants could hide that thing

• Soap leans against the side of a tank you’ve been working on, arms crossed and a smug grin on his face.

"So, how abou' you let me take you out? You and me, nice dinner, maybe some dancing. I promise, I clean up well."

• Without looking up from the engine you whefe in, you scoff.

"Sorry I don't date dirty minded pervs"

• Soap flutters his eyelashes in surprise- Having never been curved so fast in his life.

• He gives a fake gasp, playing up his humor "I'm a good church boy! I'm not dirty minded" He says giving a wink in your direction

• "Mhmmm, Right- So that half chub you got there is result of being a good boy?"

• He freezes for a second glancing down as he shifts his legs crossed- flustered clearly as Soap is ranking though his brain for some comeback. "Oh, come on, cant help a fellow when youre bent over like that- Normally im way more charming then this"

• You finally glance at him, smirking. "If you were a good boy your friend wouldny be a problem- and you’re about as charming as a car alarm at 3 a.m."

• Soap clutches his chest dramatically. "Ach, Damn right to the heart here."

• You roll up and throw the grease covered towel at his crotch which he caught and clearly immediately regretted by the grimace of oil on his hands.

"You’ll live-"

• Seeing Soap return, his ego ever so effortlessly kicked like a soft puppy-

• Gaz decides to give it a go next, Waiting till you're getting back from the showers and clearly heading to your bunk.

• "Hey, I know you probably hear it all the time but-"

• "If you know I hear it all the time why bother saying it?" You cut in. Gaz almost tripping as he clearly hadn't expected that

• Rubbing the back of his neck as he smiled

"Yeah you are right- But Still, Wanna grab maybe some coffee?"

• "No-" You say flately Stepping into the barreks with the man hot on your trail.

• "Come on (Y/N), Just 1 cup of coffee?" He says, almost whining with a playful smile.

• You gave a heavy sigh, looking to him before reaching to the side and handing him a tube of the powdered coffee mix and a cup.

"Now would you look at that! A cup of coffee and here I am, a true win for ya"

• Gaz looked to the empty paper cup and the packet of powdered coffee before he chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, you got me. But c’mon, you’ve got to admit, there’s a bit of chemistry here."

• "Yeah, like oil and water," you say flatly. "Doesn’t mix, no matter how hard you shake it Big guy" You say and pat his shoulder.

• He winces with a smile, backing off with his hands up. "Alright, message received."

• When Gaz returned he was just as battered, Soap laughing at the man till he got a packet of coffee thrown at him in relation-

• Now Ghost was curious.. how 1 mechanic had taken down half is team so effortlessly

Yeah.. Curious

• He'd made his way to you during breakfast, having brought his tray over and sitting infront of you as you ate.

• A few moments of silence pass as you eat, Not even bothering to look up to him.

• "How long are you gonna sit there haunting my plate?-"

• "Rather dramatic isn't it?"

• You glance up at him finally, a half chuckle leaving. "Says the guy who wears a skull mask to breakfast."

• Ghost tilts his head slightly. "Hm.. I want to ask you on a date"

• You look to him calmly, setting your plastic fork down. "Ghost, I appreciate the effort, but I prefer relationships where my date doesn’t look like he’s about to read my last rites before dessert."

• He actually chewed over your words for a second before giving a faint nod. "Fair point."

• Ghost chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up his tray, knowing he wasn't gonna win this one. "Your loss, handsome mug under here-"

• You wave him off "Handsome or not- Ive got something called- Surival Instincts."

• Ghost returned, Seemingly taking the rejection on the chin and clearly now more interested then when he went in.

•Price had finally heard about the utter failure of his team and decided to show them how it was done-

• You were in the office handing over reports to your superior when the Captian made his appearance.

• Price leans in the doorway, arms crossed, that knowing smirk on his face. "Alright, I’ve seen the other lads fail. But surely you’d make an exception for me to let me take ya to get a drink?"

• "I don't date senior citizens" You cut short and straight to the point.

• The poor Captian looked like he got punched in the gut, chuckling through his teeth. "That’s cold, love and you know im not old like that-"

• "Oh? Was it the fishing hat or the mutton chops that told me otherwise?" You chime as you walked past him as he leaned off the doorway enough to do that

• "Brutal, But I respect that"

• You provide a thin smile back to him "Wonderful, and I take it you'll respect me saying no?"

• Price shakes his head with a laugh, tipping his hat. "Fair enough. But if you ever change your mind-"

"I won’t."

"Didn’t think so..."

• It would go down as a legend of how you had managed to beat team 141 so brutally like no one else had.

• However now each man trying to formulate their next move on you like it was the greatest mission at hand-

Bonus!

You laid in your bunk, Smirking to yourself as your bunk mate and best friend leaned over to look down at you as you smiled to yourself.

"How long till the bet is up?" They chimed down at you, Watching how you smirk and look at your phone.

"Looks like 4 more days and then I'll win the pot-"

"Damn- Really in it to win it hm?"

"Keeping my legs closed for 3 years and winning 225k? Hell yeah"

It had started out as a funny little wager with your graduating team, Whoever could keep their legs closed the longest would win the money pool, It had started off as a few hundred dollars- Then turned into a few thousand dollars and it just grew every month till it had hit a astronomical amount. Each member trying their hardest to keep in the running-

Some lost to love, others to barrack bunnies, some to drunken nights- However the number of those chipped away lower and lower as the money grew.

Now It had been between you and one other person- who was set to get married in 4 days time and would lose on their honeymoon.

"Well it's almost over? Who are you gonna knock boots with first?"

You smile to yourself, thinking over the last few days and specifically the four members of team 141- Did you want the Skilled Joker, The Energetic Charmer, The Brooding Powerhouse, or The Seasoned Dilf?

"Who indeed~.."

[2knightt]

HII!! could you write the gang with a reader that has an rbf and seems really intimidating/unapproachable but is a sweetheart? they arent very talkative and seem very cold but their love language is acts of service/gift giving & sorta quality time?? <33

୧ ׅ𖥔 ۫ pretty as a vine, sweet as a grape. ⋄ 𓍯

…REQUESTED: you never judge a book by it’s cover. especially when it comes to y/n!

tags/warnings: people being judgy asf/spreading rumours, gang defending reader with their soul, reader is a softie i fear, reader is kinda shy, probably stupid:3c, steve threatening a manLMFAO

ೃauthor notes⁀➷ READER IS SO ME CODED HELLO also if two-bits part sounds stupid it ‘s because i’m high rn and even if can admit it’s a little iffy

—

dallas winston

thought of you as someone to be threatened by at first ngl

he heard of this scary, mean mugged, tuff looking girl and went ‘mh. an enemy🐺😒’

he went up to you one day, acting all tuff and shit just for you to look him up and down and nervously wave

look, he may not be the smartest cookie but he can see someone shy a mile away. and when he seen you wave, he felt like such an ass LMFAO

did he show it? no. obviously.

this is dallas. he’s an asshole.

“little miss tough girl, huh?”

“…pardon?”

that teasing from him DID continue until you walked away because dallas is the type to never back down, even when he’s wrong

expect for the next time you met him!!!!

he was actually asking you your name, where you’re from, etc, etc!!!

turning a new leaf dare i say…

and everything after that was history! cutest scary looking couple ever!

HE THINKS IT’S SOOO FUNNY THAT PEOPLE ARE SCARED OF YOU LMFAOOO

he plays into it sm if someone brings it up bro

“y/n? like..scary y/n?”

“yeah, like scary y/n. and i’ll get ‘er on ya if you keep talkin’ ‘bout her.”

“oh!😰”

he thinks it’s so silly to see you look really pissed off when he isn’t around just to greet you and see your whole demeanour change!!

dallas thinks it’s so cute😭 it’s like one of his favourite things about you!

“😠😒”

“hey, baby.”

“oh! hi, dal!<3”

LMFAO IMAGINE SOMEONE SEEING YOU, A MEAN LOOKING GIRL, SHOPPING FOR MENS LEATHER JACKETS

yuppp spoil that dickhead!😫 he lovelovelovesss getting gifts, ESPECIALLY from u!!!

if you’re clingy, i feel like he wouldn’t mind it. he teases THE FUCK out of u tho!😊

“big tough girl wants to hold hands, eh?”

“…yea😞.”

“awh, look at ya. come ‘ere.”

johnny cade

you might think he’d be scared and intimidated, right? but NO! he’s literally bff’s with ponyboy, he knows damn well what rbf is!

you two are sooo cute together

little kicked, scared puppy with his feral doberman!!!

tells people to stfu whenever they try and spread rumours that you’re scary, mean, and rude.

“you’re dating y/n? don’t you know she-“

“i don’t care, shut up. ‘s not like you know her😒.”

sometimes refuses your gifts.

johnny’s not used to them :( but all u gotta do is say please and flutter your lashes and u got em!!!!

“i can’t take it.”

“please?😞”

“…okay😣.”

and he DOES NOT regret it! he might fight you at first, but he cherishes those gifts with his life<3!

loveloveloveLOVESSS having u around constantly!! since your love language is quality time, you two are always hanging out together.

and, with your scary looks, you often keep the socs away from him!

hip-hip, hooray‼️‼️

the gang was like…worried for johnny at first.

THEY DIDN’T KNOW U WERE COOL THO😭😭💔💔💔

they were all like, “??seriously, johnny?? you pick the meanest girl?? ever???” and johnny was QUICK to defend. “y’all ain’t even meet her, and you’re already sayin’ she’s bad for me?”

when they did though, they were like ‘ohhhh….she really isn’t rude…..oh….’

HE’S SO PROUD TO DATE U THO LMFAOOO

and to know the real you?? treats it like an HONOUR

ponyboy curtis

was intimidated by you.

forgot he was also like you and accidentally glares at people who walk past him LMFAOOOO

You two are like two peas in a pod istg!!

“you look mean from far away,”

“???so do you, pony??”

“…no??”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘NO’?”

mean looking couple who are truly just a bunch of nerds deep down to their soul<3

the gang was a little protective of ponyboy until they realized ur just like him LMFAO

They get having an rbf<3

pony loves spending time with you!

gift him a book and he’ll love you forever!!! (maybe even read it to you when you two are finally alone to help you fall asleep🤍)

he’s such a cutie…..

stays close to you in public because he thinks you’re scarier looking than anyone he’s ever met😊😊.

“cm’ere,”

“why?🤨”

“BECAUSE🙄!”

SCARY DOG Y/N IS REAL.

glares at anyone who goes around telling people that you’re mean and rude.

if looks could kill, they’d be dead already!!!

ponyboy does not fuck around with u i fear.

Sodapop Curtis

LMFAOOO GREEK GOD OF A MAN WITH HIS PISSED OFF GF WHO IS NERVOUSLY HOLDING HIS HAND !!!

he was NOT afraid of you!! in fact, he thought the rumours of you being an asshole were all fake

“you talkin’ about y/n?”

“yes, bro! they’re so rude-“

“how do you know?”

“well, i don’t-“

“so, shut up?😒”

cuz like??? did they not bother to understand you???

soda literally made it his mission to prove that you weren’t a dick!!😭😭

and GODDAMN HE WAS SO RIGHT

you’re such a sweetheart to soda! he lovesss telling people about how cute you are around him since it’s his own way to squash the rumours.

“my y/n is so sweet, you wouldn’t get it.”

“isn’t she the same girl who beat the soc to a pulp?”

“she can barely kill a fly.”

you don’t need to do much to scare off the girls that flirt with him at the DX, just a nice little glare every now and then and they’re already gone!

(soda doesn’t have to know that you play into the rumours sometimes. it’s our little secret.)

steve randle

HATES EVERYONE WHO TALKS ABOUT YOU

he’s petty AS FUCK LMFAOOO

they can’t handle the randle😜💯

“ew, y/n-“

“MAN, GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY FACE WITH THAT WHAT DO YOUUU KNOW ABOUT Y/N🗣️‼️”

that was an over exaggeration but you get the point.

gets very defensive when people try and ‘warn’ him about you lmfao

gift him a tool box and he’ll use it until it’s literally falling apart at the bolts<3

no seriously. it could be holding on by one screw and he’ll still use it. he doesn’t gaf. steve will use anything u give him.

he accepts ur rbf cause he thinks it’s SO FUNNY?? like he’ll see you far away with your friends looking all angry before one of them says a really funny joke and just watches your expression change so quickly

one of his fav things ever<3!

two-bit mathews

he makes so much jokes about it LMFAOOO

“jesus, y/n! you sure yer glare ain’t the thing that killed the dinosaurs?”

—

“swear i see the devil in yours eyes sometimes. it looks soooo good on you, though🤭🤭”

HE THINKS ITS SO ATTRACTIVE

and he lovesss your sweetheart side sm it’s like he gets best of both worlds

RAHH GIFT TWO-BIT MICKEY PLUSHIE OR ELSE

He’d totally have it on his bed 24/7. his sister has tried to steal it before to scare him btw.

skmetimes just to spend time together with him—you just go walking around town with him while he has an arm around your shoulder the whole time<3

[ducksido]

Aussie! Yuu

General Reactions

Grim:

“What do ya mean ya wrestled a kangaroo once?! What kinda wild place did ya come from?!”

Absolutely horrified when Yuu casually picks up a spider and yeets it outside like it’s nothing.

The NRC Student Body:

Confused but entertained by Yuu’s constant use of Aussie slang.

“Oi, mate, pass me that potion.” Mate? Are we friends now?

Slowly start copying Yuu’s lingo without realizing it. Azul starts saying "no worries" and doesn’t know why.

Crowley:

Keeps trying to get Yuu to "tame" magical creatures because he assumes all Australians are Steve Irwin.

Yuu: “I ain’t wrangling a fucking chimera, mate.”

Crowley: disappointed bird noises

Individual Reactions

Riddle:

Appalled at how informal Yuu is. "You called me what?! A 'legend'?! I—w-well, I suppose that’s acceptable..."

Dies inside when Yuu calls Trey "Trey-o" and Cater "Caito".

Absolutely loses it when Yuu casually drinks boiling hot tea without flinching.

Leona:

“So you’re from a place where the sun tries to kill you?”

“...Respect.”

Starts calling Yuu “Roo” just to mess with them.

Intrigued when Yuu tells him that Australians just don’t show fear when faced with dangerous animals because it makes them more aggressive.

Azul:

Horrified when Yuu tells him about box Steve Irwin and the dangerous sea creatures

“And you swim with these?!”

Yuu: “Yeah, nah, you just don’t step on ‘em.”

Azul, who has spent his whole life in the ocean: distressed octopus noises

Floyd & Jade:

Floyd thinks Yuu is the funniest thing he’s ever met. "A shrimp that fights back?! Hahaha!"

Jade is actually really interested in Yuu’s survival skills. "You regularly handle venomous snakes?"

Yuu: "Yeah, ya just grab ‘em behind the head like this—"

Everyone: SCREAMING

Kalim:

Loves the slang. Thinks "G'day" is the greatest greeting of all time.

“What’s a sausage sizzle? That sounds amazing!”

Will absolutely try Vegemite and pretend to like it even if it nearly kills him.

Jamil:

Watches Yuu eat absurdly spicy food and just nods in understanding.

“I see. You are immune to pain.”

HATES Yuu's bugs

Vil:

Disgusted when he hears Yuu doesn’t wear shoes outside sometimes.

“Your skincare routine is what? You just use aloe vera straight from the plant? I—well, actually, that’s not terrible…”

Reluctantly approves of some Australian remedies.

Epel:

Loves that Yuu swears like a sailor. Finally, someone who talks like him!

“Wait, so callin’ someone a ‘sick cunt’ is a good thing?!”

Adopts Aussie insults immediately. Rook is both fascinated and terrified.

Rook:

Enthralled. “Oho, mon chasseur, you live in a land where nature itself is your greatest foe! Magnifique!”

Thinks drop bears are real because Yuu refuses to tell him otherwise.

Constantly calls Yuu "mon kangourou bondissant" (my bouncing kangaroo).

Idia:

“Australia sounds like a survival horror game.”

“Wait, you just accept that there are huge spiders everywhere? You co-exist with them???”

Never setting foot in Australia, ever.

Ortho:

“Big brother, did you know that in Australia, magpies attack people during breeding season?”

Idia: logs off

Malleus:

LOVES hearing about Dreamtime stories and Aboriginal legends.

Yuu tells him about bunyips and he’s instantly obsessed.

“So, your homeland is filled with creatures that lurk in the dark and attack the unaware? …How delightful.”

Lilia:

“You eat what? Kangaroo meat? Crocodile? How fascinating!”

Probably asks Yuu to cook for him, assuming Australians have insane cooking skills due to their ability to survive in such a dangerous place.

Yuu: “Nah, mate, I just chuck a snag on the barbie.”

Sebek:

Thinks Yuu is insane for casually swearing at dangerous animals.

“HUMANS SHOULD FEAR SUCH BEASTS!”

Yuu: kicks a huntsman spider off the wall with zero reaction

Sebek: stunned silence

Ace:

“Wait, so you’re telling me that in Australia, if you see a random dog, it might actually be a dingo?”

Laughs his ass off when Yuu calls Riddle "Ridz" and gets collared instantly.

Constantly tries to get Yuu to teach him Aussie slang. “So if I call someone a ‘drongo,’ that’s an insult, right?”

Tries Vegemite the wrong way (straight from the jar with a spoon) and nearly dies.

Deuce:

Shocked at how casually Yuu talks about deadly animals.

“Wait, so you just had spiders the size of my hand in your house? And you just left them alone?!”

Starts calling Ace a "bloody galah" without realizing it’s an insult.

Lowkey impressed that Yuu knows how to throw a proper punch. If they ever get into a fight, he backs them up 100%.

Cater:

Obsessed with the slang. Uses it wrong constantly.

“Oi, mate! Let’s hit up Sam’s for some snags, yeah? No wuckas!”

“Cater, what the actual hell did you just say?”

Loves that Yuu calls him "Caito." Absolutely adopts the nickname.

Takes a Magicam pic of himself drinking tea while wearing a cork hat. #OutbackAesthetic

Trey:

Concerned about Yuu’s diet.

“So you regularly eat crocodile?”

Yuu: “Yeah, tastes like chicken.”

Accepts the challenge of making a proper Aussie meat pie and succeeds. Yuu is forever loyal to him now.

Tries a Tim Tam Slam and nearly ascends to another plane of existence.

Ruggie:

“Wait, so you had to fight ibises for your food growing up?”

Deep respect unlocked.

Also loves that Yuu can survive on cheap food like two-minute noodles. “You get it, dude.”

Learns about the Great Emu War and refuses to believe Yuu is telling the truth.

Starts calling Leona "King Ding-a-ling" just because Yuu does.

Jack:

Is the only one who isn’t fazed when Yuu talks about fighting wild animals.

“So you just learned how to handle snakes as a kid? Yeah, that checks out.”

Secretly loves it when Yuu calls him "Jacko."

Takes Yuu seriously when they warn him about magpies. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

Puts his hood up for the first time ever when Yuu says, “If you hear a loud swooping sound, run.”

Silver:

Falls asleep standing up outside. Gets woken up by Yuu yelling, “BRO, YOU’RE GONNA GET SWOOPED.”

Yuu fully believes Silver is part koala because he sleeps anywhere and is unbothered by loud noises.

“You remind me of a bloke I knew back home. He fell asleep in a tree once.”

Thinks it’s cool that Yuu knows survival skills but gets worried when they mention how often Australians just deal with dangerous animals.

Professor Crewel:

Hears about how Yuu has picked up snakes before and immediately gives them a 45-minute lecture on safety.

“You cannot just grab a snake by the head, Prefect!”

Absolutely bans Yuu from bringing any Australian creatures into his classroom.

Secretly approves of their blunt attitude. If they weren’t so chaotic, they’d be a model student.

Professor Trein:

“Wait, you refer to your teachers by their first names in some schools?”

Horrified at Yuu’s casual disrespect of authority figures.

Starts carrying a spray bottle because Yuu keeps swearing in class.

Lucius actually likes Yuu because they instinctively respect him like an Aussie street cat.

Sam:

“Ooooh, I like your vibe, little kangaroo~”

Absolutely starts selling Aussie snacks when he realizes how much Yuu misses them.

“I got some Tim Tams, some Milo, and even some fairy bread for ya~”

Yuu nearly cries tears of joy.

Sells Vegemite to unsuspecting students with no warning. Capitalism wins.

Event Characters

Neige:

Thinks Yuu’s accent is the cutest thing ever.

“Oh wow! You sound so cool when you say ‘G’day!’”

Accidentally eats Vegemite by the spoonful because Yuu forgot to warn him. Regrets it instantly.

Chenya:

Thinks Yuu’s chaotic energy is incredible.

“Wait, so your homeland is just one big Wonderland?”

Steals their hat if they ever wear one. "You don’t need this, right?"

Rollo:

Immediately assumes Yuu is more of a menace than the NRC students.

“What do you mean you used to surf in waters filled with sharks?”

His soul leaves his body when Yuu talks about deadly animals with zero concern.

“Surely you exaggerate.”

Yuu: shows a picture of a huntsman spider

Rollo: praying in French

Meleanor & Lilia (when younger):

Meleanor thinks Yuu is the funniest human she’s ever met. "You do what with a shoe?!"

Lilia, even at a young age, respects the chaos.

“So, you just... coexist with nature trying to kill you?”

Yuu: “Yeah, mate. You just don’t show fear.”

Meleanor: “I like this one.”

Other Random Aussie Moments

Yuu introduces everyone to Tim Tams. The entire school becomes addicted.

Someone asks Yuu what’s the most dangerous animal in Australia. Yuu: “The emus.”

Yuu doesn’t flinch when something big crashes outside. NRC students: “Aren’t you going to check?” Yuu: “Eh, probably just a possum.”

Introduces Vegemite to everyone. The reactions range from horrified (Azul) to pretending to enjoy it (Kalim) to “this is fine” (Leona).

Tries to teach everyone how to do a shoey. Vil bans it immediately.

Gets into a fistfight with a goose during a visit to Noble Bell College.

More Random Aussie Moments

Yuu kicks off their shoes and Trein looks personally offended.

They call the cafeteria the ‘tuck shop’ and confuse everyone.

Someone asks Yuu for an energy drink recommendation. Yuu: “Yeah, nah, get a Monster. Maybe a Red Bull if you wanna fight God.”

Rook asks Yuu to track something. Yuu: sniffs air “Yeah, mate, I can track that.” (Has no idea what they’re doing but commits anyway.)

During an event in a desert-like location, Yuu just goes full Aussie survival mode. They thrive while everyone else struggles.

Someone calls Yuu soft. Yuu: "Mate, I survived living in a country where even the plants can kill ya."

They try to ride a broom and end up treating it like a surfboard.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Doing Time 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

Note: I need the weekend to come so I can cum

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"Things aren't too bad. Not since I got my ass kicked," Vaughn chortles. "Mighta knocked some sense into this thick skull at last."

"Hopefully," you agree. "Mom said--"

"I tried calling. She didn't pick up."

"Oh..."

"Why-- Why should I even bother?" His humour fades to hostility, "and why are you acting like you're my mother? When she does answer, she just calls me a fuck up. Like I don't fucking know."

"Vaughn," you hum, "please, I'm not trying to piss you off."

"But you are," he snarls. "Always gotta ruin a good time, don't ya?"

You frown. This is the Vaughn you don't know. The one with the anger like a grenade pin. One tug and it's over. You sit back and wait. Arguing only fuels the flames.

"You're the one person who's s'posed to believe in me and you're nagging me about mom," he snarls.

You look away guiltily. You wonder how he'd react if you told him about Steve. If you mentioned that the reason things 'aren't too bad' is because you did something just as stupid as him. Somehow, you don't think that him knowing you do dumb stuff too will help.

He tugs at his cuffs. The guards come forward. You say his name again.

"Vaughn, please--"

"Piss off! Yeah, you meat head, get me outta here," he turns his wrath on the guard. "Waste of my time."

"Please, I didn't-- I just--"

"I told you not to talk about it no more," he barks. He did. You didn't listen.

Your eyes well. You don't know what happened to him. Where did all this anger come from? As you watch the guards unhook him and he stomps away, you can only think you may have made a good decision talking to Steve. At least there's someone in there who can help. Or try to.

You wiggle your nose and dab your eyes with your knuckle. That was embarrassing as much as it was scary. The guard on the other side returns.

"We'll bring the next early, miss."

"Thanks," you nod. You recognise him. You realise most of the guards must know your face too. It's so strange to think this is a normal part of your life now. That this has become your social life as late.

It isn't long before Steve appears. He sits calmly lets himself be leashed. He leans forward and takes the receiver. You still have yours in hand but it's against the table. You lift it.

"Couldn't wait to see me, huh?" He purrs.

Your cheeks draw tight, "how are you?"

"Mm," he narrows his eyes as he looks you over. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, Steve," you swallow the dregs of your tears. "Really. It was an early morning."

He stares a little longer, the lines deepening in his forehead. His eyes meet yours. His aquamarine irises are speckled with gold and silver. He takes a breath and tuts.

"You were crying."

"No, Steve, it's nothing."

"That brat brother of yours," he nods as his expression turns dangerous.

"Please, Steve, not you too. Okay? It's... a sibling spat. That's all," you assure him. You wish you were as transparent as the window between you.

"I don't like that. I had family coming to see me, I'd be nice," he snarls.

"It's not your problem."

"That's where you're wrong, sweetheart. You made it my problem when you started coming around." He insists.

You chew your lip, "I know..."

"I'm not complaining, so you know," he leans back. "Kinda used to ya now."

"Thanks," you utter grimly and stare at the desk.

"Hey," he says and your eyes flick back up. "I didn't drag myself out here to see you mope."

You swallow and push away the rest of your chagrin, "sorry, I... better?"

"How can that face get any better?" He winks. You squirm.

He's been more forward lately. You assure yourself that it's just him playing with you. He's bored and you're the only person he talks to that isn't a guard or an inmate.

"That's... Right. Um, I guess it was dumb to ask how it's going," you scoff at yourself.

"It's going good, now I'm here," he runs his hand over his mouth, feeling his cheeks, "fresh shave this morning. Looking good, huh?"

You let your eyes focus. You can tell. His chiseled jaw is bare, not one speck of stubble. And his blond hair is parted and combed back. It's getting a bit long.

"You look refreshed."

"Well, I got something coming up later today."

"Another visitor?" You wonder.

"Lawyer," he shrugs. "No big thing. I got business on the outside still. Power of attorney or whatever."

"Mm," you hum.

"Boring stuff. What about you? Besides that idiot you call a brother, how's life?"

"It's life," you say. "Go to work, come home, sleep, it's all the same."

"Huh, sounds like being in here," he snorts. "Lonely?"

You don't realise at first, he's asking.

"I guess. Thought about getting a cat."

"Ah, you're young. Probably wait a few years before that," he chirps.

You tilt your head wryly, "no harm starting early."

"You're funny, sweetheart."

"Am I?" You wonder dryly.

"Well, the things they think are funny in here..." he makes a face. "You know, I wouldn't tell a lady all that, but it's low brow."

"Right."

"I'm still trying to figure you out, you know? Your brother, well, not to pile on top but he's not exactly a model citizen, but you, you're practical, considerate, you make stuffed chicken and pesto. I can't help but wonder how you're not adopted," he snickers.

"Life is strange."

"Isn't it? Never saw some girl knocking on my cell door but here we are," he drawls.

"Here we are," you agree. He smiles and bites his thumb. You shift as his eyes sparkle.

"I might never get outta of this place, but at least I can see a pretty face now and again," he growls.

Yep, at least he'll never get out. You just need to hope Vaughn doesn't get any time added and it will all be over soon. 

⛓️‍💥

It's the first night Steve doesn't call. You're a bit disturbed by how it seems to throw the whole evening off. It's not like you're friends. He's an obligation. You should be happy to have one less thing on your plate.

You take a long bath, your phone on the back of the toilet, the ringer set to chirp. But it doesn't. The soak isn't enough to ease your nerves.

If something happened to him, what about Vaughn? It's a selfish worry but you can't help it. How could that even happen? Steve has this invincibility about him. You just can't believe it.

You get out and dry yourself off slowly. You're achy from sitting on your ass all day. Admin work isn't very thrilling. You stretch and rub the cushion of your bottom, the muscles easing beneath the layer of padding. You've always had a bit extra. It never bothered you as much as it bothers men. Your brother used to beat up any guy he heard hurling insults at you.

It's not your biggest care in the world. You tend to eat those away. Your sweet tooth hardly helps.

You put on a night shirt and lay awake for a while. Even when you do sleep, it's not peaceful. You dream of iron bars and blood on the floor. You wake with a thumping in your temples.

You dress for work. Your stretch-waist grey pants and the silk blouse with roses on the collar. You pack your lunch and brew your coffee, honey and a dash of almond milk splashed in. You leave with your bag and thermos.

The traffic around the clinic is always clogged. You get in with two minutes to spare. You sit behind the window and the phone rings as soon as opening hour strikes. You're swept up in the demands of patients and doctors alike. One thing you can't complain for how quickly the days fly.

You eat your lunch in your car. You cherish the moments you're not surrounded by sniffling, coughing, and complaining. You head back in and finish the last half, yawning at the monitor.

It's even busier when you pull out into the street. You let the music flow into your ears and distract you. You tap the pedal as you slog along. Finally, you get to a side street and cut a zig zag across town. You pull up to your building and linger in your car.

You have this eerie feeling. You glance over at the unfamiliar car parked facing the brick. The sleek white muscle car is vintage and polished to a shine. Someone loves that thing.

You get out of your dusty Honda and snatch your bag from the passenger's seat. You tap your fob and enter through the side. You stop before the elevator and turn back. You should at least try to get a few steps in. You take the stairs.

You stare at your pointed flats as you drag your soles over the carpet. You smother a yawn behind your hand. A throat clears. You move over, thinking someone's coming your way. You stir in your bag for your keys. Your name brings your chin up.

You gasp and drop your keys. You teeter as you nearly spin and sprint away. Your bag slips and you barely catch the strap. You gape at Steve as he stands beside your door.

Silence wafts around you with the smell of cooking and laundry. He holds a bouquet of classic red roses. He sports a tailored suit in black that puts his prison uniform to shame. The collar is crisp and the tie perfectly knotted. His jawline is shaved and his hair is styled down to the strand.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greets with a smirk.

You wordlessly bend to pick up your keys then stand and fix your bag on your shoulder. Your eyes glaze in disbelief and horror. A million questions flurry to a storm of terror.

"How..."

"Appeal went through. They turned over my conviction," he struts away from the wall. "These are for you, sweetheart."

You look at the petals then at him as he comes close. Your shoulders sag as you shrink down at the breadth of his shadow. He's even bigger like that. You shudder, the lack of barrier unsettling.

"I got you speechless," he intones and grabs the strap of your bag. "Look like you had a long day, let me take a load off."

He takes your bag then guides your hand to the bouquet. You close your mouth and gulp. He sweeps away your keys and hooks his arm through yours. You let him lead you to the door of your apartment. He swings it open and you flinch.

"Wait, Steve, how did you-- how do you know where I live?" You quaver.

"Told you, I got friends on the outside. You don't think I'd leave you unprotected--"

"Wait, wait," you plead as you face him, untangling your arm from his. "How is this real? How are you here? How- Why-- You don't think--"

"I think I spent months talking to you and you spent the same time coming to me. It's not what I think, it's what I know," he insists. You choke.

If his conviction was flipped, maybe that means he isn't so bad. No, no, you heard of what he did in there. He's dangerous. Whether he did what the court said he didn't or not.

He waves you in, "come on, we can take it slow. We'll talk, like old times."

You shake your head but enter. You see no other choice. You're too stunned to think of any.

He follows and pulls the key free of the door before shutting it. He hangs them on the little hook beside the frame. He faces you as you focus on slipping off your flats. He puts your bag on the top of the small shelf where you store your mitts and whatnot.

He whistles, "you look... good. I mean, I never got the full angle." He steps back and you feel him raking you with his eyes. "Got a nice shape..."

"Steve," you snap and face him. "I... I never..." you pace yourself and take a breath. "The flowers are lovely, thank you. And I appreciate you coming by but I think there's a bit of a miscommunication." You turn and slowly inch away. You spin around as he watches you, his expression betraying nothing. "I only talked to you to keep Vaughn safe."

He sighs and his eyes narrow. His brows tilt slightly and his jaw squares. He nods and smooths the front of his jacket.

"Well, sweetheart, I went and got a new suit for you."

"I'm sorry--"

"No, get this," he strides forward and stops before you. "Whether it was for me, for you, or for that scum you call a brother, it happened and it's not over. You got me? I might be out but I got men inside. Men who are willing to do a lot worse than me," he snarls.

You shudder and he grabs your chin. You whimper. "I wanna be nice to you, sweetheart. That's all I've been dreaming of. I went out, got all dressed up, got you flowers, now you do me a favour, go put a dress on so I can take you out for dinner." He sniffs and squeezes just until your jaw throbs, "see, I'm still doing stuff for you. I'm not asking much except you to come out and look pretty."

He lets go and you stagger back. You sniffle and quickly hide your face. Your voice comes out hoarse, "I'll put these in water first."

Your heart races and you go into the kitchen. You find a vase and focus on filling it. You put the flowers in and toss the paper cone. He looms in the doorway.

"I'll find something to put on, okay?" Your voice cracks.

You cross the kitchen and he stays firmly in your path. He brings his knuckle up under your chin and forces your face up.

"Smile, sweetheart," he growls. "We're together. At last."

[jaredpadonlyyyy]

𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏’𝙎 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝙎𝙏𝙐𝙁𝙁

• 𝙎𝙈𝙐𝙏, 𝙎𝙈𝙐𝙏𝙏𝙔, 𝙎𝙈𝙐𝙏, 𝙁𝙇𝙐𝙁𝙁

• 𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙎 𝘿𝙉𝙄 𝙄 𝙒𝙄𝙇𝙇 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝘾𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙐𝙉𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙏𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝙎𝙀𝙓 (𝘞𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴) 𝙋 𝙄𝙉 𝙑, 𝘿𝙊𝙂𝙂𝙔 𝙎𝙏𝙔𝙇𝙀, 𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙐𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉, 𝙈𝘼𝙇𝙀 𝙍𝙀𝘾𝙄𝙀𝙑𝙄𝙉𝙂.

You and Sam have been in a fight since the last hunt that almost went wrong. You knew it was Sam’s fault but he thinks it wasn’t, so it got you both in a fight and not talking. It’s been almost two weeks and even for Dean, it was weird to see both of you fighting since you two have been together since you were both children and almost never really fought like at all so it was weird to him. You both still slept in the same bed, in the same room. He was your husband after all and no matter how angry you are with him, you still love him to death. He’s been the love of your life like forever. You were in the kitchen like you always were.

Dean walked inside the kitchen and sat down. “Whatcha cooking?” He asked clapping his hands as he licked his lips knowing that your food was always so good. You didn’t answer and it made Dean’s smile fall. “Hey.” He called out making you snap out of your thoughts. “Yeah.” You turned around as he stood up the chair he was sitting on. “Are you okay?” He asked as you turned off the eggs you were cooking and sigh “honestly, no.” Your eyes watered as Dean stood in front of you. “I miss him.” You let out a sob as your voice broke. “Then talk to him.” Dean said as he grabs you from your shoulders and pushes you out the kitchen. “I can’t.” You told the Winchester man.

“Yes you can, now go.” He said kicking you out as he walked over to the food you were doing.

You scoffed as he smiled over at you as you rolled your eyes and walked back to your room where you last left your husband sleeping. “Oh, and my the way, I’m going on a hunt to help a friend out.” Dean called out. “Okay, see ya.” You waved him off as you walked to your room. You softly opened the door to your room and saw Sam was still sleeping, which was not normal for him. But you knew how exhausted he was.

You pulled over Sam’s shirt throwing it aside, leaving you in only your underwear, since that’s all you sleep in and got inside the sheets facing your husband as he opened his hazel eyes to see you facing him very close. “Hey.” You said softly as you both looked at each other. “Hey.” He greeted back to you softly as you look all over his face. “I’m sorry.” Sam told you before you can speak. You smile as you got closer to him. “I was going to say sorry as well.” You told him as he immediately hugged your figure bringing you closer to him. “I know you were trying to protect me and I got angry over it.” You said softly as he smiled.

“And I get that you can protect yourself, you’re a badass hunter, trust me I know.” You both chuckled. “My job isn’t to only protect innocent people and get them home safely. But my job is to also to protect my wife when I feel like she’s in danger.” He spoke softly. “One thing I will always do is protect you when i feel like you’re in danger.” He said and you nod at him as you understood. “I understand.” You softly told Sam.

You both smiled and leaned into to a sweet kiss as you smiled into the kiss as well as Sam.

There was a knock on the door and you and Sam lifted your heads as the door opened, but Dean was not looking inside. “You both decent?” Dean asked as you gasped. “Dean my whole ass is out.” You said as you and Sam both chuckled, joking with the Man. He turned to both of you as you both laughed at him.

“Anyways I’m leaving.” He said as Sam sat up on the bed. “Where are you going?” Sam asked him as he turned with a smirk. “Arianna asked me for help on a hunt.” He said making you sit up with the sheets close to your chest at the sound of your best friend’s name. “Are you two together?” You asked Dean as he smirked even wider. You glared at him as his smirk fell. And then you smirked as you realized something.

“No way, you like her.” You said making Dean’s eyes widen for a moment and he scoffed. “No, I don’t.” He denied it. “Oh, man! This is good.” You and Sam were laughing as he blushed. “Just so you know.” You said. “She likes you too.” You wink and his mouth dropped. “Wait really?” He asked making you smirk so big at that. “I knew it! You do like her.” You said as he sighs. “Okay, yes I do.” He said making you clap your hands and laugh. “Okay, go don’t keep her waiting.” You told him as he started to close the door. “Please use protection!” You yelled hearing him let out a loud groan making you and Sam bust out laughing at him.

After Dean left it’s been a day and all you both have been doing is having make up sex.

Right now you moan loudly as he slammed into you as he had you bent over the map room table. Sam’s hand came down, making contact with your ass in a slap making you moan louder at the pleasure plus the sting of the slap. “Fuck, Sam.” You gasped as he brought up your leg going in deeper. You had to hold him back as he was in so deep. He wasn’t a small man by any means. He was very long and thick and you could feel how your pussy scratches out as he’s fucking you. It’s been two days since Dean left to be with your best friend and it’s been two days since you and Sam have been going at it. Your legs felt like they were about to give up as your pussy walls start to flutter. “God, Sam!!” You gripped on to the table.

You looked over your shoulder as he gripped your hips and slams harder making your legs shake from how delicious he was hitting your sweet spot over and over again. “Aah!” You gasped. Sam holding your hips up as your pussy flutters around his cock making him groan. Letting out a grunt Sam pulled out making you get on your knees as he pumped his cock in front of your face. “Fuuuck!” He grunted as he shot out his release onto your mouth as you open.

Swelling him, your lips took him in bobbing your head up and down making Sam groan loudly as he leaned onto the map table as he kept on moaning. Grabbing onto his thighs you kept on going making him gasp over and over again at how good it felt at how you were giving him some head. His cock twitching as he started thrusting his hips fast and hard into your mouth. “I’m coming, fuck!” He lets out closing his eyes as it was becoming way too much for him. He grabbed your hair making you gag as he held you there making him grunt loudly as he cums again.

Pulling out he winced as he looked down at you as his dick soften, lifting you off the floor as he looked at how fucked out you were. Dean leaving for two days. You both didn’t know what got into you both as all you did was have nothing but amazing rough sex.

Sam leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lips making you sigh as tiredness was starting to hit your body from the two days of activities you both did. Pulling away you looked up at him, his hands gripping your hips. “I love you, Sam Winchester.” You whispered to him as you looked up at him with some kind of tenderness in your eyes. “I love you, too.” He said back giving you the same look you were giving.

After that Sam took care of you, helping you shower, getting dressed, and finally you both were inside the sheets cuddling as you both watched something on Netflix, your eyes starting to get heavy from the day.

You and Sam had fallen asleep, Dean found you both knocked out with Netflix still playing.

𝙎. 𝙒𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Twelve

Sorry for the delay- I started editing this on Friday night when I teased a special weekend chapter and... well. It turned into 30 pages. (basically a 2-for-1, ya greedy fucks). Love you guys.

Series Masterlist

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You slam the door so hard it echoes- cracks- down the corridor, reverberating off concrete and tile like mortar blast. It punches through the silence in the lobby, makes your teeth ache.

Half of you expects your mom to hear it from across the goddamn ocean- call you up with that slow, Southern drawl and chew your ass out like you just kicked a church pew. “Now, baby, was that really necessary?”

Yeah. Yeah, it fucking was.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to kill him.

You’re going to snap his smug little neck with your bare fucking hands and thank God for the opportunity.

The world goes narrow- sharp-edged and colorless. You don’t register the turn, the hallway, the silver plate on the bathroom door. Just that it opens. That it locks behind you. That the sink hisses to life beneath your hand like it knows you need something, anything, to drown this out.

White noise. Cold tile. One square meter of space that doesn’t belong to him.

You slide down the wall like your bones have liquefied. Hit the ground hard. Stay there.

Your skin is burning. Your lungs hitch and shake with breath that won’t land right. Your hands are still fists- useless, twitching things at your sides.

But you don’t cry. You won’t cry.

Something tight coils at the base of your throat, molten and sharp and too dense to sob. It’s not sadness. Not exactly. It’s closer to rage- raw and acidic, animal-driven and pressing up against the inside of your chest like it wants out.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Press your palms to your temples.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

That was so unprofessional. So loud. So stupid. You threw a stack of documents across the goddamn boardroom. At the world champion. You shouted- shouted- like he’d keyed your car or slapped your mother. In front of Christian. In front of GP. In front of the team that’s been pulling you into this world piece by piece for months now.

You gave him everything he’s been clawing for.

You broke.

Your head thuds back against the wall. The tile is cool, but it doesn’t help. Your pulse still screams in your ears.

Goddamn you, Max Verstappen.

The air smells like corporate soap and sterilized metal. There’s a balled-up towel in the corner, just under the sink. Not something the cleaning ladies would catch unless they threw themselves on the floor of the bathroom like an overgrown child. Like you. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everything in white. You stare up at them, eyelids flickering. Count backward from ten. Then again. It doesn’t help.

You pull your knees to your chest. Hands flat on the floor. Focus on the tile- cool, slick, clean. Everything you’re not.

Not anymore.

You’re probably fired.

The thought hits like a sucker punch. Of course you’re fired. You lost it. You walked out. You slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass. You screamed.

They have to fire you.

Because you were supposed to be above this. Better. Smarter. More composed. More polished. You were doing it. Threading the needle. Navigating every petty, simple-minded, middle-school bullshit trap he laid- every stolen document, every 3AM call, every twisted smile- with grace.

And then you broke. For what? One smug look? One pointed “thank you”? One final shove over the edge?

Your stomach twists. Your jaw locks. You breathe through your nose- hold- exhale. Again. Again. But the pressure doesn’t leave. Because you know the truth. You know it like scripture. He’s been trying to break you for weeks. And you let him win. You gave him that moment. Gift-wrapped and on a platter. 

And he loved it. You saw it. That smile, slow and curling, like he’d just tasted something decadent. Like your rage was a long-awaited dessert.  Like the punchline to a long, private joke. Like your fury wasn’t a meltdown, but a performance he’d been dying to see- front row, popcorn in hand. The glint in his eyes when you snapped- really snapped- like he’d been waiting for it, savoring it, and now, finally, he could relax.

It was delight. Pure, revolting delight.

As if your fury was the first honest thing you’d ever done. As if everything else- your work, your precision, your poise- had been a lie. But this? This meltdown? This was real enough to be worth something to him.

It boils your fucking bones. That you handed him that moment. That you gave him joy. Real joy. The kind that lit up his whole face like you'd handed him a second championship trophy and kissed it with your own damn mouth.

God, he reveled in it. Like your anger validated something for him. Like he'd won a private, personal war that only he was playing. And worse- he looked proud. Like he’d broken something that wasn’t meant to break. Like he’d pushed you, and he’d undone you, and now the universe had returned to its rightful fucking order.

You dig your nails into your palms. You feel the bite of it. The sting. But it’s nothing compared to the shame rippling under your skin. Not because you were wrong- but because he liked it. Because he won.

And you hate that he knows it.

You curl tighter, not broken, not crying. Just vibrating. Just hating.

Him. And maybe- just a little- yourself.

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Silence.

The kind that hums. Heavy and humming, like something electrical is about to short. The kind that follows explosions- not shock, not awe, not the way it would for fireworks- but the skull-deep ring in your ears after a bomb goes off too close.

The papers are still settling. A few flutter to the floor in lazy spirals. One- an update on the dynamic braking for the upcoming RB19- skids in slow motion under the table, unread. Unacknowledged. The only sound is the soft shuffle of pages and the faint tick of the wall clock overhead.

Max leans back in his chair. Calm. Composed. Thrumming with something that feels suspiciously like triumph.

It’s not subtle. The way he stretches, arms loose over the back of the seat like a king at rest, watching the room from his perch. The slow, smug curl of his mouth. The faint glow in his eyes, like someone basking in the final, golden moments of a long-fought win.

Because that’s what this was. A win.

Weeks. Months, now, really. Pulling threads, pressing buttons, peeling back the armor one hairline crack at a time. And then finally- finally- you broke. Loud and bright and glorious. That rage, those words, the way your voice cracked at the end like something feral. Beautiful.

God, it was so fucking good.

"Bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?" he announces, voice light. Not mocking. Not cold. Just… amused. As if your meltdown had been a curiosity. As if it were just one of those things- weather, traffic, women. As if he’s already decided how this’ll be remembered. 

No one moves.

No one answers.

No one even looks at him. Nothing. Not even a cough. Not even a shift of weight.

Max shifts in his chair and glances toward GP first, expecting- what? A smirk? A shake of the head? Something that says good show, mate, or even just well, that happened.

But GP doesn’t look up.

He’s watching his pen roll slowly between his fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and he’s not sure if letting it drop would be louder than speaking. His expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t lift. He just sits there, quiet and still, like maybe if he doesn’t move, he won’t have to say anything at all.

Max swallows. The thrill of the moment sours, just a little.

Across the table, Alessandro finally moves. Straightens. Collects his laptop with deliberate care- no rush, no flair, just control. Measured. His jaw flexes once as he slides his chair back, eyes flicking to Christian like he’s waiting for a green light he’s not sure will come. Ollie, his assistant developer, mirrors the movement a second later, snapping his tablet closed and stacking it neatly on top of his notes. Neither of them say a word. But the tension between their shoulders says plenty.

Max turns toward Christian now. Stone. Cold. Silent. His face gives away nothing. Not judgment. Not approval. Not strategy. Just... stillness.

Max holds his stare for a beat too long. Christian’s eyes don’t leave Max’s.

"Right," Christian says finally. Flat. Terse. “Let’s break here.”

No thank you for your time. No we’ll circle back with notes. Just those four words, and then- movement. Fast. Sudden. Urgent.

Max has never seen a boardroom clear that fast. Not for a fire drill. Not for a real fire, and Max has been here for more than one meeting interrupted by carbon tempering on the factory floor gone sideways. It’s like someone pulled the pin on a grenade and everyone’s racing to get out before it detonates.

And then- nothing.

Just him.

And Christian.

Still seated.

Still staring.

Max clocks it too late. That Christian didn’t stand when everyone else did. That he’s still sitting upright, still watching, still unmoved in that unblinking, strategic way that makes Max feel fifteen years old again.

Max shifts, just slightly, lowering his arms. The silence no longer feels like satisfaction. It feels like delay. Like coiling wire.

Christian doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks at him for a long, unreadable moment. Then, slowly, he closes the folder in front of him and rests his palms on the table. Still no words. Just a long, flat stare.

Max’s smirk dulls by degrees.

“She’s liked,” Christian says finally. Quiet. Unemotional. “That’s all I’ll say.”

Max tilts his head, mouth tight. “Not my fault if she’s got a temper.”

Christian lifts a brow. “No, I suppose not.”

He says it like he’s agreeing. He’s not. Max doesn’t respond. The comment doesn't land the way Christian wants it to. He knows it won’t. Christian shifts slightly, his weight settling into one heel. “People like her. You know that.”

No reply.

“They see what she does. The hours. The work. How she treats people. They notice. I’ve noticed.” 

Max drums his fingers once on the table before going still again. He still says nothing.

Christian exhales softly through his nose. It’s not a sigh- more like an effort to steady something before it slips. “You’re the lead driver.” he says carefully. “The car gets built around you. Everything runs through this team to elevate you.”

A pause. Not sharp. Just heavy. “But the way you treat people, Max… that runs through the team too.”

There’s a stillness in Max then- not just quiet. Not just silence. A kind of internal locking, like a mechanism freezing in place. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Something inside him goes... quiet. Not shame. Not guilt. Just a strange, suspended awareness. 

“You don’t have to like her. No one’s asking you to.” His voice stays even. Not a warning. Not quite. Not an admonishment, either. Just… the truth. Quiet. Disappointed. He straightens his cuffs and adjusts the hem of his jacket. “I’ll see you at the dinner.”

He leaves without looking back.

And for a long time, Max doesn’t move.

The papers are still scattered on the floor. The silence still ringing.

And for all the satisfaction he thought he’d feel- does feel- there’s something else creeping in. Something heavier. Something he can’t name.

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You splash water on your face. Once. Twice. Then again, with even less grace- fingers clawing up beneath your eyes like you can drag the heat out of your skin, rinse the tension from your spine, make the last ten minutes un-happen.

God.

Goddamnit.

You grip the edge of the sink, lean your weight into it like the porcelain might anchor you to something solid. Your reflection is wild-eyed. Flushed. Not broken, but barely stitched together.

But the shame is blooming now, heavy and sour and impossible to scrub clean. You can feel it between your ribs, in the back of your throat. Guilt curling in like rot.

You yelled at him. You screamed in a room full of senior engineers, at Max fucking Verstappen. You threw something. For Christ’s sake. What were you trying to do- make a statement? Burn the building down?

And now?

You don’t even know if you still have a job.

They have to fire you. They have to. You can’t lose it like that- not in this world. Not in his world. You’re replaceable. A factory cog in a Red Bull machine, and you just slammed your wrench through the gears.

The sick part is, you’re not even sorry. Not for the words. Not for the volume. Not even for the paper. But your rage doesn’t matter nearly as much as the consequences do.

Your mouth is dry. Your stomach lurches. You press your forehead to the mirror.

God. Fuck. Fuck.

And then it starts to curdle.

That slow, sinking rot of understanding what this outburst might’ve cost you. Not just the job. Not just the data that you’ve poured your guts into for months. But the seat. The one that seemed so close you could taste it. All the quiet coffees. The after-hours sim sessions. The polite nods from Christian when you handed him something useful. The tiny, silent acknowledgements from people here who actually fucking matter. The games you’ve played, the press you’ve strategized, the sponsors you’ve charmed. The years.

The Dale Coyne years. The cardboard trailers. The junior days where you changed your own tires in a Target parking lot. The money you didn’t have and the races you ran anyway- the tense kitchen table conversations as your talent outgrew your funding. The hope you carried through circuits that weren’t built for you, that never invited you in.

The suffering you endured. The opportunities you chased. And the ones you ran from.

Texas.

You don’t even have to say the word. It’s just there. The shadow of it. The knowing. The series that built you, that made you- that taught you that you were made of something real, something worthy. Your memory of it, blood-stained and cracked and wrong now. A place that once held pride and now feels like a goddamn ghost town in your head. Not safe. Not sacred. Just another haunted headstone in the graveyard of your career.

And then there’s everything else. The pieces of you you’ve handed away just to make it work.

The milestones missed. The birthdays. The bachelorette parties you should’ve been planning. You skipped your own fucking graduation. The baby showers. The weddings. The ordinary little things you traded for late flights and earlier mornings, for jetlag and bleachers and unfamiliar beds. The every-other-Thursday extended family dinners you haven’t sat at in years.

All of it. All of it, for this.

And now it’s teetering. Held in the balance by a single moment of rage. Two minutes that might’ve undone a decade of persistence. Two minutes that might have been your final act.

You breathe. Then again. One more. Just to make sure you still can. 

And you turn the handle. 

The hallway is empty- mercifully.

You ease the door shut behind you like it might detonate, step out into the corridor with the slow, measured quiet of someone trying not to make a ripple. Head down. Shoulders rounded. If you can just get back to your room, your desk, the SIM bay- anywhere neutral- you’ll be fine. You’ll regroup. Pretend none of it happened. Get ahead of the apology, maybe. Grovel, if necessary. Resign with dignity, if that’s all there is left to do.

You cross the threshold into the lobby, and- 

Shit.

It’s not empty.

Not loud, not bustling. Just… not empty.

A handful of people hover near the front desk. Lanyards, tailored jackets, polite chatter. Nicole stands with a clipboard, mid-sentence. You know the type. Early sponsor arrivals. Suits and polished shoes and sticks up asses that everyone pretends aren’t there. You don’t know any of them personally, but you’ve seen enough pictures and seat-sharing charts to clock who’s who, which brand signs which check, whose opinions matter.

And unfortunately, your movement draws the room. It’s just the way your sneakers hit the tile. Just the shift of motion across the open floor. Just the way their heads turn- curious, expectant. You feel it before you see it. That tightening of atmosphere. That subtle pause.

You don’t turn back. You can’t. That would only make it worse, more awkward, less professional. You just straighten your spine. Pull your shoulders back. Smooth your expression into something clean, presentable, safe.

You have no idea what you look like. Not really.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs. Your ears are ringing- not loud, just a faint high whistle, like you left part of yourself in the bathroom and forgot to close the door behind you.

You feel composed, mostly. Maybe. Or maybe you’re deranged. You have no read on yourself. 

And isn’t that terrifying?

Maybe your hair’s a mess. Maybe your pupils are blown wide, your face blotchy, your voice still ragged from yelling at a two-time world champion like you were trying to exorcise a demon from the building. Maybe your hands are still shaking. Are they? You sneak a glance down. No. Still. Steady. But your fingers feel foreign. Untrustworthy. Too long. Too visible.

Are they looking at your face or your hands? Are they smiling because they’re happy to see you or because they know? Can they tell? Can they see the imprint of it on your skin?

That ten minutes ago, you screamed until your throat burned, until your hands were fists and your words were a weapon and your whole body was a fire alarm no one knew how to turn off?

Do they feel it?

Do they know you just launched an all-out war in the boardroom down the hall and slammed the door like you wanted God to hear it?

You don’t know. You can’t tell. It’s like your internal monitor has gone dark- no feedback, no gauges. Just blank space and static. You’re flying blind.

You only know this: they’re looking. So you move. So you do what you’ve always done. So you reach for the mask. You smile- small, polite, just wide enough to read as welcoming. “Hi,” you say as you cross the floor. “Welcome to Milton Keynes.” Your voice is steady. Pleasant. Even warm.

It doesn’t matter that your lungs are still raw or that your pulse hasn’t steadied. It doesn’t matter that you’re not sure if you’re about to black out or burst into flames.

You wear the lie beautifully.

And God, you hope it holds.

You know most of them by sight before you even reach them- can clock who belongs to who just by cut and posture.

TAG Heuer. All men. Easy, professional. Tailoring so precise it feels effortless. The kind of fashion that whispers money instead of shouting it. Their watches glint under the fluorescents, wrists crossed over phones they don’t look at. They’re already calculating Q4 impressions, mentally tallying every pixel their logo earned in Japan.

You greet Jean-Claude and his associates with a flurry of crisp handshakes and the appropriate warmth- measured enough to say I’m a professional, yet friendly enough to convey your (genuine, truly) gratitude for funding your paycheck. 

Viaplay. Three of them. Two men in sport coats and a woman holding a compact video rig like it’s an extension of her spine. Their outfits are sharp but not intimidating- marketing dressed up for dinner. You shake again, but one glance at their body language, the restless scan of the room, and it’s obvious who they’re here to see. Their eyes ping around like radar, hungry for Max.

You land on Oracle last, lingering toward the tail end of the little group. Two women, one man. Business formal, down to the half-step sync of their polished shoes. Authority wrapped in quiet, clinical elegance. They don’t fidget. They don’t preen. They absorb.

One of the women catches your eye. 

Not because she’s warm. Not because she seems engaged.

Because she doesn’t.

Tall. Dark hair, lopped at the shoulders and styled softly, not a strand out of place. Late middle-aged, maybe older, even, but not tired by it- there’s something composed about her, sharply preserved in a way only money can be, like time only touches her when and how she permits it. Her posture is immaculate. Her suit, black and impeccably cut, looks like it cost more than your first kart.

She isn’t smiling.

Her expression is neutral, but you don’t mistake it for approachability or warmth. It reads like a closed door. Not cold, not unkind- just firmly locked. Eyes that take everything in and offer nothing back.

The other two Oracle reps hover slightly behind her. Their posture defers to hers in subtle ways. You catch it- the way they glance at her before speaking, before laughing. Deference, not camaraderie. You take that in.

And then you catch something else: she’s bored. Just a flicker- eyes drifting, a slow blink, that faint, glassy gleam of someone cataloging and dismissing everything around her. Not impatient. Just uninvested.

She wasn’t expecting to be here, you realize. Or maybe she was expecting more.

Your spine straightens. You don’t need to see any more- this woman doesn’t need to speak to be the most powerful person in the room. You don’t know her.

And that’s a problem.

The Oracle rep you expected- Ariel- isn’t here. You don’t know every sponsor inside and out; you haven’t had that kind of access. But you keep a list. You wrote down the important names, the faces that matter, the ones that come back again and again. You pay attention.

And Ariel? Ariel was easy to remember, if only even by sheer exposure. 

He seemed invested. Not just in Oracle’s five-year, $500 million headline sponsorship, but in Formula 1 itself. In Red Bull. In Max. It was all over in the press- he had done leadership panels side by side with Christian, splashed all over the RedBull media- though you hadn’t ever met him in person, the idea that he would willingly miss a sponsorship celebration, no matter how impromptu, no matter how lowkey? Not adding up. 

This woman isn’t Ariel. And she doesn’t look impressed. Not by the trophy case. Not by the building. Not by any of this.

You’re smiling before you realize you’ve moved. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted- not high, just enough to seem open. Present. Warm. You don’t extend your hand first; you wait, subtle and deliberate.

You’re careful.

“Hi,” you say, and your name rolls off your tongue as you make your introductions- voice smooth, friendly without being forced. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”

No title. No credentials. Let them draw their own conclusions- maybe that’s better.

The woman doesn’t smile. But she takes your hand. Her grip is firm. Palm dry. Nails short. Her eyes flick up to yours and stay there, assessing. Not unfriendly. Not warm. Just… watching.

“Safra Catz,” she says. “CEO.”

Your pulse skips, skips again.

Oh.

Shit.

You just shook hands with the Safra Catz. Not some VP. Not a department head. The CEO of Oracle. As in- the head of the company whose name sits in front of Red Bull Racing on every press release, every graphic, every broadcast. As in- the reason the lights are on and the sim bay functions at all. She’s the one. The name on the top line. The signature on the check. She’s not just the most powerful person in this room.

She’s probably the most powerful person in every room.

And she didn’t come here to be dazzled. She didn’t even come here, it seems, to be convinced. That look isn’t interest.

It’s audit.

This unplanned pit stop was supposed to be a small detour for you. A quick acknowledgement before you scurried off to your room to lick your wounds and type up a groveling apology. You were prepared for a couple handshakes, maybe a selfie. Nicole had said Ariel and his usual crew were easy- always happy to be here, always talking brand metrics and sim tech like it was their birthday party.

Not this.

Not her.

You scramble internally. Where the fuck is Ariel?

Why wasn’t Christian here to greet someone like her?

Why is no one else handling this?

You scan the lobby- no team principal, no PR handlers, no corporate affairs in sight. Just Nicole, now stuck balancing lanyards and sign-in tablets with a look on her face like this is above my pay grade, and a small group of the most influential people you’ve ever been accidentally left alone with.

You glance toward the Oracle entourage. The other woman is already watching you, not unkindly, but with the measured detachment of someone who’s used to watching people either rise or choke under pressure.

Like she’s watching a test in real time.

Fuck.

You didn’t ask for this. You weren’t prepped for this. Either way, none of that matters. Because if Safra walks away unimpressed, uncharmed, uninvested in any way- you’ll be guilty by proximity. Christian will be furious. Even if you duck out right now and leave them with Nicole, this will still be your failure.

And you know it.

So you smile. Like your lungs aren’t locking up. Like your pulse isn’t battering your ribs. “Well,” you say, voice smooth, with just the right edge of charm, “it’s an honor to have you with us.” Safra doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. Just continues to observe. She didn’t come here to be celebrated.

She came to evaluate the worth of the empire her company is underwriting.

You didn’t ask to be responsible for this. But you are now. And like it or not? You have to stick the landing. You fall into step beside the Oracle group, eyes skimming your surroundings like you’ve done this a thousand times- because you have. You’ve given at least a few dozen tours to families and schoolchildren and college kids and tourists over the last ten weeks. You can do this half-asleep. And part of you still is.

Safra walks like someone with somewhere better to be. Which, fair. Her eyes aren’t on the glass cases, the car renders, or the gearboxes disassembled for aesthetic effect. She’s watching people. Systems. Details. You feel it.

The way she glances sideways when someone opens a staff door without knocking. The flick of her eyes when the TAG Heuer group laughs too loudly. This woman is constantly auditing.

And she has no fucking clue who you are.

“Are you one of the drivers?” she asks, finally.

It doesn’t sting. Not like it might have. If anything, it sparks a flicker of strange pride. She assumed up, not down. Probably because she’s spent her life being assumed down, and clawed her way to the very top regardless.

You give her a small smile. “Not quite. I’ve done two races- Zandvoort and Spa- when they needed a seat filled. Otherwise, I’m Red Bull’s development driver.”

Safra’s brow lifts. Subtle. Barely more than a twitch. But you clock it immediately.

You stay even. Steady. Not selling- just telling.

“I was the first woman to race in the modern F1 era. It was... a lot of things. Very loud. Very quiet. Kind of overwhelming and underwhelming all at once.”

Still no nod. No encouragement. But she doesn’t walk away either. You add, lightly, “Turns out breaking a barrier doesn’t make the room any easier to sit in.”

You keep going. Not to prove yourself. Not to impress her. Just- because she asked. “I do about eighty hours a week of simulation testing, component development, mechanical feedback- basically, I spend a lot of time breaking things so the race drivers don’t have to.”

That earns you something new. Not warmth, not amusement exactly- but the ghost of a smile. Tight, brief, private. You don’t miss it.

“Sounds glamorous,” Safra says dryly.

You laugh, light and honest.

“It’s not. But it’s important. The sport doesn’t move without data.”

That lands. You see it. You’ve spent your whole life learning how to read people who don’t want to be read, and her gaze flicks back to you, sharper now. More focused. Not friendly- but interested. The kind of interest that comes from seeing numbers instead of faces, efficiency instead of fluff. You’ve seen it before- in team principals, in engineers, in people who like things that make sense.

It’s the first time she’s really looked at you. Listened to you.

You follow her line of sight to the rest of the group, still crowded around the display wall of carbon fiber steering wheels like they’re made of gold. You can see her losing interest by the second.

So you pivot. Instinctively.

Because maybe this woman doesn’t care about trophies or tour stops or any of the surface-level bullshit.

But you know she cares about systems. Performance. Proof. And that? That’s something you can show her. You lean in, just enough to drop your voice beneath the noise.

“If you’d rather skip the rest,” you say, “I can show you the operations floor. Or the telemetry deck. Something a little less PR-polished.” She eyes you carefully. Calculating. Then nods.

You give Nicole a gentle look across the group and tilt your head. She nods, already in motion, herding the others toward the garage floor.

You fall into step with Safra.

This wasn’t the plan.

But something tells you this- this- might matter more than the next ten meetings combined.

You punch your badge into the security panel and push open the door to the simulator bay. The hum of active machinery wraps around you immediately- low, rhythmic, alive.

The sim rig is idle, sleek in its half-asleep state, wall monitors still lit with telemetry screens cycling data from Austin and Japan. It has a presence- something that feels like effort. Like getting shit done. Like every night you’ve ever spent here, racing ghosts in the dark.

Safra steps in behind you, heels clicking on the polished floor. You catch the slight narrowing of her eyes as she takes in the space- not just curious, but appraising. Measuring return on investment, probably.

“I figured you might be tired of carbon fiber trophies and inspirational quotes on the walls,” you say lightly, motioning toward the rig. “This is where the actual magic happens.”

She says nothing, but steps closer.

You gesture to the array of monitors. “What you’re looking at isn’t just driving- it’s system load calculations, fuel burn curves, mechanical feedback modeling, downforce variation-.” You pause. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Safra doesn’t wave you off. Doesn’t look confused, either.

You pivot.

“This is where I spend most of my time. Hundreds of laps per week. We simulate races, new parts, failures, changes in grip level due to weather, track resurfacing, you name it.” You reach for the nearest monitor, tapping through the overlays. “Every data point here? Is transmitted, stored, calculated, and modeled with software running on Oracle architecture. Fast enough to make real-time decisions. To adjust strategy on the fly. To win.”

Now you glance at her. Not selling. Just saying.

“You’re not just a logo on the side of the car. Your infrastructure is what makes all this possible.”

Safra folds her arms. Her expression is unreadable. But she’s looking at the screens now, not at you. And there’s a flicker behind her eyes that tells you she’s seeing it. The scale. The potential. The impact.

And maybe- just maybe- why it’s worth the money. Hopefully.

“Red Bull is one of the best in the paddock at data synthesis in real time, even across the world.” you add. “The cars generate over a gigabyte of data each, every single lap. Mexico City, Qatar, Japan- you name it- to Milton Keynes and back in fractions of seconds. Because of your stack.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Safra’s voice- measured, but interested. “And you run all of this?”

You blink. “Me and a handful of others man it most of the time- a very, very talented team of analysts and engineers. I drive it. We interpret it. We push it until it breaks. And then we help figure out how to make it stronger.”

She nods once. Slowly. Still thinking.

You don’t push her. Just let the silence do the work. And for the first time since this day detonated in your face like a warhead, you feel like you’ve done something right.

Something that might matter.

You glance at the clock above the telemetry rig. Time’s gotten away from you- not that you mind. But still.

“I should probably return you to your people,” you say lightly, straightening your posture, smoothing your hands down the front of your blazer. “Before someone accuses me of corporate kidnapping.”

Safra’s mouth twitches- half a smile, maybe- but she says nothing. Still watching you with that same quiet, deliberate focus. Then finally, a slight nod.

You press the door open and step back into the hallway, guiding her past a wall of carbon laying and suspension prototypes and under the massive archival photo of Seb’s 2013 title celebration. You walk slowly, not filling the space with idle commentary. You’ve done enough talking. It’s her turn, if she wants it.

She doesn’t. But she walks beside you, closer than before.

By the time you reach the lobby, the others are gathered again near the trophy case. Christian, present now, stands at the edge of the group- arms loose across his chest, expression polite but distracted. You can tell from the way he shifts on his feet that he’s been doing this for a while now. Schmoozing. Smiling. Managing.

Nicole catches sight of you and gives a small wave as you and Safra rejoin the others. “Apologies for the detour,” you murmur, gesturing subtly toward the Oracle group.

Christian’s eyes flick between you and the Oracle CEO, brow raising just slightly when he sees Safra’s demeanor- she’s less rigid now, more engaged, saying something low to one of her assistants with a look that’s at least a half degree warmer than when she stepped in the door. 

You fade toward the periphery- just another shadow in the margins, planning your quiet exit- when Christian excuses himself from the sponsors. You brace yourself for the worst.

He approaches at a diagonal, shoes silent on the polished floor, and stops just beside you- far enough not to be conspicuous, close enough that you can feel the weight of his attention. His eyes flick briefly back to the small gathering of sponsors before settling on you.

“What was the deal with Safra?” he asks, voice low. Even. “Looked like you two went a little off-script.”

You don’t flinch. “She didn’t seem particularly thrilled,” you say honestly. “Wasn’t really engaging with the standard tour. I showed her the sim rig.”

Christian lifts a brow. Just one. “She’s Oracle’s CEO.”

“Yeah. I figured that out when she introduced herself,” you murmur. “I didn’t know she’d be here. I didn’t plan on getting involved with the sponsors at all, honestly. I would’ve prepped differently.”

He hums. Neutral. You go on, more out of duty than defense.

“I wasn’t trying to jump rank. But I wasn’t going to make her trail around the factory bored out of her mind while we showed off keychains and pit guns either. You weren’t in the lobby. Nicole was doing her best. I made a call.”

Christian gives a single, barely-there nod. “I was a little tied up,” he says, dry. Then, after a beat too long- long enough to make your stomach twist, long enough to know it’s coming- he adds, “You can’t yell at the team’s lead driver.”

The pause lingers like a second slap. Not loud, not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. Company policy wrapped in a paper cut. You nod before he can say anything else, because of course. Of course you can’t. Quiet. Accepting.  “I know.”

Your eyes drift toward the front door. Somewhere between the glass and the asphalt outside, and your entire body deflates- just slightly. Like a breath you’ve been holding since the moment you slammed that boardroom door is finally, reluctantly, slipping out.

This is it. The moment.

You’ve known it was coming since the second you screamed in his face. Since the papers hit the wall. Since the silence hit harder than any shouted consequence.

You’re not naïve. You work in Formula 1. Reputations are everything, and yours just shattered in front of the most powerful people in the building. What else is there to say?

“If you’d be willing to let me resign,” you say softly, “instead of firing me… I’d appreciate that.”

Christian’s head lifts sharply. His brow twitches, jaw tightening- not in confusion, but something closer to disbelief. Like you’ve insulted him. He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to take it back.

You don’t.

His sigh is sharp. Not annoyed- disappointed. Like you’ve just said something too ridiculous to warrant a response, but he knows he has to give one anyway. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, looks off toward the glass doors for a moment, then back. “Go get ready,” he says. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

Then he turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back.

And for the first time in hours, you realize how heavy your shoes feel.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It’s a lot.

You know it’s a lot. The hat alone says as much- wide-brimmed, sharply creased, and unapologetically western, casting a deliberate shadow over your lashes as you linger just outside the reception room. It’s been a year, maybe more, since you wore it last, and it’s almost disorienting to have it on again. Like picking up an old weapon- familiar, but heavier than you remember.

You catch your reflection in the glass of the door and nearly laugh. God. You look like the world’s most glamorous gunslinger. And the thought hits- maybe it’s too much. Too bold. Too pointed. The choice to walk into this room full of European billionaires and motorsport royalty looking like you just stepped off a stagecoach instead of out of a simulator.

This is not subtle. Not even a little bit. Not the makeup, soft though it is. Not the way your strip lashes fan up beneath the hat brim. Not the way your cheekbones catch the light every time you tilt your head just so. Not the suit- jet black, structured within an inch of its life, tailored to fit like a challenge. Sharp at the shoulders. Cinched at the waist. The kind of thing that doesn’t just enter a room, but runs it.

And definitely not the crisp fold of paper in the inner pocket of your jacket. 

You pause, letting the moment stretch, just enough to wonder.

But then you remember standing in front of the mirror earlier- holding the hat in both hands, like it was more sacred object than accessory. Thought of your mom. Of the way she’d straightened your first real hat with careful fingers and said, in that matter-of-fact drawl that didn’t leave her mouth even after two-and-a-half decades in Washington, “All good business happens under a 40X.”

And yeah. It’s a lot.

But it’s also perfect.

Because if you’re going down tonight- if this whole thing has already unraveled and you’re just here for the slow death of whatever’s left of your contract- then you’ll do it standing tall, dressed like the exact kind of woman who cannot be shaken. Not by a team. Not by a tantrum. Not by a boy-king with a god complex and a talent for workplace harassment.

You roll your shoulders once, adjusting the weight of the hat, the tension in your chest, the pulse in your throat, and let the air around you settle. The party’s already started- laughter and clinking glasses spilling through the narrow gap in the door. There are at least five dozen people inside. Sponsors, both the tour group and new arrivals. Executives. Team brass. The ones who write contracts and cut checks and carry influence in the way they cross a room.

You tip the brim of your hat up just slightly, so it’s just a little more out of the way of your eyes when you look up at the men in the room. Not for them.

For you.

And then you step in and- no, it doesn’t go silent. The music doesn’t cut. The champagne flutes don’t freeze mid-air. But it’s an arrival.

You feel it in the subtle shift of weight. A few eyes flick up. A couple of murmurs near the bar. Heads tilt. Not many people know who you are. That’s fine. That’s perfect. Let them wonder. Let them remember the girl in the cowboy hat and the suit sharp enough to cut diamonds. Attention isn’t the enemy.

Forgettable is.

You make it five steps inside before Alessandro materializes at your elbow like he’s been lying in wait. “Dio mio,” he says under his breath, eyes sweeping over you like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. “You clean up well. I thought the hat was a myth.”

You huff a laugh. “Told you the accent’s not all show.”

He leans in like he’s about to make a joke, but instead just gives your arm a quick squeeze and steers you toward a tall cocktail table surrounded by a loose ring of engineers- some you know, some you’ve only ever nodded at in passing. A few you’ve seen presenting in meetings you weren’t important enough to speak in.

And then- oh.

You see him.

You blink. You must be wrong. But no. No, you’re not.

Adrian Newey.

Standing right there at the edge of the table like he’s just another guy at a company happy hour. Which, technically, he is. But to you? To anyone with even half a liter of race fuel in their bloodstream?

He’s not a man. He’s a blueprint. A myth. A god among Formula One designers, the spine of generations of world champions. You’ve seen him before, sure, usually just as a shape across the factory or a presence behind tinted glass in briefing rooms. The kind of sighting that makes you go quiet. Makes you shift to the wall and pretend you’re part of the architecture. You don’t talk to Adrian Newey.

Except he’s talking to you.

“Oh,” he says lightly, “so this is the one responsible for those lovely telemetry spreads I’ve been seeing.”

Your brain blanks. Fully. Absolutely. Utterly blanks. Your name is gone. Language is gone. Alessandro glances over at you, clearly waiting for you to say something.

“I- uh- ” You swallow. Smile. “I’m the one in the sim, yes. The engineering team is incredible, but- uh. Yes. That’s my data.”

“Very consistent,” Adrian says, almost offhand, like he’s reciting something obvious. “You know when to drive for data, not just pace. Makes setup work far easier when the driver’s not introducing variables. Not many get that right.” You blink. Twice. Three times. 

Alessandro beams. “Careful,” he says to Adrian, teasing lightly. “You’re going to make her explode.”

You don’t say anything more. You can’t. Your vocal cords have packed a bag and left your body entirely. But you nod- humbly, you hope- and hold his gaze just long enough to make sure you’re not hallucinating.

You're going to have to journal about this later. Probably frame the quote.

Alessandro lets out a quiet snort, like he’s watching someone forget how to operate their own body, and leans in just enough to nudge your elbow. “Okay, superstar,” he murmurs, grinning, “before you pass out, come back over here and stand near the mortals.”

He tugs you a half-step back, just enough to pull you out of Adrian’s direct blast radius and back into a safer orbit- one where your heart rate might settle into something that doesn’t resemble cardiac arrest. You're still blinking. Still wordless. Still stunned stupid by an aging man with hair loss and a soft voice telling you that your pedal work makes his life easier.

Adrian Newey. Adrian fucking Newey liked your numbers.

You look at Alessandro like he’s just told you you’ve been accepted into NASA. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, like you’re trying not to squeal like a teenage girl at a concert. It’s ridiculous, it’s embarrassing, it’s fully out of character, and Alessandro is absolutely eating it up.

“Should I get you a chair?” he teases under his breath. “Some water? A paper bag to breathe into?”

He’s still talking, gently grounding you with small talk about sim setups and diff tuning and the godawful new telemetry dashboard you’ve both been battling for weeks- but you barely hear it.

Because you’re still glowing.

And that’s when a hand claps down on your shoulder- solid, unmistakable.

“Ah,” Jos says, chipper as anything, like he’s been combing the party for you all night, “there you are.”

You manage to blink up at him from under your hat, nodding like your brain’s still rebooting from some divine motorsport-induced trauma. Because it is. You’re still barely breathing, still hearing the words very consistent echo somewhere behind your eyes like a celestial bell toll.

Jos glances between you and Alessandro, eyebrows raised slightly at your expression- wide-eyed, mouth half-open, like someone just whispered the secrets of the universe into your ear. “You alright?” he asks, only half-joking.

Alessandro huffs a laugh. “Adrian just complimented her sim work.”

Jos’s face lights up instantly. “Ah!” he says, delighted. “Well, that explains it.” He gives you a conspiratorial little pat on the back, like you just won something and he was rooting for you all along. “Been doing well for yourself here, huh?”

You open your mouth to respond- thank him, downplay it, anything- but mostly just make a small, startled sound, still blinking in slow motion.

“Come,” he says, already turning. “Come with me.” There’s something mischievous in his voice- light and pleasant, sure, but layered with intention. Like he’s already five moves into a plan you haven’t even seen the board for yet.

You let him guide you- what else are you going to do? Say no to Jos Verstappen in a room like this? In your state? He’s already steering you with one hand on your back, talking like this was always the plan, like you’ve already agreed.

Alessandro chuckles behind you. “Get her out of here before Newey says anything else,” he calls. “She won’t survive it.”

You shoot him a helpless look over your shoulder, lips parted in half-protest, but Jos is already pulling you gently but firmly through the crowd, weaving between champagne flutes and tailored suits like a man on a mission.

You’re scrambling to catch up- not just physically, but mentally. What’s his angle? What’s the play? You try to read it in the curve of his shoulder, the bounce in his step, but Jos is spinning the game faster than you can track it.

His hand hovers just behind your back, light but directional, a shepherd’s nudge masked as polite guidance. He keeps you moving as he fires off questions, rapid and low, like you’re in a conversation and not, in fact, being subtly escorted across the reception floor like a prize calf.

“You clean up well,” he says, the edges of his grin smooth with mischief. “Hat’s a little much, but it’s good to know where you come from, no?” You smile- tight, polite. It’s not the time to tell him the hat feels like it might be the only thing holding you together. Not when your heels are already clicking you into danger.

“Haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he continues. “Helmut was spinning circles after that press stunt. How’s the fallout been?”

You barely get out a half-word before he’s pivoting again.

“The sim work’s still going? Hm. Doesn’t breathe like a real car, does it? All numbers, no noise.” It’s disorienting, the pace. He doesn’t wait for answers, doesn’t need answers. He’s laying breadcrumbs, building a rhythm, and it’s not until your hand grazes the back of a chair that you realize- 

He’s brought you to a table.

You blink. “Oh- ”

“Here, sit,” Jos says, gesturing toward the empty seat beside him like it’s already got your name stitched into the upholstery. “We’ve much to talk about.”

You hesitate, just for a beat. Just long enough to make a plan: you’ll sit, humor him, play the part for a few minutes- then slip away and return to your assigned seat with the dev team. No harm, no foul.

So you sit.

The second you do, Jos’s intensity dials down like someone turned the volume knob on a stereo. The quickfire rhythm of his questions softens into something slower, more deliberate. He leans back- just slightly- but his eyes stay on you, bright with interest, steady in their focus. Like now that you’re exactly where he wants you, he can afford to give you space to speak.

The shift is almost flattering.

His tone changes too- curious, but gentler. Thoughtful. “Tell me,” he says, as a glass of champagne is passed to him from a hovering waiter. Without missing a beat, he offers it to you instead, like it was always meant for your hand. “How are you finding it here, really?”

You take the glass- because what else can you do?- and stall with a sip. The bubbles pop sharp against your tongue. He’s still watching you, patient now, genuinely invested in the answer.

“It’s…” You start, searching for the shape of a sentence that won’t betray too much. “It’s been a challenge. A good one. I’ve learned a lot.”

Jos hums, not pushing, but inviting. “You always seemed sharp,” he says. “Not just talented. You’ve got a hunger to you. People notice that.” You blink. It’s hard to tell if that’s meant to be praise or preparation for something else entirely. “And the late hours? All that dev work. Must be grueling.”

You nod. “It is.”

“But you love it.”

A beat.

“I do.”

His smile returns, smaller this time. More knowing than before. He lets the silence stretch, like he wants you to keep going, and you do- without even realizing.

You talk longer than you meant to. About the sim rig. About the engineers. About how much more goes into every test run than most people ever see. Jos asks the kind of questions that make you think he might’ve been listening to your press conferences for years- things about tire degradation data, balance correction, the margin of error when mapping chassis behaviors. You find yourself answering in full, head tilting, hands gesturing softly like they used to when you were passionate and not exhausted.

It’s not until your champagne glass is almost empty that the realization clicks into place like a snapping trap.

Everyone’s finding their seats.

The room shifts, a ripple of chairs being pulled out, napkins lifted, coats shrugged off and draped behind backs. There’s a general migration- light conversation rising around you as sponsors and staff start to drift toward their dinner seats. Time to go. 

You make a move to rise- one hand on the table, the other halfway to your seatback- but Jos casually places his fingers over your wrist, feather-light, not forceful. Just enough pressure to stall you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like it’s obvious. “We have an extra seat. Max didn’t bring a guest.”

You freeze.

Wait. If Jos is in one chair- and there’s someone, maybe a power unit partner, it doesn’t matter, already taking the seat to his left- then that means…

Fuck.

You turn your head just as another figure drops into the chair on your right. Your breath catches in your chest.

Max.

Verstappen.

Of course it’s him. Of course. He looks just as displeased to see you as you are to see him. Your eyes meet. And for the briefest, most painful second, there’s a moment of unspoken horror between you. You’re certain you and Max are seeing perfectly eye to eye- sharing the exact same thought. Neither of you says it, but it hangs there in the air, heavy and obvious:

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The first dig comes before the starter plates.

“Nice hat,” Max murmurs, just low enough that only you can hear it. You don’t react. Not visibly. It’s nothing. Technically. Nothing anyone else at the table could pick up on, let alone hear. The kind of commentary you’d need context to clock, familiarity to flinch from.

And you do flinch. Just once. Internally. But you don’t let it show.

The opening remarks begin. Christian takes the mic. A few lead engineers are named and thanked. Sergio stands at his table, Max stands at yours, waves, laughs, and they sit again- then the championship montage starts to play- thirty feet of screen lit up in Red Bull colors, with perfectly cut highlights of Max and Checo’s most dominant drives.

You take a sip of your drink. Max shifts next to you. “Think they got your sim footage in here somewhere?” he asks lightly. “Maybe in the bonus reel.”

You finally turn to him, one brow arched- dry as bone. “Doubt it,” you say. “But I think they used one of your radio tantrums from Singapore. The one where you threw your own setup under the bus? Flattering.”

Max huffs- just a little. You catch it, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, before he hides it behind his glass. You turn back to your drink. Sip. Let the warmth settle. Max doesn’t say anything else. Not right away.

And maybe that’s the strangest part.

No follow-up jab. No sideways comment. Just a little smirk and then silence, like your retort earned you a brief reprieve. You glance at him from the corner of your eye- just long enough to catch the shape of his profile in the soft event lighting. Still smug. Still infuriating. But… quieter now.

You don’t understand it.

Maybe he got what he wanted in that boardroom- maybe he’s finally bored of breaking you down. Or maybe he knows not to poke a live wire when it’s still humming.

Whatever it is, he lets you be. And you don’t know what to make of it. Not relief. Not really.

But the silence isn’t hostile. It doesn’t feel like the coil of something waiting to strike. It feels… lighter. Not good, not safe, but less. Like you’re not in active danger.

Maybe it’s the room. Maybe it’s the eyes. Maybe it’s the dinner that Max has started to tuck into with the gusto of a driver who’s been halfway to starving all season and has every right to indulge. Maybe it’s the fact that you threw a goddamn stack of papers at his head.

Or maybe it’s this.

The look he gave you when you snapped back- not wounded, not smug, but something more like surprise. Like he hadn’t expected you to hit back. Like maybe he liked it. Like maybe he didn’t.

But he hasn’t said another word since.

And for now- that’s enough.

Not a ceasefire. Not an apology. Just this. A moment where neither of you draws blood.

You let it be.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You excuse yourself the minute dessert is served. No speech. No pretense. Just a half-smile and something vague about needing air, a phone call, the bathroom- whatever lie will make people stop looking at you for five goddamn seconds.

You just need out.

Out of Max’s quiet smirks, the ones tossed like coins on a table- small, calculated, irritating in a way only you are tuned to hear. A muttered aside here, a passive little comment there. Nothing direct. Nothing anyone else would catch. But always right on time. 

Out of the way he’s taken up more than his share of the air between you, sitting just wide enough that your elbow hovers awkwardly over your own lap. He hasn’t touched you. Not once. But he’s close enough that you know he could. Close enough that you keep retreating, angling your body subtly toward the opposite side of your chair.

Which would be fine. Except that side isn’t safe, either.

Because Jos is there. Warm. Charming. Utterly unescapable.

He’s been peppering you with gentle suggestions- that maybe you should ask Max to pass the wine, maybe you should tell Max about that sim update you’d mentioned earlier, maybe Max would enjoy hearing about your experience at Zandvoort.

You keep trying to give him your shoulder- to lean back, to get space- but every time you shift away, he shifts slightly closer. Not enough to be inappropriate. Not enough to call out. Just enough to make you feel it.

He asked you to scooch once. Smiling. “Just a bit,” he said, gesturing like he needed more room- his hand not quite touching the back of your chair. But moving left means moving closer to Max. And you do. Because it’s Jos. Because he’s been weirdly supportive. Because you don’t know what he wants.

And now you’re here. Trapped between both of them.

And then there are the sponsors. Still watching you.

Their attention polite, their interest performative- but you can feel it. The eyes. The weight. You’re the girl on the brochure. The surprise hire. The one with the headlines and the spotlight and the friendly smile that says, Yes, of course, I’ll entertain your half-informed question about aero development over canapés and fake laughter.

They keep looking at you like you’re a trained dog about to do a trick. Like you're a little animal that stood on its hind legs once and now everyone’s expecting a little spin. And you keep performing. Because it’s your job. Because it’s what you’ve trained for.

But god, you’re so tired of smiling.

It’s all too much.

You’ve got pressure on both sides- Max with his smugness, Jos with his relentless interest- and the whole goddamn room expecting you to shine on cue. So when the dessert plates hit the table- chocolate mousse, espresso cream, gold flakes glittering under the downlights- you stand.

 Quietly.  Deliberately. You don’t even touch your spoon. You smile at no one in particular. “Excuse me,” you say lightly, already halfway out of your seat. “I just need a breath of air.” And you go. Because if you sit there a second longer, you’re going to scream.

And you already did that once today.

You’re not sure you’ll come back from it a second time.

You take the first hallway that promises privacy, pushing through the fire door at the end. The air slaps your skin the second it opens- cool and wet, the kind of English autumn chill that isn’t cold enough to sting, just clingy enough to sink into your clothes. 

It curls around your neck. Slips beneath your collar. Prickles against the places where your nerves are still misfiring. You step out fully, letting the door close behind you with a slow, weighted click.

Silence- almost.

Somewhere off to your left, across the street, a low rumble of passing traffic echoes between the buildings off campus. Tires hissing on damp asphalt. The distant, rhythmic buzz of a crosswalk signal.

Above you, one floodlight flickers once before settling back into its quiet glow, casting a pale cone of light over the narrow loading dock and catching the gentle swirl of mist that hangs just above the pavement.

You breathe in. Once. Twice. Fill your lungs with air that isn’t wine-soaked or perfume-sweetened or heavy with tension. It smells like rain and metal. Like the heat exhaust from a service vent and the faint mineral bite of concrete after dark.

A shiver rolls down your spine, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s grounding. Alive. Your pulse slows, just a little. Your jaw unlocks. Your shoulders ease away from your ears- muscles you hadn’t realized were clenched finally starting to let go.

You close your eyes for a second and lean against the smooth concrete wall. The texture scrapes gently against your suit jacket, catching on the stitching like a tether. You don’t mind.

The suit still holds. The hat still shadows your eyes. You are, technically, still composed.

But god, it’s a relief to be out here.

Out of the noise. Out of the spotlight. Out of the space between Max and Jos and the razor-sharp edges of polite corporate adoration.

No one’s watching now. No one’s asking. No one’s talking. Just the world as it is, as it should be- cool, quiet, and honest.

The quiet doesn’t last long.

The metal door swings open behind you with a low groan, then thuds shut again with the finality of a guillotine.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

You feel him before he speaks- the shift in air, the press of presence. Max. “Lovely,” he mutters, like it’s your fucking fault you were here first. You go rigid. Of course it’s him. Of course it is.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for the brick wall to hear.

The quiet stretches. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lingers a few steps behind like he might be reconsidering whatever idiotic idea brought him out here in the first place. The silence isn’t awkward, not exactly. It’s more like a wire stretched too tight- vibrating under the weight of a hundred unsaid things. Two dogs in a ring held back by the chains of diplomacy and wool suit-jackets.

You don't wait to find out what he wants. Your hand snaps out, grabbing the heavy door handle you just came through. You shove it- hard.

Locked. A mechanical thunk clatters through your bones. No movement.

You pull again, harder this time. Nothing. The reinforced security lock, active after hours. The same one that clicks into place at 8:00 p.m. sharp like the factory turns into a goddamn bank vault.

“Of course,” you breathe, letting the stiff brim of your hat tap lightly- once- against the cold, flaking paint of the door. “Of fucking course.”

Behind you, Max exhales, the kind of sharp, humorless breath that means he’s just realized it too. “You locked it?” he asks.

You round on him with a slow, exasperated turn of your head. You can’t be bothered to sugar your words. Not with him. Not right now. “Yeah, Max. I came out here just to lock us out on purpose.”

He doesn’t take the bait. Just glances at the door, then down at his own empty hands. “My badge is inside.” You look at him. Then past him. Then down the alley toward the street where the low hum of a passing car filters through the wet air.

“Well,” you say flatly, “I have mine. But it’s only going to work at the side entrance.”

“How far?” he asks, as if you’ve just announced you’re hiking to Brussels.

“Less far than the front. But you’re welcome to go that way.” You point into the darkness to the right, stretching open with the promise of a long walk around the building and muddy shoes.

You’re already walking in the opposite direction. The click of your heels sharp against the concrete, splashing slightly where water still clings in the dips and cracks. He falls into step beside you without being asked.

You don’t offer conversation. He doesn’t offer an apology.

The mist hangs low. Streetlights buzz faintly overhead, bathing everything in soft gold and flickering white. The metal of the railing along the path is cold beneath your fingertips when you trail your hand along it.

You’re exhausted. Not just physically- though every nerve ending in your body feels half-lit and fried- but emotionally. Every social performance, every inch of patience, every ounce of diplomacy has been wrung out and hung to dry.

You hear it before he says anything. Not words- just the quiet prelude. The shift of breath. The tightening of his jaw. The subtle, anticipatory silence like a thought winding itself up.

God.

You wish he wouldn’t. You hope he doesn’t. The sidewalk glistens beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. You focus on the scrape of your heels over the concrete. The rhythm of them. The anchor.

Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Don’t- 

“It’s not because you’re a woman.”

You blink once. Twice. Keep walking. Your expression doesn’t move, but your heart stutters in confusion- like your brain missed a beat in the music.

What?

He clears his throat. “I’m not- ” He stops, tries again. “I’m not a misogynist. I wouldn’t treat you differently just because you’re a woman.”

You stop walking. Turn your head, just slightly. Look at him. Not up, not down. Just enough to check if he’s serious.

He is. Jesus Christ.

A laugh sputters out of you- just one, just a little breath of disbelief and exhaustion and stunned amusement all tangled together. You press your fingers to your temple.

Max shifts his weight, annoyed already, like you’re being difficult. “You said that- back in the meeting. That maybe it was because you were a woman.” He shrugs, sharp. “It’s not that. I just… I didn’t want you to think that.”

You blink. Still staring.

That’s it?

Not an apology. Not even an admission. Just a weird, fumbled clarification that he’s not a misogynist- just an asshole.

Your laugh slips out again before you can stop it. Harsh. Disbelieving. “Jesus Christ,” you say, mostly to the air. “Men are so fucking stupid.”

His mouth flattens. That unshakable frown you’ve seen a thousand times tightens across his face like a mask he doesn’t know how to take off.

“You’ve made my life hell for weeks,” you go on, gesturing vaguely toward the factory behind you, “and now, now, you want to make sure I don’t think you’re sexist? Like that’s the problem here? Like that’s the thing keeping me up at night?”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Just leave me alone,” you finish, flat. Exhausted. “Please.”

And you mean it. You’re done. With this building. With him. With whatever bizarre campaign he’s been running to drive you out of your mind. You’re getting out- out of the sim rig, the back hallways, the stifling boardrooms, the tiny locker room you’ve practically lived in.

You shove your hand in the lining of your suit.  Fuck this. Fuck all of it, honestly. You’re getting a seat. You’re getting on the grid. Or you’re getting the hell out of this fucking factory.

You’re getting gone.

You shake your head. It’s not even angry now. Just... tired.

“You really are a piece of work.”

The metal stairwell up ahead glints under the glow of the side door light. You pull your badge from your pocket, still warm from the heat of your suit. Slide it across the panel. A soft beep. A click.

The door unlatches. You pull it open, step aside, holding it for him like a hotel doorman. “After you, Verstappen. Not a misogynist- just a colossal asshole.”

You don’t wait to see if he responds. Just follow him through the door and brush past him, back towards the party. Max doesn’t follow you. You don’t look back to check.

Your fingers slip into the pocket of your jacket as you walk, the heavy weight of folded paper meeting your palm like an answer. You’d printed it weeks ago- on a whim, on a dare, on a breathless phone call with your mom when she told you, in no uncertain terms, you have to ask for what you want, honey, or they’ll forget to give it to you.

You’ve waited.

You’ve played the good soldier. The grateful one. The patient one.

No more.

It’s not a hate letter. Not a demand. Not desperate. Not some manifesto scribbled in the heat of a meltdown. A contract proposal. Clean. Direct. Ballsy. You typed it. You tweaked it. You edited it with your mom. You tweaked it some more. You printed it. And then you did nothing. Because you were being patient. Grateful. Professional. Because you still believed in the power of waiting your turn.

But if you’re being honest- that ended hours ago. Maybe weeks ago.

If the screaming match in the boardroom was the nail in your coffin, if they’re just letting you bleed out in the sim bay until you take the hint and walk- 

Then fuck it.

The air feels different as you re-enter the reception. Softer, warmer. The plates have been cleared, wine glasses thinned to half-fills, laughter replaced by quieter conversations. Most of the sponsors have left, the ones who remain softened by drinks and dessert. The laughter is low now, the hour late enough that only the important people remain. You feel it instantly- that subtle pivot in the air when the social becomes strategic.

There.

Corner of the room.

Christian.

Helmut.

Adrian.

Talking like nothing in the world matters except whatever’s in front of them. Like drivers don’t scream down hallways and throw papers at walls.

You cross the room anyway. Not quickly. Not slow. Measured. The paper, wrapped in the silk lining of your suit and held close to your heart burns like it’s alive. You don’t have a plan. Just a pulse in your throat and a fuse already lit. 

You stop in front of them and say nothing.

No small talk.

No lead-in.

You reach into your pocket and pull out the paper. No flourish. No explanation. Just the weight of it, deliberate, as you hold it in front of Helmut.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask. He takes it and tucks it into the inside of his jacket like he knew it was coming.

He doesn’t open it. You don’t tell him what’s in it. There’s no point. If this is already over, then you might as well end it on your own terms. If it’s not- well. It’s not.

You nod once. Turn on your heel. And walk out like you don’t have a care in the world as to how it turns out.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

Long long chapter- sorry it didn't get out over the weekend! I tried, but I had to do some serious backfilling and editing so it took a FAT minute, and I just wasn't going to divide it. Didn't feel right. As always- please please leave your comments- I read every single one- they mean the world to me. I have no idea the hours that I put into writing over the course of the ten months, but editing alone is 5-15 hours of labor per chapter. Your feedback makes it worth it.

[fallen-w1ngs]

" HUSBAND HAWKS ,,

|| pairings: hawks x gn!reader / keigo takami x gn!reader

|| word count: 0.6k

|| this is really short, mb chat, finals are gonna kick my ass

|| you and keigo had been married for... let's say around 2.5 years, yeah? you're not exactly one for publicity, in fact you actively avoid being seen out with your husband since that'll end in a bajillion photos and questions. However, there are photos and interviews that cycle through the internet about you two...

|| thankfully, you and keigo live a semi-peaceful life. i say semi because there are still days where keigo comes home late all bloody and bruised. of course, you knew what was going to happen when you married him, but your worry for him.. let's just say you get high blood pressure.

|| however, we're not here for the angst we're here for the cutsie comfort and fluff.

|| your everday life was simple! you'd wake up, keigo on occassion, wasn't there due to early patrol but you learned not to let it get to you. you wake up, get ready for the day, and! do literally whatever you want, because ever since keigo married you, he convinced you to be a stay at home spouse cause he can't have his darling work! you should be spoiled rotten!

|| honestly though, it works in your favour! because, who actually wants to work? not me. so you spend your day tending to the penthouse, to the plants and pets that you two potentially get. and everyday, you visit keigo's agency to bring food for him and his sidekicks sometimes!

|| everyone at the agency absolutely adores you, and that makes keigo fall for you EVEN MORE. you bring small treats, or big meals for everyone in the agency (sometimes other heroes come visit just to have some food). of course, you treat your husband the most, but you treat the others. when tokoyami comes along as an intern, oh my god he's like your son!

|| you dote on him and keigo, making sure neither of them are overworking themselves. whether it be hero work or school work, you scold both of them when you come by the agency at lunch and see them both tired as fuck.

|| anyways! back to hawks! how does he treat you as a spouse? oh he is head over HEELS! he absolutely adores yoy every waking (and dreaming) moment. he will call you gorgeous, pretty, handsome, beautiful! whatever you want! he'll kiss your knuckles, your forehead, your lips, your jaw. everything! as if he's a starving man and you're a delicious meal.

|| as much as you spoil him with food, a clean house, affection, and in home dates, he spoils you with extravagent dates, gifts, and again, affection. he will shower you in gifts, that you don't know what to do with! it's absolutely amazing.

|| on days when keigo comes in late, he feels so bad. he feels so guilty, because he sees you on the couch, your phone in hand with both your messages opened, probably waiting for him to text back. the tv's still playing and the dinner at the dining tables gotten cold. he puts the dinner away, he'll eat later. he turns the tv off, it's just the news anyways. and picks you up and brings you to both of your bedroom.

|| he's so gentle when he places you in bed, of couese you shift in your sleep, but don't wake up. he changes into some pj's and cuddles up to you.

|| he wraps his wings around you like a protective cocoon and, no he doesn't sleep right away. he just stares at you. admiring you, god you're gorgeous, he thinks. admiring every part of your face as if trying to memorize it.

|| anyways, that's all i have! there's husband keigo for ya, i might add more/make more but yeah!

[melosliving]

can you write meeting parents — for aaron 🫶🏾🫶🏾

sorry for the absence this week babies but college is already kicking my ass 💀 I made reader congolese bc my people need representation 😩 I really hope you’ll like it boo ❤️

FREE 🇨🇩

aaron pierre x african!reader

meeting your parents for the first time !

The late afternoon sun was beginning to sink below the horizon as Aaron pulled the car to a stop in front of your childhood home. The house looked exactly as you’d described it—modest but full of life, with vibrant flowers blooming along the walkway and the faint sound of Congolese rumba spilling from the windows. The smell of chicken maboke drifted through the air, and children’s laughter echoed from the backyard.

Aaron exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the steering wheel as he took it all in. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked, turning to you with a soft smile that didn’t quite mask the nerves in his eyes.

You reached over, lacing your fingers with his. “baby, my mom already loves you, and you haven’t even met her yet. Trust me. You’ve got this.”

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah you’re right.” You stepped out of the car, brushing the dust off your pretty dress as Aaron followed, carrying the bouquet of lilies he’d picked out earlier that morning. Before you could even knock on the door, it swung open to reveal your mother, dressed in a bright pagne dress that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. Her sharp eyes swept over Aaron, assessing him in an instant.

“Mama, that’s aaron,” you said, your voice light but steady.

Aaron stepped forward, his deep voice warm and careful. “Mama, nazali na esengo mingi ya kokutana na bino.”

Your mother’s brows lifted in surprise, her lips curving into a smile. “Eh, boye ! You speak Lingala ?”

Aaron gave a modest shrug, glancing at you. “𖤓 been teaching me.”

“She’s teaching you well,” your mother said, stepping aside to let you both in. “Landà ngai ! Come in.”

The inside of the house was exactly as Aaron had imagined—cozy and full of life, with framed photos on every wall and the scent of freshly fried mikate wafting from the kitchen. Your younger cousin peeked out from behind the doorframe, giggling as they sized him up.

“Are you taller than Uncle Robert ?” One of your little cousins asked, his head tilted back to look up at Aaron. He crouched slightly, his smile kind. “I don’t know. How tall is Uncle Robert ?”

“Very tall,” your cousin declared, spreading his arms wide.

Aaron chuckled, glancing at you. “Then I guess I’ll have to meet him to find out.”

Your mother reappeared with a tray of warm mikate and a small bowl of peanut sauce, setting it down on the low wooden table in front of Aaron. “Try this, my son,” she said, watching him expectantly.

Aaron didn’t hesitate, picking up one of the golden, soft pieces and dipping it into the sauce. He took a bite, his eyes widening slightly as the flavors hit his tongue. “This is incredible,” he said sincerely, looking at your mom.

Your mom nodded, clearly pleased, but her tone turned serious as she settled into the chair across from him. “So, Aaron, what are your intentions with my daughter?”

You groaned softly, covering your face with your hands. “Mama, vraiment ?”

Aaron didn’t miss a beat. He met your mother’s gaze, his voice steady. “My intentions are serious, Mama. I care deeply for 𖤓. She’s… everything to me.” Your mother studied him for a long moment before her face softened. “Eh, tala ye. We’ll see,” she said, reaching for a piece of mikate herself.

The tension eased as the evening wore on. At one point, your mom pulled Aaron into the kitchen under the pretense of needing help with the pondu. You stayed in the living room, laughing with your siblings, but your ears were trained on their conversation.

“So, you love my daughter?” your mom asked, her voice light but pointed. “Yes mama, I really do,” Aaron replied without hesitation, his smile never leaving his face.

“Then you must learn more Lingala !” she said. “What will you say to the aunties ? To the elders ?”

Aaron’s laughter was soft and genuine. “Then you’ll have to teach me, Mama.” When your mother laughed in return—a rare sound that filled the house with warmth—you knew he had passed her test.

Later in the evening, after the meal had been shared and stories exchanged, the living room came alive with music. Your cousins moved the chairs aside to create space, and someone turned up the volume on a familiar mutuashi song.

You tried to resist when your aunt tugged you to the center, trying to put a pagne on your hips, but it was no use. Laughter bubbled from your lips as the rhythm of the drums filled your chest. You let the music take over, your hips swaying in perfect time, your movements fluid and full of joy.

Aaron watched from the couch, his eyes fixed on you, captivated. You looked radiant, surrounded by your family’s laughter and applause, your smile wide and uninhibited. In that moment, you were home—completely in your element—and he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

One of your sister noticed his expression and nudged him. “She’s beautiful, eh?”

Aaron didn’t even look away as he answered, his voice soft. “She’s incredible.”

When the song ended, you returned to his side, your cheeks flushed and your breath quick. “What ?” you asked when you saw the way he was looking at you.

He shook his head, his smile tender. “Nothing. Just… you.”

As the evening wound down, your mom pulled you aside while Aaron helped your siblings clean up. “He’s a good man,” she said simply, her tone carrying the weight of her approval.

“I know,” you said, smiling.

When it was time to leave, your mom handed Aaron a container of leftovers and patted his arm. “Come back soon my son,” she said. “I will, Mama !” he promised, his voice warm and sincere.

As the two of you drove away, the house fading in the rearview mirror, Aaron reached over to take your hand. “Your family is amazing,” he said softly.

“They really like you,” you replied, leaning into his shoulder.

“I’m glad,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Because I’m planning on being part of it.”

And in that moment, with the warmth of your family still lingering in the air, you knew he already was.

melo’s vocab !

mama, nazali na esengo mingi ya kokutana na bino — mom, I’m really happy to meet you

boye — like that

mama vraiment ? — mom really ?

Tala ye — look at him

Landà ngai — follow me

@ melosliving 2025

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#393

“Well, lookie who showed up!  I thought you were going to flake out.  Did you do it?...  You told them?...  I don’t need to know the details.  You look bummed.  Don’t be.  You needed to do this.  It’s time you moved out.  You’re, what, 19?  They kicked you out for doing what you should be devoting your life to—servicing dick.  And that’s why I want you.  I’m your new Dad now.

“The days of him beating your ass and leave you crying in your bed are over.  I’m going to beat your ass and make you cry in bed only to get turned on and fuck you hard as a result.  Ha. Ha.

“Come over here and give your dad a kiss….  No, you can do better than that….  Atta boy.  No, no.  Stay right there.  I told you to spend the night here having fun.  Did you get loaded up?...  How many in your gut?...  How many in your butt?  Five loads?  That’s good.  I would have preferred all five in your butt, but three is good. 

“Now remember all that happened here.  Because, as my son, I’m in control of that cunt between your legs.  No other men will be in there, not unless I say.

“Did you cum?...  What’s with that puzzled look?  I told you to enjoy yourself so that you can get one last nut before I cut your access off. 

“Tell you what, strip naked right there and jack off for me.  Yeah, I told you on that first night I fucked you, that you are never to touch yourself while I’m using you.  But right now, I want you to cum for me.  Strip.

“Son, I told you when I offered you to come live with me and be my son, that obedience is the center of what I am looking for.  Being naked in front of me will become very natural for you.  The thought of driving around with my naked boy next to me, gets me hard.  Now strip son.  Atta boy.

“This cruise spot is dead in the daylight, so no one will be pulling in any time soon.  It’s funny that the number of times we connected at night, you have been naked without any problem over by those trees.

“Put all your clothes in back.  Get on your knees, right there on the asphalt.  No, move back a little.  I want a better view.  You are rock hard.

“Begin.  Go on.  That’s it.  No, no.  Look up at me.  Stare at your new Dad.  Stare at the man who will own you, who will protect you, who will discipline you, and who will fuck the hell out of you every day.  I may be close to sixty, but I still have the stamina of a thirty-year-old.

“With your free hand, shove two fingers into your cunt….  Yeah.  Feel those loads?  Imagine those being mine.  I know you want to taste it, don’t ya boy?  Pull your fingers out and shove it into your mouth.  There you go.  Tastes nasty, doesn’t it?  I can see the ecstasy in your eyes.  I know you are remembering the first time I fucked you.  You were being spit roasted by those two truck drivers over there.  The three of us were going back and forth between your holes.  You didn’t care what we were doing.  It was all about servicing us. 

“The number of times I used you, it was all about my pleasure.  That’s what I like to see in a boy.

“Do it again.  Go in deep to get your fingers extra coated up.  Keep looking at me while you do it.  Keep pounding that tiny pud. 

“That thing is so small.  I don’t think I ever paid attention to it before, other than smacking you the few times I thought you were trying to reach for it.  I initially thought you reached for your thing just to get face slapped.  But you learned that your pecker is useless and should be ignored.

“You liked me smacking you across your face when my fat dick was slamming into your cunt.  But I saw that hesitation on your face; you didn’t want to encourage more slaps, but deep down you craved it.  I got so turned on to your confusion.  Don’t worry, I have no intention of changing.  You need to be continually reminded of your place.  Nothing does that better than a good ol’ fashioned smack especially randomly during the day.

“You are really going to town on your pecker.  Don’t ask me for permission, just shoot.  It will be the last selfish decision you will make.  Afterwards I will be deciding everything for the two of us.  My needs, my wants, my pleasures are your focus, always.

“My cock will be the center of your world.  You know all eight inches of it.  So, I don’t have to do any stretch training.  Being a whore here to every man with a hard on gave you that. 

“Son, put your hand back there and push.  Shit out the rest of the loads onto your hand….  There you go.  I heard that wet fart.  That’s bound to be messy….  You know what to do with it.

“That’s a good boy.  Lick your fingers clean.  Damn, you like it nasty don’t you?  Of course you do. 

“You like piss, Son?...  Moan if you do….  Good.  I love pissing in holes.  You drank mine with some difficulty.  As my son you will be expected to drink mine.  You eat ass?...  Well Son, you are going to be spending a lot of time with your tongue buried deep inside my hairy ass.  A lot of time.

“Damn boy!  Shoot that fucker….  Fuck yeah!...  That’s a huge load there.  Finish licking your fingers clean.  Figured it would be the thought of eating my ass would make you cum.  Son, there’s no way I would have you as my son if you didn’t enjoy tongue fucking my shithole.

“Go on lick your own cum off your hand.  Enjoy your reward.  That’s the last time your tiny balls will be emptied.  You’ll have all of my cum, more you could ever want; you know I produce huge loads, and I can go several rounds.

“Did you lick all the cum off your hands?...  Good.  Now lick the cum that is on the asphalt.  Yeah, you heard me.  That’s it.  Yeah, you follow orders without second guessing.

“That’s going to be expected being my son living with me.  I will take care of you, but I won’t take shit from you.  You do need structure.  You need discipline.  I will deliver it as I see fit.  And I don’t want any back talk from you.

“Ok.  Get up and get in the truck.  Bring your shirt….

“…Put your shirt on the seat.  I don’t want that ass spooge fucking up my leather seats.  Close the door. 

“Ok.  The is the moment.  This is your last out.  I’m offering you a life where you will be my son and I will be your dad.  I’m in control at all times.  You will be disciplined, and you will be used to satisfy my urges.  You will also take care of the cooking and cleaning.

“Don’t worry, you will be fucked.  My cock gets hard two or three times a day. 

“Speaking of which.  My dick likes to fuck.  And sometimes it’s going to fuck other boys.  You are never to show jealousy.  In fact, I want you to get excited to know my dick is getting taken care of.  Your first words to me after me using some other cunt should be begging me to clean my cock.  Monogamy is not for me, and it never will be.  But it will be for you.  Your focus is always on me.  You will not think of being with another man.  Even when I have other men fuck you, your thoughts are on how it will please me to follow my orders.

“My cock is the only cock that matter to you.  That includes your own.  I had you jack off looking at me.  I wanted to be the subject of your last orgasm.  I have owned slaves, boys, puppies, subs, you name it.  None of them were allowed to touch themselves, let alone play with it.  You aren’t going to be any different in this regard. 

“Here, put this on.  This is a chastity cage.  Take it.  Put it on.  When you lock it in place, you are agreeing to be my son.  You will be accepting this role unconditionally. 

“Pull your balls through first.  Yeah… now your shaft.  It should be easy since you are soft.  Here’s the lock.  When we get home, I will be removing your pubes—in fact all your hair below your nose.  I have a cream that will do that.  Several applications will start to destroy your hair follicles.  I will continue doing it until you are completely and permanently hairless.

“You haven’t seen me naked here, but I am one hairy fucker.  I love contrast.  Me a hairy ape and you a smooth bitch boy.  I’m 6’3” 285 pounds, and you are what, 5’5” and 140?  I’m 59 and you are 19.  And the biggest difference?  I have eight very very fat inches, and yours is nothing.

“You ready to lock that?  This is your last opportunity to back out.  You lock that, and you are mine…. 

“Fuck yeah son!  You ARE mine now….  And now you’ve been face slapped for the first time as my son.  Ha!

“Now here’s your first test.  This is a pill for you to take.  Stick it in your mouth and swallow.  Here’s some water for you.  If I had thought about it ahead of time, I would have a water jug of my piss for you to drink.  Swallow it.

“Good boy.  Lean over and give your dad a kiss….  Oh yeah son.  You made the right decision.  Mmmm.  Mmmm.  You can use your tongue with me.  Mmmmm.  Mmmmm.

“Scream son!  Wasn’t expecting that hunh?  Remember, your titties are a source of instant pain.  And they are right here in arms reach.  I can be driving down the road and reach over and twist the fuck out of one, digging in my nail. 

“Or I can reach down and play with your balls….  Fuck, that’s what I hate about these cages!  They interfere with me grabbing a hold of your balls. 

“It’s a good thing that cage will come off in a month’s time.  That pill I gave you is part of set of pills where the biggest side effect being not being able to get erect.  For most men, it is the worst part of taking it.  But that’s the feature I want.  After a month of daily dosing, you will be completely soft.

“Oh fuck, the thought of looking down at you in my sling to see your limp pecker with your sole focus on your hole pleasing me…  Damn.  I’m starting to get a chubby. 

“Finally, I got your balls in my hand, and with a squeeze...  Awwww.  They are just balls!...  Quit flailing around.  Sit up….  SIT UP!  This is not how…

“…What the…?  Oh my.

“Get out of the truck.  Now!  Come with me to the tailgate.

“Bend over it.  I want to see your back and ass.  Go on lean over. 

“Damn!  Those are some serious welts.  Your former dad did all this last night?  Looks like a 2-inch belt.  There’re about ten to twenty strokes on your back, same amount on your ass.  He even went on your thighs. 

“I just don’t get it.  Why would a man do this… and not fuck you afterwards?

“I need a piece of this right now.  Hold still; Dad is coming in. 

“Oh fuck do you feel good.  There’s still some of the loads in your pussy.  Its silky walls is making my dick slide in naturally.  Oh man.  I know I have fucked you like a dozen times.  But this time it’s a thousand times better.  Your cunt is now my cunt.  Everything is so right.

“I get to fuck this whenever I want.  It’s mine.  All mine.  These welts are beautiful.  I love—after I belt a boy’s back and ass—to fuck him and hold him tight.  My sweaty wiry chest hair act like razors slicing across every welt, every thrust of my cock is agony.

“I’m gonna cum!  Ahhh!  Fuck!  Ahhh!  Shit son!  That was fucking amazing. 

“Let’s go home.  I need to fuck you again.  I was going to wait to fuck your first in my bed… no, our bed.  But I couldn’t help myself after seeing those welts. 

“This time I want to be naked on top of you.  It’s going to be a longer fuck.  And I will tell you this son, ever since I asked you if you wanted to be mine, all I have been thinking of is bringing you home, fucking you, holding you tight with my dick buried deep, and falling asleep in my arms.  “Get on your knees.  Clean me up, and let’s go home.”

[deerlino]

DENYING THE OBVIOUS

— “i'm not falling in love,” he says, while he's actually falling the hardest. minho's in such deep denial, it's like he's drowning in the nile.

words ༯ 0.8k / pairing ༯ lee minho x gn!reader / tags ༯ best friends to lovers (kinda), childhood friends, mutual pining, fluff, humor, teasing & banter, arcade games, unspoken feelings, slice of life / content warnings ༯ fluff and more fluff !

a/n ༯ eh, this one's not my top-notch work, had a few bumps and hiccups, but hey, it's alright. took me ages to write tho. 😭 wanted to really nail that denial part, but i guess it's decent enough. hope you still got a kick out of it ! <3

“I’m not falling in love,” he says.

You stare at Minho, half-smirking, half-annoyed. He’s sprawled out on your bed, flipping through one of your old comic books, pretending he’s way cooler than he actually is. His hair is a mess—he’s too lazy to even run a hand through it properly. You roll your eyes.

“Sure, Minho. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you say, tossing a pillow at his face. He barely dodges it, laughing. It’s that laugh that makes your heart skip a beat, but you refuse to admit it.

“Why would I be falling for you?” he teases, grinning. “You’re like... my best friend. And you’re a pain in the ass.”

You snort. “Right back at you, loser.”

He sits up, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “Let’s be real. If anyone’s falling, it’s definitely not me. I’m the epitome of self-control.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, right. You cried watching Toy Story 3.”

“Hey, that was emotional!” he protests, eyes wide in mock offense. “Andy grew up, okay? It’s relatable.”

“Sure, sure,” you say, shaking your head. You grab your phone and plop down beside him, scrolling through your messages. He leans over, way too close, trying to peek at your screen.

“Who’s texting you?” he asks, curious.

You nudge him away. “Nosy much? It’s just my mom.”

“Tell her I say hi,” he says, leaning back on his elbows.

You do, and your mom’s quick reply makes you giggle. “Tell Minho he’s still grounded for breaking my favorite vase last year.”

“Mom says you’re still grounded,” you say, showing him the message. He laughs again, this time falling back onto the bed, clutching his stomach.

“Man, your mom’s got a long memory.”

“Yup,” you agree. “So, Mr. Epitome of Self-Control, what’s the plan for today?”

He sits up, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint you know all too well. “Let’s go to the arcade. I bet I can beat your high score on Dance Dance Revolution.”

“You wish!” you exclaim, jumping up. “You couldn’t beat me if your life depended on it.”

As you both head out, the playful banter continues. At the arcade, it’s as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s just you, Minho, and the flashing lights of the game machines. You watch as he concentrates intensely on the dance mat, his tongue sticking out slightly. You can’t help but think he looks kinda cute like that. Not that you’d ever tell him.

“Ha! Beat that!” he shouts, pointing at his score. It’s higher than yours by a mere point. You roll your eyes.

“Beginner’s luck,” you mutter, stepping up to the mat. He watches you, that goofy grin still plastered on his face. You nail the moves, one by one, beating his score by a landslide.

“Told ya,” you say, smugly.

He pouts, crossing his arms. “Okay, okay. You win this time. But next time, you’re going down.”

As you both leave the arcade, he drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. It’s a casual gesture, something he’s done a thousand times before, but tonight, it feels different. Warmer. More... significant.

“Hey, you hungry?” he asks, steering you towards the diner down the street. It’s your usual spot, a place that holds countless memories. As you slide into your favorite booth, Minho immediately starts teasing the waitress, who’s known you both since you were kids.

“Two milkshakes, please. Extra whipped cream for her because she’s extra,” he says, winking at you.

You stick your tongue out at him. “And fries. Don’t forget the fries.”

When the food arrives, you both dig in, talking about everything and nothing. It’s easy, comfortable. But there’s an undercurrent of something more. Something unspoken.

“Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, looking at you with those deep, thoughtful eyes.

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. “Sometimes. Why?”

He shrugs, looking away. “I dunno. Just wondering what it’ll be like. If we’ll still be... like this.”

“Like what?” you ask, genuinely curious.

He fiddles with his straw, avoiding your gaze. “You know. Best friends. Hanging out all the time.”

“Of course,” you say, nudging his foot under the table. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

He finally looks at you, a soft smile on his lips. “Yeah. You’re right.”

You both finish your food, and as you walk home, the silence between you is comfortable. His hand brushes against yours a few times, and each time, your heart skips a beat.

Back at your house, you sit on the porch, watching the stars. Minho leans back, propping himself up on his elbows, looking up at the sky.

“Thanks for tonight,” he says quietly.

You glance at him, surprised. “For what?”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “Just... for being you.”

Your heart flutters, and you find yourself smiling. “Anytime, Minho. Anytime.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, it’s as if the world stands still. Then he breaks the gaze, looking embarrassed.

“Okay, seriously, I’m not falling in love,” he insists again, more to himself than to you.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Keep telling yourself that, idiot.”

But as you both sit there, the night wrapping around you like a warm blanket, you know the truth. And maybe, just maybe, he does too.

© deerlino (est. 040624) ༯ heyo, did you enjoy this piece? if you did, maybe you could reblog, drop a comment, or shoot me an ask to let me know your thoughts. also, feel free to check out my other stuff! thanks a bunch for the support! <3

[youmistme]

Just for today, can I say I love you? HTS

pairing: friends elder cousin!Han Taesan x Y/N Pinewood. A bit of Cigar. Vinyls. Turntables. The ring. The smile. The eyes. Him.  “Look at you, Y/N still listening to The Beatles and following me into the record store.”  warnings: a bit of swearing a bit of crying 'das itttttt words: 4k

This is for my onedoor friend who is so dear to me💕 hbd!

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧

Spring. 2025

The shabby record store in the quiet neighbourhood of Gwangju is somewhere you find myself reverting to whenever the wind of life takes turns too strong. Your hands trace the doorknob as you push the door open, letting yourself in.

The first thing you  notice is the first thing you  always notice here. Pinewood. Mixed with a subtle drag of a cigar coming from Mr. Choi’s chapped lips. The walls were covered with all sorts of records, rock, hip-hop, ballads, indie: you name it, he had it. The colourful walls bring you back to the summer of last year. 

 Your eyes habitually train back to the turn table on the corner to the right. You see a shadow casting near the shelves, the back of a figure switching a vinyl. Before your curiosity escalates, Mr. Choi huffs with a huge grin, setting his cigar down. 

“Y/N! Ah, you finally came to visit eh? How’s college been treating ya?”His old frame wobbled out from the front desk and towards you. 

“Mr. Choi! I missed you…college is well, you know, college,” you thrust a bag filled with the fruits my mother packed for him. “Mom and Dad say ‘Hi’ too!” 

“Young-ins these days, enjoy your college time, yeah? Already complaining about it tsk tsk.”

I roll my eyes playfully as I settle down near the front desk. He gives me a light side hug and the pinewood cologne from his shirt deepens. You let out a sigh. 

“This was my favorite place throughout high school… I could listen to whatever music I wanted and feel the music with whoever I wanted…” Mr. Choi chuckles, already peeling the tangerines I got for him.

 “No customers today, look through whatever song ya want, kiddo. It’s on the house.” 

He pats my head before tossing a slice of the tangerine into his mouth, and walking out of the door- probably to smoke again. 

You start looking around the shop, it has been here all my childhood but I only gravitated towards it when You turned freshly fourteen. You remember following Woonhak’s cousin into the store. Your mind drifts back to the hazy yet fresh memories of the previous summer. You wander near the shelves picking up a vinyl when your eyes catch the figure from earlier, it is a man with black hair. 

The vinyl drops from my hand, and you yelp. As you go to grab it, another hand picks it up first. A hand with a thin silver ring with the shape of two cat ears. A ring you can recognize anywhere in the world. Your eyes slowly flicker up to the man's face. He blinks before chuckling.   

Pinewood. A bit of Cigar. Vinyls. Turntables. The ring. The smile. The eyes. Him. 

“Look at you, Y/N still listening to The Beatles and following me into the record store.” 

Dongmin. Han Dongmin. The boy who leaves your heart dangling at the edge of a cliff with curiosity. 

A boy who was neither my friend nor a foe. Someone who treaded on the line of ‘what if’.

A boy you always noticed, even when the world didn’t care to. 

Summer. 2024

“Can you pass the freaking controller to me already, Y/N! You’re losing…” I swiftly kicked Woonhak on the shin. This boy's nagging did not stop. A plate with half eaten pizza sits a little stale from your never-ending gaming. 

“Ahhhhh it’s my controller dude, can I just play this round and-” another kick, this time a little above. “You bi-” 

“Ya! Are you calling your Noona a bitch? Where did you learn these bad words from?” 

“You are NOT older than me Y/N I’m ‘06!” 

“Says who?” 

“Says me.”

“My ass. I’m March and you’re December. Pipe down, child.”

“I’m not a childddddddddd!” You sigh once again, why were you friends with this absolute fool again? All he has done in your ten-year-long friendship is eat sand, eat your hair, eat his homework, and now progressively eat your snacks. And, maybe sometimes be a little kind and ward off other annoying kids. 

As you frantically fiddle with the controller buttons with deep focus, finally you are victorious in your 20th attempt at Mario Kart. “Yes!” You yell in giddiness, Woonhak joining in in the celebration. 

“So… you been doing music lately, Woonagi?” You pick up the acoustic guitar from the couch while Woonhak begins playing his round. The guitar looks used up and slightly familiar, the wood having slight scratches that you trace around with your finger. 

“Hm? Oh yeah, Hyung is back in town so I asked for some music lessons. He gave me his old guitar too!” 

“Hyung who?”  You stare blankly for a second before your brain rewires and your eyes widen. You flip the guitar around and see the all-too-familiar letters on the bottom. Scratched unprofessionally onto the wood: HTS. 

“Dong-” 

“DONGMIN IS BACK?” you shriek a little too loudly for what you’d like to be considered nonchalant. Woonhak raised a brow and eyed you for a solid second. 

“Yes. He is. Since when do you care? You know actually, I always found it weird you followed Hyung to Mr. Choi’s store whenever he was back in t-”

“I just really like listening to vinyl, you know?” you defend yourself without looking him in the eye. 

“Sure, dude.” 

Without sparing your friend another word, you take your jacket off and put your shoes on. You huff contently, glad you wore a nice T-shirt that day instead of your usual rags. Woonhak does not bother looking back, he already knows you are out of breath, running to the record store. Eagerly, he takes a bite out of your neglected pizza slice with a knowing smile. 

You were nine years old when you first met Dongmin, it was purely by fate, you like to think. Among all your neighbourhood friends, this slightly taller and shy-er boy always seemed to be around yet never actually play with you and your friends. While playing tag, as everybody ran around, the boy would be found under the slide or near the seesaw, quietly looking at them yet never joining- never. He came and went with Woonhak and soon little you learned that this was his cousin. 

As the years flew by you saw less and less of Dongmin until he started visiting in the summers again. The air was warmer and the days were longer. Your naive eyes that perched into the pool of adolescence could not wait for summer to arrive. 

Every day at 5 pm, like clock-work you walked to the record store. Hair up in a pony tail, a few strands down, some stolen lipgloss from your sister smeared on your lips. A heart that beat so fast and cheeks that flushed so dearly- all for the boy in the record store. You convinced yourself that it was simply a physical admiration and nothing more. 

Once again you’re here, entering your sanctuary called the record store. You spotted a mop

of black hair peeking from above the shelves. He was holding a guitar, it seemed new- you remember Woonhak’s words. He was wearing a pair of black baggy jeans and a band T-shirt, headphones secured around his neck. You stare a little too long at his hair, an oreo mixture with white and black streaks. 

“So how many more years is it going to take for you actually to tell me you’re back for the summer?” 

He doesn’t look up but you can see his lips perk up into a smile. 

“You always seem to find me though.” He replies with a lightness to his voice. His legs are jittery and if you knew any better, you’d say he’s excited to see you too. 

Before you can say anything else, he drags another chair and places it beside his. You look at it for a moment and he stares at you expectantly. You sit down. 

He hands you an album, “Wanna listen to this? I remember you love Nirvana, don’t you?”

“Not really. I just like it because you do.” His eyes avert, his cheeks and ears get slightly pink. His hand trembles a little, fidgeting with the vinyl. “Oh…I-”

“Let’s listen to beatles instead.” you pick on his stead, he smiles and nods. “You and your beatles obsession.”

“Hey! They’re really good.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I only like ‘em ‘cuz you do.” 

Your face crunches into a light scowl, but internally, your heart thumps the fastest it ever has. “Real smart, using my words on me, Dongmin!” You playfully nudge his side. “The hair colour is a look,” you add after a moment of silence. Dongmin bites his lip, flustered. “You like it?” 

“Sure. Black suits you best, though.”  

There are many reasons you come here annually, and you cannot help but feel a little grateful that you get to see this side of him. The shy smiles, little head scratches and all the things he likes. The four walls of this store just transform you two into a different world. 

To everyone else, Dongmin might seem aloof but you could see a whole new side of him- a side only he ever showed to you. A little world with just the two of you. A world where you can notice him with all your might. 

You lean into his neck a little, sniffing. “You smell different…?” 

“Ah, it’s a new cologne…”

Your eyes narrow, sniffing even closer to his neck. You feel his body stiffening up, but he doesn’t pry you off of him either. “It smells familiar. Where have I smelled that before?”

He sighs a little dramatically. “Fine. It’s Mr. Choi’s.”

“He let you use his cologne?” 

“No… I sorta didn’t ask…”

You try not to laugh, “So what I’m hearing is you stole his?”

He bites his lips and looks away, “Ugh, didn’t you say last time you liked the smell of  Pinewood? Why’re ya complaining?”

“Why? You put this on ‘cuz I like it?” you say, fluttering your eyes at him and his face turns into a gradient of pink and red. “Well, if you hate it so much-”

“Who said I hate it? Next time just buy one on your own, silly!” 

You both burst into fits of laughter, Dongmin smiling widely as he looks at you and back at his guitar. He looks at your smiling figure and his heart tugs, his body gets warm. “Also…I think I’m gonna be a musician, Y/N… I want to be one so badly.”

You stop laughing, a gentle smile replacing your lips. Dongmin who didn’t dare let anyone crack his firm walls, was opening up to you. Slowly shedding his fear and letting you in. 

“I- I’m glad you told me this. Did you tell anyone else?”

“No”, he sighs deeply with down cast eyes. “I don’t know how dad will react to it. B-but music, Y/N- I-I i feel so alive when I do it.” His eyes widen and his hands move around, emphasizing. 

“I wanna write songs and sing and produce! I wanna do it all, you know?” He continues before you speak. “I even have a stage name all planned out, Han Taesan! My friend Donghyuk and I decided on it a-

 You gingerly place your hand over his and look into his eyes. They're round and wobbly, a sheen of moisture over them. You can see his sincerity and passion. You pull him a little closer, fingers intertwining with his. 

“I think you should go for it. And I know that you’ll do well, too, Dongmin. I just know it. Or should I say Mr. Han Taesan?” 

“Oh stop…do you really mean it though?” you nod again. 

The scent of the stolen cologne fills your senses, his breath drawing closer and closer to your face. Now he’s just an inch apart, his long nose almost touching yours. His eyes droop down, looking at your lips. Instinctively, you lick them. Taking a deep breath in, he holds both of your clasped hands up. 

It was him who pushed himself onto your frame further, sealing your lips with a haste kiss. The sensation burning you down, from your lips to your toes. You both look at eachother with hushed smiles, your lips touching again- this time more tender and soft. Like, he was trying to savour the moment of your sensation. The rising temperature of your body as his cold hands slipped behind your neck, pushing you close.

The rush of blood propells you two, stumbling down the chairs and ontot the floor. A thin beem of sunlight peeking through the blinds, recohetting over Dongmin's face. He had not looked anymore handsome than he had then, sharp eyes with a softness of a tear strand tirckling down, lips trembling ever so slightly. His gaze stuck on you, fingers gripping your T-shirt, he doesn’t want to let go. 

This haven that he found between your arms and within your words, its a blanket as soft as a cloud. 

“I-” you start. 

“Sor-” he continues. 

“That was my first kiss!” you both yell together, faces like two cherries with embarrassment. 

“Glad to know I was your first…” you smirk a little as a response and pat his shoulder. 

“Thank you for confiding in me, you know? I’m so glad that you trust me.”

He smiles, lips curving to the right a little more- another quirk you have habitually noticed. 

The phone in his jean pocket rings thunderously, breaking the serene moment. His smile drops. “It’s dad.” He goes to cut the call. 

“It’s okay, just pick it up and tell him where you are. It’s okay, Dongmin…”

He contemplates before swiping to the green button. You can hear all sorts of yelling from the other side of the line. Dongmin doesnt say a word, no, he looks down at his shoes and then to his guitar and then at you. You stay puzzled with his ambiguous expression, trying to touch his hand and mouthing “It’s okay” 

He still stares and he stares. The call keeps going without him muttering much. 

He slowly retreats his hand away, standing up. He doesn’t look at you anymore. The blanket of clouds that shrouded him now suffocates his very respiration. 

“I’ll be back” he half-whispers half-shouts from over his shoulder. You nod eagerly. 

You pity with time by watching the hands of the clock tick by, one by one. The sun’s rays have stopped intruding through the blinds, last glimmer of light getting tucked away as the sun sets away for the day. Yet, you keep waiting and waiting. Clinging on to the ambiguous phrase that is, “I’ll be back.” 

By 8pm, Mr.Choi comes back, gasping at the sight of you sloutched over, not moving. It takes another hour for your mother to pick you up, a concerned plead over her face to know why her daughter’s eyes were bloodshot red, an apathetic mask. 

You want to whine. You want to wait. But, for whom should you stay waiting for? The boy who already left the town? Summer’s endless breeze washed over your sweat ridden body, you carelessly wiped it away hoping it would wipe the memories of this day with it. 

Spring 2025

You walking haparzardly in your dorm room, nearly tripping over your own undone laundry. 

“I’m telling you, this is NOT a drill! I’m gonna jump out this window.” You want to rip your own scalp out. 

Harin stares unfazed, “It’s only three stories, you’ll hardly break a few bones.” You glare but solemnly nod in agreement. “So, what’s this guy’s deal again?”

“I SAW HIM!” you roar out. 

“Okay. Like we haven’t established that in the past two hours, girl. Whom did you see? An ex?”

That strikes another nerve, “NO! He’s not an ex. Infact he never dated me! HE.JUST.KISSED.AND.DASHED. UGH!” Your hands move, emphasizing. 

“Sounds like an asshole, should I ki-”

“No.Harin. We talked about this. No killing boys.” your friend sulks down on her bed. 

“What’s his name and where did you see him?”

“As I said, Han Dongmin and the record stoe near my childhood home.”

“There is no Han Dongmin that I know of. I doubt he goes to our college!” 

“Hm…”

“Infact, just forget about him.”

“Not after I threw a vinyl on his face and rushed out the store this morning!”

Harin whinses in return, “Poor guy.” You side eye her. “Not so poor guy!” 

You can only pray to the almighty that you don’t see him around again. You spent a good year not seeing him, you like to say to yourself. Feelings of distress and grief replace themselves as time goes on. Hurt turns to remorse and anger turns into melancholy. With the changing seasons and entering college, you decided to put your big-girl pants on and move on. 

Near the campus court yard, you and your friends chat on about recent drama as one does. You try to pay attention but the events of this morning weaver your thoughts away. 

“Are you even listening, Y/N?” one of your friends nudge your knee. 

“I am!”

“What did she say then?” You stare blankly before giving a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry… just have a lot going on in my mind right now.”

“Yeah, Harin told me about your kiss n’ dash boo.” You laugh at the nickname. 

“As i was saying, some new kids from Gwanju National University are transferring here. Mostly theatre, music and art kids.”

“Yeah! Ohemgee, did you see the ones in the band? I think they’re Junior years. So hot.”

Band? Since when did your school start caring about bands. 

“Y/N weren’t you super into bands in highschool?”

You sigh. “Yeah. Grew out of it. Not my thing anymore.” 

“Well it looks like it’s going to be again.” she wiggles her brows suggestively. 

You scowl confused. 

“Don’t look back but one of the guys from the band is standing there with his guitar and all and he’s been staring you down for the past 10 minutes. He just won’t stop looking!” 

“What?” You are ready to turn back but your other friend stops you. “Shush no!” 

“Isn’t that the Taesan guy?”

“Yeah I think so too, he’s the one the freshmen girls have been oogling over!” 

“WHAT!?” you stand up abruptly, your drink spilling down. You can feel other groups of people pause to stare at you. Your friends look at you with sheer confusion too. 

“Girl sit the fuck down, what’s up with you today.” Harin drags your arm down with her. 

“Did you just say… Taesan?” 

“Yeah… Han Taesan from GNU? Many music majors transferred here, including him. I’m surprised you don’t know this guy since he’s all everyone's talking about- him being so handsome and all.” 

You can’t believe your ears. 

With a shiver down your spine and a simple prayer to God that you hope it isn’t who you think it is, you turn down- craning your neck uncomfortably. There he is. 

Han Taesan. As everyone calls him here. Girls flocked near him, not daring to go too close but still close enough to ogle at him. He was only a few days here and already had a “fan club” established, much unbeknownst to him. 

He still wears those baggy clothes and that headphone swung around his neck. 

His hair is black again. You frown. He takes a step back when he notices you looking back at him. Sighing for the nth time that day, you drop your bags- not caring about your spilled drink or your surrounding peers. You don’t want to see him- just the mere thought of him brings you back to that day. The warmth, the kiss, the songs and how he just didn’t come back. 

You spent all these months mending the wound only for his presence to rip the bandaid open! You turn back, rushing down the stairs at the same speed you used to run to the

record store. 

“Y/N- W-where’ya going?”

“Just- I don’t wanna be here.”

“Is it because of Taesan?” 

You cringe. “That’s not even his name!”

Behind you, you feel foot steps approaching in a quick pace, slight huffing, and then a thud of something heavy falling. You eye the body of the guitar from your peripheral that was on the ground now. 

“Will you please stop ignoring me, Y/N?” a voice pleads from behind you. A voice you know all too well. Your eyes scattered, seeing a crowd form around you. You can hear the freshmen whisper, and the seniors look worried. A snap from a phone shakes you back as you face him angrily. Someone took a picture. 

“Listen, seeing you today morning was enough. Can you leave me alone? I don’t like this, okay? Not after what you did.” this part hits him deep. 

“Y/N- no-please- I- just hear me out once. Let me confide in you one last time.”

“...”

“Then I’ll go. I won’t bother you!” You feel foreign moisture swell up in your eyes, looking at Dongmin’s state. The same Dongmin who didn’t ever bother correcting people about him or what others thought about him. The same man now stood like a boy with desperate round eyes pleaded before you. 

“She played him… didn’t she?” a whisper emerges from the crowd around you two. 

“Yeah she always thought she’s better than everyone else anyway!” another anonymous voice spoke. You couldn’t tell who it was, the cluster of people hiding them away. The voices continued to rise, many voicing their opinions on a matter that did not even concern them. 

You could almost feel the teardrop fall down, you wanted to hold it in. 

“Fuck- Dongmin? See what you’ve done? Now I’m the next rumour…!” you yell at him. He looks even more dejected. 

“Dongmin? Who’s Dongmin…? 

“Y/N’s probably got a nickname for the new guy or something..”

“Was she always such a slut, though?” 

“Enough! You guys are crazy. I will not stand for someone treating Y/N like that.” His eyes grew darker. “Who do you even think you are?” he stares down at a particular girl in the crowd that you don’t know. 

Without wasting another second, he grabs your hand, pitifully dragging you away. Gasps emerge, yet you only look down, right where both hands meet. His fingers interlock with yours. 

He comes to an abrupt stop, cornering you in the area under a flight of stairs. 

“I was scared. Please. I was so scared. I had never been so vulnerable a-and when I kissed you back then, Y/N I swear I felt so crazy. My hands were going to burst- you made me feel so special. Then my dad called and he found out I wanted to pursue music- it was a mess… I couldn’t handle you breaking my heart too I just left and I’m so so sorry I left you I-”

You crash your lips onto his, whincing when it lands on his teeth instead, but you don't budge- you still press on. He deepens the kiss and closes his eyes. A teardrop falls and melts onto your cheek. You get deja vu. After a few seconds, he gently angles out of it, chest heaving. You look at him puzzled. “Just one sec” 

He reaches into his pocket to take out a cassette tape, it looked like it was straight out of the 90’s, a thin wired headphone attached to it. “Pfft. Where did you even get that thing?” 

You take the cassette in your hands, the date March 31st, 2024 scribbled on it with a sharpie. 

“I was gonna give it to you that day.”

He places the vintage-looking headphones over your head. You listen curiously as the tape starts playing. The lyrics have you smiling from ear to ear. 

 How pathetic

Yeah, I've got it bad

It's not like tomorrow I'll wake up as a brand new person

And to use my memories

To write another song

I just hate it more than dying

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧

a/n: UNEDITED BECAUSE I LIVE LIFE ON THE EDGE

okay im not a onedoor so this might be ass I'm sorry LMAO hope the taesan lovers like it

#oneurmaniloveyouaisheiterusaranghae

[spitdrunken]

Heat Relief (Alastor x Reader)

Notes: Reader has a vagina, reader n alastor are both sex-repulsed asexuals, platonic sex for heat relief reasons, extremely dubious consent to noncon, retracted consent, CANNIBALISM AT THE END!

========

Heats suck ass.

One of Hell's cruellest jokes has to be you being reborn as a mammal, and all of the inconveniences that come along with it. Heats are the worst of all, up-heaving your entire life and leaving you incapacitated in the progress. Being high on a cocktail of hormones and left in a lust-driven frenzy is never a good thing… But there are plenty of people in Hell willing to take advantage of it. Add to that the fact you've never had that much of a desire to masturbate, and it's a recipe for disaster.

At least you have Hazbin Hotel now. While the conversation with Charlie about temporarily moving your room faaar away from the others, she'd been nothing but understanding and accepting. It was the first time you didn't feel disgusting about going through this every month. She even left you drinks and food outside your door at regular intervals. (Because, while it's very much possible to get through a heat without eating or drinking, being unable to die doesn't make it pleasant.)

After you've spent days using toys to get yourself off, you reek of it no matter how much you shower. The scent has to be chipped away at by time. When you head downstairs in desperate need for a drink, it's a walk of shame. Both of your wrists are throbbing with exertion.

You had wished the bar were empty, but wishes don't always come true.

Angel Dust takes one sideways glance at you and bursts out laughing. The tips of his heels clack against the wood of the bar as he kicks his legs around, one pair of arms crossed over his lap.

"Been having fun, babe? Fuck!" He leans his chin on one hand, swirling around a drink in your general direction with the other. "You were holed up in there for days. Y'know, I know a guy or two that could cut that time in half. Easy. Won't even cost that much."

You're, frankly, too exhausted to think of coming up with a comeback or quip. "Maybe. I'm tired," you respond. As if it isn't obvious. The practically audible roll of his eyes doesn't bother you. You're not into hiring a complete stranger as 'heat relief' even if it'd make your life easier. There's no reason to trust them.

You slide into a stool a couple seats away from Angel Dust. Husk looks at you, his frown relaxing somewhat. He probably experiences something similar, after all. Without any unnecessary words, Husk is pouring you a drink. A mix, though more alcohol than anything else. At the very least it could help you take your mind off of things. It might be what you need.

Even a couple of sips in, you know this is definitely not what you need. Given your exhaustion, the alcohol hits harder than ever and the drink tasted strongly of liquor to begin with. Your head feels heavy. So do your arms. Your legs itch to move. There's zero good reason to keep drinking, but sometimes you like the taste of your own self-destruction. It doesn't take long before you've veered well into 'tipsy' territory.

You can feel the pinprick of a gaze at your back. Static teases at the edge of your hearing. You ignore it.

"No, but, really," Angel Dust starts again. "I don't get why ya don't just hire someone and get it over with. Yeah, yeah, I get it— It's not pretty, you're not making kissy-kissy love-dovey faces at each other, but it's Hell, toots."

This time, you turn your head just far enough to the righ to shoot him a glare. You slam down your glass. A slosh of alcohol spills past the rim, staining the top of your hand and darkening the wood it lands on.

"I just don't like it, okay?!" You spit out, defensiveness flaring up all at once. The idea of some stranger's hands roaming over your body, to have to expose yourself like that in front of someone— To have sex with them, it makes your stomach turn. And, at the same time, hot tears burn at the corner of your eyes. You wish that you weren't like this too, sometimes, but what can you do about it? The alcohol has loosened your tongue. "I don't like to have sex, so why should I pay someone else for the honour of being touched by them?!"

You grit your teeth, eyes burning holes in the counter in front of you. This sucks. This is genuinely just horrible. Before the tears have a chance to spill past your cheeks, or you manage to make an even bigger fool of yourself, you stumble your way off the chair and up in the direction of your room. If anyone had told you anything, it would've been hard for the noise to get through passed your plugged ears. You can't shake the feeling that you're being followed and wriggle your ears as you pull your claws from them.

Still, the only thing you can think of, for now, is to get the hell out of there. You use your newly freed hands to wipe away at the corners of your eyes. You'll cry in the relative safety of your room. It's only when you've arrived at your door that you whip around, bringing you face to face with Hazbin Hotel's most infamous employee— The Radio Demon.

He's smiling, as usual, the quirk of his mouth revealing a glint of yellowed teeth. Alastor's pupils are narrowed into slits. The red, metal ferrule of his cane taps against the floor. He tilts his head at you.

"You are aware that it's quite rude to keep a caller waiting, yes?" You absolutely do not have the energy to deal with this. Why has he decided to cast his eye upon you now, at all times? You haven't been 'worthy' of his attention for even a moment prior. "But, I suppose you may be allowed a bit of leniency… That fellow can be quite a drag!"

You have no idea what he's getting at. If it weren't for the alcohol active in your system, you might've been left unable to speak at all. Right now, you want nothing more than to crash into your bed and sleep until you won't wake up without being even slightly hungover.

"Look, um, I was going to head to bed," you say, still teetering on the edge of an apology. Your mouth opens in a jaw and you barely cover it with your hand. "I probably can't help you much right now. Maybe Charlie—"

"Oh, no, no," Alastor intercepts with a shake of his head. "Dear, if I needed anyone else, I would have simply gone to them! No, you've caught my attention today, with your short-lived little speech down at the bar." He takes a step forward. You don't have the chance to move back before his fingers have invaded your space in a flash, wiping away imaginary tears still lingering near your eyes. You flinch after his arm has already retreated.

"That was…" You swallow. You're inebriated, but not far enough gone not to feel any shame about that moment already. "Well. Not great." You slump against the wall next to you. Alastor's eyes meticulously follow your every movement, and you soon find yourself straightening once again.

"Not great in the moment, perhaps," he acquiesces. "But I do believe there is potential for an agreement there between us. You see, much like you, I suffer from a similar… Ailment, shall we say, every month, like clockwork." You're left too speechless to interfere. Whatever direction you had anticipated this conversation to take, it had not been this.

"Much like you, I am not interested in the regular 'relief services' provided by the masses. I want it to be done with as soon as possible. In that respect, I suspect we have a shared interest. Objectively speaking, you are also more attractive than whoever is offering themselves up for a dollar and a dime." A beat of silence falls, the noise of static once again increases. "That was a compliment."

"T-thank you," you stammer, mind still struggling to catch up. It's like you've simultaneously sobered up and gotten even more confused. "So, if I understand correctly… You're saying we should have sex."

"That's how you could choose to describe it, yes. Only as a means to make both our lives a little bit easier. When I heard you express yourself earlier… Well, I would not have used the same phrasing, but I believe our feelings are much aligned! Always the perfect grounds for a fruitful agreement."

"I'm not… I'm not interested in making any kind of official deal," you tell him. One look at Husk turned you off the idea forever. It certainly hasn't done him any favours.

You've heard far too many horror stories about deals in hell gone wrong. In misheard conversations, or illegible fine print— You have no desire to find out that you've accidentally sold your soul to a demon as infamous as Alastor, relegated to being a cautionary tale for centuries to come. Though you will admit that the idea of easier heats is appealing.

"I don't think any kind of 'deal' is necessary in this case, my dear," Alastor says, looking down at his nails and flexing his fingers. "My reasons are clearly laid out, whatever you make of them. You wouldn't lose anything from it— Really, I'm being very hospitable right now, ha!"

Your mind chugs away. Perhaps it's the alcohol clouding your judgement, but it doesn't all sound so horrible, given the right circumstances. Charlie already knows of your heats, you could inform her of this, too. If she thought anything was up, you're sure the Princess of Hell wouldn't hesitate to burst in and help, embarrassing as it might be for you. That's simply the kind of person she is. Beyond that, powerful as he may be, Alastor is still incapable of killing you.

Your mouth is forming the words before you've completely thought them through. "I want it to be here, in the hotel. And if I hate it… Then we'll never do it again."

"Yes, yes, certainly. But it will be my room," Alastor counters. "Nowhere else."

This takes away from your idea of familiar ground, as you've never been inside there before, but it still feels safe enough. You nod, sealing your fate. Even without a tangible deal in place, you're certain that Alastor will hold you to your word.

Afterwards, the whole conversation feels like nothing more than a fever dream. For a few days, you manage to fool yourself into thinking that none of it ever happened. That you'd passed out in bed and dreamed up the whole thing.

This delusion manages to last until Alastor presents you with a strip of pills, informing you that you are to take them in order to line up your little 'predicaments'. Neither of you wants to be in any coherent state of mind for your little deal, it seems. If suppressing your heat through pills like these didn't suck so much, you'd be doing it all the time. But, whether this is the only time you go through with this or not, you only have to go through all the side-effects once.

When Alastor's rut rolls around, you don't need to be told. You can smell it on the air. It sends your temperature spiking, leading your feet to the door of his room without even thinking about it. After putting off your heat with the medication, it seems to fog over your mind more than ever before.

You lean against the frame of the door. Lifting your hand to knock on it brings the sensation of moving through sludge. Everything is so heavy, so difficult. Feverish heat pools in between your legs and soaks through your clothing. The fabric is clammy against your fur.

Your hand barely brushes against the door before it's yanked open. The world around you upturns at once, sending you crashing to the floor. Instead of your face meeting wood, you're caught in… Something. It's long, dark and a little transparent. Through it, your own skin and clothes are still visible. Following the tendril to its source, you find Alastor.

In the back of your mind, a little square untouched by your heat, you'd been worried about how this was supposed to go. What would you even say, would you have to make some kind of awkward small talk before you have sex with each other? That had seemed about as dreadful to you as the act itself. The dancing around the subject until neither of you would be able to control yourself anymore.

Alastor doesn't look like he'd be capable of such politeness or niceties right now. His bow tie is skewed around his neck, one of his gloves missing. His clawed hand, covered in gray fur, slowly clenches and relaxes again. The coat that he's wearing is more tattered than before. There are gashes left in it, around the bottom.

None of that is even mentioning his expression. His smile is stretched wide enough to look painful, a little spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. The pupils are deep, dark puddles you could drown in.

In your hours worrying about the logistics, awkwardness, and shame you had never once considered exactly what you would be in for, here. Alastor is dangerous, he's repulsed by sex, possibly even more so than you, and forced to take part in something he loathes— What had you been expecting? There is no lust there, but he looks ready to devour you whole.

"You kept me waiting," he tells you, every word strained out through grit, yellowed fangs.

You do not get the chance to respond. Entangled in his shadow, he drags you in through the entrance of his room, the door slamming shut behind you. Fear has doused your heat with a bucket of cold water and you let out a short-cut scream as you're dragged into his dark room, a glittering expanse of stars above you.

As you hang suspended in the air for a moment, the full expanse of his room sprawls before you. It smells of dirt and grass, with actual trees growing inside of it. Somewhere in the back, a bush rustles, and the thought flashes through your mind that he keeps other things in here.

"You'd do well not to be distracted," Alastor tells you, something still uncanny about his voice. His mouth opens ever so slightly, this time. A dark, uneven tongue momentarily darts past his lips.

You wish you could say something, anything. But every muscle in your body is tensed up, constricting even your throat. The walls of the expansive room seem to be closing in on you. You cannot actually, permanently, die in Hell by Alastor's mind, you tell yourself. But repeating this over and over again does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You're brought down to the ground, dropped in soft, wet clay next to a small pond in the room. You hit the floor with a wet smack that is anything but gentle. The wind is knocked out of you and you wheeze in a breath, the contents of your stomach sloshing around inside of you. Your nose is clogged with the smell of dirt and still water, reeds rustling as your fingers claw around in the mud in an attempt to get up.

Once again, all of your limbs are pinned down with tendrils and, in a flash, Alastor is on top of you. His hands roam over the lower parts of your body and, at the almost-gentle touch, your mind is starting to turn to slush again at the knowledge you'll have sex soon. Heats are truly incapacitating and, even with the smell of the pond and mud, Alastor's pheromones hang thick in the air. It's a scent that has your face scrunching up, metallic and sharp.

Your bones still echo with pain in response to the smack you made. "This isn't what we agreed to," you manage to force out, your body trembling.

Continuing on from touching, his claws have started to cut through what little clothing you're wearing on your lower half. Anything above your hips is left untouched. At one point, the nail catches on your skin and you jump.

"We would relieve each other's heats, in part with sex," Alastor says, the corners of his mouth trembling. With both of his hands yanking away the scraps of your clothing, you finally realise what is so wrong about his voice: It's raw, unfiltered through the usual filter of his microphone. "Other than that, I do not think we made any agreements that I could break. I cannot hurt you. Permanently, that is. If, in my 'excitement', I leave a little damage… I hope you'll accept any advance apology for that."

A thick string of drool slides through the gaps in between his teeth and drips down onto your chest, darkening the fabric. Your heart is racing and your head is rolling around the floor, multiple overlapping parts of you screaming over each other— Self-preservation, fear, shame, disgust, but there is nothing you can do about any of it.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, imagining yourself in the comfort of your nest, cooped up in your room, anywhere more comfortable than here. Oh, right now, how you could wish that you could turn off your rational mind completely. The opportunity soon presents yourself as your thighs are nudged apart and you open your eyes just in time to see the tip of Alastor's cock nearing your entrance. Other than pulling his clothes a bit to the side, he hasn't shed anything.

A loud, guttural noise is ripped from your throat as he forces himself inside of you, cramming as much of his cock in your slick hole as he can in a single movement. No matter how sex-ready your body might be because of your heat, that doesn't make it comfortable. There are no slow grinds to loosen up your insides and get you used to the movement. If there are any tears, at least they'll be healed by the time he's done with you. Mud is caked thick underneath your nails and the tears dripping down your face add to the softness of the mud.

(you asked for this and you agreed to this but this is nothing like what you expected, what you wanted, and it is simultaneously worse and better. because you would have never wanted him to touch or caress you like a lover but, right now, you feel no better than a piece of meat.)

But when you open your mouth, as much as you want to scream or cuss him out, all that leaves your lips is a whiny, needy noise thanks to your heat. Your pussy has stretched out to fit him and the pain is gone. In response to your noises, your pheromones that must be filling the air, Alastor shows no response. Not even a twitch of his ears or nose. Instead, all that he busies himself with is the same, selfish thrusts, rapid and purely chasing his own pleasure.

If you weren't high on hormones, none of this would've felt remotely good. Now, though, with the pain ebbing away bliss takes it place, shooting through your limbs every time his hips meet yours with a smack. Your hand sneaks in between your legs and you rub vigorously at your engorged clit. The consequences of doing such a thing with hands so dirty as yours is something for the you of tomorrow to worry about. Aided by your hand, you cum in no time at all, walls spasming around his cock.

It's the first time Alastor lets out a noise other than his heavy panting. At your pussy clenching around him, trying to milk him, he lets out a groan. More spit drips down on your chest and, finally, you look up at his face once again. For a little while, he'd been nothing but a set of thrusting hips to you, too focused on the pain and the intrusion to remember who he is, what he is.

When you do, you wish you hadn't looked. His composure has only crumbled further. His smile has spread wide enough that his lips have started to curl in on himself, a little blood clinging to his lips from where his teeth cut through his bottom lip. He's pounding into you at a pace that has become bruising and, at this point, you can't imagine it feels good for him either. Your mouth hangs half open, a constant stream of little noises leaving your mouth.

Your orgasm has washed away the worst of your heat. With the increased clarity of mind, your stomach twists and turns and, once again, you close your eyes. The sensations are too much, the knowledge of the fact that you're having sex with someone you don't even like, platonically or romantically, digging gashes in your mental state. You should've never agreed to this. Your heat had egged you on to go here, but you'd taken those pills all those days. (In a little corner of your mind, perhaps you'd told yourself that it'd be worse if he forced himself on you when his rut rolled around and you weren't in heat.)

You listen to the ceaseless rustling of the plants at the edge of the pond and feel yourself retreating into the back of your head, trying to forget the rest of your body. You're a little thing huddled in the back of your head, gazing out at the world through your skull, and nothing else is attached to you, that is all that you are.

With another snap of his hips, Alastor finishes inside of you, spurt after spurt of cum filling you up. You let out a long, shuddering sigh. The sloppy thrusts, the gasps for air and the rolling of his eyes are all indicators that this is about to come to an end— A heat relief service indeed, but at what cost? You'll have to avoid him like the plague for the rest of your stay here, that's for sure.

You crack open your eyes. You are greeted with the sight of Alastor's mouth opening for the first time, teeth seeming longer than ever, saliva almost literally pouring down on you. Alastor is past all point of reason, panting so hard it leaves clouds in the air. A rumbling, like the growling of someone's stomach, reaches your ears. Before you can move even a muscle, he strikes.

His fangs sink down into the meat of your shoulder, tearing through the fabric of your shirt as if it were mere paper. You scream so hard your throat erupts in pain, violently bucking against the tendrils still holding you down. With every twitch of your muscles, they seem to solidify further. His tongue slathers the broken skin and torn muscle as you wheeze in a breath, tears and snot running down your face.

Alastor's cock has hardened inside you once again. It seems that he's satisfying two hungers at once, now. Black spots dance across your vision. Even if you can't die permanently, you seem to have a painful road ahead of you; until he's had his fill, that is.