#and there's nothing wrong with not having a job

[transfemme-shelterdog]

I'd like to talk a bit about masculinity.

So, I'm a trans woman, I was raised male for 26 years, and since my father wasn't around half the time, my mother did the majority of the raising. This means that she did the majority of teaching me in how to "be a man" socially speaking. Sure, car stuff and male duties were my dad's job to teach me, but values and behaviour in how a man should act was the role of my mom.

My mother always told me that she was raising me to be a good husband to my wife, to treat women with love and respect, and overall how to be masculine but not toxic.

My mother even put together a collection of films and books for me to read with positive male role models for me to build my life around, and honestly it really helped a lot.

So, I'm going to pass on the knowledge I've learned about masculinity that I've learned over the years:

Masculinity isn't a bad thing. It's not bad to be a man, or masculine. Yes, there are toxic men out there with toxic views on how to "be a man", but the same could be said about women. If you don't think women can be cutting or hurt people with femininity, you're dead wrong.

Masculinity can be gentle. It can be loving. There's men out there who adore the women in their lives, and treat them extremely well. These men care about those around them, they're active listeners, they have good communication, they're devoted to their partners, and they're genuinely good people. They're not feminine for caring about animals, speaking softly, being gentle, being loving, anything of the sort. They're men, and that's their masculinity, which manifests in a healthy, positive way.

Masculinity can be gentle, loving, devoted, doting, generous, kind, and all sorts of positive gentle things. It's also a spectrum. There's plenty of masculine men who act in ways that are kind and caring.

George Fisher for example, lead singer of Cannibal Corpse. He's a big, masculine dude who works out. He also spends his free time at home and on tours out playing claw games to win toys for sick children.

Or Travis Ryan, who has a house full of rescue pets, and is an advocate for veganism

Donald Tardy of Obituary fame takes care of over 130 feral cats in Florida every night when he's not on tour, bringing them all food and water

Three examples of extremely masculine men, who are kind, soft, and gentle towards animals and children.

There's nothing wrong with being soft. It does not make you any less of a man.

Too many people act like masculinity is hard, damaging, evil, toxic, and so on. Which yeah, it can be in some - but there's also a lot of good in it. Loving, positive, healthy masculinity should never, ever, be treated like something that needs to be "fixed" because it's masculinity and therefore bad.

There's good men in this world, whose masculinity is good and should be celebrated, and healthy, positive masculinity in those that choose it, should be treated as the good that it is.

So, to those who are choosing masculinity, and choosing a path of loving, healthy, positive masculinity:

Thank you. Honestly. We need more good men and masculine people in this world. You're not a bad person for being this way. You deserve equal goodness to the goodness you put out.

Keep being loving, good, amazing people. Don't let anyone tell you that you're bad for being you, because you're not. Masculinity can be wonderful for some, and it shouldn't be treated like a curse, or a bad decision.

Masculinity is beautiful

Masculinity is wonderful

Masculinity can be a force for good

Masculinity is healing

Masculinity is a spectrum and there's no wrong way to do it, so long as it's not toxic

Masculinity can co-exist with femineity

Masculinity should be celebrated and not shamed

Masculinity doesn't make you a bad person

Trans men, and transmascs deserve all the respect, and room to grow into the people that they've always wanted to be. To shame them for wanting to be masculine is harmful for everyone involved. Masculinity isn't a bad thing, men aren't ontologically evil or bad. The vast majority of men are good people, and are blessings to those around them.

So men, and mascs:

Be soft, be nice, be kind, be gentle, be authentic, be vulnerable, don't be afraid to be you. You're not any less of a man for being "soft", instead you become a man of value, and worth.

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Chapter 3: Barcelona

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Sexism in the workplace. Spain 2025 mention. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: George Russell & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

George: How’s Brackley holding up without me?

Ana: Efficient. Mostly quiet. Perfect, really.

George: Ouch 😅 See, that’s what I like about you. You’re so direct. No drama. No fluff. A bit cold-blooded, but in a cool way.

Ana:I’m sorry— Are you comparing me to a lizard

George: 😂 No no Just saying it’s refreshing, you know? Most women are so emotionalBut you’ve got that ice-in-your-veins thing Cold as a fish but gets the job done 💪

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I wish I didn’t have feelings.

Max: Okay That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation, Poekie What happened?

Ana: Do I come across like I don’t? Like I’m cold. Or clinical. Or a refrigerated fish?

Max: Where is this coming from?

ANA George. He said I’m “cold as a fish.”

Max: Ana.

Ana: I do wish it was true. That I could shut everything off. Not feel so much. Not care so much. About work. About everything.

Max:You think not feeling would make your life easier But it’s your heart that makes you youAnd it’s the best part. There’s nothing wrong with you.People like George just don’t know what to do with you, because they are stupid. You feel deeply. You just don’t outsource it. You keep it close. Private. Precious.

Ana:I think I’d be easier to love if I were less… me.

Max: Don’t you dare.Don’t you dare try to be easier.

***

Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Montmeló, Spain, - 1 June 2025

The Spanish Grandprix 2025 could probably be summed up in one word: Catastrophe. 

McLaren had built two unbeatable rocketships. 

RedBull had fucked up the strategy. 

Hard compound, safety car restart, lap 61.

10 second time penalty. 3 more penalty points. 

P10. 

1 Point for the championship standing.

In hindsight, Max did realise that what he had done to Russel into Turn 5 had not been his smartest move. 

He shouldn’t have done it.

He knew that even as he lined it up— he saw the space open, just enough to plant his Red Bull down the inside of Russell, and some ancient, stubborn reflex in him clicked like a trigger.

He went.

And he hit him.

Not hard. Not enough to retire the car. But enough for contact. Enough for the stewards to start circling.

Enough to know, immediately, that it had been stupid.

Because it hadn’t been strategy. It hadn’t even been racing instinct.

It had been personal.

Somewhere between the apex and the runoff, Max had remembered what Ana told him.

George had called her a cold fish.

Ana, who had spent a full twenty minutes spiralling over the idea that she didn’t know how to feel. Who had asked him—him—if maybe she was broken after all.

Because George Russell, with his rehearsed smirks and PR-scripted charm, had decided her quiet meant unfeeling. That her composure meant cold. That her distance meant emptiness.

Like she wasn’t the smartest person in any room. Like she wasn’t the woman who spent nights calibrating engine maps down to the nanosecond, who had once held Max’s face in her hands like it was sacred, who felt everything but didn’t bleed it out for applause.

And George had called her a cold fish.

Said she didn’t have feelings. 

And Ana—his Ana—had texted him asking if it was true.

And something in Max had snapped.

Because she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t robotic or hard to love. She was private. Careful. Brilliant in a way that lit up slowly and then consumed you, if you were smart enough to wait for it.

And George Russell didn’t get to flatten that down into a punchline.

Not about Ana.

Not ever.

So Max had hit him.

A decade of work to master his temper and he’d still hit him.

Not with his fists. With his car. In the middle of a race.

Like his father.

The realization sat in his chest like gravel.

He saw red, and he made it someone else’s problem.

That was dangerous. Stupid.

And it scared him.

Because Ana deserved better. He was supposed to be better.

Not the man who weaponised his anger. Not the one who made it everyone else’s fault.

Max pressed his palms to his face after the race, after the press. Inhaled. Exhaled.

It hadn’t helped that even before the race had been hell. That he had been driving at 110% percent to somehow claw himself to P3.

That he knew that he didn’t have a chance against Lando or Oscar, not because he wasn’t driving good enough, but because the car wasn’t there. 

The race had been hell.

Not spectacularly, crash-and-burn hell. No. That would’ve at least come with adrenaline.

This was worse. This was futility.

And Red Bull—his team, the team he’d bled and won and clawed with—had just shrugged.

“We’ll review it.” “We’ll get it fixed before Silverstone.” “Bad luck today, mate.”

Max had nodded. Said the right things to the cameras.

Now, he just sat. Still. Drained.

And for the first time—not in anger, not in a surge of rage, but in something quieter, colder—he thought:

What if it’s time?

He’d given everything to this team. And in return, he’d gotten four championships, a dynasty, and—now—a ship quietly splintering at the keel.

Red Bull was falling apart.

And Max was tired of pretending that he couldn’t feel it too.

Max was tired. Not physically—he’d trained through worse. But mentally. Emotionally. Like he was pushing against a wall that wasn’t going to move, no matter how many laps he strung together or how precisely he hit his braking zones.

He was tired of being the fastest driver in a car that wasn’t built to win anymore.

And Mercedes…

2026 regulations loomed. And Mercedes, quietly and steadily, had stopped stumbling.

The car looked coherent. The power unit had held steady. And maybe most damning of all—they looked like a team that knew what it was building toward.

Mercedes had a plan.

Mercedes had 2026 circled in red, and every whisper said their power unit was terrifying. 

He stood slowly, knees stiff.

The thing was… he didn’t even know if it was about performance anymore.

His head leaned back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

He wasn’t angry anymore.

He was just tired.

Tired of dragging a team that couldn’t keep up.

Tired of pretending he didn’t already know where this was going.

Because Ana was there. In Brackley. Building something that worked. That made sense. That held.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to win another championship alone.

Maybe he wanted to win it where she could see him.

He could see it—clearer than ever.

A fresh start.

A reset.

A future that didn’t feel like death by a thousand strategy errors.

And maybe more than that—her.

He wouldn’t say it out loud. Not yet. Not even to himself.

But the thought curled low in his chest, warm and terrifying.

If I went to Mercedes… I could be near her. Not just at night. Not just when we’re pretending it’s nothing. Every day. In the same garage. On the same side.

He let out a slow breath.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was reckless.

But Max Verstappen had never been afraid of taking a corner flat.

And this?

This was starting to look like the cleanest racing line he’d had in months.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 1 June 2025

It was a Sunday.

A quiet one — at least in theory. 

Granted it was Race Day, but most of the needed staff was in Barcelona, at the track. Most other staff was at home.

Ana was in her office. Waiting to get a call from trackside that they had broken one of the cars. Or getting a headstart on telemetry…or doing some very much not needed budget spreadsheets…

Because, well… she didn’t really do hobbies.

She’d tried. Once. Or twice. Bought watercolours. Took one yoga class. 

But the truth was this: spreadsheets made more sense than socialising, engine maps were easier than emotion, and a baseline simulation was as good a distraction as anything else. Better, even. Machines didn’t ask her how she was feeling. They just did what they were told.

She had one monitor running component lifing data for 2026. Another with simulation outputs from a recent bench test. The third screen — muted, mostly ignored — was the live F1 broadcast from Spain. Lap 60.

Ana wasn’t paying it much attention. Not until she saw the timing screen glitch — yellow flag, Turn 5 — and her peripheral vision caught a flick of a Red Bull diving off-line.

She blinked, sat up straighter, and clicked the stream into full screen.

Her jaw tightened.

It was Max.

She watched the replay feed switch to show it: Charles and Max going side-by-side down the straight, a brush of contact. 

Then Russell lunging up alongside Max…

Ana’s hands curled slightly against the edge of her desk.

And then—

The overtake attempt.

The so-called “let through.”

And then the second lunge.

The impact.

Ana flinched.

Not visibly, maybe. But her stomach twisted.

She knew that look in Max’s driving. The one that said he wasn’t thinking clearly. That the red mist had taken over.

She’d known him long enough to recognise the difference between aggression and anger. Between instinct and intent.

That… had been intent.

“Goddamn it, Max,” she muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear.

And then, a beat later, George came on the radio. Cheerfully smug. Like he hadn’t just nearly sparked a full collision. Like he hadn’t—

She sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly, a hard knot pressing under her ribs.

Ana had always been able to compartmentalise. That was her gift. Her survival mechanism. But this—

This was personal.

Not the race. Not the lunge.

But the memory of George’s message from days before. The casually cruel line. Cold as a fish.

She hadn’t told anyone how much it hurt.

Not even Max.

And now he’d—

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from engineering ops. She ignored it.

Instead, she rewound the race footage. Just to be sure.

She watched it again. The lunge. The contact. The way Max didn’t even try to hide the retaliation.

It was reckless. It was stupid. It was absolutely not championship-calibre driving.

And it was for her.

Ana wanted to scream.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: Are you insane?

Max: Hi I’m fine, thanks for asking

Ana: You got a ten-second penalty for trying to punt George into the wall. That’s not “fine”

Max: In my defense he had it coming

Ana: That is not a defense That is premeditated stupidity on cold tyres

Max: He called you a cold fish. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

Ana: So you decided to retaliate at 280km/h during a live race?!

Max: I know. It was dumb.

Ana: I am not going to argue about that. It was dangerous.

Max: Yeah. I know that too. It wasn’t about the race. It was about… I saw him. And I thought about what he said to you. And I got angry.

Max: So you weaponised a Red Bull chassis. Great. Rational behaviour.

Max: I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I just— Sometimes it gets ahead of me. The anger. I hate that I still do that. That I am like this.

Max: I don’t want to be like my father. Not on track. Not off it. Not ever.

Ana: Then maybe don’t crash into people at 280km/h when you’re upset.

Max: …

Ana: Don’t do it again. I don’t need defending. I need you safe.

Max: Copy that. No more defending your honour with multi-million-dollar carbon shrapnel.

Ana: Good. Also, apologise to your engineer and maybe the team.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: WHAT the heck was THAT, Maxie??? Just saw the replay. Are you trying to reenact Fast & Furious: FIA Edition???

Max: Hi Vic Love you too

Victoria: Don’t “Hi Vic” me Turn 5?? Turn 5?! Did GP put you on Red Bull and rage or were you just feeling a little unhinged for the weekend?? I just watched you try to yeet George Russell into another zip code in front of the entire world. Are you trying to collect penalties like Pokémon?

Max: Okay yes I know It was reckless I got emotional

VICTORIA It was reckless. It was stupid. And it was exactly the kind of shit Jos used to pull when he lost control.

Victoria: Max. I need you to hear me properly right now.

Victoria: Do not become like he was. Not even a little bit. Not even when it feels justified. Not when you’re angry or frustrated or hurt. Because it starts like this—these little moments—and then one day you look in the mirror and he’s there.

Max: Vic—

Victoria: No. You’re better than that. You always have been. But better doesn’t just happen. You have to choose it. Every single time.

Max: I know. I know. And I hate that today I didn’t. It scared me too.

Victoria: Good. Let it scare you. Then remember you have people around you who will drag you back if you start slipping. Even if we have to slap sense into you mid-race.

Max: You’d absolutely do it.

Victoria: Damn right. Now go apologise to whoever had to explain that radio message to the Sky Sports team. And maybe buy GP a bottle of something expensive.

Max: Already on it.

Victoria: Stay good, Maxie. Not perfect. Not soft. Just good. You owe that to yourself. And to us.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

 (Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: BRO.

Lando: WHAT DID WE JUST WATCH.

Oscar: Which part? The Leclerc move? The Russell collision? The radio tantrum?

Daniel: No no. The emotional unravelling of a man in real time.

Carlos: That was not racing. That was vengeance.

Oscar: Okay but can we just agree—this wasn’t about George.

Carlos: …yes.

Oscar: This was about something else. Or like… someone.

Daniel: I’m just saying. You don’t risk a 10-second penalty unless you’re fighting for something personal.

Lando: Do you think he’s in love?

Carlos: You think he’s in love with George?

Lando: NO— I MEAN IN GENERAL Not with George Oh my god Carlos.

Daniel: Plot twist: Verstappen’s long game has always been to date George Russell and then drive him into a wall.

Oscar: Honestly I’ve seen worse dating strategies.

Carlos: We are getting off track.

Oscar: Max’s been weird all year.

Carlos: He looked at George like he was trying to commit manslaughter with a carbon front wing.

Lando: Okay but… WHO IS IT THEN.

Carlos: He’s hiding something.

Daniel: You don’t say...

Oscar: Ten bucks says there’s someone we’ve never seen. Someone completely under the radar.

Lando: No WAG content No paparazzi No vacation leaks Nothing

Carlos: He’s a married man and we’re going to find out when she files the tax returns.

Oscar: Whoever she is… She has that man in an emotional chokehold.

Lando: He literally risked a podium to make a point.

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

 (Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Max: I want to talk to Mercedes.

Jos: …what are you talking about?

Raymond: Is this a joke?

Max: No. I’m serious.

Raymond: Max, we’ve had these offers before. You always said no.

Max: I’m not saying no anymore.

Jos: Is this about Red Bull? The car?

Max: It’s about everything. The car. The future. The team direction. The way I’m driving at 110% just to get P4. And the fact that I’m tired of hearing next year every week.

Raymond: You’ve never once seriously considered leaving. Not since you joined. What’s changed?

Max: I think I’ve given everything I can here. And I want to win. Not manage damage every Sunday.

Jos: Are you sure this isn’t emotional? You’ve had rough seasons before.

Max: No. This is different. I don’t trust the plan anymore.

Raymond: If we talk to Mercedes, it’ll leak. Are you ready for that?

Max: Let it leak. Let everyone lose their minds. But set up the meeting.

Jos: And if they offer something real?

Max: Then I take it seriously. For the first time.

***

Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 2 June 2025

GP didn’t even bother offering Max a drink. Just pointed to the kitchen chair like this was a routine —which, after nearly a decade, it kind of was.

They were sitting in his kitchen, a quiet space full of mismatched chairs and half-finished house projects, telemetry open on the tablet between them. Francesca’s, GP’s fifteen year old daughter, school prospectus laid forgotten on the counter. The kettle had boiled twice and been ignored both times.

Max the dog had greeted Max the human with a wagging tail and had then trotted off behind Eloisa, GP’s wife, up into the home office. 

Max dropped into the seat with a groan.

GP didn’t sit yet. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.

“You want to explain what that was with Russell?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe the whole race off with it.

GP raised a brow. “Max.”

There was a beat. Then another. And then, finally—

“It was because of Ana.”

GP nodded once. “Ah.” He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Of course.”

“Don’t start,” Max muttered.

“I’m not starting,” GP said mildly. “I’m just… continuing. The ongoing saga of You Two: Will They, Won’t They, Why Haven’t They.”

Max exhaled like someone had punched the air out of him. “She texted me after qualifying. Asked if I thought I was a cold fish, because George said she was.”

GP winced. “Christ. That man has the emotional intelligence of a spoon.”

Max laughed, hollow. “She said she wished she didn’t have feelings. And then you told me to give him the position back and I…” He gestured, helpless. “I snapped.”

GP finally sat across from him. “Yeah. You did.”

Max didn’t look up. “I lost it. I just—there was already the Leclerc move, the tyres were cold, I was pissed off, and then I thought about that. And I wanted to prove something. I don’t even know what, exactly. But I didn’t think. I just drove angry.”

GP didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Well, that’s deeply fucking stupid.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’re lucky nobody got hurt.”

“I know.”

GP ran a hand over his head “You’re not your father, Max. But you don’t get to pretend you’re not his son either. You’ve got his instincts—good and bad. And if you don’t finally learn to catch yourself before the fuse runs out, you’re going to burn the whole damn garage down.”

“I don’t want to be like him.”

“Then don’t. Especially not for a man who thinks a woman’s worth is in how she reacts to him.”

Max looked up. Something raw and earnest flickered behind his eyes.

GP’s voice softened. “You care about her.”

Max nodded. “Too much, maybe.”

GP leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You know,” he said slowly, “you two are exhausting.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Tiptoeing around each other like there isn’t a whole decade of… whatever the hell this is.”

Max didn’t answer.

GP narrowed his eyes. “Are you ever going to stop?”

There was a pause. Then Max looked up, voice low but certain.

“I want to talk to Mercedes.”

There wasn’t a dramatic pause. No gasp of surprise. Just GP, sitting back in his creaky kitchen chair like Max had confirmed something he already knew.

“Alright,” GP said, after a moment. “You’ve thought it through?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Max rubbed a hand over his jaw, gaze fixed somewhere over GP’s shoulder. “At first it was just a maybe. A backup plan if things didn’t change. But then… it became the plan.” he said, voice low. “I know you have a job at Red Bull.”

GP didn’t look up. “That’s an understatement.”

“I’m not asking you to leave it.”

That made GP glance over.

Max shifted, elbows on knees, fingers laced tight. “I just… If I do this—if I really consider it—I’m not expecting you to come with me. You’ve been here forever. You’ve got your team, your systems, your—”

“Let’s go to Mercedes.”

Max blinked. “What?”

GP leaned forward now, calm and serious and unflinching.

“I said let’s go to Mercedes,” GP repeated, with a casual shrug like they were talking about a road trip and not blowing up a decade-long dynasty. “You, me. Pack up the telemetry server and your dramatic helmet collection and let’s go.”

Max stared at him. “I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. Let’s go. If this is where it ends, then it ends. But I’m not doing this job without you. I didn’t sign up to babysit whoever they throw in that car next.”

Max stared at him. “You’re serious?”

GP shrugged. “Mate. You think I’m going to hang around here while Christian and Helmut do budget gymnastics and blame the floor for the fact we haven’t been competitive in four months? You’re the reason I come to work.”

Max’s mouth parted. “You don’t even want to hear the rest of the plan?”

“I’ve heard enough. The car’s shit. Helmut thinks solving performance issues means yelling louder. The team’s scattered. You’re exhausted. And I’ve been watching you drive like you’re trying to drag a wheelbarrow through quicksand.”

Max laughed, startled. “Jesus, GP.”

GP leaned forward, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “Max, I’ve been at Red Bull longer than I care to admit. I’ve survived engine changes, regulation chaos, Christian’s PR disasters, and your puberty.”

Max huffed. “Barely.”

“But I’ve also watched this team stop evolving with you,” GP continued. “And I’ve watched you carry more than your share of the weight while pretending you weren’t.”

He paused. “You’ve outgrown this place. That’s not betrayal. That’s just truth.”

Max looked away, jaw clenched.

“And for what it’s worth,” GP added, “I’ve already downloaded every file I care about. They’ll probably revoke my login the second you say yes, so I might as well get a head start.”

That made Max laugh. Quiet. Surprised.

“I thought you’d fight me on this.”

“I am fighting you,” GP said dryly. “I’m fighting for you to finally have a car that deserves you and that doesn’t chew its own floor upgrades. And for me to stop spending Thursdays arguing with people who think duct tape is a performance solution.” Win-win.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer.

Max looked down at the table again. “I just didn’t want to ask you. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to choose.”

“You didn’t ask,” GP said simply. “I chose anyway.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

GP gave him a look. The kind that said don’t be an idiot. The kind he usually reserved for Friday debriefs and bad tire management.

“Max,” he said, “you’re not just a driver I work with. You’re—” He stopped. Then rolled his eyes. “—okay, I’m not doing the emotional bit. But you know.”

“Yeah,” Max said, voice low. “I know.”

“Besides, someone’s gotta keep you from crashing into people just because your crush got her feelings hurt.”

“She’s not my—”

GP held up a hand. “Save it. I have a teenager. I know denial when I hear it.”

Max huffed. “You’re insufferable.”

They sat there for a beat. The weight of it all—ten years, four championships, one legacy—settling around them like dust.

Max swallowed. “You really think it’s the right call?”

“I think,” GP said, “if you want to win again—and I mean really win, build something new, start fresh—you’re not going to do it in a car that eats its own gearbox every Sunday.”

Max nodded slowly.

“And,” GP added, “if there’s ever been a time to walk into Brackley, it’s now. You’ll have leverage. You’ll have options. You’ll have her.”

Max looked up sharply.

GP just smirked. “You’ve carried this team long enough, Max.”

Max exhaled slowly. “So… Mercedes. Let’s talk to them.”

GP nodded once. “Mercedes,” he said. “Guess I better start brushing up on my passive-aggressive British email etiquette. You start figuring out how not to try and kill someone in turn five.”

“Noted.”

And just like that, the next chapter began — not with fireworks, but with cold tea, a messy kitchen, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need to be asked for to be given.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff

Max:

Toto.

I think it’s time we had that conversation.

Toto:

Max.

Let’s talk.

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 2 June 2025

The sun had just started to dip beneath the horizon, casting a soft orange haze across the quiet Monaco sky. Susie was perched on the terrace sofa, legs curled beneath her, glass of white wine in hand, reading out messages from Jack’s school group chat and occasionally sighing at the absurdity of it all.

Toto’s phone buzzed once. Then again.

He glanced at it without much interest—he’d told his assistant not to bother him tonight unless something was on fire or Kimi had managed to break another sim rig.

But it wasn’t his assistant.

It was Max Verstappen.

Max: Toto. I think it’s time we had that conversation.

Toto stared at the screen. Blinked.

“Is it Ana?” Susie asked gently from across the terrace, noting the sudden stillness in his posture. “Everything alright?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned the phone slightly in his hand like he needed a different angle to confirm the name.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not Anastasia.”

He held the phone up slightly for her to see, then clicked it back on to show her the screen.

Susie’s eyebrows rose. “Well. That’s a short sentence with very large implications.”

Toto ran a hand over his mouth, heart ticking up just slightly—not with nerves, but with the weight of knowing what might be coming. 

He looked out toward the sea, then back at his phone. His voice was low.

Susie set her wine down. “Do you think it’s real this time?”

Toto’s voice was quieter than usual. “I think something changed.”

She nodded slowly. “Spain?”

He nodded back.

They both knew. Max Verstappen didn’t lose control often. And when he did, it wasn’t over tyre temps or DRS issues. Not really. Something had cracked.

“I thought he’d wait until after the summer break,” Susie said. “After Spa, maybe.”

“I did too,” Toto admitted. “But maybe he’s done waiting.”

He didn’t say what else he was thinking.

That maybe this wasn’t just about engines and chassis and unstable rear ends. That maybe this had as much to do with the exhausted look Max had worn all weekend

He stood, the motion slow but certain, already reaching for his laptop on the small table nearby.

Susie watched him move with the kind of quiet amusement that came from over a decade of knowing when something big was about to land.

“You’ll keep it professional,” she said.

Toto gave her a tight smile. “Of course.”

Then paused, thumb hovering over the message thread.

“…but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the thought of beating Christian Horner at his own game.”

Susie raised her glass slightly. “You always did like chess.”

Toto: Max. Let’s talk.

Toto sent the message, closed his laptop, and stared out at the darkening sky.

Let the endgame begin.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 3 June 2025

Tuesday lunch had never been about comfort.

It was about silence. Sanity. A brief, ritualized act of mutual disengagement from the absolute circus they all worked in.

Which is why, when Kimi Antonelli slumped into his usual chair at exactly 12:01, Ana said nothing.

Just passed him a plate.

He didn’t take it.

That was new.

She looked up.

Kimi was doing the thing where he stared at the floor like it had personally offended him. His arms were crossed. His curls were still damp from the simulator session. His entire energy radiated the vague hopelessness of someone trying not to cry in a public restroom.

No one said anything. That was the rule.

Ana unfolded her linen napkin, took a bite of her salad, and watched Kimi absolutely vibrate with unspoken crisis.

It took four full minutes before he cracked.

“I think I’m going to fail everything,” he muttered.

Valtteri didn’t look up. “Define everything.”

“School. Exams. Life. Racing.”

“Racing is dramatic,” Bono said mildly, slicing an apple. “It was an oil pressure issue. Not your fault.”

“You didn’t even get a dramatic exit.” Valtteri said with a shrug. “DNFs sucks.”

Kimi made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. It was small. But it counted.

Ana’s gaze was still on Kimi.

He was slouched. Defensive. His tray untouched.

She could see the patterns. The same sharp-edged spirals she used to chase down in code. Fractal-level self-doubt.

“And school?” she asked, voice softer now.

“I suck at actual exams. I panic. I go blank. I’m going to bomb everything and then next year when I crash out of Q1 someone’s gonna be like ‘he couldn’t even pass maths and it’ll be on a meme page forever. Italian, History, I’m okay. But maths is a mess. And I forgot the ethics reading and now I’m behind on revision and I still don’t understand half the equations and—”

Ana reached for her tablet. “What’s on your syllabus?”

Kimi blinked. “What?”

“Your syllabus,” she repeated. “For math. Show me.”

He stared. “Why?”

“I want to know what kind of nonsense is making you think you’re stupid.”

Bono snorted.

Valtteri hid a laugh behind his coffee.

“What part don’t you understand?” she repeated, tone flat. “Give me an equation. Or a concept. What’s tripping you?”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then: “How is that your reaction?”

“Because failure isn’t useful,” she said. “Give me something I can solve. Show me what the question was,” she said. “We’ll start there.”

Kimi stared at her, like she’d just offered to rebuild his entire life with a screwdriver and a stable baseline.

“…Okay,” he said, finally. “But don’t judge my handwriting.”

“I’ve seen Bono’s post-race notes,” Ana replied. “Nothing can be worse.”

“Hey,” Bono said, mildly wounded.

By the time lunch ended, Kimi had explained three exam problems, Bono had offered him an espresso for every passing grade, and Valtteri had somehow convinced him that DNFing in Barcelona was a rite of passage.

Kimi left the room with his shoulders slightly straighter.

Ana went back to work with a pencil smudge on her sleeve.

She would never say it aloud — certainly not to Kimi — but it reminded her, distantly, of Max. Not in the way he drove, but in the way he carried failure. Quietly. Like a debt to be repaid in blood.

It made her chest ache, in a way she didn’t have language for. So she didn’t dwell. She just went back to her schematics, her engines, her simulations.

But she made a mental note to follow up on the exam dates.

Just in case.

***

Unnamed Restaurant, London, England - 4 June 2025

The restaurant was nearly empty by late afternoon. It was cool, quiet, and sharply efficient—just like everything else about them.

Raymond Vermeulen was shown into a private room near the back. No cameras. No journalists. No names on the door.

A small table. Two chairs. Andreas Stein, one of Mercedes’ senior liaisons, stood as Raymond entered. They shook hands—brief, firm, and with the wary politeness of men who had danced around each other for years but never like this.

Not when it mattered.

“Raymond,” Andreas said evenly. “Pleasure.”

“Let’s not waste time,” Raymond replied, taking the seat across from him.

He’d said it before. Over the years, they’d entertained offers. Ferrari. Mercedes. Aston. But it was always gamesmanship. Leverage. A chessboard move to keep Red Bull sharp.

But this time, Max wasn’t bluffing. For the first time since he was 16 years old and grinning next to a Toro Rosso, Max Verstappen was thinking about leaving.

And Raymond wasn’t sure Red Bull even realized it yet.

This wasn’t the first time someone from Mercedes had reached out. There had been feelers. Quiet compliments in passing. Once, an envelope slid across a table during an off-season dinner with vague performance clauses and large numbers. Max had laughed. Crumpled it up without even reading past the first page.

That had been six years ago.

But now?

Now he was here.

Not to posture. Not to threaten. To listen.

And that, more than anything, told Raymond how real this had become.

Andreas didn’t offer small talk. He didn’t need to.

“So. You’re here.” A faint smile. “That already says something.”

Raymond leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other. He’d never liked this part—the cloak-and-dagger meetings, the half-truths and legal gray areas. But this wasn’t about leverage anymore. This was about possibility.

“I didn’t come all this way for coffee.”

Andreas inclined his head slightly. “Then I’ll be direct. If Max is serious, so are we. The door is open.”

Raymond didn’t blink.

“You’d have to clear a seat.”

“We’re aware.”

“You’d have to buy him out of a very expensive contract.”

“If he wants to come,” Andreas said, “we’ll make it work.”

There it was. No flinching. No hedging. Just quiet, German certainty.

And it hit Raymond with more weight than he’d expected: they still wanted him. Even after everything. The dominance, the title fights, the perception of him as too embedded in Red Bull to ever leave. They were still ready to tear up their roadmap and rebuild around Max Verstappen.

And this time, Max might actually say yes.

“You’ve courted him before,” Raymond said slowly. “He’s always said no.”

Andreas didn’t move. “Has he said no this time?”

Raymond looked away, eyes flicking toward the darkened window that separated them from the paddock.

“He’s asking questions,” he said finally. “Big ones.”

“What changed?”

“He’s driving at 110% every weekend just to finish fourth. He’s tired. We all are.”

Andreas nodded once, not interrupting.

“There’s no unity anymore,” Raymond continued. “The leadership is fractured. Nobody’s thinking long-term. Everything is about putting out the next fire.”

Andreas didn’t pretend to be surprised.

“We can offer long-term,” he said. “You know that. The 2026 power unit’s already deep in development. We’re ahead of schedule.”

Raymond gave a short, skeptical breath. “That’s what everyone says.”

“I don’t mean PR-deck ahead. I mean actual, reliable, wind tunnel-validated, track-modeled progress. We’re not playing catch-up this time. We’ve learned our lessons.”

A pause.

“The engine,” he said simply. “Ours is further ahead than most believe. And it’s not just hardware. The integration work’s been meticulous.”

Raymond tilted his head. “I’ve heard rumors.”

“You’ve heard fragments,” Andreas corrected. “The architecture is clean. Adaptable. Fast off the line and efficient where it counts. Not draggy. Not stiff.”

“And who’s leading that?”

Andreas didn’t hesitate.

“Dr. Anastasia Wolff.”

That name caught Raymond off guard. His eyebrows lifted. “Toto’s daughter?”

“Yes. And not because of her surname. She’s been deep in the development cycle for over a year. Quiet. Brilliant. Brutal in data reviews. The team calls her the scalpel. She’s leading the systems architecture for 2026. The hybrid interface especially. Max would have direct input.”

Raymond didn’t reply immediately. It wasn’t news—he’d heard whispers. Seen the articles that mentioned her name deep in the technical columns. He just hadn’t realized how close she was to the core of it.

He exhaled slowly. “That explains a few things.”

“2026 is a clean slate. New regs, new engine philosophy. He could be the centerpiece,” Andreas said. 

Raymond gave a quiet, humorless breath. “You’ve already written the press release, haven’t you.”

Andreas smiled faintly. “We’ve dreamed about it.”

Later that night, Raymond stepped out into London air and called the only person who would understand the weight of what had just shifted.

Jos picked up on the second ring.

“How did it go?” he asked, voice gruff.

Raymond hesitated. Not for drama. Just because saying it aloud made it too real.

“They’re serious,” he said.

A pause.

“And Max?” Jos asked.

Raymond swallowed.

“He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him.”

And somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, Raymond felt it for the first time—the slow, seismic crack in the foundation of everything they’d built.

Raymond exhaled. “If we keep talking, it’ll leak.”

“I assume he’s ready for that?”

Raymond nodded once. “Let them lose their minds.”

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 4 June 2025

The box was sitting on her desk when Ana arrived.

Unmarked. Medium-sized. A printed label with her name, nothing else.

Ana frowned.

She didn’t do surprises. She didn’t like surprises. Surprises, in her experience, rarely meant something good. Surprises were miscalculations in clean systems. A last-minute reg change. A test that failed. A driver ignoring strategy.

Still, she peeled back the lid carefully, ready to find spare simulation notes or sensor modules.

But what she found was—

Clothing.

Folded with precision. Nestled in tissue paper. A small black envelope on top, unsealed.

She opened it.

Let me know what works. We’ll make more.

She would recognise her father’s handwriting everywhere. Ana stared at the card for a long moment, then reached for the first item.

A team polo.

Same cut. Same design. Same branding.

But softer.

She ran her hand across the inside hem and her chest clenched.

It didn’t bite.

It didn’t snag.

There were no tags.

The seams were flat-locked and pressure-tested.

The collar was gently structured, not stiff.

The cotton blend was like air. Like comfort. Like someone had listened.

This wasn’t from stock.

This had been made.

Specifically.

For her.

Ana didn’t move for several long seconds.

Then she reached beneath the polo and found more:

Beneath the polo was more:

A black zip-up team jacket in brushed cotton fleece, no inner lining, no collar tags.

A long-sleeved shirt with elastic cuffs that didn’t squeeze.

A matching hoodie with her initials embroidered inside the cuff in matte thread.

All of them in her standards. Her sizes. Her tolerances. Her sensory profile, without ever needing to say the word.

She rubbed it between her fingers, then pressed it against the inside of her wrist.

It didn’t sting.

She exhaled slowly.

No one had said anything. No one had made a show of it. There’d been no big team email. No label that marked her as different.

Just this box.

Just a quiet, practical kindness.

Not because she had submitted a request.

Not because she’d complained.

But because Toto—her father—had noticed.

She hadn’t asked for this. 

Because asking had always felt dangerous.

Toto hadn’t even known she existed until she was eight years old. One day she’d been a quiet, stubborn child in her mother’s apartment in Moscow; the next, she was standing on the steps of a townhouse in Vienna with her hand in her mother’s and a suitcase at her feet, being told this was her father.

Toto had been a stranger then. A man built of steel and ambition, who hadn’t even known she existed until her mother—beautiful, and already done with parenting— had dropped Ana off, kissed her forehead once, and never came back.

She’d tried to behave.

She’d tried not to take up space.

He hadn’t known what to do with her.

Not at first. Maybe not even now.

He tried — she would never say he didn’t try — but he tried in the way engineers try to fix a machine they didn’t build. He tried with spreadsheets and plans and the occasional misfired offer to go karting. 

She remembered the early years with him like walking through a museum on tiptoe—careful not to knock anything over. She was too quiet, too smart, too strange. He hadn’t known how to talk to her. She hadn’t known how to ask for what she needed. Somewhere along the way, that became their normal.

So she learned to manage herself.

To be small. Quiet. Perfect. To learn early that needing things just made her difficult. That emotions were inconvenient. That pain was better ignored.

She’d learned to eat what didn’t upset her stomach, to wear what didn’t make her skin scream, to find silence where she could and control what she couldn’t.

And then one day, after twenty years of managing herself, she had tugged at the collar of her Mercedes team polo and muttered, “They’re polyester. They feel like sandpaper dipped in hot glue.”

And Toto had heard her.

He’d listened.

She’d never really believed she fit anywhere in his life. She was the footnote. The consequence. The Moscow Mistake. The burden someone had left him with and that he’d… kept.

And yet—

This box.

This box was not the work of a man who had forgotten she existed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t emotional. There was no speech, no label, no ceremony.

It fit. For once, something fit.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: The shirts arrived. They fit.

Ana: Thank you.

Toto: You shouldn’t have had to work in something that hurt. You don’t have to ask to be comfortable.

Ana: I didn’t want to be a problem.

Toto: You’re not. You never are.

Ana: …Okay. Still. Thank you.

Toto: You’re welcome, Sternchen.

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

 (Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Raymond: Spoke to Andreas. It’s real. They’d move pieces if you’re serious.

Jos: What kind of pieces? Russell?

Raymond: Didn’t say. Didn’t deny either.

Max: They’d do it. And honestly… I’m leaning that way. 2026 looks promising.

Jos: The engine?

Max: The whole package. The new hybrid system. The energy deployment modeling. It’s miles ahead.

Raymond: That’s what they claimed. Said it’s being led by Dr. Anastasia Wolff.

Max: Yeah. It is. She designed most of the integration protocol herself. Used her degrees from Cambridge. Plus her doctoral thesis laid the foundation for her work.

Jos: … How do you know that?

Raymond: Wait. How do you know that?

Max: What?

Raymond: Her doctoral thesis?

Jos: Cambridge degrees?

Max:

I’m just saying—if she’s part of that project, it’s going to be serious. She doesn’t work on nonsense.

Raymond: Max, do you usually read the academic credentials of Mercedes’ engineering staff?

Max: …I’m interested in the project.

Jos: You’re interested in her, clearly.

Max: That’s not— I mean— We’ve talked. About work. A few times.

Raymond: You just cited her entire CV like it’s burned into your brain.

Jos: Max. Do you have a thing for Toto’s daughter?

Max: That’s a wild accusation.

Raymond: Oh my god. This is about more than just the car.

Jos: You’re switching teams for a girl?

Max: I’m switching teams because my current one’s imploding. But the possibility of working with someone I respect doesn’t hurt.

Raymond: Does “respect” usually include memorizing their thesis?

Max: Goodnight.

Raymond: We’re circling back to this.

Max: No, we’re not.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen

Jos: Tell me I’m wrong.

Raymond: About what?

Jos: About Max changing teams because of a girl.

Raymond: … You think?

Jos: I know. The way he was going on about Anastasia Wolff. he brought up her degrees, Raymond her doctorate he was quoting her credentials like he’s a LinkedIn profile in love

Raymond: He did have a tone.

Jos: Tone?? My son is ready to defect to Mercedes because Wolff’s daughter builds sexy battery systems.

Raymond: So what are we saying here You think Anastasia Wolff is the reason he’s considering leaving Red Bull?

Jos: I think it’s a factor He’s always been loyal—to people, not just teams And if she’s at Mercedes…

Raymond: To be fair, she’s not Toto 2.0. She’s more like… Terminator with a PhD.

Jos: God help us. He’s changing cars for a girl.

Raymond: He hasn’t changed yet.

Jos: No, but he’s thinking with something other than the steering wheel. That’s how it starts.

Raymond: To be fair, he stayed loyal to Red Bull for nearly a decade.

Jos: Because he had the fastest car. Now he has feelings. This is a disaster.

Raymond: So what do we do?

Jos: We pray Mercedes screws something up. Or that Anastasia Wolff breaks his heart before he signs the damn paperwork.

Raymond: That’s dark.

Jos: I raised him. I know what he’s like when he’s in love. He goes all in.

Raymond: You don’t think it’s the car?

Jos: Oh, it’s the car. But it’s also the girl.

Raymond: God help us.

Jos: God help Toto. If this goes the way Max wants it, he’s going to be father-in-law to a four-time world champion.

***

[hana-no-seiiki]

pairings: yandere! clark kent x spiderman! gn! reader

tw/cw: yandere, stalking. just. creepy clark kent. more yun dream ideas that make no sense cause dreams.

You’re Spider-Man.

And in your world, that means secrets. Balance. Half-truths that hang on your tongue at work while your ribs still ache from last night’s alley brawl. You keep your head down. You do the job. You make your jokes.

You survive.

Which is why you noticed when Clark Kent started hovering.

It began on a rainy morning in July.

You barely made it to the office on time—swinging through the rain, damp web cartridges sticking, everything smelling faintly of ozone and wet concrete. You parked your car in the underground garage, your “normal” lot flooded over.

You didn’t tell anyone about the switch.

So when Clark Kent, the government liaison-slash-journalist-whatever from upstairs, appeared beside your desk with a coffee and said—

“You parked under the building today, right? Usually you’re outside, near the maple tree. But rain’s been awful, huh?”

—you froze.

He set the coffee down. Your exact order.

You tried to laugh it off. “How’d you know?”

He smiled. Kind. Harmless. A little too long. Didn’t answer.

You felt a tingle at the base of your skull—your spider-sense. Not the screaming kind. Just… a pulse. A ripple.

“Thanks,” you said quickly. “Really nice of you.”

He nodded and walked off without another word.

You stared at the cup for a full minute before pushing your chair back and standing.

Nope. Nope.

You walked down the hallway and gave the coffee away to someone else—Brian from Facilities, who accepted it with a raised brow and a shrug. “Sure, free caffeine.”

Later, when you returned from a bathroom break, there was a note on your desk.

Folded neatly. No name. Just sitting there like it belonged.

You opened it.

Not your handwriting. No name signed. Just words written:

“You’re not as hidden as you think.”

Your breath caught. Your hand moved on its own.

You grabbed a pen and began writing in frantic, looping lines:

this isn’t my handwriting this isn’t my handwriting this isn’t my handwriting—

The pressure in your skull built. And then you heard it. Shoes scuffing the carpet behind you. Too quiet. Too intentional.

Your spider-sense flared.

You turned—

Clark Kent stood behind you. Closer than he should be. He stared at the note. You tried to fold it, but he reached for it without asking. Slow, casual.

You snatched it back. Your reflexes were faster than they should be—inhuman. But he didn’t seem surprised.

Just watched you with calm, unreadable eyes.

“That wasn’t meant to upset you,” he said softly.

“Then what was it meant to do?” you shot back, throat dry.

He smiled again. Small. Patient. “You’re interesting. Most people aren’t.”

You stared. “You barely know me.”

“Mm,” he hummed, tilting his head. “Do I?”

That was it. No threats. No open admissions. Just that.

You left early that day.

After that, it escalated.

Nothing direct. Nothing you could report without sounding paranoid.

Just Clark.

Watching.

He always seemed to know where you were in the building. You’d spot him in reflections, catch him stepping out of elevators just as you entered. Once, you left a meeting room, and he was already in the hallway—leaning casually against the wall like he’d been there.

“I was just passing through,” he said.

You weren’t sure he even had clearance for that floor.

He always smiled. Always polite. Never touched you. Never raised his voice.

But your spider-sense kept whispering wrong every time he got too close.

And yet, he never blinked when your reflexes kicked in. Never looked surprised when you dodged a falling tray without looking. It was like—he already knew.

Knew something.

About you.

One day, you found another note, tucked under your keyboard.

This one just said:

“We should talk sometime. You don’t have to keep pretending.”

No name. No initials. Just that.

You threw it away.

That night, swinging between rooftops to blow off steam, you caught a glint of something high above the skyline. A figure too fast to track. Hovering just for a moment. Then gone.

You didn’t sleep.

The thing is—

You know what real danger feels like. You’ve fought monsters. Madmen. Symbiotes and cyborgs. You’ve bled for people who will never know your name.

But Clark Kent?

He scares you in a way none of them ever did. Not because he’s strong. Not because he’s loud.

But because he watches. Because he waits. And because somehow,

he knows more about you than anyone should.

[vitoriadior]

Daddy can fix it

Bf!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

(Synopsis) Your boyfriend is your personal handyman, why would you need to call someone else when daddy can fix it?

Clark Kent loves to help.

I mean, come on, he's Superman. Obviously, he loves being of service to everyone and everything. It's part of him to always help those in need, not out of obligation or some kind of heroic responsibility, but rather because it was natural for him to do good for everyone.

But he especially loved helping you.

Sure, helping save the city gives him credit, but helping his girlfriend? It's a whole other level of pride in himself. No matter how silly or easy-going it is, he's always just a phone call away to help you. Is your plumbing broken? He'll be there in five minutes. Need new lightbulbs? No problem. For him, perhaps the best part of all is when you thank him, with a smile, a kiss, a "you're the love of my life." There's nothing that compares to being congratulated for putting up a shelf as if you'd discovered some kind of cure for a chronic illness.

Not that you'll complain either: seeing your sweaty, shirtless boyfriend was certainly a very enjoyable sight. You could be in the tub filled with bubbles, a couple of scented candles filling the bathroom with fragrance, while you relaxed, watching your boyfriend fix the bathroom plumbing. Sweaty from the warmth of the room, shirtless, telling you about his day, that deep voice, those huge hands...

In short, as much as you and he enjoyed it.

"Hey, babe," Clark was staring at the faucet in your kitchen sink while you were still in your bubble bath, his brow slightly furrowed, as if there was something wrong with it when in reality it was perfect. That was the problem: it was perfect. "Didn't you say your faucet wasn't working?"

Clark came out of the kitchen to lean against the bathroom doorframe, watching you immersed in the bubbles. He swore you'd told him a few days ago that your faucet wasn't working. And yes, you did, the problem was that you didn't call him, your personal handyman.

"Oh, that," you shrugged. "I called the building's handyman to fix it."

Clark would have preferred if you had slapped him.

"No, you didn't," Clark smiled, as if convincing himself it was a joke. The smile turned into a grimace in a matter of seconds.

"I just needed the faucet fixed. And I didn't want to bother you," you noticed Clark frozen in place, as if lost in his own head. "Clark, are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

No. He wasn't.

"Are you upset I called the handyman?" You smiled as you realized what it was all about, watching Clark slowly thaw as he approached the edge of the tub. "Clark Joseph Kent, are you upset I called the handyman?"

"Why didn't you call me?" Clark's tone of voice was almost that of a severely wounded man. You called a real handyman instead of your boyfriend who loves you. How dare you?

"You like more the way the building's handyman works?" Clark dreaded the answer to that question.

"You were on your job, and I needed my faucet fixed," you said in your defense, unable to stop yourself from laughing at your boyfriend's dramatic display. "I wasn't going to pull you from your job because of my silly faucet."

"That's what you say," Clark continued pouting, thinking about the handyman fixing your faucet instead. "The truth is, if you had called me, I would have moved heaven and earth to fix your silly faucet." Clark leaned down to bump his forehead against yours, nose to nose.

"No, you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would," and you smiled because you knew it was true. "You don't need some stupid handyman. You have me. I can fix it."

"You didn't answer my question," Clark raised an eyebrow. You were still smiling. Finding your boyfriend slightly jealous of him seemed almost funny. "You like the handyman's work?"

You thought about saying yes just to tease him, but that would be cruel considering the way he was looking at you right now. You shook your head. "No one fixes my pipes like my boyfriend does." You could see Clark's chest swell a little with pride. "My personal handyman."

"Yours." Now shirtless, the man begins to unbuckle his belt in a move so sexy it makes you bite your lower lip. It's always good to share, and there's nothing like sharing the bathtub with your personal handyman.

"Only yours."

To add u to my permanent Taglist 💗

Tag: @starincarnated

[formulafanfics13]

redbull! Reader gets asked who would be her fav teammate , and she very sweetly either names Lando/Charles. Max can’t even bear the thought of reader with anyone else in any way. So he punishes her and shows her how he should be her fav everything 🔥

say it again - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

summary: You get asked a harmless question during a press segment — which teammate, past or present, would be your favorite if you had the choice? You answer sweetly, smiling like it means nothing. Lando, maybe. Or Charles. They’re fun. You don’t even think twice. But Max does. And when the interview goes live, he’s already waiting in your driver’s room after FP2, jaw tight, eyes dark, and his voice low as he asks you to repeat yourself. You might’ve said it for the cameras, but tonight? He makes sure you never forget who your real favourite is.

warnings: smut (18+), dom!Max, jealous/possessive behavior, spanking, choking, fingering, rough sex, overstimulation, brat taming, use of "my girl", degradation + praise, use of mirrors, punishment dynamic, light fear play, established relationship, reader is a Red Bull driver

It was just a fucking press segment. You were smiling. You were polite. You didn’t even mean it.

"If you could pick anyone on the grid to be your teammate, who would it be?"

You’d laughed. Tucked your hair behind your ear. Looked straight at the camera and said, “Lando, maybe. Or Charles. They’re fun.” You didn’t say Max. You didn’t even look toward the Red Bull garage.

The interviewer moved on. You thought nothing of it. But Max? Max saw the clip before the media pen even cleared out.

You don’t even realise anything’s wrong until you step into your driver’s room after FP2 and the door locks behind you with a sharp click.

He’s already there. Leaning back in the leather chair. Still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist. Fireproofs clinging to his chest. He doesn’t say hello.

You open your mouth, maybe to ask how the session went, maybe to kiss him, but the look in his eyes stops you.

He tilts his head. “Lando?”

Your heart jumps.

“Or Charles?”

You swallow. “Max, I didn’t-”

He stands. “You had one job,” he says, voice flat. “One.”

“It was just a joke.”

He steps closer. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

You step back. “They asked me a question-”

“You smiled when you said it.”

“Because it’s media-”

“You said you’d pick them,” he growls. “Not me.”

Your back hits the mirror behind the couch. He follows. Slow. Calm. Dangerous. “You wanna be their teammate?” he murmurs, voice right against your ear now. “You wanna play sweet with the rest of the grid?”

“I-”

“Say it again.”

You blink. “What?”

“Say it,” he snaps. “Say you’d rather have Lando.”

You don’t. So he grabs your jaw, hard, thumb sliding over your lips. “Say it or I’ll fuck it out of you.”

You shudder. “Max-”

He spins you toward the mirror, one hand on your neck, the other tugging your race suit down to your waist. Your bra’s still on, for now. He kisses the side of your neck, rough and possessive. “You think Lando would know how to touch you like this?” he hisses.

He shoves your fireproofs lower, fingers slipping between your thighs. You’re soaked. He chuckles. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You whimper.

He doesn’t let up. “You know why you said their names?”

“Max-”

“Because you like being punished.”

His fingers slide into you, rough and fast, other hand wrapping around your throat to hold you still. “Look in the mirror,” he says. “Watch what I do to you.”

You do. You watch yourself, flushed, panting, eyes wide as Max fucks you with his fingers and growls filth into your ear. “My girl,” he says. “My teammate. My favourite. And you still play dumb for the cameras.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp.

He spanks you. Hard. “Too late for sorry.”

You whimper, and he does it again. Then pulls you back by the neck, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me who your favourite is.”

“You,” you whisper.

“Louder.”

“You, Max.”

He shoves you down onto the couch, pulls your race suit off completely. His mouth trails over your stomach, your chest, your thighs. He doesn’t kiss sweet. He bites. Marks. Claims. “You’re gonna come on my cock,” he mutters. “And then you’re gonna go on camera tomorrow and tell the world you lied.”

You nod frantically. He fucks you rough, deep, fast, one hand gripping your throat while the other digs into your hip. You cry out, and he slaps your ass hard enough to make your legs shake.

"You still thinking about Lando?”

“No-”

“Or Charles?”

“No-”

“Then come. Now.”

You fall apart, shaking in his lap, barely breathing. He follows, groaning your name into your neck. You collapse. He kisses you, finally soft, pulling your fireproofs back up. Then he leans in again, voice low. “You’re gonna post a photo tonight. Just one.”

You blink up at him.

“Caption it: favourite teammate.”

You smile, dazed. He grins.

[nono-serves]

Meeting your Parents

includes: OP81, LN4, MV33, OB87, KA12, CL16, CS55, GR63, DR3, IH6,

X gender neutral!reader

summary: how nervous they are, about what and how it ends!

Warnings!: none, correct me if you find smth!

Notes: i think I'll switch to MV33 from MV1, because I probably will have to change it all next year😔

wordcount: 572

OP81

-nervousness: 5/10

-he is confident to charm your mom with flowers and your dad with the right words about his intention and career and all that

-but all the jokes about him having no emotions make him question if your parents won't find him symphatic enough to date their daughter in the end

-both your parents warm up to him so fast, a few funny anecdotes here and there and they are sold

LN4

-nervousness: 7/10

-confident to impress your mom (come on look at him, he has the face and curls that moms like yk)

-but all those middle-aged men talking about him being too whiny and emotional and all those toxic masculinity themes

-when he realises your parents really like him he treats them like they are his family too (the kinda are, they adore him)

MV33

-nervousness:7/10

-knows he has nothing to be nervous about, but he gets in his head about it and spirals

-all things jod or the media have mentioned spawn in his head, memories unlocking

-is convinced they hate him afterwards, even when they clerly liked him

-you have to reassure him please

KA12

-nervousness: 10/10

-stepping from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the stems of the flowers he bought,

-in his mind he is just a silly little guy who likes racing cars and gets mushy inside when he sees you

-of course your parents love him, so dedicated to his dreams and he doesn't play about you

GR63

-nervousness: 2/10

-he knows he is handsome, charming, stable job and everything a good son-in-law requires

-brings flowers and wine 100%

-would kiss you in front of them with no shame at all

CL16

-nervousness: 3/10

-come on, he knows he is THE Charles Leclerc

-his biggest fear would be messing up his english and saying something embarassing

-of course he has your parents on his side by the end of the evening, gushing to you about how perfect he is for you and in general

LH44

-nervousness: 1/10

-come on its Sir Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton...your parents are nervous to meet him

-the ONLY thing would be his age if you are significally younger

CS55

-nervousness: 6,5/10

-he is just too bbgirl to not be nervous

-makes up hundreds of scenarios, how he could ruin the evening, spilling wine, saying something wrong

- if you're from anywhere other than spain: his accent and the entire spanish atire charm your parents in no time

OB87

-nervousness: 8/10

-watched tutorials on youtube and tiktok on how to be the best gentleman in front of adults/parents

-what conviced your parents most that he is the one for you are his eyes. The way they go soft when he looks at you, the quick glances when you laugh, the dilation of his pupils when you touch his hand

DR3

-nervousness: 0,5/10

-doesn't spend a second thinking about a bad outcome of the meeting

-he is charming and his smile contagious

-he's just great with meeting new people

IH6

-nervousness: 9/10

-cutie, even when the sweat started dribbling down his forehand before he even shook your parents' hands

-he speaks french, so your mom is most likely to approve of him

-his dad asks him one question about his intentions with you and he stemmeres his way through the answer, but he does that so sincerely you dad can't help but smile

[m1ngkis]

Cowboy!Mingi x Bullrider!Reader

Aka WHORES BEING WHORES MDNI 18+ and please ignore any errors or misspellings or grammar mistakes….this was not proofread AT ALL

Sometimes it felt like that bar called your full government name.

Like it gave you no choice but to find your tiniest pair of shorts and your skimpiest top and saunter through its doors like you owned the place.

Now Friday nights were always busy but it seemed like the place was nothing short of packed tonight. Having to brush past dozens of people just to weave your way to the bar and get a lemon drop was not the norm.

“Hey! You getting on that thing? Showing them how it’s done?” The places bartender, Wooyoung set your drink down and unashamedly peered down your top as you took a sip.

You took a look at the golden mechanical bull off to the side. Bucking with purpose and throwing another sweet girl clean off and bouncing her giggly drunk form into the cushions surrounding.

“I might. Wouldn’t you love to see me ride.” You flash him a seductive smile, trailing your finger under his chin

“You know I would.” His smile grew wide, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

You finish off your drink and go to find Hongjoong, whose job description consists of two things, announcing whose riding the bull and controlling it

Your hands are on the man’s shoulders before he can wonder if you’re even coming in for the night.

His eyes roll back a little when you kiss his cheek, glittery lipgloss staining his skin. “Oh! Finally! You know how many little girls I’ve had to fling off this thing?”

“You gotta give them a chance, Hongjoong!” You laugh as he opens the gate for you.

“Hell no! They were boring! Hey, where’s your hat?”

You feel the top of your head, your bedazzled cowgirl hat missing on top of your head of hair. “Dammit..” you suck your teeth and scan the crowd.

Your eyes zero in on a black hat sitting pretty on a tall man and you flash your winning smile. “Hey cowboy!”

He looks up after swallowing down his shot and licks the excess off his lips, eyes staring you down.

Your sure your heart skips a beat as words freeze on you lips. “What’s wrong sweet thing?”

In what seems like two strides he’s in front of you, plump pink lips, sweat glistening down his neck, chains littering his chest, his body invading your space and making you feel hot all over.

“Hey. You there?”

You can’t stop your hand when it reaches out and tugs at the silver cross sitting at the center of his chest. “I need your hat…please.” It comes out more desperate than you mean it too but the shift in his eyes tells you it worked anyways

“You need my hat?” The man’s interest peaks as he takes in your tiny outfit.

“Mhmm..”

His voice dips an octave and his words send a shiver down your spine. “You know what they say when you wear a cowboys hat..”

“I’m counting on it..”

He smiles, the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen and you’re so happy that this is the man you’ll go home with. He takes his hat off, presses a kiss to the top of it and sits it on your head.

“Thanks..”

“Mhmm.” He fixes his hair into a ponytail and points to the bull. “I want to see you ride it like you mean it, you hear me?”

“Yes sir.” To say you put in a show would be an understatement.

Soon after mounting the bull, every eye in the bar was on you, most notably the man who’s hat you had taken, his tongue poking at the side of his cheek as he leaned forward on the gate.

Warmth creeped up your cheeks at his stare as Hongjoong started the bull, just slow enough for you to get used to the feeling before showing people what you could really do.

He waited for your signal before he upped the ante, the bull jerking you forward and back as your hips rolled accordingly, keeping you firmly planted on the device.

Your hand went to your hat, lifting it off your head and shaking your hair out, earning a roar of cheers and whistles.

“That right there ladies and gentlemen is what I’m talking about!” You heard Joong shout into the microphone as you did nothing short of put of a performance.

Your hands gripped the handle and hat tightly as smiled sweetly, riding the bull for all it was worth no matter what Hongjoong did to throw you off.

Finally, just after beating your previous record time you gave him the signal to let you off.

Your boots carried you straight to your cowboy, his hat slightly askew as your chest heaved from adrenaline.

When you found him, the tent in his jeans was hard to miss (no pun intended) and his eyes were glassed over.

“What’s your name?” You grabbed his hand, fully ready to drag him out of here and fuck him in public if need be.

“Mingi…” He responded breathlessly, taking you all in.

“Take me home, Mingi.”

~~~

He was everywhere, his erection against your back, one hand tearing away your shirt, the other dipped past your waistband and working your panties to the side.

“..Mingi..” You managed to croak, your hand reaching around tugging at his belt and palming his stiff cock.

“Oh my god..” he groans against your neck. “Come here.” A hand grips your cheeks, turning your head til his tongue is down your throat, swallowing every moans that escapes your lips.

Before you could comprehend what the fuck was happening, your back hit the bed and Mingi was making a slutty show of taking his clothes off.

He was talking… you think…you couldn’t really tell with every inch of skin he exposed. Smooth and toned and all for you.

When he got to his jeans, you all but whined like a bitch in heat doing nothing but stroking his huge ego.

"What is it? Hm?" He taunted as he palmed the bulging print through the rough fabric. "Want it?"

“Yes, please and skip the fucking foreplay. I could cum just from looking at you, I swear.”

A goofy grin plastered on his face as you stripped from your clothes leaving you bare as the day you were born.

“Fuck me…look at that pussy..all that for me?” You could see his eyes glass over, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Mhmm.”

“Let me taste it?” He drops to his knees before you can even think to respond, his arms locking around your thighs and spreading you open.

He groans as he flicks his tongue against your cunt until his name falls from your lips, broken and pleading. His scalp burns from where your nails dig and pulls at his hair.

“Fuck! I’m gonna fucking cum!” Your toes curl as he locks onto your clit, giving the bud all the attention until your creaming down his chin.

“No foreplay my ass. Too fucking sexy not to get this pussy eaten.” He trails a few kisses up your body and rubs the head of his cock down your slit, dipping the smallest amount of his tip into your pussy, before withdrawing and circling your clit. You gasp at the sensation, his thick cock throbbing against you, your wetness making you slick.

“Oh my God, please. I need more, Please, don’t tease.”

“Open wider, pretty girl. Want to get you nice and ready, feel how slick you really are on my cock.” He sucks in a ragged breath when you oblige.

He taps the head of his cock against your clit before dipping down into your pussy, and dragging back up again.

When he finally slides in with his strong arms bracketing your head, you almost come on the spot. You let out a guttural moan, as he stretches you deliciously, his tip pushing deeper. That cocky smirk is back on his face as he feels you clench around him, your eyes squeezed shut as you adjust to his size.

“That’s it, darling. Take this dick. You can take it. I know you can.”

He drops to his elbows and crowds you enough to make you dizzy, his body weight finally falling on top of you and it is undoubtedly the sexiest thing you’ve ever felt in your life. His stomach brushes against yours, skin on skin, his heavy presence surrounding you. His forehead rests on yours and it feels so strangely intimate. Your nails scratch down his back, leaving angry red welts on his skin.

“Feel so good…feels so good…ohhh my god!”

“Stay with me, baby. Come on cause I still want to see you ride me.”

It was like the phrase ignited a fire in your belly and a new motivation in your bones. In seconds you were locking your legs around his hips and using your weight to flip him around so you sat on top of him.

Your hands planted on his chest as your hips rolled with a purpose. It was like getting a reward when his nails dug into your waist and his head went back, exposing his neck.

Your teeth are sinking in right under his ear and his moans ring out through the apartment, no doubt waking your neighbors.

His hands roam your back, pulling you closer as you rock against him with increasing urgency.

“How’s it feel, cowboy?” A strained groan is all you get in response as you move to balance on your toes, clenching every time you get to his tip and relaxing when you reach his base. “Ride it like I mean it. That’s what you said right?”

“Fuck yeahhhh ugh you gonna make me nut in this pussy darling.”

“Go ahead baby. I don’t care!” In a few more strokes he’s painting your insides so much it leaks out and you’re not far behind him, squeezing him like a vice as you shake with pleasure.

———————-

Actually footage of me writing this knowing it will never be me 🥲

Anyhow I hope yall enjoyed! And thank you Nashville for providing us with cowboy Ateez!!

[sevsevteen]

hellooo can i request 14th member of svt? it was like she's late for practice bcs she needs to do some meetings with the compeny about smth?,and when she get to the practice room all of the leader (scoups,hoshi,woozi) mad at her and the members to are mad at her, when she's getting scolded she's just queit and not argued with them bcs she's think she desevers it and then when they done scolded her they went back to practice like nothing happend and when scoups scold her again for making a wrong move she just nod and doesn't talk when the practice done she's not going home insted she stay at the practice room till the next day bcs she felt bad for being late and she kinda punish her self for being late and when the other walkes in the practice room they see her laying in the floor looking pale and her breathing became uncontrolled bcs how tired she's. THE REST I'LL GIVE IT TO YOUU TY!!! hope you have a great day loveee

hii ! we love a good h/c :' your req is specific hahaha so i tried to write it to details given, i hope you enjoy <3 somehow the fic leaned a little to coups pls don't mind that 😭

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

Your shoes tapped lightly in the meeting room, eyes darting between the staff, and minute hand of the clock on the wall before you.

You were late. Really late.

Practice started at 7 today, but an important schedule discussion had pushed the meeting back longer than you expected.

The hand had barely hit ‘8:59’ when it finally ended, the managers thanking the room with the shuffle of the papers in their hands. You jumped to your feet immediately, having the decency to bow and thank the staff politely before rushing out of the room.

But you knew you were in deep trouble from the moment your phone lit up with unread messages, chest clenching with guilt seeing Seungcheol’s name multiple times on the call log.

The corridors echoed with the soles of your shoes moving urgently against the floor as you headed toward the higher floors of the building.

The door to the practice room creaked open right when you arrived - and every pair of eyes turned to you.

You’d barely had time to catch your breath before the storm began.

“Where have you been?” Hoshi barked, stepping forward. “We’re already halfway through the routine!”

“You didn’t even reply to our messages or calls,” Woozi added, his arms crossed tight. “This isn’t the first time either.”

Seungcheol’s voice was the sharpest. “You think just walking in late without telling us beforehand is okay? We’re a team. You don’t get to disappear on us, especially when we’re on a tight schedule.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, mouth opening to argue back; but the gazes from the members made you shiver, lips closing instinctively.

You didn’t say a word - not one.

With fingers curled into your palms as you stared at the floor, your heart sank lower with every word they muttered under their breath.

“Must be nice deciding your own schedule,”

“Great job, now the leaders are mad.”

You knew about the meeting. You didn’t tell them beforehand. You deserved this.

So you chose not to defend yourself.

You didn’t explain how the company dragged you into the meeting just a day ago. Or that you had asked permission and just forgot to let them know.

You just stood there and took it.

And when they were done with their stares, no one brought it up again - that was what hurt you more than the initial reaction.

Practice resumed like normal, but the weight on your chest stayed.

Every mistake you made felt ten times heavier - and when Hoshi pointed out that your arm was out of place during the chorus, the snap in his tone hit harder than it should’ve.

“That’s the fourth time already. Focus.”

You only nodded. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even lift your eyes to meet his.

.

When practice finally ended, the others started packing up, laughing quietly about dinner plans and which convenience store to hit on the way home.

You just waved.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later!”

You never left.

Hours passed. The practice room lights dimmed a little past midnight.

The last manager had dropped you a text hours ago, asking if you needed to be sent home, and you only swiped up with a ‘I’ll call a cab home’ before throwing your phone aside.

You ran the routine again. And again. And again.

Through every beat, even when your knees wobbled. Even when your breaths turned shaky. Even when the mirror started doubling. Even when your muscles begged you to stop.

Until your body quit for you, collapsing on the floor, sweat soaked and limbs refusing to move.

You shouldn’t have been late, you shouldn’t have ruined the mood. It’s all your fault. Your mind was running miles per minute.

The last thing you remembered was the clock flashing 4:37 am before your eyes fluttered shut.

.

It was 7 am when the door was pushed opened with tired grumbles. Dino and Dokyeom were the first to arrive, expecting an empty room.

Instead, their heads tilted in confusion when the lights in the room were lit this early in the morning.

“Hyung?” Dino called out to Dokyeom first, noticing the small form lying near the center mirror.

You weren’t moving.

“Yah!” Dokyeom rushed forward. Your skin looked too pale, hair clung to your skin, and your breathing - too fast, too shallow.

Members had slowly started to arrive, rushing over at the sight of Dokyeom and Dino crouched over your lying body.

“Shit,” Seungcheol muttered, immediately dropping to your side. “She didn’t go back to the dorm?”

“She…she’s burning up,” Jeonghan sighed after pressing a hand to your forehead. “She probably spent the night here.” His head turned a little, eyes looking right at the air conditioning that was on full blast.

Seungcheol’s heart twisted. “Why didn’t she tell us? Why didn’t she—”

His voice ran soft. He didn’t know what else to say.

Hoshi moved to grab a towel, Mingyu ran for water, Joshua was already on the phone with a manager.

In the middle of it all, Cheol cradled your upper body gently, brushing hair out of your face.

“I didn’t mean to push you this far,” he whispered, guilt lacing every word.

And you, even half-unconscious, stirred faintly at his voice - lips barely parting, as if still trying to apologize.

.

The first thing you felt was the heaviness in your limbs.

Your eyelids fluttered open slowly, disoriented by the view of a dark sky barely visible through the gray curtains. How long have you been out for? Where are you? The white ceiling above you wasn’t the practice room.

The faint humming of an air purifier filled the quiet, and when you shifted slightly, a sharp tug pulled at the crook of your arm.

An IV.

Your eyes moved sluggishly, trailing the tube up to the bag of fluid above. Your lips were dry, throat aching.

You didn’t know how you ended up in the dorm, but your heart sank when you remembered what might’ve led you here.

The biting words. The non-stop dancing. The collapsing. Memories all came back like a wave.

The door creaked open gently.

It was Seungcheol.

He paused at the doorway, relief flashing across his face when he saw your eyes open.

“Hi,” he said softly, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

You swallowed, trying to sit up, but he was quick to stop you with a hand to your leg.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “You’ve got fluids running. Just rest.”

You looked away, shame pooling in your chest. “Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t—”

“Stop.”

The tone of his voice made you pause.

He took a seat beside you on the bed, arms resting on his knees. His brows were knit together - not in anger, but guilt.

“We– I should be the one saying sorry.”

You blinked at him.

“We didn’t ask. We didn’t even let you explain.” His jaw clenched. “The managers told us everything. The meeting ended late, then you ran straight to practice. You were just trying to keep up.”

You stared at your hands. They were shaking slightly.

“You pushed yourself so hard to make up for something that wasn’t even your fault.” His voice broke a little at the end. “And we just kept pushing back.”

He wasn't the only one.

Moments later, a few other members filtered in - quiet, cautious, but visibly wrecked with regret.

Dokyeom set a fresh towel down on the side table, eyes red. Jun slipped a cup of water beside it. Woozi hovered at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, but his voice was soft:

“Are you stupid? You can’t open your mouth? Tell us the truth?”

“Woozi.” Jeonghan called out from outside the room, clearly eavesdropping the conversation.

Cheol cleared his throat, bringing your attention back to him. “What he meant to say was; You scared the hell out of us.”

Weirdly enough, the corners of your lips lifted into a small smile, tears still pricking your eyes.

You knew he didn’t mean any harm - that was just how your Woozi showed his care.

“I just didn’t want to add any more stress for you guys.” You breathed out, fiddling with the loose threads on your blanket.

“You didn’t,” Hoshi said gently, reaching over to fix your blanket - then moving to pat your head lightly. “You're not a machine. You don’t have to prove yourself to us. Not like that.”

“We’re really sorry. I’m sorry. For not protecting you like I should have.” He pursed his lips, hands going down by his side.

The room was still, the kind of quiet that came when everything had been said, and all that was left was honesty. You blinked back the tears, unable to speak.

So you moved - arm raising to place your hand over Hoshi’s. You squeezed his hand.

And that was enough.

The tension eased slightly, a collective breath finally released. Jun tousled your hair softly, as if to say, we’ll make it right.

You glanced around at all of them, exhausted but held, drained but understood.

You weren’t alone.

And even in the sharpest moments of hardship, the people around you would learn - to listen, to ask, to care better.

“Next time,” you murmured, “someone else can collapse. I’m taking a break.”

A chorus of soft chuckles broke the heaviness.

And for now, that warmth was enough.

--

[idcbabyialreadylostmymind]

HUNTRIX+Saja Boys dealing with a Bratty!GF

Characters(in order)- Jinu, Rumi, Abby, Baby, Zoey, Mystery, Romance, & Mommy I mean, Mira

CW- brat!reader, d/s dynamics, demon!reader (only in mystery’s), spanking(Mira once)/talking about, verbal teasing, oral teasing (Abby), Jinu calls reader crybaby once, manhandling (Abby, baby) mean!jealous Baby Saja, public/exhibitionism (Mystery), romance likes getting reader jelly, mean!mira (just a little not a lot), pet names (Angel-Rumi, Baby-Abby,Mira, Bad girl- Baby Saja)

Jinu

He would be such a brat enabler.

Ugh, I hate him. 

He’d be getting on your nerves alllllll day just trying to get a rise out of you. Saying passive aggressive shit, removing your hand from his, saying “no” to the most senseless things

. When you get in the car what sets the bomb off is when he grits a smile and says, “What’s got my baby all upset huh? Acting like a little crybaby.”He would be sooooo condescending watching your nose twitch and your chest heave up and down in anger.

Immediately feels the shift in the air when he said that to you and he can’t help but smirk, knowing you’ll retaliate sooner rather than later. And that’s just what he wants.

You’ll scoff shifting your legs away from him, and sink down into the passenger seat. His hands grip the wheel, “Got something to say, crybaby?” He quirks brow eyeing you from his seat, just trying to get your right on the edge. You scoff again making his jaw tick, strike one.

“Not like you’ll actually hear.” You mutter under your breath, looking out the window “What was that?” You roll your eyes, clicking your tongue at the same time, strike two.

“I said, it’s not like your dumbass will actually hear, you’ll hear what you want to hear. Asshole.”

Strike three.

He bites his lip for a split second, before pulling to the side of the road, not caring about the other cars passing by as he unbuckles his seatbelt and then yours.

Before you can even ask what he was doing. He’s gripping your chin, squishing your cheeks in to stop you from speaking. His eyes rows raise sadistically, “what was that again?” His eyes widen manically, smile on his face that read as punishment enough. His fingers dig into your cheeks making you whine, pearly whites glistening so beautifully as he says such sadistic things.

“And if it isn’t a ‘nothing’ I’ll have you bent over my knee the second we get home.”

Rumi

She would have been on tour for a while, I’m talking over 5 months. And you know it’s not her fault, you know this is her job, that she has to do this; she couldn’t help it.

But you couldn’t help the familar ache between your legs or in your chest. Oh, how you yearned for her, but the yearning soon became irritation. You missed the presence of her warm, solid body in your shared bed, you missed her rough, patterned hands caressing your body, you missed her.

One day you’re looking down at your phone, left on delivered. You let out a dry huff of air. “Are you joking. Couldn’t even reply.” You mumble under your breath, jaw tightening as unwelcome thoughts flood your mind. She doesn’t need you, doesn’t want you. She’s better than all of you. She’s with someone else—

“Hi angel.” Her voice breaks through the voices clouding your mind and soon your judgement. you just shoot her a glare, tossing your phone to the side.

That’s it no “Hi baby.” No jumping up and running into her arms. Not even a kiss. Nothing.

A confused Rumi sits her bag down carefully walking over to you, trying to asses the situation, that is her bratty girlfriend. She sits next to you and you make a point to scoot away from her. She couldn’t let that slide, “Hey.” She says in a sharp tone. “Don’t do that. Don’t push me away.” She grabs your hand, “C’mon tell me what hats wrong.” but you just roughly snatch your hand away from hers. no matter how much you wanted to feel her skin on yours.

Her lip and eyes twitches looking you up and down. “Fine if that’s how you want to be.” She says getting up, she flips you over onto your stomach, bottom in the air her knee over your clothed cunt pushing down roughly making you gasp in pleasure from just the small amount of pleasure. “Since you won’t tell me what’s wrong,” she grunts before slapping your ass. “I guess I’ll just have to fuck it out of you.” She rubs her knee against you with such force making you squirm beneath her but she just coos at you rubbing your hip as you dry hump her knee.

Then, she stops making you cry out dramatically and all she can do is smile. I mean you did warrant this after being such a brat.

“Shhh, angel. Just let your Rumi take care of you.”

Abby

Abs knew what he was getting into when he decided to get into a relationship with you. But, this? Absolutely unwarranted. Or so he believed. You were giving him the silent treatment and to him, that was like a death sentence. For what? He’s not sure exactly. Maybe it was the excessive flexing on stage, maybe it was the shaking too many girls hands and the meet and greets.

He racked his brain while all you do is stare and scroll aimlessly on your phone. Negative energy just radiating off of you. He groans throwing his head back on the couch. “Ugh, I give up. Baby, please tell me what wrong.” He’s practically crawling towards you and all you can do is stare at your phone.

“C’mon now you’re being difficult right now.” He grabs the wrist of the hand you held your phone in making you drop it. You try to rip your wrist free gritting out a harsh, “Let me go.” His usual smirk is replaced with a sneer as you try to get free from just a single touch of his. He grips tighter pulling you out of your seat and against his chest. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

You try to wriggle Out of his grasp but he’s too strong, you push at his rock hard chest feeling how hard he’s gotten just from you fighting back. No matter how much you try you still remain in his grasp but that doesn’t stop you from trying and it gets to a point where he’s irritated, “Stop fucking moving.” he locks his muscles around you, pulling you flush against him to where you had no choice but not to move.

He almost misses that bratty little smile that twitches either side of your mouth. That’s when he realized nothing was genuinely wrong with you, you just wanted to fuck with him; and well you did. But now it’s his turn to fuck with you. He smirks forcing you into your back quick to rip your bottoms off, legs over his shoulders and arms over your stomach to fold you in half perfectly. His devilishly long tongue drags over the fabric above your clit, teasing you through your panties. You let out a hasty moan and he stops letting out a chuckle.

“If that’s how you wanted to play baby, I don’t wanna hear another sound come out of that precious mouth of yours.”

Baby

being a brat with baby is fun, until it’s not. He’ll let you have fun in public, putting on his ‘natural’ nonchalant front, letting you get away with any and everything. From talking back, to blatantly ignoring him just to talk to one of his bandmates. But when you’re in closed quarters? It’s game over. Simple as that.

You’d walk into your shared apartment first throwing your stuff carelessly on the counter, thinking; “Hey he didn’t care while we were in public he probs doesn’t care now.” Oh, how wrong you were.

As soon as you even tried to walk away from him, his hands gripping the back of your neck insanely tight. He pulls you back, pushing you up against a wall and then himself against you. Letting you feel how hard you’ve made him just by acting like a fucking bitch all day.

“Been a bad girl.” Is all he says as his sweater covered fingers dance across your lower stomach, “Some would think you like Jinu more than me…” He spoke with no emotion fingers going back and forth over the hem of your pants. “Wonder what we should do about that?” That made your stomach flip watching the yellow of his eyes gleam with a certain cruelty.

“Baby…”

“Quiet.” He said pulling your bottom half off the wall by the front of your pants. “I didn’t tell you to speak.” He was so calm, too calm when he spoke it frightened and excited you.

You don’t even realize he has stuffed his hand in your pants before he’s forcing his slender fingers inside you, you’re immediately clenching around them; like they were made for you. Baby’s lips snarls into a sadistic smirk, lips ghosting against your ear as his fingers pump in and out of you.

“Maybe I should call Jinu? Show him how dumb I can get you.”

Zoey

Confused at first but when she catches on. Game on. Many would think she would despise being a brat tamer but in reality she thrives. She knows that you only brat when you need attention but you can’t get it right away or you’ll think you’ll get it anytime you brat.

Basically gentle parents the brat out of you.

“Now, Y/N. That is not how we say please.” Rows of smiling teeth as she watches you huff and cheeks burn with embarrassment when she doesn’t blow up at you or bend you over her knee. So you push harder.

You push her away and she just says, “Oh you don’t want to be touched right now? That’s okay sweetie.” It’s you chasing her touch, not the other way around , not how you’re used to.

Oh she’s so condescending under that sweet facade when she’s really just trying to have you good and palpable for your punishment later, countless orgasms up until you’re raw and spent. It’s only when she doesn’t respond to your regular jabbering and badgering does your ego being to hurt.

She finds you in your bed curled up on your side she crawls over pushing you onto your back. You look up at her with wide eyes and then away in embarrassment from your earlier tactics that had no effect on her. Or at least in your mind, in hers; she was going crazy all day trying to compose herself.

She climbs on top of your lap, her lips already so close to your ear, “Ready to stop being a brat.” You don’t say anything but you lull your head to the side, exposing your neck for her.

“Ahhh, there’s my good girl,” she starts kissing down your neck leaving marks here and there. She gropes your tits through your shirt pushing it up to expose that you’re braless. She flicks and pulls at your nipples, feeling how they harden under her fingertips.

“Was just trying so hard to be a brat, huh?” You let out a shaky whine back arching off the bed, she’s latching onto on of them swirling and sucking around the little bud and all you can do is wither from the little stimulation. She lets go of your toy in her mouth with a loud and wet ‘pop’, she’s massaging your boobs while she speaks, basically salivating over them. She doesn’t even look at you when she speaks she’s looking at your chest,

“It’s okay baby, Zoey’s here to make it allllllll better.”

Mystery

Let’s you get away with it, with the talking back, the blatant disrespect. He knows that demons, naturally have a sense of charm to their being. But, what you do? Just plain disrespectful.

Ever since you came up to the surface and it came out that the most mysterious Saja Boy had a girlfriend, his fans went ballistic.

Especially when they saw how pretty you were. It was unnatural your beauty, you knew this, Mystery knew this and obviously the whole world now. Suddenly all the attention you never had when you were damned for all eternity is now being showered upon you.

And you loved it, the never ending praise, compliments, love letters, some guy even got yours and Mys names tatted on him. All that, evidently went straight to your head thinking that you need that kind of attention all the time. And right now, Mys wasn’t giving it to you and you were butt hurt about it.

Mystery was standing with the other Saja boys, he wasn’t even talking to them, just standing around nodding at whatever bullshit they were saying and only humming in approval every now and again. He wouldn’t even spare you a single glance, not even a turn of the head.

He could be over here sitting with me, talking to me, worshipping me. You think sitting in your own rotten, spoiled anger thinking of all the ways he should be dotting on you right now. you don’t even notice when he starts walking over to you, when you do and see he’s trying to take the seat next to you, you lift your leg up thumping it down in the chair.

You can’t see his eyes but you know they are staring bores into you while all you do is look around at all the other people in the room and not him. He let a growl of a laugh before simply pushing your leg out of the chair and plopping down in the chair.

You look at him like he’s personally offended you. “Really?” You spit sitting up in the chair ready to start with him and all he does is lull his neck down looking at you, his lavender hair moving a tab you could see his yellow irises glow with warning. “Don’t fucking look at me like that. You know I don’t like it.” You start in seeing his attention finally turn back on you, gripping the handles of your own seat in excitement.

He just keeps staring at you, your face contorts to a snarl and then a smirk when you think of the perfect thing to send him over the edge.

“Uh, you don’t fucking listen do you? Maybe I should go find someone who does.” You fake going to get up but he’s already grabbing you by the wrist and bending you over the table in front of you.

He lets out a sadistic growl, almost like a dog getting mad over its favorite toy. He spreads your legs with his foot, your back arching beautifully into him. Finally got his attention. But at what cost? He’s unbuckling his pants with one hand and pinning you down by the nap of your neck from behind. Already grinding his hard cock against your clothed cunt, warning you, he grunts like a feral dog.

Neither of you even care if the other Boys are there, watching with peering, sadistic the eyes. Mystery’s claws had came out, digging into your pulse point. He’s not worried about hurting you, you’re too strong for your own good. Mystery is a man of few words, so when he spoke next you knew he was serious.

“My little pet needs to learn some manners.”

Romance

he’d be just like Jinu, just in a different font.

Clocks how irritated you get whenever he ‘flirts’ with the fans and immediately plots to use your jealousy against you. Romance basically gives brat on brat.

Whenever he knows you’ll be tagging along he makes sure to amp up the flirting, the incessant compliments, taking pictures just a little too close for comfort, he even kissed one girl on the cheek.

By the end of it you were fuming and he was grinning like a madman. You ride back to your home in silence a pout laced in your face, “Awww, what wrong sweetie?” He sounded so patronizing because he knows what me wrong. “You know what.” You grit between clenched teeth. He lets out a huff of air, smirk pulling at his cheek.

“Yeeeeah, but it didn’t seem like you were doing anything about it though.”

That was the straw that broke the camels back.

As soon as you get inside you’re berating him, pushing him around, every action making his gaze grow darker and darker. He, somehow, ends up on the bed and you climb onto his lap, nails digging into his neck. “You are an asshole.”

All he can do is smile up at his ferocious little beast, trying to claim him as all hers. His hands are on your hips, feeling the fat dimple under his fingers while he massaged them, all while cooing at you;

“What’s gotten into my girl, hmm? Need your Ro to show you some love.”

You nod your head, pouting your lips, agreeing, your hips already rutting against his and he lets out a fake scoff to cover up his groan, “You really think you deserve this after being so mean?” He asked before flipping you over onto your back, rough hands holding your thighs apart as he pulls your shorts down along with your panties. Keeping you exposed for him, he licks his lips in hunger at your twitching pussy.

“Shit, maybe you do.” He sounded disheveled, ravenous. And you could have sworn his pupils turned heart shaped looking at your weeping cunt before he spoke again:

“But first, I think I have to give you a little lesson about patience.

Mira

You just brat just to fuck with her. And boy does it. You don’t miss a beat as soon as she wakes up there’s a problem. She’ll just walk into the kitchen looking your form up and down. “Stop staring at me.” You grit out pushing your way past. She lets it go, maybe you woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.

But then, suddenly there’s something wrong with everything she does. No don’t sit there, don’t do that, you’re not doing it right. All just to get in her nerves, and obviously it did. Just not in the way you think.

Mira loves when her sweet, precious baby steps out of her comfort zone to try and be a brat. Just so she can put them right back in their place.

With Mira almost everything is about control so she knows just how to get that control back, and put her girl back in her place.

It would be later in the evening, Mira still hasn’t done anything about your behavior earlier. Then she sits next to you, “Gonna tell me what earlier was about?” Her voice was laced with dominance, somehow lower than normal, giving you one last chance.

But still, Silence.

“Hmm?” She pushes but still nothing, eyebrows raising, she grips your chin forcing you to look at her. Your face heats up at the confrontation, and mouth goes dry, and then she gets it. You’re embarrassed now because you have nothing to back it up with. “Oh I get it….” She chuckles bring your face inches from hers. “What cat got your tongue?” She teases, breath ghosting against your cheek.

“Wanna act like a little bitch all day, but when I want to talk, you back down like a little scared puppy.” She’s smiling manically at you, gripping your chin tighter.

“You’re my little puppy aren’t you. Always trying to lap up from some attention.” Your breath hitches and thighs clench.

“Y-you’re being mean….” Is all you say trying to avert your eyes, but she won’t let you, forcing you over her lap. Hands rubbing over your ass, giving you a harsh spank.

“No baby, you were being mean. I just giving you what you need.”

[mugloversonly]

Like so Whatever

This is for @steddiesongfics prompt "songs sang and written by women" I picked Girlfriend by Avril Levine | wc: 1233 | cw: Tommy’s really mean but they break up | rating: G Summary: Eddie's eating dinner with his friends when he overhears a conversation. AO3

Eddie took a bite of his pasta with a grim smile. The rest of the guys don't seem to notice, but the couple next to them have been fighting since they got here. If it could even be called fighting. The guy with freckles has found fault with everything his companion has done. Every word made Eddie's protective instincts wrinkle until his knuckles were white around his fork.

“Seriously, Steve? I know you're not very bright, but there is no way you think filet Mignon and fries is an okay combination. That’s not even mentioning the white wine.” Freckles sneered.

“I like white wine.” The brunette, Steve apparently, shrugged. Eddie felt a pang of sympathy as he watched the guy curl into himself.

“Then order fish.” Freckles said.

“Can we not do this right now? We're celebrating our anniversary.” Steve whispered harshly.

“You're lucky we even have an anniversary.” Freckles snapped.

Eddie wanted to interfere, but when he moved, Jeff shook his head quickly in warning.

“Eddie it's not your business.” He whispered.

“Yeah but that guy's being so mean.” Eddie replied. Jeff laid an arm along the back of Eddie's chair and squeezed his shoulder.

“I know, but going over there might make it worse not better.” Jeff said imploringly. He was right of course, but it still made Eddie’s conscience twitch.

It was then that the couple’s waiter arrived. “I’ll have the rib-eye with a baked potato.” Freckles began. Steve made a sound like he wanted to speak, but freckles talked right over him. “He'll have the salmon with asparagus.” The waiter jotted down the order as quickly as possible and power walked away.

“Tommy, I'm allergic to salmon.” Steve said angrily. “And I hate asparagus.”

The silverware in Eddie's hand bent when he heard that. He looked at Jeff, a fire in his eyes, begging to be let off the leash.

“Go with God.” The man sighed and removed his hand, shaking his head all the while. Eddie nodded in thanks then jumped to his feet. As he approached the couple, he appraised this Tommy fellow and decided if it came down to it, he could take him in a fight. The two men quieted down as Eddie got closer before falling silent as he stopped right next to them.

“Can we help you?” Tommy sneered as he sized Eddie up. Pointedly ignoring him, Eddie slid into the booth next to Steve, throwing his arm over the back of the shared seat.

“Name’s Eddie and you are?” Eddie asked, he overheard it but he didn't want to freak the guy out.

“Steve.” The other man replied confusedly.

“Stevie, can I call you Stevie? Do you like the way this guy talks to you?” He asked.

“Um…what?” Steve replied, tilting his head adorably.

“Hey, mind your own business dick.” Tommy said; Eddie ignored him.

“Because I gotta say sweetheart, unless this is some weird form of foreplay, your boyfriend here is a grade A douche bag. If you were my boyfriend I would never talk to you like that.” Eddie continued, throwing in a flirty smirk for good measure.

“He doesn't mind the way I talk to him. He's too stupid to understand when someone's condescending to him.” Freckles snorted as he looked at Steve. “Isn't that right, baby. There's nothing upstairs.” The tone Tommy used was obviously supposed to make it seem like a joke, but Steve's face fell at the cutting words. “Besides, I'm the only one who can put up with his neediness.” Tommy went on. Steve turned away from them and Eddie saw red.

“He’s not wrong.” Steve mumbled. “I'm an idiot, barely graduated high school, and I only have a job because I work for my dad. I'm clingy and every time I tried to date someone else they didn't stay. Tommy's the only one that stayed.” He said it so quietly but with so much conviction, like he really believed it.

“That settles it.” Eddie stood from the booth, the two men stared at him with different expressions; Steve resigned while Tommy was triumphant. “You need a new boyfriend, this one is useless. Come on.” He stood to the side, waiting. Steve's eyes darted between the two men, hesitantly. “You won't regret it, sweetheart I promise.”

“How do you know?” Steve whispered. With a soft smile, Eddie took Steve's hand, pulling him from the booth.

“I’ll remember you're allergic to salmon and you hate asparagus. I never understood the point of pairing your drink to your food if you don't want to, steak and potatoes is steak and potatoes regardless of the shape of either. And while you're beautiful even when you cry, you're way to gorgeous to be crying over this dickhead.” Eddie said. “I can tell that you deserve so much more, let me give it to you.”

“Okay.” Slowly, a radiant smile spread across Steve's face as he interlocked their fingers. Bringing them up to his lips, Eddie kissed the back of Steve's hand reverently.

“Yeah?” Eddie replied shyly.

“Yeah.” Steve whispered. The two walked hand in hand to the table with Eddie's friends; a nearby waiter brought them an extra chair.

“Hey!” Tommy shouted across the restaurant. “You cannot just walk away! You’ll be nothing without me!” With a shaky breath, Steve sat at Eddie's table, turning his back on his now-ex. Eddie introduced them to his friends and asked the waiter to bring Steve his filet Mignon and fries.

“Let's start dating tomorrow, Stevie. I already don't like that I had to share you with that ass hat, I don't want to share an anniversary with him.” Eddie said as they watched Tommy get escorted out of the restaurant.

“Deal. It wouldn't be the same day anyway, our anniversary was two weeks ago.” Steve replied with a sigh. “He forgot until this morning.”

“Wow dodged a bullet didn't you.” Jeff chimed in.

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

A year and a day later, they returned to the restaurant where they met. Steve ordered white wine with filet Mignon and fries, Eddie ordered pasta with a beer. They traded bites, laughs, and kisses.

When it was time for dessert, they decided to share a piece of cheesecake. As the dish arrived, the chef wrote something in chocolate sauce on the plate. Eddie's eyes widened when he saw the words and he gasped in shock.

“Steve…what the hell?” He whispered. Steve slid from his chair onto one knee and pulled out a velvet box.

“A year and a day ago, I was stuck in a relationship with a guy who made me feel like shit every day and I thought it was the best I would ever get.” Steve began, choking up a little as he spoke. “Then, in one conversation you changed me life so much for the better. You make me feel like I'm worth everything and I'm actually starting to believe it. You're everything to me and I never want to let you go. Will you marry me?” Steve asked. The sounds of the restaurant faded as Steve spoke. With watery eyes and a bright smile, Eddie nodded holding his hand out so Steve could slip the ring on his finger.

“Of course I will, Stevie.” Eddie said, pulling his fiance into a sweet kiss. “Interrupting your date was the best thing I've ever done.”

“I couldn't agree more.” Steve sighed against his lips.

permanent tag list(open):

@katyawriteswhump

[sadboyeddie]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐨𝐛: 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱 - 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

Summary: The cat's outta the bag now folks.

Warning: (MDNI 18+) Fem!Reader, No Use Of Y/N, Angst, Arguments, Manipulation, Oral - Fem Receiving, Grinding

A/N: This was so fucking hard to write. I had deleted and rewrite it so many times that I just said 'fuck it'. It's not the best but at least it's done.

I have had a really difficult week and I wasn't sure if I'd be updating so soon but we gotta soldier on.

WC: 3.3k

Series Masterlist

It's been a few days since the mission, since the afternoon Bob fell asleep inside you. Since things have changed and yet… not changed?

Nothing has happened since that afternoon. You had woken hours later, alone in bed and clean between the legs. The only evidence that Bob had been there was the residual soreness you felt whenever you moved your lower half.

You lied awake all night in confusion and slight dizziness as you replayed everything, eventually succumbing to sleep just as the morning rays peaked through the blinds.

The next few days weren't much better, Bob wasn't ignoring you per se but there was some distance there, and the worst part was his infuriating smug smirk whenever you tried to address it. He was driving you insane.

-

You're sitting crossed legged on the couch in the common area, TV off and completely alone as you mindlessly swipe through a random magazine that was left on the coffee table. You're so in your own head you don't even hear someone approaching until they're next to you on the couch.

"What's wrong?" Yelena's eyebrows are creased in concern as she studies your face. "Still sore from last week?"

"Huh?" You snap out of your trance, taking a few seconds to comprehend what Yelena asked. "No… the pain is gone."

She squints her eyes before continuing. "Then what's wrong?"

"What makes you think anything is wrong?" You deflect.

She raises her eyebrows in a disbelieving look and tilts her head.

"Okay, fine." You crumble. "Has… Has Bob been acting… differently to you?"

"'Different' how?" She turns to face you more.

"I don’t know." You shrug, you don’t know how much Bob confides in her and you really don’t want to share any of the intimate details of the past week. "He seems to be… distancing himself from me a bit."

She looks deep in thought and takes a second to answer you. "I'm sure you're just overthinking it."

You can't help the deflated feeling that curls in your chest at her dismissal of your concerns.

"You know how you can get." She continues. "And you know how he can get."

"Seriously?" You scoff and stare at her skeptically, irritation growing inside you.

"Yeah." She shrugs, ignoring your tone. "Just give it a few days."

Before you can say anything else she gently pats your shoulder and leaves the room while you silently spiral into your own head.

Whilst you're distracted you miss seeing Bob step out from behind the door and walk off with Yelena, both whispering quietly to each other as they walk down the hallway.

-

Later that night you find yourself in your room sitting at your desk in the dark; half eaten sandwich discarded to the side, the only light coming from the small lamp on the corner of your desk and the dim light from the crappy laptop.

You've still yet to write up your mission report from Friday, using the excuse that you're still slightly recovering and also Yelena has written hers and it's basically the same report. Unfortunately Val is a stickler for this kind of stuff so there is no way to get out of it.

You decide to dot point it, the quickest and easiest method, as you rush through the details. This part of the job is your least favourite and there is plenty of other stuff you'd rather be doing.

Your door opening behind you drags your attention from the screen, you turn to see Bob entering your room and walking over to your bed, not even sparing you a glance.

"What do you think you're doing?" You ask, your voice taking on a sharp tone.

"Coming in to sleep?" He responds with a half shrug like it's the most obvious thing in the world. You're not having it.

"Why now?" You question. "I've barely seen you in three days."

"I've been busy." He shrugs, all nonchalant.

"'Busy.'" You scoff under your breath. "How can you be busy? You don’t leave the tower."

"I'm sorry." He shoots back, tone starting to match yours, the room suddenly starting to feel tense. "I didn’t realise I was required to get your approval of my schedule."

"You don’t!" You swivel your chair to face him, anger getting the best of you. "But for the last week you've been by my side non stop and then you all but disappear!" You throw your hands up in exasperation.

"Am I not allowed space?" His question clearly rhetorical. "You're not the center of my world!"

"Wow." You humorously laugh. "Could have fooled me!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice is slightly dark and you swear you see a flicker in his eyes but you're not about to back down.

"Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean!" You raise your voice. "Night's spent in my bed with your wandering hands?"

"Don’t flatter yourself!" He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "You're the desperate one who follows me around the streets and gets on her knees in random clubs!"

You suck in a gasp at his words, your body going rigid as your eyes widen dramatically. The fight has completely left you and you're left feeling dread.

"Wh-What?" Your voice is quiet and you feel the beginning of a possible panic attack but he continues his argument, seemingly not hearing you or not caring.

"Tell me, honey," the pet name that usually fills you with butterflies is now said with venom. "If I hadn't have walked into that booth would you still have sucked some random guys cock?" "Please stop." The words are spoken above barely a whisper and you can't make eye contact with him.

By this point you knew he must have known your feelings and obvious attraction but you didn't know he knew about the club.

"And the second time..." he continues with a mocking laugh; the lamp on your desk starts to flicker as the darkness starts to creep in around the corners of your room. "Would you have let someone else fuck you in that booth? Let someo-"

"Bob!" You cut him off, voice firm but wavering. "Get out!... Please."

You feel the tears welling in your eyes so you spin the chair away from him, not wanting him to see you like this.

Instantly the lamp stops flickering and the dark atmosphere starts to recede.

The room is silent and still tense, you and Bob have never fought like this before. Sure you've bickered and when Bob gets tired he can be a sassy cranky bitch but he's never gone out of his way to hurt your feelings. Not like this.

"Ho-Honey…" Bob says the pet name with such softness, his voice raw as he's suddenly hit with the realisation of what just happened. What he just said, what he just admitted.

You hear him take a few steps towards you but you quickly put a stop to that. "Just go, Bob… please."

You fight back tears as you bite your lip not ready for any sort of conversation or further argument.

"I'm s-sorry, so sorry." He stays in place, hands in front of him as he tangles his fingers together, a clear admission of guilt. "I d-didn’t mean it, I was just mad, I'm sorry, please don’t make me go... I don’t want to leave. Please."

You don’t answer him, not trusting yourself not to sob and he takes that as permission to silently move over to where you sit. You make a small noise of displeasure in the back of your throat as he turns your chair to face him, you quickly look away as tears start to fall.

"It's okay." He soothes. "It's okay, I'm sorry. You're okay. We're okay... I can fix this, I promise."

Bob slots himself into your lap before gently grabbing your chin, he guides you until you're facing him and he rests his forehead against yours.

"I'm sorry, it's okay." He continues to repeat like a mantra as he softly wipes the tears from your cheeks.

"Bob—" Before you can finish your sentence, not even sure what you were going to say, Bob leans down and pushes his lips against yours.

"I know." He presses the words against your lips, speaking quietly. "I'm sorry."

The kiss is slow and gentle, filled with apologies and something else. He continues to whisper soft words into your mouth begging for forgiveness.

You know you should push him off, scream at him until you're blue in the face but the way he's gently holding you, caressing your cheek and whispering soft apologies against your lips, works to put out the fire. Part of you hates yourself for giving in so easily.

When Bob realises you're not going to push him away he deepens the kiss; sliding his tongue into your mouth as little moans slip through, you close your eyes and let what's going to happen happen. You're so physically and mentally exhausted that you just want to forget for a while.

You let out a pleased sigh as his hand grazes down your side, thumb slipping underneath the fabric of your shirt and rubbing soothing circles on the skin of your hip. With some maneuvering Bob brings his legs up and fits them snuggly beside yours so he's effectively straddling your thighs.

Moreso on instinct you reach out and grab his hips to steady him and make sure he doesn't slip, the action causing Bob to moan into your open mouth.

"Grab me harder." He begs, not breaking the kiss. "Mark me, bruise me... I deserve it."

Normally you would be a little nervous even consensually hurting your partner but you're still filled with hurt, confusion and anger which admittedly does make it a lot easier.

You tighten your hold, momentarily wishing Bob had some more meat on his bones, the desperate moan that slips from his mouth encourages you to dig your nails slightly into the skin.

"Fuck." He pulls away from the kiss, you quickly let go thinking you went too far but as soon as you loosen your grip he lets out a noise of complaint. "More."

He emphasizes his demand by bucking his hips forward, his hard cock grinding against your thigh. You swiftly resume your previous hold and begin to help his movements, guiding his him against your legs.

He drags his swollen lips from yours, down your cheek until he rest his forehead on your shoulder, his other hand comes behind your head and grasps the back of the chair, using it for leverage as he begins to stutter out a rhythm against you.

You clench your thighs together, the mix of sounds and Bob's words sending a shock of lightening straight to your neglected clit.

"That's it, sweetheart." You gently praise, voice thick from unuse. "Doing so good for me."

Bob lets out a whine at your words, his thrusts hitting a little harder against you. "M'sorry." He mewls into your neck, breath hot against your skin. "Forgive me. You have to forgive me."

His words are rambled together, the pleasure already starting to fog over his mind.

He pulls away and the movement makes you open your eyes to take in the sight before you causing you to almost cum untouched.

Bob's eyes are snapped firmly shut, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, his head is thrown to the side and his back is arched. He looks like a porn star.

A loud breathy groan falls from your lips as you grip his hips and encourage him to grind more against you, you flex your thighs to help him find his pleasure.

"Ride me, baby." You're so lost in Bob you barely recognise your own voice and how desperate you sound, luckily Bob sounds just as desperate and fucked out as you do.

He snaps his hips harder against you as he lets out a depraved whine. "Wanna cum, honey."

Your nails bite more into his hips, surely hard enough to bruise if not break skin, as you watch him build towards his climax.

"Cum, sweetheart." You swallow down the saliva that’s pooled in your mouth. "Be good and cum for me."

"Yesyesyes." His grip on the chair behind your head tightens and you swear you hear a crack but you pay it no mind as you watch Bob fall apart on your lap. "Fuck!"

With one last stutter of his hips he cries out in pleasure as he reaches his end, his body is taut as he rides out his high. He lets out a few breathless moans before he collapses forward into your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your neck as his lazily thrusts his hips, still reeling from the pleasure.

You instantly slide your hands from his hips and wrap him in a tight embrace, momentarily enjoying the close intimacy. You rub one hand in soothing circles on his back while the other runs through the damp waves of his hair as he mumbles incoherently into your skin.

"—ove you, m'sorry." His voice is muffled and quiet as he slumps his full weight against you.

"Shh, s'okay, sweetheart." You're not sure if you truly mean that, hurt still and a little sore from the previous argument but you know eventually you'll forgive him. You can never be mad at him for too long.

You stay like that; with Bob in your arms and you holding him tight, for at least half an hour before he pulls back slightly. The movement causes you to jump a little, convinced he was asleep.

"Sorry, honey." There's amusement in his voice.

Before you can question what he's doing he leans in and pecks your lips before sliding gracefully off your lap and onto the floor by your feet.

"Wh-What are you doing?" You swallow around nothing as Bob gives you a cheeky smile.

"Earning your forgiveness." He leans up and unbuttons your pants, gently swatting away your hands as you go to stop him? Help him? You're not sure.

He pulls the item of clothing off your legs and discards it somewhere near the bed before spreading your legs and situating himself between your open thighs.

"So pretty." He speaks softly, mostly to himself as he rubs his hands over the tight muscles in your thighs. "Relax, baby."

He places a kiss gently to the skin where his hand just was before trailing his lips further up until he's mere inches away from your heat.

"So wet for me." He leans forward and runs his nose over the damp fabric of your panties, taking an exaggerated deep inhale of your scent. "Smells so sweet."

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment and arousal, still not entirely used to this kind of treatment, but once again before you can say anything Bob leans in and sucks your clit into his warm mouth, flicking his tongue against the damp fabric.

"F-Fuck." You whimper as your grip the arm rests of the chair, hips stuttering upwards against his eager mouth.

Bob briefly pulls away to push the ruined fabric to the side before licking a stripe from the bottom of your folds to your swollen nub. You buck forward at the sensation causing Bob to grab your thighs and lift your legs onto his shoulder.

"Ride my face, baby." He moans against your clit, the vibrations making you arch your back. "Use me."

With no further prompting needed you tangle your hands into Bob's unruly waves and pulls his face closer to your dripping pussy. You let out a moan as he sticks out and flattens his tongue, making sure to lick every part of you he can reach.

Closing your eyes and letting moans and whimpers fall freely from your lips you happily use Bob's face to achieve your own pleasure. Bob curls his tongue and gathers your wetness before drinking it down, moaning into your heat at the taste before pushing through your slick folds and plunging it inside.

The new sensation has you arching your back as you dig your heels into his shoulders, pushing him closer between your legs. As he tongue fucks your pussy his nose repeatedly rubs against your neglected clit causing sparks to puncture your lower stomach.

"Please, Bob, fuck… please." You're not sure what you're begging for but the words just spill out.

Unable to verbally respond Bob groans into your cunt, the vibrations adding to your mounting pleasure. His hands are still gripping handfuls of your thighs, holding your legs steady on his shoulders as he pulls back and spits on your hole.

"So fucking pretty, honey." He dives back in, thrusting his tongue against the silky walls of your pussy.

You reach behind you and grab the top of the chair as your back arches in pleasure, the wet sounds of Bob feasting on your cunt paired with the pleasure from his mouth has you clenching around his tongue.

"M'gonna, fuc—" Unable to finish your sentence you close your eyes and cry out as your orgasm hits you hard.

You grab a handful of Bob's hair to stop him from moving; an action he doesn’t take lightly to if his groan of displeasure is anything to go by, the stimulation becoming too much. You choke back a moan as you breathlessly gasp for breath, holding Bob's face against your pussy.

Never really being the one to follow rules Bob curls his tongue inside you and starts to gather your cum and drink it down as best he can making you twitch in his hold.

"Bo-Bob, stop." You whine but he shakes his head 'no.'

Instead he pushes more against you, his nose grinding against your swollen clit as he flicks his tongue inside your walls cleaning you completely of your slick. A bolt of pleasure and pain shoots down your spine and curls in your stomach as Bob continues his assault on your sensitive hole.

Before you even have time to come down from your last orgasm you're suddenly pushed towards another, Bob's tongue working a mile a minute to bring you to the edge again. You decide to lean into the pleasure, knowing there's no way of stopping him from his goal, as you start to hump and grind against his face.

A pleased moan vibrates against your pussy, Bob clearly enjoying you using him as he eagerly curls his tongue inside you.

One last flick of the muscle has you seeing stars behind your eyelids, toes curling against his back as you hold his face so hard against you you've probably cut off his air supply. You doubt he'd mind.

Your heart is hammering in your chest and the blood pumping in your ears is so loud you can't hear anything around you. It takes you a few minutes to come down from your high, holding Bob against you the entire time.

When you let go you immediately go to apologise but when you look down at the man between your legs the apology dies on your tongue.

There Bob sits with a dopey fucked out grin, face covered in your slick with hooded eyes. You lean down to cup his face and he instinctively nuzzles his cheek into your hand and closes his eyes.

"You good, sweetheart." You smile down him. "You seem more far gone then me."

"I, uh…" Instead of finishing his sentence he looks down at his lap, a dark stain across the front of his sweatpants. Oh. You weren't the only one to cum twice.

"Messy boy." You comment and he softly moans into your hand with a sleepy nod. "Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

"Mhm." He smiles.

You help him to his feet, fight temporarily forgotten as you make your way to your bathroom, the enhanced being holding your hand the entire way.

Tag List Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list @stars4birdie, @horrorbloodhound, @dandydilfdiddler, @gabrielchanel5, @ryswritingrecord, @my-name-is-baby, @msfirth, @magicwithaknife, @lewispullsman, @chimchoom, @alltimelowsuckedmydick, @silvershadow1711, @cherrycola27, @deadpoolgirl23, @mommymilkers0526, @articel1967, @dark-silhouette, @colonyofpotatoes, @foreverchangingmind, @daddyrafeslittleslut, @hellfirehopeless, @after8hore, @keira-kaz2y5

[sinfessionsofalittledoll]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ thoughts of ceo dabi/touya becuase i would be on my knees for this man. ↳ 1.2 k ↳ cw: swearing, blow job, deep throat, restraints, exhibitionism, dabi just being dabi, reader is called doll/slut/cock sleeve, p in v, riding, cunnilingus, implied cum plugging, implied marking, general nsfw content.

masterlist

CEO Dabi who uses his tie to restrain your hands behind your back, limiting what you're able to do and grab hold of the second you walk in the door of his office.

He grips hold of your face, making your body lower to the floor until you're on your knees. Innocent eyes looking up at him as he smirks. "I saw you, how you touched that pretty pussy of yours without coming to me, such a naughty little slut".

Before you have a time to retort, to question how he saw you, you hear the sound of his belt clunking, zipper opening until you see the sight of his cock in front of you. Mushroom tip red leaking precum as you swallow the lump in your throat. "Had me so fucking hard for hours. Now be a good little princess and take care of it with your mouth".

Chewing on your lip, you looked up through your lashes, mouth opening slowly, tongue lolling out. "Good girl, now open wider". Slacking your jaw, you did as you were told, the feeling of your mouth feeling full taking over soon after. "Fuck, that pretty mouth of yours feels as good as it always does".

Moments later, you felt your hair being gripped, fingers digging into your scalp as he pressed his hips forward, cock hitting the back of your throat. Eyes beginning to water as he used your mouth as his own personal fuck toy, hand straining against his tie in a bid to be freed. "Oh doll, you're not getting free anytime soon".

His hips began to push him deep as you gagged, drool slipping down your chin that matched the tears rolling down your cheeks, makeup slowly being ruined as you looked up through glassy eyes. "Such a needy pussy". You could do nothing but moan, moan at the feeling begging to stir up in your gut once more.

Closing your eyes, you continued to gag on the cock hitting the back of your throat. "Fuck, that's a good girl. Your throat feels so fucking good". His voice dropping an octave as you opened your eyes again to look back at him.

The grip on your hair tightened as you felt your head being moved, Dabi's hip rutting harshly until you felt him twitch. A deep groan left his lip as he kept you in place, emptying every ounce of his cum down your eager throat as you swallowed. With a satisfied sigh, he pulled from you, air flooding your lungs you as panted heavily. "Now, lets get you more comfortable".

Papers and items scattered on the floor; face pressed into hard wood as the overwhelming feeling of being full took over. The moan you let pass your swollen lips as he sheathes his cock into your wet cunt. "Fuck, sir...".

A harsh whack against the plush flesh of your behind, the sting rippling through you as you clenched your walls. "Fuck, wrong name, doll. Try again". "Hah, Dabi, please". "Good girl".

His voice sent shivers down your spine as he gripped your leg, forcing it up on the desk, angling his cock deeper into your desperate core. "Going to stuff this pretty pussy of yours so full of me and only me".

Relentless thrusts that sent zaps of pleasure through your body, knuckles turning white as you gripped the mahogany wood beneath you. Thrusts that you tried to match with your own thrusts, pressing yourself closer to him as he slipped even deeper into your cunt.

Skilled fingers that rubbed circles agaisnst your swollen clit, helping the pressure in your gut build up. Those same fingers that help turn you over as Dabi knelt between your legs, swiping his tongue along your puffy pussy as he messily eats you out. Savouring the way you taste with some of him mixed in.

He soon grew bored, dragging you over to the window, pulling your top over your chest and bra down so your tits are on display. "Best be ready to put on a show for the people down there, doll".

Before you have a chance to question, you find yourself pressed into the window, tits pressed against the coldness, your nipples hardening more than they were, dragging with each movement once he presses his cock back into you. Your arms finally free as you place them above your head, fingers digging into the glass as you try to anchor yourself, keep yourself sane.

"Look at them doll, some of them see you. See how you're being fucked beautifully by my cock". Looking down through a glassy stare, you saw some people on the ground, pointing up to where you were.

The way they pointed while chattering to each other made you feel hotter, pussy clenching tighter as you moaned out. "Fuck Dabi, they're staring". "Yes they are doll, they're watching you be a good little cock sleeve for me".

He soon grows bored again, wanting to be the one to watch you come undone as he pulls out and drags you to his chair. Dropping down in it, he pats his lap, head falling back as he smirks. "Come on doll, show me how you ride this cock".

That's all it took for you to do as you were told, eagerly climbing onto his lap as you gripped his cock, pumping it a few times as you rubbed the tip against your dripping folds before sinking yourself back down. Moans echoing at beautiful stretch felt.

Moving your hips, you didn't give him time to breath, fingers threading into his dark locks as you tugged, lips crashing onto his as you kissed him messily. Tongue clashing as droll slipped down the corners of your mouth, a small string connecting you both when you pulled back. "I can feel you all the way here Dabi, feels so fucking good".

Resting your hand just above your cunt, you pressed down as you rolled your hips, head falling back as you felt the pressure build. The feeling of a hand on your chest kneading your tit while the other was suckled had a whine leaving your throat, pushing your chest further into the feeling.

Before long, a "pop" was heard, hands gripping your hips as Dabi helped you move, mushroom head of his cock hitting against the spongy spot deep inside. "Cum for me baby, only then will I stuff you full".

And all it takes is a few more hard thrusts before your jaw goes slack, a loud moan of Dabi's name passing your lips as your walls clamp down on his throbbing cock. The overwhelming feeling of you milking him was enough to tip him over the egdge, shooting his hot seed deep in you.

That's all it takes for him to slam you down one last time, keeping you in place as you squirm, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. "Fuck, doll, going to keep you sat right here until I get hard again. You'll have trouble walking by the time I'm finished with you".

The way you shiver makes him chuckle, lips attaching to your neck as he bites and sucks, leaving marks for everyone to see. Marks that show you belong to him and only him.

And when he's had his full, fucked you on every surface he can and stuffed you so full until you think you're going to burst. He'll offer you his hand, kissing the back of yours once you take it. His turquoise eyes looking into yours as he smirks. "Guess I need to take you out on a date before I fuck you next time".

© sinfessionsofalittledoll 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.

[stay-different110904]

Open letter to Dave Cullen

Please feel free to reblog

Dear Dave,

No, we don’t know each other - but after more than 15 years of hearing you speak publicly about the Columbine case, I feel like I know you and your psyche at least a little bit.

The reason I am finally writing on open letter to you is because, a few days ago, I had the misfortune of stumbling about your article in The Atlantic, written on the occasion of the 25th anniversary of the Columbine massacre. And honestly, I just cannot stay silent anymore. I cannot let you go on with your same old narrative – yet again.

First of all, I have a question for you, Dave: Are you a narcissist?

Because I genuinly cannot understand how someone can continue to spread misinformation for all these years – without feeling at least a little bit ashamed. You were caught – clearly and publicly – twisting facts and spreading falsehoods, yet you show no sign of embarrassment or willingness to take responsibility. Anyone without an overinflated ego would have taken a step back, re-evaluated, or at least pretended to reconsider. But not you, Dave. You double down.

Despite having been proven wrong by credible professionals like Dr. Peter Langman and Dr. Ralph Larkin – experts in psychology who actually studied the police files and witness statements - you still insist on standing by your version, as if repeating a lie often enough will somehow turn it into truth.

No, Dave. Refusing to admit that you did an absolutely terrible job as a journalist does not redeem you. It just makes you look like a narcissist - or even worse, a sociopath – someone who continues to push a narrative long after it’s been debunked, and still tries to manipulte people into believing it. Frankly, it is insulting that you seem to think your readers are too ignorant to notice the gaslighting.

You wrote the best-selling book on Columbine, that much is true. But let’s be clear: it’s by no means the most accurate.

I honestly wonder how someone can be so self-absorbed and arrogant. Or is it simply the dollar signs in your eyes? Let’s not pretend your motives were purely journalistic. Your book is still a steady source of income, and admitting how deeply flawed it is would probably hurt your sales – and your ego. But is it really worth it? Do you need the money that badly? Or are you genuinely so delusional that you still believe you wrote “the ultimate account of the Columbine massacre“?

These are not rhetorical questions, Dave – I actually want to know. Unfortunately, I will never get an answer. I know that and you, deep down, know that there is no turning back - not after selling this narrative to so many people for so many years. Whether you want it or not, you will have to defend it until the end.

And let‘s be clear, I do not write this to humiliate you. You are an lonely and aging gay man in a time when journalism is being rapidly overtaken by AI. I can only imagine how disorienting that must be.

If there is one thing Columbine has taught me, it is this: Never treat people cruelly, never push them to the edge and never kick someone when they are already down. Sadly, that is not the lesson you took away from this tradegy. You have made that painfully clear – over and over again.

The only lesson you seem to have learned is: Eric was pure evil, and there is absolutely nothing anyone could have done to prevent this tragedy from happening. How convenient, isn’t it? Especially for the school and law enforcement.

Which brings me to another question: Did you really simply do a poor job researching the case? Or did you willingly align yourself with police and school officials – helping them spread a narrative that conveniently cleared them of any responsibility?

Honestly, I cannot for the life of me tell which is worse – ot which is more likely. Maybe it‘s both!?

Anyway, in your article in The Atlantic, you mentioned that you have not received a death threat in the past six years and you said you have no idea why that is. Well, I do: You are just not relevant enough anymore. With each passing year, you become more and more insignificant, Dave. So why would anyone waste their energy threatening you?

Frankly, the only reason I am even writing you now is because I still cared just enough to say something. You should consider yourself lucky that someone gave you this much attention. Take it and run with it.

But in the end, it is undeniable: Eric and Dylan - even 26 years later – have proven to be far more impactful than you or I will ever be. Whether we like it or not, they left their chilling legacy that continues to echo through societies across the globe. And that legacy shows no signs of fading. The mark they left will outlive us all.

I hope you understand that you did not just profit financially from this tragedy - you helped build and sustain their legacy. Think about that for a minute, Dave.

Sincerely,

A critical reader

CAN HIS ASS EVER STAY QUIET

"columbine expert" SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP

[fishinsuits]

emergency contact

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: you're at your lowest, convinced that frank is gone for good. until you end up in the hospital, and he comes to rescue you and help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: swearing, absolute horrid angst, reader is depressed and having suicidal thoughts, mentions of starvation, talks about different ways to unalive yourself (if you are not comfortable, do not read. it's okay), going to the hospital for fun stuff, gendered words used like "ma'am" and frank says "doll" a couple times.

a/n: didn't know i could pull 2.5k words outta my ass like that but i proved myself wrong. inspired by "ceilings" by lizzy mcalpine, but i got so into this one it really isn't relevant at this point lol.

you didn't think you'd stared at your bedroom ceiling more than in the past six weeks. it was all you could do lately, there was nothing else for you to do. not since he left.

you didn't remember the last time you got out of bed. logically, it was probably a couple days ago, but lately everything had been blurring together so easily. your mind was numb, not a single thought provoked. there was nothing to think about, you'd realized that a couple weeks ago. nothing mattered at this stage, it was all pointless to try and rationalize. there was nothing left for you.

so you began rotting in bed, day after meaningless day. the most you would get up was to use the bathroom or get a drink of water; not that this was too frequently though, seeing as the less you ate or drank, the less you had to use the toilet. if you had any roommates, they would've questioned your behavior or noted how skinny you were becoming. but you didn't. and there was no one to check up on you or worry about you. you only ever had him, and now he's gone.

none of your friends questioned your disappearance--not that you knew of. your phone went dead weeks ago after your lack of activity, and you usually stayed home anyways for the most part, so there was nothing to question. you also worked from home for the most part, well, when you actually had a job. right before he left, mere days before, you got fired for lack of productivity and inconsistent hours. you were alright with it though, you didn't really care for your old job anyways. your "inconsistent hours" were due to rescuing him and taking care of him constantly, and you couldn't keep up with your job load. if you were any normal person, you would've taken this opportunity of "downtime" to search for new jobs, but seeing as you weren't exactly in a normal situation--so you couldn't quite be considered normal--you didn't. instead, you decided to bed rot and avoid the world for the rest of your time.

at this rate, that wouldn't be much longer. you constantly felt weak (when or if you paid attention to how you felt), and if you even tried to get out of bed at this point, it wouldn't end well. you weren't exactly in the best shape to try getting your life back together. you were set on letting yourself finish out this life the way you wanted to--peacefully, in your sleep. it would be best, you'd convinced yourself.

surely, if you wanted to kill yourself, you would have by now. you had the resources: intense painkillers, a good length of rope in your garage, a nice sharp razor or kitchen knife. and let's not forget the handgun he gave you--"so you can defend yourself in case i'm not here."--which you've never had to use, thankfully. it's not like you were defenseless, you could have. if you really had the energy early on, you would have done something. probably. only if you were absolutely certain he wasn't ever coming back. but, you weren't, so here you are.

half empty coffee mugs littered your nightstand, taking up every inch of surface area available. your phone was somewhere on the ground where you threw it when it died, amongst the chaotic mess on your bedroom floor where you tossed your clothes, due to your lack of energy or effort. you were sure you reeked, but at this point it didn't matter. you hadn't showered in at the very least a week or two, hadn't brushed your hair or teeth in longer. it was hideous, and if you were in the right mind to snap yourself out of it, you would've by now. usually, you were so put together, but this was a completely different scenario. this was gut-wrenching, live-altering. to you, at least. you weren't exactly in shock, just too numb to believe it, i guess.

with your mind foggy and your energy too low to pay attention to anything but what was important (nothing), you hadn't heard anyone pounding on your front door. hadn't noticed until they broke through the door and multiple pairs of footsteps began exploring your house. you paid no mind to it, and if anything, you would've been glad. you would've hoped it was a gang or something breaking into your house, stealing your shit and killing you off. you would've hoped so.

instead, two cops stood at the doorway of your room. "ma'am? this is a wellness check, did you hear us come in?" one of the cops, a younger man, inquired as he stepped further into the room. "ma'am, are you alright?" he asked clearly, shaking your shoulder gently. your eyes slowly opened and closed, unfocused but staring at his face above you. "ma'am?"

the other cop came up behind him. "she conscious?" she asked the man. she was older and more experienced than him, as if she was training him.

the man nodded. "eyes are responsive, but she's not speaking."

the woman stepped closer to look at you, her eyes darting around quickly. "pale and thin, looks like she's been starved. that explains her low energy levels and fatigue. go ahead and call for an ambulance." she ordered, and he nodded and walked away, talking into his radio as he did so. she turned back towards you, brushing your hair out of your face. "what happened to you?" she whispered softly, almost as if to herself.

paramedics soon arrived and lifted you onto a stretcher, taking you out of your apartment and into the back of an ambulance. they placed an oxygen mask over your face and stuck an iv in your arm, with what you could only assume was fluids. it was logical, seeing as you hadn't left your house in weeks, let alone opened the front door in a month, and you were severely malnourished. god only knows how long you would've lasted after that if they hadn't come sooner.

"found her in her apartment, conscious but unresponsive, gcs of 8. heart rate is thready, hovering around 50. bp was 83/54. oxygen is at about 85. gave her fluids in the ambo." the paramedic told the doctors as they brought you into the emergency room. bright fluorescent lights shined all around you as they rolled you into a smaller room, lifting you into a hospital bed. they secured the iv above you and began doing more tests.

"she have any id on her?"

"no, the cops found her lying in her bed during a wellness check."

"go talk to them and see if we can get a name or someone to contact..."

they made sure the iv was flowing steady before they left the room, and suddenly it was quiet. besides the monitor beeping next to you, it was silent. the chaos of the situation finally simmered down, and your eyes felt heavier than they had before. you were out cold before the nurse even came to check up on you.

an uncertain amount of time had passed since you fell asleep. although, it was mostly all the same. you heard the consistent beeping of your heartrate displayed on the monitor, the steady sounds of the hospital continuing on outside of your room. the chatter of nurses and doctors as they rushed past in the hallway. the uproar of horns blaring on the street nearby. it was all familiar to when you first got here.

except now, the bright fluorescents were instead dimmer than they previously were, you could tell this much without even opening your eyes. and even with the consistent ruckus of the hospital, it made you believe it was night. your eyes slowly fluttered open, squinting nonetheless after being closed for who knows how long. the light was dim, making the room appear much warmer than it had when you arrived in the midst of the chaos.

you turned your head to the right to look out the window, to prove your theory, and you were right. the sky had turned dark with the passing time, the twinkling lights of the buildings around you visible from your room a few stories up. this was the first time you'd looked around your recovery room, and you were surprised by how spacious it actually was. there were a few comfier chairs to your right while all the medical equipment was cramped in the area to your left. and it was then that you noticed a figure slumped in one of the comfy chairs by the window. kept his distance but had the chair facing your bed. so he could keep his eye on you without you immediately noticing, which worked surprisingly well.

to add to this revelation, you were shocked to find his eyes were closed, his arms crossed in his slouched position. the longer you looked, the more you saw his chest steadily rise and fall at a slow pace. was he actually.. asleep? it almost made you laugh. frank castle--ex-marine, vigilante, doesn't take shit from no one, keeps his guard up 24/7--was dead asleep in your hospital room. it made you question everything you thought you knew about him. sure, you two had even shared a bed before, but frank always fell asleep after you and woke up before you. did he really think he was safe enough here to actually sleep while you were knocked out in a hospital bed?

as you went to sit up, you noted your sore muscles from your regular position and groaned. god, how long had it been since you sat up or walked around. you felt like you'd walked twenty miles from how tender you were.

that did the trick for frank though, because the moment you made a sound he was at your bedside, cradling your hand in his. "hey, hey, easy there." he soothed as he helped you to a sitting position. he kinda just stared at you, taking everything in.

you went to say something but all that came out was a crackle in your throat. you cleared your throat and frank briefly left your side to grab a cup of water from a nearby table. "here." he tipped the cup forward onto your lips and you swallowed every drop, your tongue aching for more. "good, that's it." he praised softly.

you cleared your throat again before looking up at him. "you were asleep." was all you said.

it made frank's lips tug upwards before his shoulders were jiggling as he shook his head at you. "goddamn, first chance you get to talk to me in months and this is how you act?"

you shrugged weakly. "you were. you were dead asleep when i woke up. that's a first." your voice was crackly from your lack of talking the past few weeks.

"yeah. yeah, i guess so.." his hand found yours again and gave it a squeeze. he glanced down at your interlocked fingers, his thumb brushing over your palm slowly. "i was.. worried, y'know?" he mumbled, almost reluctantly. "they called me sayin' you were in the hospital and every different scenario was runnin' through my head of what coulda happened an-"

"you're my contact." i stammered, trying to explain, bashfully.

"hm?"

"my emergency contact. i-i hadn't changed it yet." i leaned back in bed. "hadn't really wanted to.."

his dark eyes roamed me as i explained the situation, his hand coming up to cup my cheek tenderly. "had no idea what happened to you, doll. they told me they found you in your house an' you weren't talking and you're- fuck, look at you..." he leaned in closer. "what the hell were you thinkin'? were you tryna kill yourself? you're so.." frank looked down, not wanting to finish his sentence. "when's the last time you ate somethin', baby?"

the pet names broke you. it was the fact that he could just come back and continue on like he hadn't left for six weeks without explaining why he was leaving for good. because he knew that's exactly what you needed, not some crummy excuse for an apology that you'd never get because you'd be too busy beating yourself up over his decision, not anything you ever did.

his thumb wiped away a stray tear falling down your cheek before he pressed his lips to your forehead. "it's okay, i'm gonna get you outta here. i'm comin' back for good now, okay? i'm gonna take care of you, i promise." he kissed you again, and you believed him this time.

the hospital kept you for another week after that, just for monitoring and to make sure you were back up to a healthy weight. it took a little while, mostly because every time they gave you anything to eat, your body would reject it, and you'd end up puking it all up in the bathroom attached to your room. it made you feel extremely weak and shaky afterwards, so the only solution was to feed you nutrients through an iv for the mean time. eventually, after the sixth day, you were finally able to keep everything you ate down, and they deemed you ready to be discharged. frank was waiting outside next to his van when they wheeled you out of there.

"can you stand?" he asked patiently as he helped you up out of the wheelchair, then guided you into the passenger seat before going over to his side and getting it. he pulled out of there quickly, one hand on your thigh the whole time as he drove to your apartment. he could see the noticeable difference in your appearance since the first time he'd seen you a week ago. your face looked fuller, your cheekbones less visible and your skin brighter. you filled out your clothes better than when you first came into the emergency room, and you had a lot more energy. you talked more, smiled more, and laughed more. it made frank beam as he looked at you.

"what?" you chuckled as you saw the look he was giving you. it was the most you'd seen frank smile in a long time.

he shook his head dismissively. "nothin'. just happy."

your hand met his on your leg. "why's that?"

as frank pulled up to a red light, he turned to you fully. "because you're happy, and you look amazing." he cupped your face and gingerly planted a kiss on your cheek.

you giggled. "i just got out of the hospital, i look far from amazing right now."

"yeah, sure, but you look better than before." the light changed and frank took off again. "i don't wanna ever see you like that again, you got that, doll? i'm gonna make sure of it, makin' sure you're always taken care of." he looked at you tenderly again. "i wanna be there for you, hun. i wanna do this right this time around."

and frank castle did it right this time.

[rainymitskicain]

About You

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, mentions of past drug addiction, abandonment, pregnancy scare, alludes to smut, make out sesh, reader is described as smaller than Bob.

Summary: You and Bob dated as he struggled with his drug addiction. Then he suddenly leaves for Malasia with the promise of getting, believing he was dragging you down. When you suddenly see him on the news a year later, to say you were surprised would be an understatement.

Word Count: 1.7k

You were in the kitchen when it happened, making a whole box of mac n cheese because you are a grown adult and sometimes life just called for you to eat mac n cheese straight out of the pot. And you had no fear of judgment, especially now that you lived alone

Shit, you really need to stop letting him cross your mind like that.

It’s hard not to when you still live in the shitty apartment you bought together with nothing but enough for the deposit and first month’s rent, but it was yours.

He was clean then, 6 months, had a steady job, everything was looking up for you both until you had a pregnancy scare.

You were 5 weeks late and you were never late. You got your period every 3rd Thursday of the month like clockwork. It made you anxious, and you told Bob immediately that there might be a chance you’re pregnant, too afraid to be the only one with this information.

He seemed shocked, but you thought he took it well. Once you took the test and found out you were in fact not pregnant, you both exhaled a sign of relief.

You were too young to be parents, barely getting your future together, but that little possibility sent a spiral of thoughts and anxieties through Bobs mind

That you weren’t pregnant now, but what if when you did get pregnant, what then? What if he fucks up his nonexistant kid like his father did to him? He’d never hurt you or his future child, but when he was on drugs, he wasn’t in control. What if his mothers issues made him a burden? What it he passed those genes onto your child?

His anxieties gnawed at his stomach for weeks after that, and the craving for the drugs intensified, until he finally gave in, losing himself into his self-destructive void.

It was a never-ending cycle after that.

You'd help him when he was going though withdrawals, caring for him, cleaning up when he’d vomit all over the floor, turning him over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

You stopped sleeping when he’d be out at night doing God knows what. If he didn’t show up in a day or two, you’d go searching around his usual hangout areas. Usually, he’d be passed out on a bench in some park or OD’ing in some alley.

Your last straw was when he stole your rent money to get high. You were pissed; resolve having been broken again and again. Told him you were done, the finality in your words scared him. He begged you, said he’d get better, that he heard from a treatment in Malaysia that would make him better.

You didn’t believe him, he’d said the same things before, promising to change, but sometimes people needed tough love.

So, you walked away from him that night, slept in the spare room and didn’t come out until morning, by then he was gone. The only thing that he left behind was a note saying ‘I’ll get better, I promise. I’ll be back’.

You figured he was lying about Malaysia; you couldn’t be 100% sure since you never heard form him or saw him again since that night.

Until now, where he was plastered on your TV with the supposed New Avengers who had just saved New York.

Looks like you thought wrong, he did change.

To say you were shocked would be an understatement. How does someone go from drug addict to a fucking Avenger? It didn’t make sense.

You were tempted to haul ass to New York in your beat-up Honda, but decided against it. He got clean like he said he would, so maybe he’d come back like he said he would.

You hated that he gave you hope. He was always in your blind spot, you constantly gave him chances knowing that the Bob you loved was in there. Bob that was good, kind, loving, the fucking sassiest man you’ve ever met. Not who the drugs made him.

So, you waited, you kept telling yourself you weren’t, that you were moving on, but every day you stared at the door, hoping it would open. And every day it didn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

6 months have passed since that day you saw him on the news, and you’ve come to accept that Bob Reynolds had forgotten about you. Maybe it was for the best, having a reminder of his past might not be helpful for recovery.

You started to move on, stopped staring at the door like it’d finally answer all your wishes. Started taking down some of his photos, because it hurt to be reminded that you were no longer his future, just a footnote in his past.

Until one night there was a knock at your door. It was soft, like the person behind the door was hesitating, nervous.

You cautiously opened the door, not expecting any visitors when he came into full view.

Bob

He looked different than that time you saw him on the news. He looked taller, no longer slouching, his face fuller, a little stubble on his chin, like he finally started eating proper meals, and most of all, he looked lighter, like he didn’t have the world hanging over his shoulders. He looked good.

And you were opening the door in his messy oversized T-shirt with nothing under but your underwear, your hair barely brushed like you just rolled out of bed.

You were shocked, and there was no hiding it on your face. You looked like a fish out of water, complete genuine shock.

“Hey” Bob said breathless.

“Hey” you whispered back.

Nobody moved, too busy taking each other in.

He thought you looked beautiful; he always preferred you like this when you were your most comfortable. And he noted his shirt you were wearing, he couldn’t believe you still had it.

“Do you mind if I-?”

“Oh, um, uh, yeah, sure” you stepped to the side letting him in. A silence following over you as you closed the door. Not awkward, just a silence of two people with so much to say, but too scared to start the conversation.

You decided to take the leap for both of your sakes “You-” “You look good” he said at the same time, a smile on his face. How you missed the sight.

You blushed, before clearing your throat, “Thanks, uh, I was about to the same thing about you, you look good, healthy.”

His smile reached his eyes as he nodded, “Yeah, I’ve been sober for a while, and um, have some pretty good friends who’ve been helping me out.”

A sadness flashed on your before you regained composure, “I’m glad, you deserve it, Bob. I’m so happy you have a support system.”

You weren’t lying, you were happy for him. It just sucked that you weren’t enough for him. But you know that was unfair. That wasn’t how addiction worked. It was a chronic disease; every day was a struggle.

You sighed before continuing, “I’m honestly kind of surprised you’re here.”

He looked at you in slight confusion, “Why? I said I’d come back right.”

Quirking an eyebrow and giving him a look that said really, “Yeah, over a year and half ago. I honestly… well. I thought you forgot about little old me here.”

“What, I could never forget about you.”

He took two big steps across the room and now you were face to face, well kind of face to chest since he was quite taller than you.

He raised his hands, so they were hovering over your cheeks asking, “Is this, ok?”

You waited for a beat, nervs crawling their way up your spine before nodding

His hands enveloped your cheeks, bringing you closer as he says, “Do you really think I'd forget about you that quickly?”

You just stared at him, your brain malfunctioning unable to speak.

“You’ve been the only thing keeping me going. Everything, getting clean, becoming the Sentry, helping myself so I can help others, it’s all been because of you. Everything I do is about you. I’m sorry it took me so long to come back, I just had to make sure I wouldn’t fuck it up again.”

With that he closed the gap between you too, the kiss started soft, like you were trying to remember the feeling of one another.

Then the kiss turned feverish, starving as you both tried pulling each other closer and closer. Your hands in his hair, his hands moving down toward your waist as he said “jump.”

You jumped, he wrapped your legs around him, one hand holding you up and the other your face. You feel your back hitting the wall as he moved to kiss your neck, your cheeks, every part of your face like he can’t get enough.

You pull his face away from your neck, and rest your forehead against each other, catching your breath. His baby blues stared back you with adoration, like this was the happiest he’s ever been, and it’s the happiest he'll ever be.

Suddenly his face turned series, “I love you.”

Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. You never thought you’d get the chance to hear those words from him again. You weren’t going to take it for granted. This was a moment you’d cherish for a lifetime.

“And I love you”

You both smiled, big happy grins, before he suddenly whisked you away causing you to shriek as he laughed at your reaction, telling him to be careful.

He carried you to what was once your shared room, and you found each other again that night under the sheets of darkness. Coming together with a new sense of understanding, love, and commitment.

A/N: yay something actually happy. Still angst but happy ending. I actually thought it’d be harder to write for Bob, but I had some fun with this one.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!

[talesfromawannabewriter]

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Adam nodded for him to go on to which he did.

Lucifer: So thousands of years later, me and Eve have been going through a bit of a rough patch. But when I look back on it the patch was always there. Me and her have been getting into more fights lately. Especially from the exterminations. She believed that I was a traitor towards our people for allowing this to happen. But what was I meant to do!? Sit back and allow them to massacre all of Hell?! She wasn’t seeing the bigger picture……she never did. Then one night during an incredibly long argument I blurted out to her the truth. I told her that if I was with Evan he would probably see things from this perspective. Then it all came out, including how I had originally used her for my own gain.

Adam: ……..What happened after that?

Lucifer: What do you think? She left that very night and hasn’t spoken a word to me since. Except through her lawyers. But now she’s finally going to show up, not for me obviously but for our daughter. I doubt if she’ll want to even look at me at the party.

Adam: I, I’m not gonna say I’m sorry for what happened. But I do understand to an extent you wanted to do anything for love. It was similar with me back when I was alive.

Lucifer: What do you mean?

Adam: …….I have your vow that you’ll keep my story if I keep yours?

Lucifer nodded: My word is my bond.

Adam: ……….When I was alive I busted my ass off just so I could see my kids. Their mother had hated me since the day she found out she was pregnant. We were just teenagers at the time and it was at a high school party and we just were both having a good time and we thought……..it was stupid of both of us but we didn’t think much of the consequences. When her parents and my dad found out it was a complete and total cluster fuck. They were all deeply religious and in their eyes I had soiled their daughter before marriage and the only way we could be forgiven was if I married her…….which I did. But because I didn’t have a touch, then again neither did Lilith. From day one she had made my life Hell. Nothing I ever did was good enough for her, then she had Cain and when I held him in my arms for the very first time it was like a reward for all that I had gone through. It was the same when she had Abel. They were what made life bearable for me and why I put up with her shit. But of course that happiness comes with a price. Eventually Lilith had enough of me and filed for divorce. I didn’t stop her because I thought it would be better this way……..I was wrong again. Not only did she end up getting full custody of the kids but she demanded both child support and alimony. Her reasoning? Because I had trapped her in a sham marriage and ruined her chances of going to college. She even threatened me that if I didn’t pay her both things in full she would make it so that I never saw either Cain or Abel ever again. I had to pick up three jobs just so I could see my kids on the weekends.

First Patron

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

Warning ⚠️: This fanfic contains scenes of past talk of suicide, addiction, depression, along with parental alienation. Eventually the story will come to a happier plot but if you are not in the right head space then I strongly recommend that you do not read or take caution while reading

Screams of pain and anguish echoed through the city as fire rained everywhere. Blood was flowing through the streets as bodies filled it.

Seems that it was going to be another shitty day in Hell.

On a lone bench in a nearby park there lay a sinner. Which wasn’t uncommon as often sinners were homeless in Pride.

The sinner was sleeping somewhat peacefully as he was covered with a stack of newspapers to keep himself warm.

Even with the heat of Hell he was still cold. He was trying his best to get some shut eye before having to brave the world he existed in.

Unfortunately for him his sleep would be erupted from a bright optimistic face. One that was rare in the pits of Hell.

Charlie carefully approached the slumbering sinner with her girlfriend by her side. The whole day they had been out and about trying to recruit sinners for her hotel.

She just needed one to get her program going. But unfortunately all she received were rolled eyes and scoffs before telling her to go fuck herself.

But by the end of the day she was still not giving up. She was going to help her people, and she had figured out who she could get her to follow when she entered the park to head home.

It was littered with homeless people, many of them sinners. So that was what she was doing now. She was going to ask this homeless sinner to join her program with the promise of free room and board.

How can anyone say no to that?