#speaking of !! second issue is on its way!!!

[averalia]

A Little Much

Part 1// Part 2

| Parings: Thomas “Tommy” Shelby x Reader

| Summary: After years of hidden trauma, you find unexpected solace and fierce protection in Thomas Shelby, the man you once viewed as your enemy.

| Warning/s: mentions of abuse, smoking, Implied emotional abuse/neglect, PTSD symptoms, Discussions of self-worth, self esteem issues.

The gift of Jane Eyre was a turning point. It wasn't a grand gesture, but its quiet thoughtfulness chipped away at the formidable walls you’d built around yourself. You still carried the invisible scars of your past, the ingrained fear of speaking out, the constant awareness of your own vulnerability. But Thomas… Thomas was slowly, subtly, dismantling the narrative you had created for him in your mind. He was no longer just the enemy who had sealed your fate; he was a complex, unpredictable man, capable of surprising tenderness.

You began to seek out his company, not actively, but by lingering in rooms you knew he’d enter, by taking your tea in the morning at the same time he was having his first cigarette. He, in turn, seemed to seek yours. He’d bring you books he thought you might like, sometimes leaving them silently on your bedside table, other times handing them to you with a slight, almost shy, smile. He'd ask for your opinions on small matters concerning the house, a subtle way of acknowledging your presence, your intelligence.

One evening, a fierce storm raged outside, rattling the windows and making the old house creak. You were in the drawing-room, trying to lose yourself in a book, but the memories of being locked out in the snow, the biting wind, the numb cold, were overwhelming. You shivered, pulling a shawl tighter around you.

Thomas entered, shrugging off his wet coat. He paused when he saw you, his gaze sharpening. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice softer than the howling wind.

You shook your head, unable to speak, the fear a tight knot in your stomach.

He walked over to the fireplace, adding more coal, stirring the embers until the flames licked higher. Then, unexpectedly, he sat on the ottoman in front of you, closer than he ever had before. He reached out, his large hand gently covering yours, which still clutched the book.

"You're trembling, Y/N," he observed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "What is it?"

The dam broke. The years of unspoken trauma, the hidden abuse, the suffocating fear – it all rushed to the surface. Your voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the storm. "My father… he used to… he'd lock me out. In the snow. If I displeased him." The words tumbled out, shaky and broken, each one a shard of glass. "A speck of dirt, a forgotten chore… he’d just… open the door and push me out. No one ever knew."

Thomas’s hand tightened around yours, a silent anchor. His face, usually a mask of control, was etched with a profound sadness, a deep, simmering anger that wasn't directed at you. "He beat you," he stated, not a question, but a quiet, chilling certainty.

You nodded, tears finally tracing paths down your cheeks. "Senseless. For speaking without permission. For looking at him the wrong way." You pulled your hand from his, instinctively clutching your arm, a phantom pain throbbing beneath your sleeve. "They gave me away without a second thought. I was nothing to them."

He stood then, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. "You are not nothing, Y/N," he said, his voice low and guttural, filled with a controlled fury you’d never heard from him before. He turned to face you, his eyes stormy, but no longer with just calculation, but with a fierce protectiveness. "And no one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I draw breath."

He reached out, cupping your face gently in his hands. His thumbs wiped away your tears, his touch surprisingly tender. You leaned into his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort he offered. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a vulnerability you hadn’t thought him capable of. He was still Thomas Shelby, the gang leader, the calculating businessman. But he was also the man who saw your pain, who offered solace, who promised protection. And as he pulled you into a tentative embrace, holding you close while the storm raged outside, you realized with a startling clarity that he was no longer your enemy. He was your unexpected solace, your reluctant protector, and perhaps, just perhaps, something more. The path to love was fraught with the shadows of your past, but in his arms, for the first time, you felt truly, deeply safe.

The revelation of your past, whispered amidst the storm, changed something fundamental between you and Thomas. The fragile trust you’d been building solidified into something stronger, more resilient. He had seen your deepest vulnerability, the raw, ugly truth of your childhood, and instead of recoiling, he had offered unwavering protection.

The days that followed were marked by a quiet intimacy. Thomas, ever the man of action, didn't dwell on your past in endless conversations, but his actions spoke volumes. He became acutely attuned to your discomforts, the subtle flinches, the guarded glances. He’d ensure doors were never locked if you were inside, a small but profound gesture that chipped away at the ingrained fear of confinement. He’d occasionally find you staring into space, lost in a memory, and without a word, he’d simply sit beside you, his presence a silent comfort, a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of your mind.

One crisp morning, you were having breakfast alone when Thomas entered, a rare occurrence. He sat opposite you, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"You look… more at ease," he observed, his gaze assessing.

You managed a small, genuine smile. "I am. Thank you, Thomas."

He nodded, a flicker of something close to satisfaction in his eyes. "No one ever deserves what you went through, Y/N." His voice was low, laced with a familiar steel, but softened with genuine empathy. "And no one will ever put you through it again."

He didn't just speak the words; he embodied them. He started leaving clear instructions with his staff that you were to be afforded every courtesy, that your word was to be respected. He subtly began to assert your position in the household, not as a decorative wife, but as a valued member of his life. He even started asking for your opinions on minor business matters, not out of necessity, but to genuinely hear your perspective, to foster your confidence.

A Glimmer of Understanding

Despite his unwavering support, there were moments when the sheer depth of your trauma seemed to baffle him, the lingering shadows of fear unfamiliar territory for a man who had faced down so many tangible threats.

One afternoon, you were walking through the bustling streets of Small Heath with Polly, a rare outing. A sudden, loud bang – a carriage backfiring – made you jump violently, your heart leaping into your throat. You instinctively hunched your shoulders, covering your head, a primal reaction to the sudden noise.

Polly immediately put an arm around you, her expression concerned. "It's alright, dear, just a cart."

When you finally straightened, eyes wide with residual fear, you saw Thomas, who had been a few paces ahead, looking back at you. His brow was furrowed, a slight confusion in his eyes. He’d seen the fear, the instantaneous retreat, but the sheer visceral reaction to a simple noise seemed to be beyond his immediate comprehension. He understood violence, understood pain, but the invisible, insidious nature of trauma was a different beast.

Later that evening, back in the quiet of his study, he brought it up. "That bang today… you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

You hesitated, trying to explain something so deeply ingrained. "It's… when you're always waiting for the next blow, the smallest unexpected noise can feel like the beginning of it all again. It's a memory, a warning."

He listened, his gaze intense, but you could see the slight furrow in his brow. He didn't quite get it, not in the way someone who had experienced it would. He understood the logic of it, the fear, but the automatic, physical reaction, the way the past could still hijack your present—that was a chasm he couldn't fully bridge with his own experiences.

He rose from his desk and came to stand before you, reaching out and gently taking your hands. "I can't truly know what that feels like, Y/N," he admitted, his voice quiet, almost regretful. "But I can promise you this: you are safe with me. Always. And if you ever feel that way again, you just tell me. Or Polly. Or Arthur." He squeezed your hands. "We'll face it together."

It wasn't a perfect understanding, but it was an honest admission, a promise. He might not fully comprehend the internal war you still fought, but he was willing to stand on the battlefield with you, to be your shield against the unseen enemies of your past. And in that moment, as you looked into his earnest, stormy eyes, you knew that was more than enough. He was no longer a means to an end; he was becoming the foundation of a new beginning.

The quiet promise Thomas made, to stand with you against the unseen enemies of your past, became a cornerstone of your shared life. He didn't always understand the nuances of your fear, the sudden shifts in your mood, or the way certain sounds or sights could transport you back to moments of terror. But he never dismissed it. He listened, he learned, and he adapted.

You found yourself leaning on him more, allowing yourself to be vulnerable in ways you never thought possible. You’d share fragmented memories, not in a torrent, but in quiet moments, like secrets whispered into the twilight. You told him about the biting cold of the snow, the humiliation of being left outside, the searing pain of the beatings, the chilling silence that followed your father’s rage. Thomas, in turn, would simply hold you, his embrace a sanctuary, his quiet strength a balm to your wounded soul. He'd never say, "I know how you feel," because he didn't. Instead, he’d say, "That bastard. He'll never touch you again." And you believed him.

Your progress wasn't linear. There were days when the shadows of your past felt insurmountable, days when a sudden raised voice, even from someone else, would make you flinch, or a closed door would trigger a wave of panic. But Thomas was always there, a steady, unwavering presence. He learned to recognize the signs, the subtle ways your body would brace for a blow that wasn’t coming. He'd step in, deflecting a sharp word, or simply offer a hand, a grounding touch that pulled you back to the present.

The love that blossomed between you wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was woven into the fabric of your everyday lives, an unspoken language of gestures and quiet understanding. It was in the way Thomas would pour your tea exactly how you liked it, the extra sugar you favored, or the way he’d leave a new book on your bedside table, always something he knew you’d enjoy. It was in the way he’d subtly position himself between you and any perceived threat, his broad shoulders a silent shield.

And you, in turn, began to see him beyond the hardened exterior, beyond the reputation. You saw the weight of his responsibilities, the quiet moments of weariness in his eyes after a long day of fighting for his family and his empire. You saw the fierce loyalty he held for those he loved, a loyalty he now extended unequivocally to you. You started to anticipate his needs, to offer quiet comfort after a particularly grueling meeting, to simply be present, a steadying force in his often tumultuous life.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, Thomas reached out and took your hand, his thumb tracing the delicate bones of your wrist. He didn't say anything, but his gaze, usually so intense and unreadable, softened into a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"You know," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, "when I first agreed to this marriage… you were a means to an end. A way to solidify our position. That was it." He paused, his thumb still stroking your skin. "I was a fool."

You looked at him, your heart aching with a bittersweet mix of past pain and present joy. "And I saw you as the enemy," you confessed, your voice a whisper. "The one who took what little freedom I had left."

A small, rueful smile touched his lips. "We were both wrong, then." His grip on your hand tightened, a silent promise. "You are more than just my wife, Y/N. You are… everything."

Tears pricked your eyes, but these were not tears of sorrow, but of a profound, overwhelming happiness. You knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within your soul, that while the scars of your past would always be a part of you, they no longer defined you. You were not entirely free of the shadows, but with Thomas by your side, holding your hand, you were no longer alone in the dark. He didn't just love you despite your past; he loved you for the strength you had found in surviving it, for the resilient spirit that had endured. And you, in turn, had found love in the most unexpected of places, with the man you once considered your enemy, a love that promised not to erase your past, but to build a powerful future upon its foundations.

The quiet intimacy that had blossomed between you and Thomas deepened with each passing season. The memories of your past still surfaced, sometimes unbidden, but they no longer held the same power. You were no longer the terrified girl locked out in the snow; you were Y/N Shelby, cherished wife of Thomas Shelby, and protected by a love that was fierce and unwavering.

The idea of children had, at first, been a distant, almost frightening thought. The prospect of bringing a child into a world that felt so full of pain, and the terrifying notion of being a parent after experiencing such abuse yourself, had been a heavy burden. But as your bond with Thomas strengthened, as his love became a constant, undeniable force, the fear began to recede, replaced by a tentative hope.

It was a cold, blustery evening when you finally broached the subject. You were seated by the fire, a familiar comfort, and Thomas was across from you, engrossed in a newspaper.

"Thomas," you began, your voice soft.

He lowered the paper, his stormy eyes meeting yours. "Yes, Y/N?"

You took a deep breath. "Have you ever… thought about children?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a thoughtful expression. He set the newspaper aside. "It's… not something I've actively considered, not in detail. Running the business, keeping the family safe… it takes up most of my thoughts." He paused, his gaze softening. "But if you have, then I've considered it."

You fidgeted with the hem of your dress. "I… I've been afraid to. After… everything." You gestured vaguely to your past. "I wouldn't want to bring a child into anything but absolute safety. And I don’t know if I’d be a good mother, after what I experienced."

Thomas rose and came to sit beside you, taking your hand in his. His touch was reassuring, grounding. "Y/N," he said, his voice firm, "you would be an incredible mother. Your resilience, your compassion… those are strengths that no one could teach. And as for safety," his eyes hardened with a familiar resolve, "any child of ours would be guarded by an army if necessary. Nothing, and no one, would ever touch them."

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility.

His words, simple yet powerful, resonated deep within you. The image of a future, once shrouded in fear, now seemed to shimmer with possibility. You leaned into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder, finding solace in the rhythmic beat of his heart.

"You really believe that?" you whispered, the question laced with the last vestiges of doubt.

He shifted, turning slightly to fully embrace you, his arm tightening around your waist. "I don't just believe it, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble against your hair. "I know it. Look at you. You survived hell. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And that strength, that resilience, that compassion you carry, despite everything… that’s what will make you an extraordinary mother. And any child of ours," he pulled back slightly, his stormy eyes locking onto yours, "will know nothing but love and safety. I swear it."

In his gaze, you saw not just a promise, but a reflection of his own fierce protectiveness, a quality you had once seen as a threat, but now recognized as the deepest form of care. The thought of a child, once a source of terror, now brought a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the lingering chill of your past. With Thomas, you truly believed it was possible. Not just to survive, but to thrive, to build a family, and to create a legacy of love that would finally silence the echoes of fear.

From that evening forward, the conversation about children became less a whispered secret and more a shared vision. Thomas, in his methodical way, began to consider the practicalities, discussing potential nurseries, the type of schooling he'd want for them, even the future of the family business in relation to their upbringing. His protective instincts, always a formidable force, would now be channeled into building an impenetrable fortress of security and love around your future family.

You, in turn, found yourself envisioning the small, everyday joys: reading stories by the fire, teaching them to garden, seeing a glimmer of Thomas's fierce spirit in their eyes, and perhaps, a reflection of your own quiet strength. The fear wasn't entirely gone – some shadows linger, a testament to what you'd endured – but it was now a distant hum, overshadowed by the burgeoning excitement and profound hope for the future you were building, brick by brick, with the man you now loved unequivocally.

[queendynamight2001]

Trust

ProHero!Katsuki Bakugo x ProHero!Reader where his small overprotectiveness turns into a full-blown control issue. Pre-relationship stage.  Word count: 2.5k+  Tags- emotional whump, angst, happy ending, conflicted love, near-death situations, survivors' guilt, possessive Bakugo, explosive arguments, forced vulnerability, slow-burning tension, eventual confession, and Bakugo's terrible way of saying “I care”  ✨Inspired by my overprotective dad's care, which feels like control sometimes.   This is my first ever fanfic lol✨  Cross posted in AO3 as well under the username Queen_Dynamight2001   ----------------------------------------------------------

It started small 

Both Katsuki and you were called in for backup during joint raid in the city. But when you opened the door, ready to go in, his palm slammed the car door shut.  

“Stay here, I’ll handle it.’ 

You blinked at him through the window, mouth half open.  

“Wh- 

Before you could speak, a loud “BOOM” and he was gone in a flash of smoke and light.  

When you brought it up later, he scoffed and said, “You looked like shit in the morning. Didn't trust you to stay sharp.” 

And you let it go. Because maybe he was right that time.  

The next time in mid-mission, where the smoke chocked the air. Sirens screamed at a distance. The building was groaning, minutes from crumbling. The rubble rained like hair and dust coated everything.  

Then you saw them. Two kids. Trapped beneath a beam near the east wing. Few feet from the Fireline. Scared and crying.  

You ran. Didn't think. Couldn’t. Your body moved on its own before your brain did. Your legs burning as you leapt through the barricade and sprinted towards them, heart pounding. 

Then, a hand slammed against your ribs, brutal and unyielding. Your body jerked back like it hit a wall. Air whooshed out of your lungs, sharp and pain bloomed along your side.  

Before you could even gasp, arms wrapped around your torso, iron strong, locking you in place with their entire bodyweight. 

“NO”, Katsuki's voice barked.   “LET ME GO!”, you struggled against his grip.  “YOU WILL DIE”  “I CAN REACH THEM”, you screamed, hands sprawled out, crawling, struggling against his hold.   And then, the steel cracked. The dust and debris swallowed the light. The concrete thundered down slow, sickening. So did the ceilings. So did the walls. So did the floor and so did the children.  

You screamed. A raw, ragged, painful, deafening scream from deep in your lungs so loud it swallowed the entire world around you. 

You felt it. That moment when hope was right there and next second it was gone, taken away from you. You fell down on your knees, tears streaming out uncontrollably. 

“YOU-”, your voice was hoarse, breaking, raging. “WHATS YOUR PROBLEM?” 

Katsuki stood above you, heaving, palms still smoking, soot smeared all over him, drenched in sweat and dirt. 

You looked at him like you didn't recognize him. “ARE YOU CRAZY?” 

“You would have been buried.”, he growled, small voice, panting.   “There were kids, Katsuki!” your voice cracked, breaking with each word, trembling as you held back more tears, “I could have sav- 

“YOU COULD HAVE DIED”, he raised his voice.  “THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE USED YOUR BODY.BLASTED THE ROOF. SHIELDED ME. DONE SOMETHING.”, you matched his.  "I'm not your goddamn guard dog-”  “THEN STOP ACTING LIKE ONE”, you screamed in his face, eyes brimming with sorrow, anger, grief, everything too much. 

“You made that call for me”, you whispered, chest hitching. “You held me back and made me watch them die. And now I have to live with that for the rest of my life. DO YOU EVEN GET THAT?” 

Katsuki’s fist clinched. This mouth opened, like he was about to say something. But he didn't. He couldn't.  

Silence 

Heavy 

As you walked away with trembling body and still sobbing from the event that unfolded.  

All you could feel were his hands that wrapped around your torso still burned more than the wreckage behind reminding you of the what if’s-   

You avoided him as much as you could after that incident but being in the same friend circle made complete distancing impossible. You were also in love with him, and that made it worse. When he overstepped, when he made your blood boil, even when you swore you would talk about boundaries, you didn't want to fight. You wanted to believe he did it all because he cared for you. The pattern didn't stop tho. 

In every patrol, every mission, every decision you would find his shadow over your shoulder questioning, correcting, just hovering around.   

Then the final straw came 

It was the weekend you were looking forward to. The group had made plans for a night out. Nothing flashy, just a well-known local bar where you could sit with a drink and pretend the world outside didn't exist. Free from the reality, stress of being a pro hero, the headlines, rankings.  

The bar was warm, alive with laughter, low music hummed, drinks clink. You walked in the bar with Mina and Jiro, laughter light and fizzing from your chest. You wore a skirt which was recently bought. New and shiny. Hugging all your curves and muscles. For a moment there, it felt like everything might be okay. And that this was the whole point of life. Being happy, laughing with friends, feeling content. 

Then you saw him.  

Katsuki stood near the bar table with Kirishima, Kaminari and Sero leaning against the booth like he hadn't even bothered sitting down. The second his eyes landed on you, his entire posture changed. Shoulder locked, jaw tightened, arms crossed and gaze sharp, hot, expression unreadable. One that followed you across the room like a predator. 

You pretended not to notice. It was just a look after all.  

But you felt it. His sharp gaze. The fact that he hadn't looked away once.  

It made you go red in the face. It was uncomfortable and embarrassing.  

You took your seat with the others, had fun conversation with others, enjoying yourself.  

He didn't say anything at first. Not until the drink came around and you leaned back with your drink, laughter still on your lips from something Mina said.  

Thats when he approached you.  

“Nice dress,” he muttered, voice low and a beat too slow, like it pained him to admit it. Like he was forced to say those words out. His face then twisted, jaw tightened.  

You looked at him weird.  

"The hell you wearin’ that for?” 

You blinked at him, confused. “What are you talking about? Was there a dress code for existing now?” 

He didn't answer. Just clenched his jaw. The table went quiet, not sure if it was one of the witty remarks you threw at each other or the beginning of a serious arguments you two had started getting in lately. 

Mina requested to switch places with you so that you two were at a distance from each other to ease up the mood.  

You stood up for the arrangement. And then it happened. A man you didnt know approached you. Casual and polite. 

“Hey, I don't mean to interrupt,” he said nodding to the group but looking at you.   “Just wanted to say you look amazing. Can I buy you a drink?” 

You didnt even get a chance to answer because Katsuki was already stepping forward, voice cutting sharp through the noise.  

“She’s not interested.” 

The guy blinked. “Dude, I wasn't talki-”  

“SHE’S. NOT. INTERESTED.” he said it again, louder this time. 

The guy raised his hands in defeat and backed off, muttering something under his breath. You felt the heat crawl up your neck. All from the attention. And the way Katsuki was looking at you like you’d done something wrong. You felt anger bubbling up.  

“What the hell is your problem?” You shoved his chest. He didn't even budge.  

His eyes narrowed. “My problem?  You think it's a good idea to wear that shit and flirt with random stranger in the middle of a bar?”  

“Oh, I'm sorry I forgot to check with you before putting on a damn skirt.”   “You are putting yourself at ris-”   “No Katsuki, I’m just EXISTING!” you screamed, choking on your own breath, shaking from anger and hurt. “You don't get to decide how I exist in this world. What I eat or whom I talk to. You're not my father. You’re not even being a friend right now.” your voice louder at the end. 

Silence. 

Everyone stared.  

You didn't care. 

You grabbed your purse, didn't say a word and walked straight out. 

Mina called your name, Kirishima started to rise, hands out blocking Bakugo.  

You didn't look back. 

You got into a random cab parked outside, turned off your phone and told the driver to just drive Away from the city to the outskirts. Distance. Somewhere he wouldn't reach you. 

Three hours later you checked into a quite roadside hotel. It was cheap, clean and anonymous. You showered, changed and went downstairs to the bar. It was dim and empty. You ordered a drink. Then another. And another. You wanted to get drunk. You tried, yet the buzz never settled. You wanted to feel numb from the weight, the stress, the pain, everything. Just wanted peace for tonight. Numb and quiet. Finally, not being watched.  

Until the door opened 

The air changed. 

You didn't hear him first. You felt him. The smell. The way your pulse rose. The way your stomach flipped. The way cold shiver ran down your spine. The bar door cracked open. You didn't turn, but you knew the sound of those footsteps. The heat of his gaze crawling in the back of your neck like it always did. 

“Knew you’d pull up some shit like this,” Katsuki muttered from behind. 

You didn't face him, just raised your glass and took a sip of your drink.  

“You could have told someone.” Bakugo spoke. 

You scoffed, “and give you the satisfaction of trying to stop me again?” 

He took a step forward. You heard the shift of his coat. “You are drinking alone, in a hotel bar 3 hours from the city, phone switched off.”  

You swiveled on the stool, slow and steady. Looked him straight in the eye and spoke with a cold, stern voice. 

“Don't talk to me like I owe you an explanation.” 

His jaw clenched, “You serious?”  

“I'm tired of being managed like your goddamn sidekick.” Your voice cracked, came out weak and hurt.  

“You fuckin’ vanished. Drunk. No one knew if you were safe. You think that's okay?”  

“I think it's none of your business.”  

His eyes flared. “You left without saying shit. You expect me to not fucking care?" 

“No,” you spoke out loud and clear, shaking your head. “I expect you to stop pretending you care when all you ever do is control me. My body, my choices, my mission, my outfits, my fucking smile.” 

“I was trying to protect y-” 

“From what Katsuki? From being looked at? From wearing a skirt? From being someone, you don't get to own?”  

His mouth opened and closed. Expression slightly softened. “I didn't mean it like that.” 

“But that's what you always do.” your voice cracked. Soft and sharp. “You don't say how you feel. You command, just stare, watch, guard, push and glare. You think that's care?”  

Silence. Heavy. Think. Almost unbearable.  

“You think I like being like this?” 

“I think you don't know how not to be.”, you barked back, venom in each word. You looked away before seeing any kind of expression in his face.  

“I want a life, Katsuki. Not a leash. I don't want you to treat me like I'm fragile. Something that would break if you breathed wrong.”, your voice shook, tears feel freely. 

Quiet. No reply from him. You didn't even look at his direction, afraid of his expression. But you spoke, because he needed to hear how you felt.  

“I smiled tonight. I laughed. For the first time in a while, I felt like I wasn't drowning in mission reports. And the second I did, you looked at me like I betrayed you.” 

“I didn't-”, he stated, barely above whisper.  

“You did. Thats how I felt. Your eyes, expression looked like I cheated on you by breathing without permission.”, you sobbed. “Do i need permission to breathe? To talk? Katsuki?”, You asked. Voice breaking, sobbing. Chest and throat tight. It took everything in you to not throw away that glass in your hand. 

You waited for him to continue, but he didn't . Not a single word after you’d pour out your soul like that.  

The silence, it was thick and suffocating. So you laughed. Soft and bitter. Shook your head like the weight of it would never come off.    “Thats what I thought.” You try to walk away. Done. Empty. Hurt.  

But as you pass him, his hands shoots out, grabbing your wrist.  

“Don’t.” He speaks 

You freeze. He’s not yelling. His voice barely above whisper. “Don't walk away. Not  yet.”  

You didnt look at him. You couldnt. But your arms didnt pull away either.  

He continues, “I didn't know I was hurting ya.” 

Then another pause.  

“I thought I was keeping you safe. I didn't know it made you feel caged. You smiled bright, and I thought... I thought if someone else sees you like that.... you will forget me, and they will take you away and give you what I can’t.” 

“I realized. Just now. How I’m the one taking that smile. And I’m the one making you feel like you’re not allowed to live. I don't wanna be that guy. No.”  His gaze never lifting from the ground, he kept speaking.  

“I never learned how to... How to show things I only knew how to fight and win. How to perfect and protect. I yell loud enough, burn bright enough thinking maybe you’d get the message.” 

He looked up at you now.   “But all I've done is scare you into silence. I’m sorry.” 

His voice cracked at end and you saw it. THE KATSUKI BAKUGO, with his pride swallowed, guilt bared and his apology written all over his face.  

You stepped forward, reached out to his face with trembling fingers cupped his face.  

He flinched. Just barely but leaned in.   “I don't want perfection.” You whispered. “I want to be seen. I want to be heard. Not handled. Not managed.” 

  He nodded. “I can do that. I’ll try.” 

He brought his hands to yours and grabbed them tight. “I wanna do better.”, he said, firm and determined. “You deserve better than my bullshit walls and orders and... and someone who hears you. I wanna be that person. I wanna learn how to talk, how to ask and how to sit down and listen without turning everything into a command.”   

You smiled, tears pricking, looking at him with all the warmth and softness in your eyes. 

“You don't have to fix it all tonight, Katsuki.” 

“Yeah, well... I ain’t waiting.” 

He brought your hands near his lips and gave them a soft kiss. 

[kosher-salt]

.

[lemodoe]

started the penumbra podcast the other day and im surprisingly Really on board for only like five episodes in (more like two? since four of them are two part-ers and one was an unrelated one shot) but holy mother of god what is going on with the sound design are you guys okay in there

[lpsgirl109]

This is why i need to get big as an actress for no other reason than to have plenty of money just for the people i love

[the-king-of-lemons]

,

[syncaleb]

-> soft yandere caleb hcs:

1. “you’re mine. you said so.” you get busy—miss a call, forget a text—and when you finally answer, his voice is calm, too calm. “i waited. for hours.” you apologize, sweetly, teasingly even, but he doesn’t laugh. “you promised you’d always be there, remember? don’t break your promises. i… don’t handle that well.” and later, when he holds you close, you feel the way his hands tremble slightly against your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

2. his name in your phone has a lock emoji. -> he changed it himself. he also disabled the option to delete his contact. “just in case someone thinks they can slide into your messages,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “they’ll know who you belong to.”

3. he tracks you. -> not in a creepy way (okay maybe a little), but he has your location always. and when he sees you’re somewhere unexpected, he texts immediately: “what are you doing there?” ……you ask how he knew. “because you’re mine pipsqueak, and i need to know you’re safe. that’s not too much to ask, is it?” and the look in his eyes? he’d burn the whole galaxy just to get you back home.

4. he doesn’t like you being friends with your ex-> at all. he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t tell you not to. he just shuts down emotionally, turns icy and unreadable. it’s bound with his actions though… he would probably still do everything acts of service wise. but he wants you to understand something is wrong, wants you to probe… and when you confront him, he finally murmurs, “i don’t want to be second choice to anyone. i want to be your only. and if that’s too much—” you cut him off with a kiss. you have to. because his voice was starting to sound a little unhinged and a little too honest.

5. he locks the door when you argue.-> not to trap you essentially (which he thinks he isn’t doing…) just to make sure you don’t leave. “we’re not going to sleep angry pips,” he says, softly. “you don’t walk away from me. not when we love each other this much baby.” and when you calm down, he pulls you into his lap, arms like iron around you, and whispers again and again, “mine. mine. mine.”

6. he doesn’t like you dressing up for anyone but him.-> you put on a new outfit, stunning, radiant—and his jaw clenches. why are you so breath-taking my gorgeous he thinks… no wonder he wants a world with just the two of you. “who’s that for?” / “me,” you say, innocent. but he steps closer, cups your jaw gently, possessively. “next time, wear it only when we’re alone. i don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine. or~ you’d hate how i become and say something like i killed your old caleb.”

7. his anger is unpredictable.->when someone flirts with you in front of him, he doesn’t start a fight. but sometimes the look in his eyes speaks more than words ever could. maybe he will break their bones when you leave, maybe he will let it slide. who knows what caleb’s mood dictates him to do. sometimes, he just smiles. and later, when you’re home, he pins you softly to the bed, hands on either side of your head.“do you want them?” he asks, voice flat. “because i can make sure they never speak to you again.” and you— you tell him it’s just him. it’s always been him. like a prayer, like a chanting to balm his rage. and he finally kisses you like a starved man, whispering “good girl.”

8. he deletes numbers from your phone.->you’ll never notice. he’s too smooth. but people you used to talk to? stop replying. and when you ask caleb, he just shrugs with a soft smirk, “maybe they realized they could never compete with me.” and then changes the subject with a kiss and that dangerous look in his eyes again…. this isn’t out of sheer possessiveness though its just out of trust issues.

9. he doesn’t like letting you sleep mad at him.-> you try to turn away in bed, still upset. away from him… back on his face like an iron wall. but he slides his arms around you from behind, strong and unyielding.“no. you don’t get to walk away from me in your sleep, either.” and you can feel how serious he is. “we fix this now, angel. i’ll do anything. but you don’t leave.”

10. he has nightmares about losing you.-> he never tells you the full details either. just that he wakes up shaking, pale, and pulls you into his lap, holding you so tightly it almost hurts. “i saw you leaving me,” he whispers into your neck. “don’t ever do that. i wouldn’t survive it.”

[arolesbianism]

I love so oni so dearly but I can also tell that I am too much of a lazy bitch for this game sometimes lol. There's definitely a lot of features that I could make such great use of if I bothered to actually try using them but I will forever do things the more wasteful and inconvenient way because that's just how I roll babey

[the-n109-zone]

TW: racism, ableism, homophobia, stalking, bullying, problematic developer

I didn't originally intend to publish this, but after seeing one specific post made by galacticglados, I felt it was time to speak out.

queenlilithprime / restartheartvn is a horrible person and you should not support them.

I have documented and provided screenshots of every post linked here. This means that even if Lilith deletes something, I will still have evidence. I have also screen recorded their entire vent blog, racism blog, and some of the other blogs they've engaged with for future reference. So there will be no excuse for faking screenshots if the original source can no longer be found. For even more security it might be good to reblog posts you find important to preserve them as well.

First, proof "princessofhollowness" is their venting side blog.

Here is Lilith's post talking about creating a new blog to vent on.

Most of the reblogged posts on princessofhollowness have been liked by their main blog, queenlilithprime. This proves it's a side blog since you can only like posts from your main blog. Similar to that, Lilith interacts with the same group of friends on their vent blog.

Below are screenshots of reblogged posts that have been liked by Lilith's main blog. You can find so much more than the ones I listed by visiting princessofhollowness and looking through each individual post yourself. (one two three four)

According to former friends of Lilith, many of the personal experiences shared on their vent blog can be backed up by personal events shared on their discord and main blog. Out of respect for their privacy, since these posts are personal, I will not share screenshots. But you can still find them on their vent blog.

With that out of the way I want you to remember that whenever you see "princessofhollowness" in any of the screenshots, it's one of Lilith's side blogs.

Proof "galacticglados" is another side blog.

Another thing I need to establish is that "galacticglados" is another side blog created by Lilith, as I will be referencing it periodically.

I want to highlight that Lilith's typing style and formatting are similar to those used on their second and third side blogs.

Going a step further, Lilith has previously interacted with the creators of the blog "creatingblackcharacters" on their main account and is familiar with the owners. This will be relevant later. (one two)

Furthermore, all the posts found on galacticglados align with the stalkerish intentions directed toward the creator of the blog "14dayswithyou," which I will elaborate on later.

They showed ignorance as a developer and made homophobia accusations towards the developers of Love & Deepspace.

Lilith has labeled the developers of L&DS (Papergames and subsequently Infold Games) and its fandom as homophobic and shitty without conducting any research or providing evidence of their claims. They made most of these claims on their developer accounts, which has many impressionable followers. (link)

If they did their due diligence as a developer with a published game of their own, they would know that China has significant censorship issues, especially regarding LGBT+ relationships and queer men. Games will be blacklisted and unplayable in China if they don't meet specific conditions. It is absurd to condemn an entire studio and call them homophobic simply for adhering to the laws of their country and not allowing BL content to jeopardize everything they have built.

Additionally, it's well known that L&DS is an otome game designed primarily for women. Lilith expects a massive company to violate Chinese laws by allowing BL content, which would then undermine the intent of the game and take away from a product created for women. If L&DS were a BL game instead, it would not be appropriate to make the main character a woman to be more inclusive.

They have spoken poorly about the developer of YOU and HIM behind their back.

UnknownHermit is the creator of YOU and HIM and was originally part of Florescent Red Studios, a developer studio co-owned by Lilith and @stnaf-vn. I don't have much to say except that discussing a friend's or employee's issues behind their back in a public setting is a shady practice for a developer. (link)

The second screenshot is proof that YOU and HIM had ties to Florescent Red Studios. The context of the tweet is unrelated.

They have shown stalkerish behavior regarding 14 D ays With You.

Lilith has an obsession with digging up old posts made by 14dayswithyou and scrutinizing them for any flaws. Some of 14dayswithyou's posts date back several days to over a year, yet Lilith continues to stalk their socials daily and scroll through hundreds of posts just to find any kind of infraction they can complain about. I recommend looking at princessofhollowness and any other blogs they've interacted with to understand what I'm talking about. (one two three four)

They are obsessed with the downfall of 14dayswithyou to the point where they weaponized and used creatingblackcharacters to reach their goal.

Now that I've provided evidence that princessofhollowness belongs to Lilith and highlighted their stalker-like behavior towards 14dayswithyou, it gives more context to the posts found on galacticglados.

As I mentioned above, Lilith actively criticizes everything the creator of 14dayswithyou does on princessofhollowness and has even commented on their inability to draw Black people accurately, despite two of the characters not actually being Black. It's no coincidence that they raised the same issue on galacticglados and attempted to launch a smear campaign to avoid facing backlash on their main blog. (one two three four)

Lilith has complained about the 14dayswithyou server on princessofhollowness and again on galacticglados, which is even more proof they run both accounts. They have also interacted with this post a few hours prior to posting something related on galacticglados, which is interesting. (link link)

They're a racist who assumes all dark-skinned people are Black.

Two characters mentioned in this post were mistakenly assumed to be Black despite their ethnicities never having been officially confirmed anywhere. Although they have non-Black features, such as their eye color and hair texture, Lilith still claimed they were 100% Black and submitted this information to the creatingblackcharacters blog with harmful intent.

A friend sent me a screenshot of the creator confirming that the characters are actually intended to be South Asian. So there is no excuse for Lilith trying to perpetuate racial stereotypes about Black people.

They're ableist and made a horrible joke about cancer.

Lilith jokingly remarked that people who are racist should get skin cancer. They later apologized for this comment, but in the big year of 2025, making such a joke is simply not acceptable. Ironically, while Lilith spoke about immediately calling out racism in their original post, they lacked the courage to actually do so on their main blog and instead addressed it on galacticglados. Below is the cropped and full version of the same post since it is lengthy. (link)

They're a virtue signaller who tries to get in the good graces of mainstream accounts despite being a hypocrite.

Lilith supported proshipping after reblogging a statement from @fantasia-kitt, despite stating "no proshipping" on their blog and not apologizing for banning my friend on discord for liking similar proshipper content found in fantasia-kitt's game, The Kid At The Back. (one two)

Lilith only interacts with developers who are popular or have a large following, and never smaller developers. This is seen with fantasia-kitt above as well as @sourmiiiilk. (link)

As said earlier, they also publicly shared a post that demanded better Black representation and justice for characters that were actually dark-skinned Asians.

I will add more once additional information comes forward. For now, do not support queenlilithprime / restartheartvn.

Testimonies from other people

These will be from aggrieved discord members since that is where most of my friends are active, but I can add anonymous tumblr testimonies too.

Person 1:

Person 2:

[heeluvv]

RUINED.ᐟ

pairingᝰ.ᐟ idol! jakehoon x 8th member! reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ fingering, mean/rough! jakehoon, unprotected sex, oral (m), etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ request, mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

their stares were unrelenting, burning into you with an intensity that felt like it could pierce through your skin. the weight of their gazes made it nearly impossible to focus, but you forced yourself to keep your composure, your lips curving into an effortless smile as you continued answering the interviewer’s questions. yet, with each passing second, with every word that left your mouth, you could feel the tension thickening—an invisible storm brewing right beside you.

the irritation radiating from them was palpable, woven into the way sunghoon’s jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack, the way jake sat unnervingly still, his presence looming with quiet intensity. their frustration was barely contained, hanging on by a fragile thread that threatened to snap at any moment.

this wouldn’t have been an issue—if not for the interviewer.

their shameless flattery poured over you like honey, every admiring word, every lingering glance, feeding into the growing storm of jealousy beside you. compliments on your beauty, your presence, your effortless charm—it was nothing you hadn’t heard before, but right now, it was dangerous. because while you knew how sunghoon and jake felt about you, the world didn’t. your relationship was a secret, a carefully guarded truth hidden from the public eye, and that restraint—that forced secrecy—was driving them insane.

but what sent them over the edge?

the touches.

small, fleeting, seemingly innocent brushes of fingers against your hand, slight lingering contact as the interviewer leaned in closer than necessary. and that was enough.

sunghoon’s hand dropped onto your thigh, fingers digging in hard, his nails biting into your skin—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you, to make you feel who you really belonged to. a silent warning.

beside you, jake hadn’t said a word, but his gaze never once wavered. he didn’t need to speak—his presence was loud enough. his stare, dark and unwavering, was trained solely on you, his body exuding a possessiveness so strong it made the air stifling.

as soon as the interview wrapped up, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation, but a part of you secretly wished it hadn’t ended just yet. because the moment the cameras turned off and the formalities dissolved, the tension that had been simmering between you, jake, and sunghoon finally reached its breaking point.

the walk toward the waiting vans was brief, too brief, and before you could fully process it, jake’s hand clamped around your wrist, his grip firm—possessive—as he wordlessly pulled you into the first van he could reach. sunghoon was close behind, his sharp voice cutting through the air as he dismissed the others without a second thought.

"take the next one."

his tone was final, leaving no room for argument as he yanked the door shut behind him, sealing you inside with the two of them.

the air was thick, suffocating, and before you could utter a single protest, jake pushed you back onto the leather seat with a force that sent a thrill down your spine. his hands were on you instantly, rough, demanding, sliding down your sides, finding the hem of your under-shorts and dragging them down without an ounce of patience.

not once did he bother with the elegant formal dress you wore—the one that had drawn far too much attention tonight. no, he left it in place, untouched, a cruel contrast to the way he tore away the fabric underneath, his eyes fixed on yours with a gaze so dark it sent a shiver through you.

"you think this shit is funny?"

jake’s voice was low, a growl, laced with anger and something else—something deeper, something darker. his jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch, his breathing heavy, erratic, his chest rising and falling with the weight of emotions he had been holding back for far too long.

sunghoon was silent beside him, but his presence was just as dangerous, just as suffocating, the heat of his stare burning into your skin as you lay there, half-exposed, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

"jake, stop… people are going to come in—"

your voice comes out in a frantic whisper, laced with urgency, your hands pushing against his chest, desperate to regain control of the situation. your wide eyes flicker around the dimly lit van, the thought of someone walking in, catching you like this, only heightening the panic swirling in your gut.

but neither of them cares.

sunghoon moves fast, his patience wearing thinner than a thread as he grabs both of your wrists in one hand, yanking them above your head with ease, his grip unforgiving. the other hand clamps down on your jaw, his fingers pressing into your cheeks harshly, forcing your lips to pucker as his darkened eyes roam your face, amusement flickering beneath his frustration.

"fuck it. let them see who the fuck you belong to."

his voice is low, dripping with possessiveness, each word a brand searing into your skin. he scoffs, tilting his head slightly, the corner of his lips curling upward in a mocking smirk as his grip on your jaw tightens for emphasis.

"fucking whore. you'd want the attention anyways."

before you can even process the crude words, a sharp sound fills the space—the sound of fabric tearing.

jake has ripped your panties clean off, the flimsy material no match for his impatience, leaving you exposed beneath his heated gaze. his fingers waste no time, trailing between your thighs, teasing your entrance, only to pause when he feels just how wet you are.

his breath catches slightly, his lips parting, but then a wicked chuckle escapes him, his fingers slipping through your slick folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal before gliding back up.

"surprisingly wet for us, huh?"

before you can even attempt to defend yourself, sunghoon’s grip leaves your jaw, but he doesn’t stray far—his fingers replace jake’s at your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles, forcing a loud gasp to rip through your throat.

jake’s fingers plunge into you, sinking deep, his knuckles nearly disappearing as your body arches violently in response. the sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coursing through you so suddenly it knocks the air straight from your lungs.

their movements are in sync, sunghoon working your clit in tight, merciless circles, while jake’s fingers pump inside you, curling just right, pressing into that perfect spot that has you moaning uncontrollably, your back arching, your thighs trembling.

"yeah, that’s it," jake breathes, watching the way your body reacts so easily to them, the way you fall apart with just their hands, the way your eyes squeeze shut in overwhelming pleasure.

"moan for us, baby. let them hear how fucking good we make you feel."

"f-fuck—too fast!"

your voice stumbles through heavy breaths, a plea laced with desperation as your body trembles violently beneath their relentless touch. but your words are met with nothing but wicked amusement, their dark, knowing smirks barely concealed as they exchange a silent glance—an unspoken agreement to ignore your protest.

"you're a fucking whore, aren’t you?"

sunghoon’s voice is low, taunting, the heat of his breath fanning over your ear, sending a shiver coursing down your spine. his fingers never slow, never relent, and just when you think you might have a second to collect yourself, he slaps your clit—sharp and sudden.

the sensation sends a violent jolt through you, your body jerking uncontrollably against jake’s fingers, the unexpected contact making your walls tighten even more around him. jake groans, feeling you squeeze down on him, his fingers buried so deep you swear you can feel them everywhere.

"yeah? liked hearing all those filthy fucking names back there, didn’t you?" sunghoon continues, his voice laced with mockery, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, so close yet so unbearably teasing.

his fingers press down harder, drawing tight, calculated circles against your swollen clit, making your thighs tremble beneath him. your hands grip at nothing, desperate for something to hold on to, your nails scratching against the smooth leather of the seat.

"you're fucking lucky we didn’t take you right in front of him," jake murmurs, his voice thick with lust, his eyes fixated on the way your body writhes under their hands.

his fingers push deeper, harder, his knuckles slick with your arousal as he curls them inside you, pressing right against that spot that makes your breath catch in your throat, your lips parting in a soundless moan.

"or is that what you fucking wanted?"

his question is cruel, coated in temptation, a challenge that has your head tilting back helplessly against the seat, your mouth hanging open as the pleasure swallows you whole. the pace is merciless, the pressure overwhelming, their hands owning every inch of you—leaving you completely at their mercy.

sunghoon’s hand connects with your cheek sharply, the stinging heat spreading across your skin, but the sensation only makes your body react in the most sinful way possible—your walls clench tightly around jake’s fingers, your body betraying any resistance you might have had. the sharp contrast between pain and pleasure has you teetering on the edge of something dangerously intoxicating.

"were we not clear the last time this shit happened?"

his voice is cold, authoritative, dripping with raw dominance, and all you can do is let out a broken whimper in response. your lips part as if to form words, but nothing comes out—only needy, breathless cries that fuel the fire in their eyes.

sunghoon's fingers trail down your face, gripping your jaw roughly, forcing you to meet his dark, burning stare. his anger, his possessiveness, they all manifest in the way his brows furrow, his jaw clenching so tightly you can see the tension ripple through it.

"you're fucking ours. get it through your fucking head."

his words are low, dangerous, laced with something almost animalistic. he doesn’t need to shout—his presence alone is suffocating, his expression saying everything without another word. his gaze flickers down to your lips, swollen from biting them in an attempt to hold back your cries, then back up to your dazed, glassy eyes.

his dominance is intoxicating, overwhelming, and even though a small part of you shudders under the sheer ferocity of his presence, the rest of you is aching, dripping, ruined for them. the way they take control, the way they refuse to let you forget who you belong to—it only makes you wetter, only makes your body betray itself even more.

your thighs begin to tremble violently, your body already spiraling out of control as jake pushes another thick finger inside you, the stretch borderline too much, but just enough to have you falling apart.

"oh, fuck—"

your head tilts back, pressing hard against the seat as a shattered moan rips through you. the pleasure is unbearable, unrelenting, sunghoon's fingers flicking and rubbing your clit with precision, working in perfect sync with jake's ruthless pace inside you. the heat coils tighter, tighter.

"oh my god—!"

you break.

your body convulses, wracked with uncontrollable shudders as your climax crashes into you with violent force, your walls fluttering wildly around jake’s fingers. the world around you fades into a haze of white-hot pleasure, your vision blurring, your thighs shaking beyond your control.

but they don’t stop.

even as your hands fly to their wrists, attempting—begging to push them away from your overstimulated, wrecked body, they continue their merciless, punishing pace, dragging out every second of your orgasm until it borders on painfully good.

"mm, look at you, baby. fuckin' crying for us." jake murmurs, his voice filled with pure satisfaction, his free hand gripping your thigh possessively as he watches you come undone for them.

"see that, hoon?" he adds, smirking at the sight of your wrecked, twitching body, your lips parted in wordless cries of pleasure.

sunghoon only scoffs, leaning in close, his lips brushing against your ear, his tone dark and mocking.

"tch. such a fuckin’ mess, and we haven’t even started yet."

before you can even catch your breath, the world tilts, your body flipping effortlessly as you’re dropped onto the cool leather seat, your front pressing into the soft material. the shift happens so quickly, so effortlessly, that your mind barely has time to catch up before you feel the weight of their presence surrounding you again.

the men switch places seamlessly, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before, as if they know exactly how to handle you. sunghoon is behind you now, his strong hands dragging your dress up the curve of your back, exposing the raw heat of your body to the chilled air of the van. his fingers trail over the bare skin of your ass, nails raking down lightly, sending a sharp shiver through your overstimulated body.

in front of you, jake settles in, his presence looming, his breathing heavy with anticipation as his fingers make quick work of his belt. the distinct sound of zippers being yanked down fills the van, followed by the deep, guttural groans that slip from both men as they finally free themselves.

the relief in their voices is palpable, the aching tension of being restrained for so long finally snapping as they shove their briefs down just enough for their hardened cocks to spring free, thick, flushed, and heavy with need.

they don’t hesitate.

sunghoon’s hands grip your hips possessively, fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he spreads your legs wider, lining himself up with your entrance. the only warning you get is a low grunt, then—

he thrusts in.

hard. fast. deep.

your body lurches forward, a strangled gasp escaping you as you stretch around him, the sudden fullness almost unbearable after the way jake had already wrecked you with his fingers. the sharp slap of his hips meeting yours echoes through the van, your thighs trembling as you struggle to keep yourself steady.

but before you can even process the sheer force of him inside you, jake’s hand is in your hair, fingers tangling into the strands, gripping firmly as he pulls your head back.

"open up, baby."

his voice is low, commanding, and before you can think, your lips part instinctively, allowing him to stuff your mouth full with his cock.

his head tilts back immediately, a deep groan vibrating from his chest as he sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling the way your tongue swirls, struggles to accommodate his size.

"f-fuck—" jake breathes, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek, feeling himself move inside you as his hips rock forward, pushing deeper into your throat.

behind you, sunghoon doesn’t relent, his thrusts deep and merciless, each one pressing you further onto jake’s cock, forcing you to take him both ways—your body filled to the brim, completely at their mercy.

"look at you," sunghoon grits out, his fingers tightening on your waist as he watches the way your body takes him perfectly, his cock disappearing into your heat with every brutal snap of his hips.

"so fucking full, baby." jake groans, watching the tears well in your eyes, the way you struggle to take them both, the way your body shudders and trembles, already pushed beyond your limit.

but they don’t care.

if anything, the sight of you so wrecked, so used, only makes them hungrier.

jake’s fingers tighten in your hair, unyielding, as he yanks you back, your lips slipping off his cock with a wet pop. your body jerks, a broken sob escaping you, but it’s not from his rough grip—it’s from the unrelenting pace of sunghoon’s hips behind you, his cock slamming into you mercilessly, sending shockwaves of overstimulation through your already trembling form.

you can barely think, barely breathe, as pleasure collides with the sharp edges of exhaustion, your body helplessly wrecked between the two of them. sunghoon’s grip bruises your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he pounds into you, each thrust striking deep, hitting your sweet spot over and over without mercy.

but before you can beg for a reprieve, jake pushes you back down, forcing his cock past your lips again, deeper this time, harder.

"fuck—"

the tip nudges the back of your throat instantly, your gag reflex kicking in violently, a loud, choked gag spilling from your mouth as your nails dig into his thighs in desperation. your throat constricts around him, your entire body shuddering, but he doesn’t let up—if anything, your struggle spurs him on.

"that’s it, baby—take it all."

his voice is low, wrecked, lust-drunk, as his hand grips the back of your head, holding you completely still as his hips begin to thrust shallowly, fucking your throat open.

your vision blurs, hot tears spilling freely, mascara streaking down your flushed cheeks in messy, dark trails. your lips are swollen, slick, completely ruined, the smudges of lipstick painting the base of his cock. you can feel how much of a mess you are, how utterly wrecked they’ve left you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

"look at you, baby…" jake breathes, his hungry gaze locked on your face, drinking in the way your mouth stretches around him, the way your chest heaves between ragged breaths, the broken state of you only making him groan louder.

you try to tap against his thigh again, a silent plea, your fingers trembling against his skin—but he doesn’t stop.

"you can take it, baby."

his words are sweet in contrast to his actions, his free hand stroking your cheek, wiping away a stray tear only to spread the blackened streaks of mascara further.

behind you, sunghoon moans loudly, his pace never slowing, his cock still dragging against your walls perfectly, pushing you further into submission.

"fuck, you’re so tight, baby… you were made for this."

your body is burning, overstimulated, your mind a hazy blur, the pleasure mixing with the sheer intensity of being used by them, and yet—you don’t want it to stop.

sunghoon’s arms snake around you, strong, unrelenting, his hands locking around your forearms as he yanks them back, forcing your body to arch perfectly beneath him. his grip is firm, possessive, ensuring that every deep, punishing thrust drives into you at just the right angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your body tremble uncontrollably.

his pace increases, the rhythm becoming faster, rougher, his hips snapping against your ass with a force that sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. your body jerks forward from the sheer intensity, but jake’s hands are still on you, still in control, guiding your mouth down flush against his cock.

"fuck—just like that, baby," jake breathes, voice rough, his fingers weaving deeper into your hair, holding you firmly in place as he rocks into your mouth, his throaty groans vibrating through the air. his hips move in sync with sunghoon’s, each thrust perfectly timed, forcing you to take them both—one slamming deep inside your throat, the other burying himself to the hilt inside your drenched, throbbing pussy.

the air grows thin, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, your senses completely overwhelmed by the feeling of them using you, ruining you, claiming you. your body responds without hesitation, your walls clenching tighter around sunghoon, your lips hollowing around jake’s cock, sucking him deeper.

"gonna cum, baby?"

sunghoon’s voice is strained, raw, his pace stuttering slightly, his cock throbbing violently inside you as he feels the way you squeeze him tighter, milking him for everything he has.

"gonna make a fucking mess—more than you already are, huh?"

his words are jagged, the pleasure wrecking him, his nails digging into your forearms as his hips slam harder, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your choked whimpers and their ragged moans.

hot tears stream freely down your cheeks, blending with the mascara stains that already streak your ruined face. your entire body convulses, muscles tensing, locking, as the pressure inside you explodes—a sharp, overwhelming wave of pleasure that sends shockwaves rippling through you.

you squirt uncontrollably, your release gushing, soaking sunghoon’s thighs, his hips, the leather seat beneath you. your body jerks, trembling violently, as the overstimulation rips you apart, your moans muffled against jake’s cock. the vibrations push him over the edge, his grip tightening in your hair as his body shudders, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips.

"fuck—"

his release spurts onto your tongue, warm, thick, before he yanks himself free, his cock twitching as he drags it across your face, painting you with the rest of his cum, streaks of white coating your cheeks, your lips, dripping down your chin.

behind you, sunghoon isn’t far behind.

his fingers clench into your dress, knuckles whitening from how tight he grips the fabric. his pace stutters, breaks, before his hips slam one final time, burying himself deep inside you as he lets go.

his head falls back, a strangled, gravelly moan breaking from his throat as hot ropes of cum spill inside you, filling you to the brim, his hips jerking uncontrollably with the aftershocks.

you collapse completely, your body boneless, spent, slumping forward onto the cool leather, your limbs refusing to move. your breath comes in shaky gasps, the overstimulation wracking your body, leaving your thighs quivering, your hands still fisted weakly against the seat.

soft whimpers spill from your lips, your body helplessly trembling, even as jake’s fingers glide gently through your hair, his nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that feels almost soothing.

"think we taught her a good enough lesson?"

his voice is low, amused, as he glances toward sunghoon, who is still panting, chest rising and falling as he comes down from his high.

sunghoon lets out a breathy chuckle, running a hand through his damp hair, before his dark gaze flickers back to you—ruined, wrecked, completely at their mercy.

then, a slow, wicked smirk curls across his lips.

"think she needs one more, no?"

jake’s grin widens, his fingers tangling deeper into your hair.

"yeah… let’s make sure she never fucking forgets who she belongs to."

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ okay the request was more for the first smut scene but i got too in the moment so i hoped you liked it still!!

[astrofaeology]

Saturn in the Houses

paid readings | Masterlist

ᡣ𐭩 Please support me by reposting, liking, following me and commenting your placement. Saturn represents resitictions, delays and obsticals however it's precious as it represents dicipline and what comes from struggle results in a beautiful flower of growth.

1st house When Saturn is in the first house, which governs self and identity, people tend to appear solemn, ordered, and occasionally restrained, which does manifest itself through elegance. Early trials may help kids develop strong morals and a sense of responsibility, resulting in high levels of independence. This placement emphasises the importance of developing a strong personal foundation and overcoming early emotions of inadequacy.

2nd house When Saturn is in the second house, which is responsible for personal resources, values, and finances. These natives may experience early limitations or concerns about money and possessions. They need to understand the true value of their possessions, learn how to manage their finances, and save prudently. They can achieve long-term security and a strong sense of self-worth with persistence and sensible management.

3rd house A guarded speaking pattern or difficulties in early schooling may result from having Saturn in the third house, which is in charge of siblings, communication, and the near surroundings. People may feel indebted to their siblings, and short-distance travel may result in delays. The lesson here is to overcome any anxieties of expression or perceived academic limits by developing clear, succinct, and careful communication abilities.

4th house The 4th House, which governs the house, family, and emotional roots, is sometimes associated with a rigorous upbringing or a strong sense of commitment to family concerns. There may be a desire to create a secure family environment, as well as early experiences with emotional restraint. Through hard work, the individual learns to develop a safe, long-lasting personal sanctuary as well as to establish strong emotional boundaries.

5th house The fifth house, where Saturn is located, is in charge of children, romance, creativity, and pleasure. Natives may encounter delays or proceed cautiously in these areas. Their ability to express themselves creatively may be restricted, or they may take parenting very seriously. The challenge is to get over the fear of criticism, embrace real creativity, and find true joy in a methodical but satisfying way.

6th house A strong sense of responsibility, a diligent work ethic, and meticulous attention to detail regarding daily activities, employment, and health are typically indicated by Saturn in the 6th House. These natives may be prone to health issues, difficult working conditions, or a tendency towards perfection. The lesson is to become more efficient, develop productive habits, and prioritise their health by engaging in self-care.

7th house When Saturn is in the 7th House, which governs partnerships and open enemies, it teaches significant lessons about equality, dedication, and accountability. Business or marital partnerships may be delayed or have significant commitments. People learn patience, loyalty, and the need of selecting partners who share their long-term goals in order to form solid, long-lasting relationships.

8th house With its associations with intimacy, change, and shared resources, Saturn in the 8th House usually imparts important lessons about power dynamics, trust, and vulnerability in relationships. Problems with debt, inheritance, or confronting one's flaws may arise. These natives do have a unique relationship to 8th house matters and they may work in fields revolving around matters such as death and taxes - alot of death nurses have 8th house saturns.

9th house Saturn is associated with a sober and methodical approach to information and belief systems since it is located in the 9th House, which is responsible for philosophy, advanced education, and long-distance travel. Individuals may face obstacles to their fundamental convictions or impediments in their further education. The process includes a thorough analysis of their worldview, the development of a thorough and ethical conception of truth, and a resolute search for wisdom.

10th house Aspiration and notable public achievement are strongly supported by Saturn in the 10th House, which is in charge of reputation, career, and public image. Individuals are often disciplined, accountable, and motivated to enhance their standing and reputation. Their perseverance usually results in persistent success, a strong reputation, and a position of substantial influence, even in the face of potential setbacks or disappointments along the route.

11th house When Saturn is in the 11th House, which is in charge of friendships, groups, and aspirations, people may have a more constrained and selective circle of friends or struggle with group dynamics. They are drawn to deep, enduring relationships and frequently feel a sense of duty to their community or humanitarian causes. The lessons to be learnt include creating strong, reliable networks and bringing fresh, important ideas to the community.

12th house Saturn, the 12th House's ruler of the subconscious, secret affairs, and religion, typically foreshadows karmic teachings about selflessness, solitude, or overcoming buried concerns. Natives may feel burdened by invisible commitments or experience periods of loneliness. To acquire mastery, one must confront subconscious tendencies, grow inner strength via spiritual discipline, and find peace by silently helping others and letting go of old responsibilities.

DISCLAIMER: This post is a generalisation and may not resonate. I recommend you get a reading from an astrologer (me). If you want a reading from me check out my sales page.

@astrofaeology private services 2025 all rights reserved

[honey-pages]

Learn your Lesson - Viktor x Reader

Description -

After an intense lecture, Viktor invites you to his study where he ensures you learn your lesson.

2.7k words

F/M. 18+. Smut. NSFW. Sex. Teacher/Student. Riding.

@kskajjwiqqj

Viktor was nothing like the other professors that you had met. He was younger, known by his first name, and was quite clearly very attractive. You had been invited along to a skills class with the rest of your department and any interested outliers. Viktor was the reason you attended. You aspired to impress him, to become his student. There were always rumours circulating, however with Viktor, the only thing you had heard was how impenetrably private he was.

His back was to you as he wrote on the board in chalk. It was strange seeing someone in the position he was at such a comparable age to yourself. You did not even want to consider how old professor Heimerdinger was. The way he looked standing there authoritatively in his everyday suit was immaculate. It was taking your attention away from his teaching.

“The principles of Hextech's functions are fundamentally rooted in our understanding of magic's interactions with our reality. The volatile nature of unrefined hex crystals stems from this. Magic in and of itself cannot be quantified with precision, only comparatively by constants. “

He was presenting half to himself as the majority of the room looked out of their depth. He stopped asking call and response questions a while ago as he had no responses. Now he was picking on people.

“So, why is it an impossibility for magic to be married to our understanding of, say, gravity? “

No one makes to answer the question. You wait for a few seconds as he looks quite disheartened. He sweeps over the room. Silence. He locks eyes with you. The questions weren’t essentially that difficult, they were just to register attention. Most of the things he asked were things he had previously mentioned or things that were graspable by taking the things he had taught and applying its logic.

You put forward an answer, “It is impossible to apply something which lacks numerical quantification to a concept as characterised by numbers as gravity. You'd end up with too many unknowns. The best you could manage is to average those constants, which is not precise enough when working with hextech “

“Close! It is certainly a challenge, although not impossible, to determine properties of a gravity field under magical influence, in precisely the manner you have described. However, more fundamentally, the issue lies in the fact that the gravitational constant is a dimensional property defined by distance and mass, while any magical constant lacks such constraints. But very very good thoughts Miss (Y/N).”

He knew your name. As he responded to you, he did a double take, watching you. You caught him scanning your whole person, losing his train of thought for a second. He smirks before catching the thought he had just lost. It was quite noticeable, the effect you had just had over him, and you were almost certain that it wasn’t just because you were the only one answering questions. Maybe the times you had thought he was being personable were something more?

He was finishing up his teaching, but still whenever he referenced something you had put forward or said something particularly related to your thoughts, he looked at you.

“We've discussed today a number of approaches to applying magical principles in our limited understanding of physical laws. The crux of what makes this application an impossibility is as follows: A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property. “

He addresses you, “With all the answers you have given, Miss (Y/N), I perhaps should invite you to speak with me privately afterwards.”

As he calls over to you, you realise the invitation he has just extended to you may not be one of a regular professor. Students are beginning to pack up and filter out of the hall, noise levels rise. Your seat on the first row, closest to Viktor, enables you to be one of the first out of your seat. Your courage feels disembodied and far from you now as you face him without the defence of the group setting.

“I’d like that. When are you free?” You ask, smiling and holding his gaze. It feels more difficult at close distance to deal with his focus, like the sun being beamed through a magnifying glass.

“Come to my study.” He suggests.

He collects his jacket from the back of the chair, folding up papers and books from the lectern and placing them into his bag. He holds back a little longer, waiting for the last of the students to have left the theatre. The room feels much smaller now you are alone together.

“I am serious about your potential, Miss (Y/N). I think with some support you could do great things.”

You flatter, “If I had a teacher such as yourself Viktor, I would already be doing great things.”

“You look beautiful today.”

You fluster, it was unexpected. You stumble.

“Flattery doesn’t work on either of us.”

“I’m serious Viktor, take me on as your student.”

He pauses.

“What was my final point in today’s lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your mind was blank. Not strictly due to a lack of memory, focus or attention as you can guarantee to certainty that your attention was on Viktor, but due to how completely attracted you are to him. As time passes, his gaze becomes more confident. He knows he has you where he wants you.

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.” He reiterates. “It is no issue that you have forgotten. I have identified exactly where to begin tonight’s lesson.”

You walk with Viktor through the corridors and leading passages to his study. It is an interesting place in an interesting building. It is decorated beautifully, with full bookcases and large empty boards scrawled with workings. It is a small place that looks well used and lived in, as though it were an external reflection of his internal musings.

“Make yourself at home.” He insists.

You place down your belongings in one corner, neatly out of the way of any space Viktor might need. He sits down in a chair in the corner opposite to the one you stand in, and ushers you to sit in the respective seat. Although you are diagonally placed, the smallness of the room almost presses the caps of your knees together. It is cosy and feels like a special place to be invited to.

“I do not usually invite people here, even if they are prospective students.”

You smile, not knowing quite what to reply to show gratitude, humility and not betray the all-consuming attraction you have towards him. Ever since he said you looked beautiful, any hextech knowledge you may have unlocked had been jumbled and rearranged to make some sexual collage.

“I meant it” He states.

“What?”

“You look beautiful today”

You try to play it off cooly how much that compliment meant to you. “I thought we had agreed not to flatter.”

“I wanted to be clear. I didn’t just say it because I wanted to compliment you. I said it because I meant it (Y/N).”

You freeze up again. Your pulse began to be audible through your ears and your blood ran hot.

“You look flustered.” He recognises, sitting forward.

He reaches out a hand to touch your knee. He looks concerned. He doubts the appropriateness of his actions for a second before reassessing. You are both adults, he has no direct power over you, you are both consenting to being here. Then why did this feel so strange. It felt dream like to him. He had fantasised about you for so long, had stalked your progress in your studies. He had seen potential in you from the moment you were accepted through intake, in fact he made the decision.

You sit up too at his touch. In doing so, you shifted in your chair, your legs widened slightly. Due to the change in position, his hand now sits significantly higher up your thigh. A happy accident. Viktor understands why you are so nervous. He is also aware as to the position he now has you in. In his office, in his chair, with his hand on your thigh.

He tries to make you more comfortable, “Let’s take this back to hextech. Ah yes, perfect, what was the last thing I mentioned in today’s lecture?”

You stared absolutely blankly. Every time you had begun to think real words, Viktor had knocked you back ten steps. Now you were at square one again. You tried to recall the words, but they were fuzzy and blurry and so far out of your reach.

“Viktor, I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” You plead.

“Come on, Miss (Y/N), with your answers earlier we both know what you are capable of.”

“My brain feels foggy. I think I am misremembering.”

“An educated guess is the first big step.”

Throughout the conversation, the intensity of eye contact and body language meant that neither of you had realised that Viktor’s hand now held dangerously highly on your upper thigh. He looked down at his hand on you. It had not felt like he had moved it that far up. You realised that you had gradually been spreading your legs further apart. Gravitating towards one another. Everything leading to one eventual outcome. This was all the confirmation that was needed.

“Come here” He asks, smoothly.

You hesitate, blushing.

He pats his lap, sinking back into his chair. “A good student does what they are told.”

You hesitated not only due to feeling intimidated, but that you were not wearing any underwear. To make it more noticeable to him, you were also wearing a skirt. Of all the days to be sitting on Viktor’s lap, today had to be the one. You climb up onto his lap, sitting side saddle, keeping your knees together.

“So rigid. Where was this posture when you were just spreading your legs?”

“It’s not that Viktor, its- “Your voice trails off.

His hands find themselves around your waist and hips, feeling and calculating, building and rendering what you must look like underneath. His touch is comforting, his hands are hot and hungry. You want to give yourself to him, allow yourself to be devoured.

“I’m not wearing underwear.”

Viktor’s hands stop moving momentarily.

“Is there a reason you came to my lecture without them?”

You don’t answer. You shift more comfortably into his lap, directly onto his crotch. He is satisfied without an answer. He decides that if the outcome of your studies today was to catch him, he was very much in your reach. As you shift in your seat, his hips jolt forward, grinding up into you. It is uncontrollable for him.

“Open them for me Miss (Y/N).” He continues

Viktor guides your hips to move you to straddle him, shifting your legs apart. He watches your movements, eyes focused on you. He raises his hand to his mouth, placing in two fingers, coating them with saliva, before pressing them to you. He slides them over your clit and then down to your entrance. You are already slick with wetness, mainly from the anticipation and mental chess he was playing with you.

“So wet for me already.” His voice is silk. “What a prepared student you are.”

You uncontrollably push forward against his fingers, increasing the pressure against yourself. You moan out accidentally.

“Beautiful” He watches, “And if I place them here, then what noise will you make”

He flicks his fingers over your clit, hovering them over your entrance.

“Please.”

“What was the last thing I said in today lecture Miss (Y/N).”

Your chances of remembering were zero even though he had repeated himself. You really had no excuse for not remembering but it was so impossibly difficult now. You rut against the tips, desperate.

“Viktor, I’ve forgotten again.”

“Such a shame, you seemed so attentive. You will learn and progress, you just need encouragement.”

He unbuttons and unzips his trousers, angling upwards to pull them under his hips and down his thighs to his knees. As his underwear comes away, he springs free. He is exactly as you expected. Seeing him explicitly feels like a sin in itself. With both hands on your hips, he shuffles you forwards to be directly positioned above his waist.

“Information recall is important Miss (Y/N).’ He states. “Repeat after me.”

“Yes.”

He spells the words out slowly. “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property.”

The words are alien to you, meaningless now. You try to remember, there are two long ‘D’ words, two alliterative ‘C’s. The second he says it, it’s gone from your head again.

“Your turn”

“A dimensionless… cannot contain... dimension” You know it is incorrect even as you say it.

He grins, watching you unfold under the pressure. He begins to stroke himself slowly. You may as well be dripping on him. He lifts your shirt and unbuttons your bra.

“I can do it” You insist.

He removes the shirt and bra, exposing you before him.

“Dimensionless constants contain… no, define…”

He is quickening his pace, pleasuring himself with speed to the vision of you in front of him, stumbling over words he has fed you. So desperate to impress him.

“Viktor, please can you say it again.”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property” He moans and signs as he speaks. Punctuating the words as they fall out of his mouth. He aligns you with him as he prepares for your repetition.

You reply quickly while it is fresh in your brain, “A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

He slams quickly upwards and inside of you, stretching you around him. You scream out his name. He doesn’t stop moving, furiously thrusting and thrusting and thrusting. He gets deeper as you sink down on him.

“Again, Miss (Y/N)”

“A dimensionless constant cannot define a dimensional property”

There is no slowing Viktor down and you hold onto the chair for balance. He has both hands gripping either thigh and his face is warped in concentration and pleasure. His fingers are gripping firmly and roughly.

“I am going to fill you Miss (Y/N).” He commands, “So deeply that you will feel me inside of you until your next lecture.”

“Please Viktor- “

You are filling the study with swearing and ecstatic cries. It isn’t soundproof, Viktor knows that well enough in hearing conversations outside of his door. He wonders how they will react to him holding you down on his cock as he finishes, the sounds you will make. Whether people will hear his name, will recognise you as the prospective student who seduced him and got fucked consequently.

He has slowed his pace slightly, using his hand to rub your clit. You feel yourself building, unravelling. He feels you internally tense around him, gripping his cock and pulsating around it. You will finish imminently.

“I’m going to- “you pant. “Your fingers will- “

“Do it, (Y/N).” He is near his end too, “For me. Show me how badly you want it. Give me no choice but to undo you.”

He speeds up his fingers, forcing you through a powerful orgasm.

“Viktor- “You scream out.

You are shaking, quivering but he doesn’t stop. He removes his hand and buries it into your hair, tilting your head back, pulling you downwards as he pushes upwards.

“Take it” He demands, “My perfect student. Look at you - a whore.”

With these words, he firmly grabs you and holds you still, as deeply as you can manage. He feels himself twitch and spasm, coating your insides with his thick load. He begins to thrust a few more times to feel the wet slapping noise that he has reduced you to. He is at a loss of breath, a loss of words.

You collapse onto his chest, folding into his arms. It feels good being held there as your heart rates begin to settle themselves. There is something pure and honest about the way you both interlock after such an extreme session. He smooths your hair back, kissing you across the face, planting thoughtful kisses on your forehead. He sinks deeply into the chair, as you sink deeply into him. Together you fall into a tired, lazy nap.

Tag List - @gubkkki, @veru-boom

[acid-ixx]

i would not survive wayne manor if i had to stare into dick's y/n blue orbs everyday

stop looking at me with those eyes! (again &. again mini drabble)

ft. post-kidnapped reader w/ yandere batfam shitpost

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post !

thank u for sending this oh my god, i need to write about this!!! i absolutely love your art style for the reader, they're so handsome i'm crying and laughing 😭😭😭 and it's true!!! i will also die if i look at the entire family's eyes as a filipino who has never once stared at a foreigner's eyes because it's just so bright huhu.

unfortunately for your case though, your refusal to look straight at them just translates to extra unwanted counseling sessions with the family in one of the large expanses of the living rooms housing the available members for a meeting. it's a whole gathering where you're the center of attention.

and it's not only dick involved, it's also all the other blue-eyed bastards and an additional glowering, pair of green ones which shines the brightest of them all— and if not for cass and duke's dark colored peepers, you might've truly passed away because it's no joke that their eyes glint under the light passing through locked windows, especially when the sun is at its highest peak and hits at just the right angles to glisten.

not only have you no physical escape, but their obsessed stares never leave your form too, devouring and locking you whole in your place and claustrophobic to the chains of their bright-orbed gaze.

"(name), dear, as much as you don't wish for me to address the issue; it's becoming an unhealthy habit that you refuse to maintain eye contact with the family. it doesn't help that your heart palpitates, you perspire more often, and you make excuses to run to a different room when you do. what's wrong?"

you don't even have to look up from staring at your lap (as if you want to, hah!) to know it's your father's voice directed at you. it's a unique tremor that reverberates across the room and commands attention from all corners; yet when he speaks to you, it's coated with an unhealthily sweet reverence that seems completely foreign to someone who has never once spoken to him until now.

"u-uhm..." stuttering, you bite your lip, drowning in your own self-preservation that had you ignoring dick's stealthy steps to your seated body on the couch, only for his fingers to carefully graze on your chin, snapping you out of your attention yet being too late as he lifts your head up, forcing to stare at his wide-blown eyes.

they're unnaturally bright today, shining more than the beaches in those private islands bruce owns, it's even more terrifying that he's staring at you.

"it's unfair too... baby bird, that it's me you avoid the most," he groans, it grates at your ears but it was better to focus on your other senses if you wish to control the ever-living fear of miley cyrus' blue eyes burned right into your retina, now associated with dick's emboldened ones. his palms find its way to either side of your head, cradling it side to side, the contact forced you to continue staring ahead of him. and no matter how much you resort to blanking out, the intensity of his baby blue eyes forfeits you to focus on anything else.

yet it's the gentle graze on your side that encourages you to speak your mind, you really hate how infantilizing this entire scene feels, and comical that they're - dick - is taking your excuses too seriously.

"ah... well—" how do you explain that you're shit at eye-contact because, first, and can't deal with their luminescent stares pinning you down to your spot, brighter than diamonds and emerald crystals, second?

"everyone's just too... you know. i- i really can't explain without it sounding... uhm..."

"too overwhelming? too what? akhi/akhti? it has been years since we last took you in, and you've been perfectly communicating with us until now. what has changed? has that rebel, todd, dare to make another deal with you again which involves refusing to properly communicate with us? with me? because if he did—"

damian's voice slithers with conviction, condemnation and possessive threats that strike fear into your heart with every venom-laced word. if not for his head nuzzling into the shadows of your neck, the dichotomy of dialogue and action, you would've been convinced he's out to kill you instead.

yet the same gremlin muttering insults is your little brother who takes the entire space beside you on the velvety couch, rendering you completely cornered by his expecting glare. except now, unlike the mental torment he subjected to you, his green-eye gaze glimmers with concealed adoration you've learned to discern, he's always been a heckler for your attention; the tan hands wrapped around your waist in a snuggle tightens, not too tight that it deprives you of oxygen, but demands your answers instead.

like father, like son. as the saying goes. always finding solutions with unwanted affection. couldn't even push them away without them interpreting your actions as rebellion which only results in more uncomfortable competitions on who gets to cuddle you for longer.

and wait, no, they didn't take you in, bullshit! they basically kidnapped you. it's only that you've grown accustomed to dealing with them individually and as a group, but because they've been more lenient with technology, providing you access to wifi with supervised search results, you stumbled across one of , which not-so faintly reminds you of them.

your past traumas of them replaced with jaded motivation to survive and tolerate the ever living plague in your life you call your family.

bruce did advise you to associate them with positive things instead as a first step to your adjusting phase, and miley cyrus' anthropoidal, not-quite human stare isn't negative in any way, yet it's also by no means negative, if not unsettling— which leads you to a common ground, a common affiliation which helps you cope with the fear that they might harm you and isolate you with loneliness even further; forgetting your presence once again.

learning to love them was hard, so relating them to anything comical was way easier on the still-heavy burden in your heart which yearns for freedom burned off through countless of escape attempts, the grief of your mother's death now decades worth, and just the shock of it all that they're still interested in you until now that hasn't worn off still, despite the years passing by quicker than blowing off a candle-light.

still, everyone retains their gaze on you, never once breaking contact with your form as if you're capable of escaping their grasp. you try to look down, but to no avail, dick was too invested in hogging your head all to himself and nuzzling it in his toned stomach, whilst damian refuses to separate from his ever tightening hold which renders you unable to full grasp your thoughts and speak.

god-damned hypocrites.

"holy shit..." it's tim who broke off the silence, muttering under his breath in disbelief whilst his hand fiddles with the modded tablet bruce had given you as a christmas gift. his lanky finfers continue scrolling eyes fixated on the scene before him, every expression illuminated by the faint glow of your tablet's screen. the most visible feature, gazing at him through whichever was left of your vision unobstructed by dick's body; was of course, his widening blue eyes, as it seems like he'd hit jackpot with his appalled reactions.

it seems like he found the exact same picture.

would it be a bad thing now if you'd run away from the room once they all collectively hone in on the image before them? or is it too risky of a task?

honestly, with just how routine your life must be right now, you'd prefer to run, to feel the air run through your hair, to bask in the sun washing your body in its warmth.

maybe to find unbidden joy in another game of cat and mouse, or it may be another one of your excuses to avoid those piercing eyes once more if even by just a mere fraction.

or maybe you could stay for now, because is it just you, or did you actually succeed in traumatizing them for once instead of you?

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ The JJ Issue

when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.

cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!! wc: 3k

The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.

You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.

Still no Spencer.

It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all. 

He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.

You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.

But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.

JJ.

JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.

Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.

JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.

You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.

Tried so hard.

But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.

You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.

You hate how vivid the image is. 

You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.

Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:

Any idea when you’ll be home? x

You stare. Waiting.

The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.

No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.

That’s it.

That’s it?

No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.

“JJ and I.”

Of course.

Your jaw tenses and you type again:

Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?

No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.

Two minutes pass, and you try again:

Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.

Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.

Still nothing.

You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

It’s not that your insecure.

But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.

And all that serves to make a deadly combination.

You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.

The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.

It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.

Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.

You huff, irritated with yourself.

This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.

But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?

Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.

Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.

You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.

Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.

Your stomach twists again.

You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?

You’re not sure you care.

It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.

You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.

The door shuts gently.

Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.

You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.

The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant. 

You don’t move.

His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.

‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’

His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.

Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.

His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’

‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’

‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’

‘I bet.’

You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.

But this time, you’re the chaos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.

You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’

He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.

‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’

A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.

‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.

You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.

His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.

‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’

‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’

His cheeks go red immediately.

‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.

‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’

He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’

‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’

He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’

His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches. 

‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate. 

You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’

‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’

‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’

He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’

You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’

That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’

There’s a silence.

Then–

‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'

You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.

‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’

He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides. 

‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’

That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.

So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’

He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’

‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’

He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’

‘That would be ideal.’

He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’

You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’

He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.

‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’

You stare at him.

He continues. 

‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’

You step in and kiss him. 

Not sweetly or softly. 

It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.

Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.

When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.

‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’

He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’

‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs. 

His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.

‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.

Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.

‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.

‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’

He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’

You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.

His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.

You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.

‘Spencer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.

‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’

You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you. 

‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’

He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’

His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice. 

His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.

‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’

You roll your eyes at his astute observation.

‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’

‘Doing something. Yes.’

He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.

‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’

‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’

You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.

‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.

His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’

You push your hips down against his hands. 

‘Then shut up, and make me come.’

a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose. I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx

[endofthelinegang]

the things we don't say

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompts "don't go on that date." "why?" "you know why." "say it." 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  cursing

use this magical link to pick your favorite marvel character and send in a request :)

The zipper trembles slightly between your fingers as you pull it up. Not because your hands are shaking—at least not much—but because you’re second-guessing the decision you made twenty minutes ago. The jacket is soft, tan suede, something you haven’t worn since before the Thunderbolts—back when “casual” didn’t feel like an act of rebellion. Underneath is a black camisole that clings just enough to make you feel alive again. Real. 

You told yourself it wasn’t for him.

But in the mirror, you can’t ignore the way you check your profile—your hair tucked just right, your collarbones exposed, the gloss on your lips just a touch shinier than usual. Your fingers linger at your throat for a second too long, brushing against the delicate chain necklace you threw on without thinking. A gift to yourself. A piece of the old you.

The door creaks behind you. The energy shifts instantly. You don’t need to look. You already know who it is. That same low, smoldering pressure that always coils at the base of your spine when he’s near.

John Walker.

You can see him in the mirror before he speaks. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns it—broad shoulders tense, one hand gripping the frame just tight enough for the knuckles to go white. He’s in black tactical gear, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms like he was either coming from training or looking for an excuse to fight. His hair is a mess, you knew he had been messing with it. His eyes are already on you. Not just watching—reading.

“You going somewhere?” he asks, voice casual—but the kind of casual that cuts, his shoulder was pressed into the doorframe, his body completely blocked up the space. 

You smooth your hands down the front of your jacket, mostly to keep yourself busy or at least to look busy. If you didn’t there was just the smallest chance you wouldn’t go anywhere. “Yeah. Civvies. Off base. Crazy, I know.”

He moves closer landing his feet on the ground from where one leg had been crossed over the other, a slow step that echoes across the floor. “With who?”

You shrug, not turning yet. You want to make him wait and you do not wanna give him the idea that his presence would affect anything. “Someone who asked.”

In the mirror, you catch the flicker in his jaw. That’s where it always starts with him—just a little tension that spreads like cracks through ice. He blinked and looked to the window before looking back at you. He knew you were making a dig, and man was he happy you did because it was giving him a reason to dig back. 

“Right,” he mutters, his tone shifting. “Let me guess—one of the new handlers? The guy who can't even clear a sidearm properly?” 

You turn now, slowly, facing him with your arms folded. A casual stance, but defensive. You catch the way his eyes drop—not to be disrespectful, but because he’s scanning. Reading your body, your outfit, the way the light hits your collarbone. His gaze lingers at your neckline a second too long before he tears it away. All that did was anger him more, not even he deserved to have you dress up to go do something with him let alone some other idiot. 

“You been spying on me now, Walker?” you ask, your voice cool, laced with something sharper. You knew he was, he had been for a while. At first it was to figure out what you liked and what he could be doing for you that would be considered little gestures. The biggest issue was that John had a hard time making up his mind on what to do about you. So he would go back and forth between bringing you lunch and organizing your laundry in its basket to not talking to you at all. Which is one of the biggest things that led you to this situation. 

He shrugs. That signature Walker arrogance, but there’s no real heat in it. Only frustration. “Just observant.”

You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth twitching. What hurt you was that you knew that he knew how you felt about him in some way. If he didn’t he would’ve never done any of the nice things he had been doing.  “No, you’re being a dick.”

He stiffens. The smirk disappears like you flipped a switch.  “I’m just wondering when you started going for guys who talk big and fall apart the second they’re in the field.”

You step closer, boots scuffing against the tile. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” he bites back. “What—he bought you a drink and suddenly he’s worth your time?”

You flare at that. Your fingers tighten around your arms, gripping your own skin like it’ll keep you from lunging. “What’s your problem, John?”

He’s silent, but his eyes are screaming. That unreadable expression cracks at the edges—his jaw clenched, shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. He takes a step forward, then another. The air between you grows thick, electric. You can smell the faint scent of cedar from his cologne, cucumber from shampoo, and mint from where he must have brushed he teeth , something grounded. 

“My problem is you’re going out with some paper-pusher while we’re still knee-deep in this Thunderbolts circus and pretending like it’s normal.” He was sounding meaner and meaner the more he talked, his tone was rough and his volume was rising. 

You hold your ground, you knew that he could be mean it was no shocker. “You’re right. It’s not normal. None of this is. But that doesn’t mean I have to sit around waiting for someone who doesn’t say what he means.”

That hits harder than you mean it to. You see it in his eyes. The wounded flash behind the blue. His hands flex at his sides—twitching, like he’s resisting the urge to reach out and grab you or punch the wall behind you. His chest is heaving and he is tapping his left foot slowly on and off like he can’t stand to be in his own skin.  He steps closer quickly, if you didn’t know any better you would think you were about to be attacked. He was now close enough that the fabric of your sleeves brushes with every breath. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch forward, you’d be touching.

And at that moment, he hated himself a little.

Not for wanting you—but for waiting this long. For letting mission after mission bury whatever this thing between you was. He told himself it was about professionalism, about keeping a clear head. But really, it was fear. Because the second he let himself want you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And guys like him? They don’t get the girl. They get grief, and consequences, and orders they don’t question. But watching you walk out that door tonight—for someone else—feels worse than any battlefield he's crawled off of.

The amount of control he was using was insane, his skin was turning red from being so angry and he was using his left hand to fidget just a bit. He doesn’t let himself touch you. So he speaks instead.

And then—

“Don’t go on that date.”

The words are barely above a whisper, but they punch the air out of your lungs. You are completely still, you are the deer in front of the car. You saw the sadness in his eyes, the desperation that sat there. This was not his forte, it never really was. The only girls he had dated before his ex-wife were just with him because of his physique or just to brag that they were with someone clean cut. At first he minded and really wished he could find something, anyone to be real. But eventually he fell into the game of who gives a fuck lets just have some fun. But when he looked at you he felt like that teenager again, the one who really did want something, anything real. 

You just blink. “What?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. His voice doesn't shake, but there's a quiet desperation laced through every word. He was above crying, at least he told himself that but he was not above begging at this moment. “Don’t go.”

You should walk past him. You should be the one who doesn’t break. He had done this to himself, you did nothing but show him kindness back when he graced you with his. In fact you had been the one who was constantly trying to figure out what was going on between the two of you. But the crack is already spreading. That part of you that had been trying to put the pieces together was still very curious. 

“Why?”

His lips part. His brows pull together just slightly. He looks at you like a man who’s spent weeks on the edge of a cliff, finally realizing the fall might be worth it. He moves his hands from his sides to put them on your waist but before he can he puts them right back. 

“You know why.”

That’s not enough. Not anymore. You need to hear him say it. He was not going to get away with just leaving things so broad that it could be taken as anything, this was all or nothing. 

“Say it,” you whisper.

The tension breaks like a snapped wire. His shoulders sag an inch, just enough to betray the weight he’s been carrying. The eye contact was unbearable. He hoped you could not see what he was feeling, but if you could he was hoping that nervousness was not one of those things. 

“Because he’s not me.” John was looking down at you, his eyes practically begging you to say something. But you had to see that he was being honest, that what he said was not some mean joke. 

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, unsure whether to reach for him or shove him away. The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy. Charged. Like the moment before a lightning strike. The corner of your kip was now underneath the weight of your teeth. All of a sudden your clothes felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds and were hot as hell. And still, neither of you moves because the ball is in your court. Normally he would not care nor would he respect that but this was different. This was not the same shit he could usually pull. 

“John—”

It comes out quieter than you meant. Like the sound got stuck in your throat on the way out. Barely a breath, just enough to reach him. He flinches. You would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely—the way his shoulders twitch, the way the line of his jaw tightens under the weight of that one syllable. Your voice, soft and uncertain, wrapped around his name like it means something. Like it still means something.

His eyes close for half a heartbeat. You catch the flash of restraint in his face like a wave crashing through him and barely receding. He exhales through his nose, slow and rough, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re burning. Not angry. Not wild. Wounded.

He’s standing there like a man carved out of stone—but you see the cracks. In his silence. In his knuckles, where his fingers twitch against the fabric of his pants like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. In the way he’s biting down on the inside of his cheek, hard, like he’s punishing himself for letting the words out at all.

You know what this is costing him.

You know what it takes for John Walker to admit that he feels anything.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches as you stand there, heat crawling up your neck like shame and hope are fighting for space beneath your skin. You shift your weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your boots scuff on the tile, the way your jacket feels too tight across your chest now, the way your lip is still caught between your teeth.

You want to ask him why now. Why not two weeks ago, when you sat next to him on that rooftop and the air between you had been just as electric, just as close, and he said nothing. Why not that night in the common area, when your knees brushed and he looked at you like he might say something real, then didn’t?

But you don’t ask.

Because you’re afraid of the answer.

And because right now, the way he’s looking at you—like you’re a decision he’s been avoiding for too long—it feels like he’s trying to make up for all of it in this one impossible moment.

He shifts his stance again, but he still doesn’t reach for you. His hands twitch at his sides—useless, hesitant, undone. He’s never looked more dangerous. And he’s never looked more unsure.

The silence after is louder than the words.He waits. Not breathing. Not blinking. Like he’s on a wire, waiting to be pushed. And you don’t know what you’re going to do next. You don’t know if you’re going to take a step forward or tear the door open and leave. Because there’s something in your chest clawing its way out. A scream. A sob. A kiss.

And then—

There’s a knock.

Sharp. Urgent.

Your head snaps toward the door.

His eyes follow.

Neither of you moves.

A voice calls your name from the other side.

John’s jaw sets. You see the walls go back up behind his eyes—fast, brutal, practiced. His fists clench, and for the first time in the whole damn conversation, he looks away.

You take a breath, ready to say something—

But the door handle starts to turn.

And you’re both still standing there.

Too close.

Too quiet. Too late.

[racecardilfs]

ok i HAVE to speak on some takes i've been seeing that i take serious issue with.

if you think the sport is boring without max crashing into people, watch nascar. if you think the sport is best when it's messy, it can be messy in ways that dont deliberately endanger others, like in indycar. if those are still boring to you, maybe racing isn't for you. interesting racing is when drivers make passes with inches of room, when teams make strategy gambles that pay off. it's not interesting to watch max lead races or divebomb others. open wheel racing is incredibly dangerous. dilano van 't hoff died in 2023. anthoine hubert died in 2018. jules bianchi and justin wilson died less than 10 years ago. dan wheldon 4 years before that. max's driving style directly led to his wheel being over lewis' head in the 2021 italian gp, and the halo is probably the only reason he's still here today. max isn't "haha funny cunty driving cancelled wife" its genuinely dangerous.

the thing that makes max different from other drivers like him before -like vettel, schumacher, and senna- is that he hasn't been penalized nearly as harshly as they were. he hasn't been disqualified, he didnt even get a drive-through for deliberately crashing into george, just a 10 second penalty. i don't hate max, and i don't think he's the villain some people make him out to be, but i also think he needs to grow up and regulate his emotions better on track. frankly, he doesnt make racing more interesting, he makes it more boring because everyone is hesitant to make a move against him knowing he could crash them out of the race just because they did better than him.

tldr: if you think max is what makes f1 interesting with his mess and his crashing, maybe f1 isnt for you. f1 drivers are not gladiators, they're athletes. they're real people who put their lives on the line all the time, and that needs to be understood and respected. no driver deserves to be further endangered on track by their colleagues, and no driver deserves the vitriol of fans thrown at them. learn your racing history and respect the drivers who have lost their career or died to get us the safety regulations we have now. they aren't for shits and giggles. they were written in the blood of drivers.