#I try not to do that but it happens sometimes

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | you cant just kiss me

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : the trend where you kiss your partner in the middle of a heated argument just to see what happens

୨ৎ : genre : romantic comedy ୨ৎ : tws : slight angst? ୨ৎ : word count : 616

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : im so locked in omg... (ive been so tired lately lmfao i wanna sleep writing this...)

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

he's mid-rant, hands flying, accent thick. "you don't listen sometimes, you just—"

you grab his face and kiss him. hard.

he freezes. literally forgets what planet he’s on.

blinks a few times, then mutters, "that’s not fair."

forgets the argument entirely. starts dragging you toward the couch.

yuki tsunoda

arms crossed, ranting about how you left dishes in the sink.

you're like "mhm," then suddenly lean in.

yells a muffled "ehh?!" against your lips.

pulls back with wide eyes and red cheeks. "what was that for?"

giggling now. argument forgotten. yuki is shy mode activated.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

pacing like a whole dad. "i just think it was inconsiderate."

you stop him with a kiss that makes him stumble.

stunned silence. then he smiles, shaking his head.

"you can’t keep weaponizing your lips."

forgives you instantly. no notes.

kimi antonelli

baby boy is flustered already just from the argument.

you kiss him mid-sentence.

he stops. blushes. looks at the floor.

"you can’t do that... i was mad."

except now he’s smiling like a dork and pulling you closer.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

full hands-in-hair frustration. "you never tell me these things!"

you kiss him suddenly.

freezes. then kisses back like it’s life or death.

pulls away slightly, forehead resting on yours. "don’t do that when i’m upset. i’ll forgive you too fast."

lewis hamilton

calmly explaining his side like a grown adult.

you interrupt with a kiss that knocks the calm out of him.

blinks. "okay. what was that?"

starts laughing. "i can’t argue with you when you do that."

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

sarcastic. hands waving. being dramatic.

you kiss him mid-rant.

goes: "wait... wait what?"

absolutely loses track of the fight. probably forgets his own name.

grins, "do it again. i dare you."

oscar piastri

logical argument mode. stating facts.

you pull him in and kiss him.

very confused. "i… what were we talking about again?"

gives up. you're now cuddling. fight over.

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

intense. staring you down. voice low.

you lean in and kiss him and his brain malfunctions.

pauses. then smirks. "clever little trick."

pulls you in again. "we’re still talking after this, though."

lance stroll

softly upset. furrowed brows. a little pout.

you kiss him unexpectedly.

shocked. then all melty.

rests his head on your shoulder. "that wasn’t fair... but okay."

ʚ・williams

alex albon

rambling while trying not to smile because he knows he’s losing.

you kiss him.

chuckles. "you little cheat."

wraps his arms around you, completely abandoning the debate.

carlos sainz

passionate argumenter. lots of hand gestures.

you grab his shirt and kiss him.

pulls back like "what just happened?"

then grins. "you’re evil. beautiful, but evil."

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

awkward and a little stiff when he's upset.

you kiss him in the middle of a sentence.

instantly blushes. stammers.

"i... okay. i forgot. what were we saying?"

too distracted now. cuddles ensue.

esteban ocon

talking in full paragraphs.

you just go for it.

stunned silence.

then he mumbles, "not a bad strategy..."

argument forgotten. he's now planning dinner.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

slightly sarcastic. mock-angry.

you kiss him.

instantly flustered. tries to recover.

"you can’t just... ugh fine. you're lucky you're cute."

kisses you back harder.

isack hadjar

super passionate when arguing.

mid-rant, you press your lips to his.

freezes. mutters something in french.

forgets why he was mad. kisses you again.

"you’re so annoying. and hot."

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

dramatic and expressive.

you kiss him.

fake-offended. "don’t think you can shut me up like that."

kisses you harder.

"okay maybe you can."

franco colapinto

slightly overwhelmed by the fight.

you kiss him.

all wide-eyed and breathless. "wow..."

hugs you like a teddy bear. won’t let go for 10 minutes.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

stern. classic german dad vibes.

you kiss him mid-sentence.

pauses. sighs. "you know that doesn’t solve the issue."

but he's smiling. and holding your hand.

gabriel bortoleto

passionate and a little dramatic.

you catch him off guard with a kiss.

he breaks into a grin.

"okay okay, you win."

pulls you into a hug and forgets why he was mad.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[angelx]

i cant stop imagining katsuki x reader like this

(giggles like a whore) i'm dead, literally. this had me feel things

NSFW! steamy tension, nipple play (through shirt), pussy stimulation, dirty talk, bf!katsuki x fem!reader

Katsuki was supposed to be getting dressed. You were supposed to be getting ready to go out.

But none of that was happening, because the second he walked into the room and saw you standing there in just your soft, body-hugging shirt and those lacey little panties with the bows on the sides—you were done for.

“You’re not wearin’ a bra,” he said, matter-of-fact.

You blinked. “...No?”

He stepped forward, tilting his head, hands already lifting to cup your tits through the thin fabric like he owned them. “Didn’t ask if you forgot,” he muttered, voice low and sinful. “I asked if you were doin’ it on purpose.” (he didn't really asked).

You opened your mouth—maybe to sass him, maybe to tease—but it came out as a shaky “Ah—” because his thumbs had already found your nipples through the shirt, flicking them in slow, taunting little circles.

“Thought so,” he smirked. “You know how fuckin’ sensitive you are.”

You gasped, breath catching hard as he rolled the buds between his fingers. The shirt wasn’t doing a damn thing to protect you—not when he was this focused, this deliberate. His fingers moved in lazy flicks, alternating pressure, making your knees go weak with every pass.

“K-Katsuki…”

He leaned in close, mouth hovering over yours but not quite kissing. His hands never stopped moving.

“You walkin’ around in this tiny ass shirt, nipples all perky and beggin’ for attention like you don’t know what that does to me?” His voice dropped to a growl. “You’re lucky I haven’t pinned you down yet.”

He gave one more flick, watching your body jolt in response.

“Tch. Look at you. All that squirming and I haven’t even taken it off.”

Your hands were gripping his forearms now, trying to steady yourself as the teasing became overwhelming—his thumbs rubbing slow, steady circles that made you whimper under your breath.

“You wanna beg yet?” he murmured, dipping his head to your neck, tongue flicking out to taste the skin just under your ear. “Or should I keep going ‘til you really can’t stand?”

And judging by the way your hips were already rocking forward, thighs pressing together, you both knew the answer.

You knew you were playing a dangerous game the moment you pulled on that clingy little shirt with nothing underneath. But what you didn’t expect was how fast Katsuki clocked it—and how fast he turned it into a full-blown mission.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he growled, hands sliding under the hem of your shirt just to yank it tight against your chest, making your nipples press even harder against the fabric.

Your breath hitched, body already twitching in anticipation.

“Perky little things,” he said, almost to himself, rolling the buds between his calloused fingers, slow and deliberate. “You think I wasn’t gonna notice? You think I was just gonna let you walk around like this?”

You whimpered as his thumbs circled, teasing back and forth with the kind of pressure that made your knees wobble. The shirt made it worse—just enough of a barrier to drag it out, keep you aching.

“Katsuki, we were gonna—”

“Yeah? Gonna what?” he cut you off, smirking as he leaned in close, breath hot against your lips. “Go out? You really think I’m lettin’ you out the door like this? Nah, baby. Not ‘til I deal with this first.”

And then—flick. Hard. Sharp. Right on your nipple.

You gasped, body jolting forward instinctively. He caught you, hand flat on your lower back to keep you steady as he flicked again, again, switching sides, switching pace—sometimes soft, sometimes brutal, and every single touch turned your brain into static.

Your thighs rubbed together. The ache between your legs was unbearable now.

He noticed.

“Aw, fuck. You’re wet, aren’t you?” His hand ghosted over your hip, fingers toying with the ribbon tied at the side of your panties. “Gettin’ all messy from me just playin’ with your tits. That pathetic?”

You nodded—didn’t even bother lying. You loved how he talked to you like this. Loved how filthy he got when he knew he had you melting in his hands.

“Lemme see.”

Two fingers dragged down the front of your panties, slow enough to make you shiver. He didn’t move the lace aside—he just pressed, right over your clit, watching your mouth fall open.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he muttered, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. “You gonna make a mess all over these cute little bows, baby?”

You whined.

He chuckled, rubbing you harder now, middle and ring finger slipping lower to tease your entrance through the soaked fabric.

“Already twitchin’. Look at that. I’ve barely even touched you.”

His free hand came back up, palming your tits, thumbs grazing your nipples again while his other hand worked your cunt through your panties. You were caught in the middle, helpless, shaking, overwhelmed.

“Katsu—Katsuki, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, burying his face in your neck. “You fuckin’ love this. Love when I play with you like a toy. I’m not even inside you yet and you’re fallin’ apart.”

He slipped a finger beneath the fabric, finally brushing over your bare clit.

You screamed.

“Shh,” he cooed, biting down on your collarbone with a low growl. “Be good. Be quiet, or I’ll stop.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

So he didn’t either.

Two fingers worked their way under the lace, dragging through your folds, dipping just barely inside before pulling back to tease your clit again.

Your shirt was bunched up over your tits now, twisted in his grip, exposing your stiff, red nipples. He leaned down, tongue flicking over one with just enough pressure to send you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit you like a truck.

You were moaning his name, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around nothing as he grinned against your chest, working you through every wave with his fingers still teasing your clit.

“Fuckin’ knew you were sensitive,” he muttered, mouth still on your skin. “Next time you pull this no-bra shit, you better be ready to earn the right to leave the house.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

if anybody wants to be on my tag list, please reply (╥﹏╥)

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Letters I Couldn’t Send

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob's been feeling lonely in between missions especially when Y/n isn’t there to occupy his mind, so he decides to try therapy. There it's suggested he writes his feelings out. But what happens when the letters get out to her?

WC:4.3K

A/N: Well his definitely couldn’t of had a much more satisfying ending but in outta ideas guys please send me suggestions

⸻

It started with the silence.

Not the battlefield kind, Bob could handle that. That noise had a rhythm, a reason. The thunder of explosions, the sharp crack of gunfire, the barking of orders over comms, it all had a place. It meant something. Chaos with a cause.

But the silence in between missions?

That was different. That was the kind that lingered like smoke, curling around his ribs, felt like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

The team had shipped out again. Another international crisis. Another mess the Thunderbolts had been sent to clean up. This time it was Seoul, some subterranean weapons lab under the city that had to be neutralized before things got out of control. A high-risk, high-stakes mission.

Bob hadn’t been cleared to go.

He never fought the orders. Not anymore. There were a few missions within the year he was able to go, but not after what happened the last time he’d pushed it. He knew better. When the possibility of unleashing the Void even whispered into the room, the protocols snapped into place like a cage around him.

Stand by.

Stay ready.

Do not deploy unless sanctioned.

Those words, cold and clinical, had carved themselves into the soft tissue of his brain. And so he stayed behind. As always.

And now… now it was just him, alone in the tower. The rest of the team was who knows where, halfway across the world, running through smoke and fire. Maybe Ava was phasing through walls. Maybe Yelena was laughing in that sharp, unbothered way as she cracked someone’s ribs. Maybe Bucky was gritting his teeth through another close call. He could almost see it all. Feel it.

Meanwhile, he sat in a worn-out hoodie on the rec room couch, staring at the flickering screen of a movie he didn’t remember choosing. The credits had rolled five minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved. Didn’t blink. Just sat there in that electric stillness, his coffee long gone cold in his hand, the cup sweating against his palm.

That silence was the worst kind. The absence. The hollowness.

On good days, Y/N was there to fill it. Her laugh, her voice, her presence, it was like light through a cracked door. Just enough to remind him that the darkness wasn’t total. That he wasn’t always a ticking time bomb. That sometimes, someone saw him as more than the Void’s vessel. That someone could love him anyway.

But she was on the Seoul mission, too.

And without her…

It was like something had been scooped out of him and never put back. The walls felt closer. The silence had teeth now, and it bit every time he looked.

He didn’t blame the team. Of course he didn’t. It wasn’t their fault he couldn’t be trusted, not really. The risk was real. He knew it. They followed orders. They didn’t write them. Still, knowing that didn’t stop the isolation from curling around him like smoke, quiet, creeping, inescapable.

He tried to distract himself. He worked out until his muscles screamed, then showered in water too hot to be comfortable. He tried reading but couldn’t focus past the same three sentences. The TV offered its flashing noise, but none of it landed. Everything felt… detached. Like he was watching the world through glass.

Three days.

Seventy two hours of radio silence, punctuated by brief check-ins from mission control.

No voices he wanted to hear.

No knock on his door.

No trace of her.

On the third night, long after the bunker had gone still and the movie had long since ended, Bob sat there with the remote loosely clutched in his fingers and the cold coffee in his other hand, staring at the black screen that reflected only a faint, distorted version of himself.

He looked haunted.

He felt haunted.

And not by ghosts, exactly. Not even by the Void, though that shadow was always somewhere at the edge of his vision. No, this was something worse. Something smaller, but deeper.

The ache of being forgotten.

The ache of still being here, when the world kept turning without him.

His throat worked around a dry swallow. He hated how dramatic he sounded, even inside his own head. He was alive. Safe. Fed. Sheltered.

But he was also invisible.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob Reynolds thought, not about the darkness, not about the power sleeping beneath his skin but about something gentler. Something simpler.

Maybe I should talk to someone.

Not about the Void. That would come with too many complications.

Not even about the past stories or the weight of being left behind.

Just… about being alone.

About what it did to him.

About feeling like a ghost in his own skin.

And maybe, just maybe, if he said it out loud…

It wouldn’t feel so permanent.

⸻

The therapist’s name was Dr. Madani.

Mid-forties, calm eyes, no nonsense. She wore neutral colors and practical shoes, and her voice had the kind of steadiness that made you believe she wouldn’t flinch even if the walls started to bleed. That first session, Bob had waited for the telltale sign, disbelief, discomfort, judgment when he told her exactly why he was there.

That he was part of the New Avengers?That he had powers that could level cities if he lost focus? That sometimes, he wasn’t allowed to leave the country, not because he’d done something wrong, but because if he got too emotional, reality itself might tear open like wet paper.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t ask him to repeat it. Just nodded once and scribbled something calmly into her notebook.

That was a good sign.

Better than good. It was rare.

So he kept coming back.

Once a week. Tuesday mornings. Early, before the rest of the compound stirred too much. He liked it that way, quiet halls, empty coffee pots, sunlight just beginning to filter through reinforced windows. He sat on the same couch every time, hands braced on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Dr. Madani never pushed. She asked questions like she was handing him a flashlight, not leading him anywhere he didn’t want to go.

And slowly, very slowly, the words started to come. About the silence. About the guilt of being spared from missions he wanted to join. About feeling like his existence was always something to be managed, measured, mitigated. Not lived.

He didn’t tell anyone at first.

Not because it was a secret.

It just felt… personal. Sacred, even. Like something he needed to protect. A small part of himself that hadn’t yet been cracked open by the Void.

But eventually, people noticed.

It started in little ways. He was a bit more grounded. A bit less like he might disintegrate if someone looked at him too long. A bit more… here.

Yelena was the first to say anything.

She poked him in the arm one afternoon after training and gave him a once over, lips pursed. “Therapy?” she asked, like it was a codeword.

Bob blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

“Good.” she said with a sharp nod. “Maybe now you won’t look like you’ve seen a ghost every morning.”

Then she grinned, wide and wolfish, and wandered off before he could respond.

John, never one for subtlety, clapped him on the back so hard Bob nearly dropped his water bottle. “You’re seeing someone?” he asked, then immediately corrected himself. “Like a therapist someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured, couldn’t be a woman.”

Bucky in the background expression shifted into something more sober. “Good man. Wish I’d started sooner. Might’ve saved myself a couple bad years.”

Bob wasn’t sure how to respond, so he just nodded. They didn’t have to say it all out loud. Not every wound needed to be unpacked in public.

Alexei found out next. Over breakfast. The Russian looked up from a plate piled with bacon and muttered, “Ah, Westerners. Always with the talking.” in that deep, sardonic tone of his.

But it came with a rare approving nod. One of those subtle things Alexei did when he didn’t want to make a big deal out of being proud of someone.

Ava didn’t say much. She never did.

But one evening in the corridor, she passed him on the way to her room, paused, and met his eyes. No smile. Just a shared, quiet understanding. A nod of solidarity from one ghost to another.

And then there was you.

You found out by accident, really caught the tail end of a conversation between Bob and Dr. Madani over the phone as he tried to reschedule a session after dinner ran long. You didn’t press. Didn’t joke, didn’t pry.

Just waited until the next time the two of you were alone, in the stillness of his quarters where the air always smelled faintly like cedar and coffee, and said, gently.

“I heard… you’ve been talking to someone.”

Bob stiffened, a little embarrassed. He opened his mouth to downplay it, but you stepped in before he could.

“I’m proud of you.” you said.

Simple. Quiet. Honest.

And that-

That undid something in him.

Like a thread pulled loose from a tightly woven net, a quiet unraveling that wasn’t painful, just… necessary. The tension in his chest gave way to something warmer. Softer. Real.

He looked at you, really looked, and saw the sincerity in your eyes. No pity. No worry.

Just love. Just you.

His voice caught in his throat, but he didn’t need to speak.

You knew.

You always knew.

And in that moment, for the first time in months, Bob Reynolds felt less like a walking disaster waiting to happen… and more like a man becoming whole.

⸻

Session 9

Topic: You.

He hadn’t walked in planning to talk about you.

That morning had been like the others, gray sky, stale coffee, muscles sore from a workout he barely remembered doing.

Bob had come in wanting to talk about anything else.

But somewhere between describing the chaos in his life and feeling alone and how he’d locked himself in the tower for twenty hours afterward just to feel again, you slipped in.

You always did. Eventually.

“She’s different.” he said quietly, almost without thinking. “Y/N, I mean.”

Dr. Madani didn’t flinch. She never did. Just tilted her head the way she always did when something important passed between the lines.

“How so?”

Bob stared at the ceiling for a long moment, fingers laced together in his lap. “She doesn’t look at me like I’m going to break.”

“Who does?”

“Everyone.” he said. And it wasn’t bitter. It wasn’t even angry. It was just true.

Dr. Madani nodded slowly, absorbing that.

“But she doesn’t.” he continued. “She doesn’t tiptoe around me. Doesn’t treat me like glass. When she talks to me, it’s like…” He paused, struggling for the right shape of the thought. “It’s like I’m me. Not Sen- Not a broken man. Not whatever nightmare people think I could become.”

“You trust her.”

That landed like a stone dropped into still water.

He nodded. “Completely.”

Dr. Madani leaned forward, just slightly. Her tone softened, but there was steel beneath it. “Do you have feelings for her?”

He hesitated.

Not out of denial, but out of reverence. As if the truth might shatter something sacred.

Then he breathed out and said, “Yeah. I think I love her.”

The words changed the air in the room. Denser. Heavier. Not oppressive, but real. Like the truth had settled onto the couch next to him, folding its hands neatly in its lap.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. He looked at the floor, where his boots had tracked a bit of mud in from the rain. It felt safer, somehow, than meeting anyone’s eyes while admitting that.

Dr. Madani’s voice cut gently through the silence. “So why haven’t you told her?”

Bob stared, long and slow.

“I don’t know how to explain it.” he said. “She sees the real me. The part I don’t show anyone. And I think if I try to have more… if I try to touch that kind of happiness…” He swallowed hard. “I’ll ruin it. I’ll ruin her.”

“You’re afraid.”

He didn’t argue. Just stared at his hands, watching how they trembled ever so slightly.

“Yeah.”

For a long moment, there was only the soft ticking of the office clock.

Then Dr. Madani leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Try this.” she said. “Write it down. Letters. Say what you want to say to her but don’t give them to her. Not yet. Keep them for yourself. Get the words out of your head.”

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“Even if you never show her?” he asked.

“Even then.” she replied. “Letting love exist on the page is still better than letting fear keep it caged.”

He didn’t say anything, but the thought rooted in his chest, somewhere between his heartbeat and the Void.

That night, when the tower was quiet again and everyone was asleep, he sat at his desk under the soft buzz of the overhead lamp, a pen between his fingers and an untouched notebook in front of him.

For a while, he just stared.

Then, finally, he wrote:

Y/N,

You don’t know this but when I hear your voice, the noise in my head quiets. The shadows settle. The Void gets smaller. I think that means something.

I think you saved me before I even knew I needed saving.

He stopped there.

Closed the notebook.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob went to bed feeling like something in him had been released.

⸻

Letter One

Not Sent.

Y/N,

You asked me once casually, like it was nothing, what the Void feels like.

I gave you the easy answer. Told you it was a black hole. And that’s true. It is. It’s gravity and hunger and noise. It’s this constant ache just under my skin, like I’m being pulled in two directions toward destruction, and away from myself.

But I didn’t tell you the rest. Not really.

The Void isn’t just darkness. It’s absence. Of peace. Of quiet. Of being seen. It’s like standing in the middle of a screaming crowd where every voice is my own, shouting all the worst things I’ve ever believed about myself.

And then there’s you.

When you talk to me even just in passing, about dumb things like who drank the last cup of coffee or how Ava pretends not to like that dumb soap opera you got her into the noise changes. It doesn’t vanish, not completely. But it dulls. It backs off, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the room when you’re in it.

You make the world quieter, Y/N.

You make me quieter.

And I think that’s what love is.

Not fireworks. Not grand declarations. Just… a quieting. A calming. Someone who makes all the chaos feel like it has somewhere to go.

You do that for me.

And maybe I’ll never say this out loud, not the way I should but I need somewhere to put the truth.

So here it is.

I think I’m in love with you.

⸻

He wrote after therapy.

After the sessions where he’d dig through the wreckage of his mind and come back with shards too sharp to hold. After days when Dr. Madani asked gentle, pointed questions that left him raw and humming with things he didn’t know how to say out loud.

He wrote after bad dreams, when the Void swallowed cities behind his eyelids, when he woke up choking on screams that never left his throat. He wrote because it was the only way to drain the darkness out before it rooted deeper.

And sometimes, he wrote after the softest moments. The ones that shouldn’t have meant anything.

Like watching you twirl a pen between your fingers during a mission briefing, utterly focused and unaware.

Like the way your brow furrowed when you were reading intel too fast.

Like the time your laugh, real, unguarded, echoed off the walls of the living room at 1 a.m. because Yelena told a joke so bad it looped back to being good.

Those moments lodged themselves in him like stars against an obsidian sky. They glowed when everything else went dark.

He wrote because he couldn’t tell you.

He wrote because he wanted to.

Because his hands could say what his mouth never would.

The letters piled up.

Neatly folded, tucked into the back of a weather-worn notebook no one ever touched.

No signature. No dates. Just page after page of aching clarity.

He didn’t need to claim them. They were all his.

All you.

Sometimes they were two sentences.

Sometimes five pages.

Sometimes just a line that repeated over and over again until the ink smudged:

Please don’t ever leave.

They weren’t meant for the light.

Weren’t meant to be found.

They were a quiet kind of survival. A confession without consequence.

But even as they sat hidden in the dark, they were something real.

Like the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Like the way he never said goodbye, only “Be safe.”

Like the silence that always followed after you left a room.

⸻

Then they were gone.

It only took one careless moment.

Late one night after training, the team had drifted into the bunker kitchen like ghosts, sweaty, half-laughing, bruised from sparring but wired from adrenaline. Yelena, still in her tank top and boots, ducked into the storage lockers for her secret stash of Russian chocolate.

Bob’s locker was just below hers. She nudged it with her foot, just to balance herself, and something shifted.

A low thud. Then a soft, papery sound like wings.

A field manual slipped out and landed on the concrete floor, its spine cracked from age and use.

“Oops.” she muttered, bending to grab it.

But when she reached down, her fingers brushed not one, but several loose pages, creased and tucked between the manual’s back cover and its binding. They scattered like leaves. Maybe a dozen. Maybe more.

She picked one up without thinking. Eyes skimmed.

Then stopped.

The words weren’t tactical notes. Not mission logs.

They were intimate.

You asked me once what the Void feels like…

Her stomach dropped.

Another page.

When you laugh or look at me like I’m just Bob, it’s like the noise goes quiet…

Her breath caught. She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide, then back at the paper in her hand like it had burned her.

This wasn’t a journal.

These were letters.

To Y/N.

Without waiting, she grabbed a few more pages, reading faster now, pieces of the same heartbreak pulled out of hiding:

Sometimes I don’t know if I want you to know how deep this goes. If you knew… you’d leave. Or worse, you’d stay, and it would break you.

I would never forgive myself for making you carry this weight, too.

I think you make me want to be something more than just a weapon.

Yelena stood frozen, heart pounding.

Footsteps padded in from the hallway. John, towel slung over his shoulder, drinking water from a bottle. “You find your chocolate or what?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at him, eyes dark and unreadable.

Then she held up the pages like evidence.

“Guys…” she said, voice steady but soft. “You need to see this.”

Within minutes, the small living room was quiet. Too quiet.

John sat with one knee bouncing anxiously, flipping a page with careful fingers.

Ava stood against the wall, arms crossed, reading one of the shorter ones three times over and saying nothing.

Alexei muttered something under his breath in Russian that no one asked him to translate.

But it was Y/N’s arrival that shifted the air.

You walked in fresh from a shower, towel around your shoulders, hair still damp, laughing at something on your phone.

Then you stopped.

They were all looking at you.

And on the table in front of them, you saw the unmistakable handwriting you’d seen on Bob’s grocery lists, his mission notes, the corner of your birthday card this year.

And your name.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

The letters weren’t signed.

They didn’t need to be.

⸻

The team sat around the table. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t natural for them. No joking, no casual bickering. Just the kind that settled in like fog before something heavy fell.

Yelena had spread the letters out like puzzle pieces, some wrinkled, some barely touched. All fragile in their own way.

“This is about Y/N.” she said, voice low but certain. “All of it.”

Ava, slow and careful, picked one up. Her eyes scanned it with that clinical precision she used when reading threat assessments. Only this time, her features softened.

“It’s him.” she said. “It’s Bob.”

John leaned back, frowning. He tapped a page with the back of his knuckle. “No shit sherlock.”

The second your eyes fell on the handwriting, tight, slightly slanted, every ‘t’ crossed with a deliberate flick you knew.

Because you’d seen it scribbled across mission logs, smudged onto napkins from midnight meals. Because once, during a stakeout in Argentina, you’d fallen asleep beside him and woke to find your name written in the corner of his notebook over and over like he was trying to memorize it.

Because only Bob would write something like:

You make the monsters quiet.

And suddenly it felt like the ground beneath you shifted. Not in a way that knocked you over. But in that slow, undeniable way earthquakes start, quiet and deep and unstoppable.

You stepped forward, hand hovering over the letters like they were sacred. Your eyes flitted across half-finished thoughts, tear-stained lines, pages where he’d scratched something out only to rewrite it again a few lines down.

I watch you brush your hair behind your ear, and it’s like watching sunlight bend.

If I were braver, I’d tell you. But I think if I did, something inside me might unravel for good.

You are the only silence I’ve ever trusted.

The breath caught in your throat.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

But your fingers curled slightly, like you were gripping onto air to stay steady.

Yelena watched you carefully, saying nothing for once.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The room belonged to you now. You, and the weight of what he’d kept hidden.

All those nights Bob had stayed behind while the rest of you flew into chaos. All the long silences. The soft, watchful way he looked at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. The way his voice always softened when he said your name.

It was never nothing.

And now, it was everything.

⸻

You found him on the roof.

Of course you did.

It was the only place he ever went when the bunker walls started closing in, when the weight of what he was, what he carried, got too heavy to breathe through. Up there, the night sky was endless and forgiving, and no one asked him to be a hero or a ghost. Just a man.

The wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped beside him, silent at first.

He was sitting near the ledge, knees pulled up, hands clasped tightly between them like a boy waiting for punishment or a prayer to be answered.

You stood there for a long moment before you spoke.

“I found the letters.” you said softly.

His head jerked slightly. “What? I mean- what letters, I-“

But the panic in his voice was already giving him away.

He flinched, shoulders curling inward. “They weren’t supposed to get out, you weren’t supposed to see that-“

“I know.”

Silence again. The wind whistled low between the buildings below, a distant car horn echoing like it belonged in another life. He still didn’t look at you. His jaw tightened, and you could see the twitch in the muscle near his temple, an old tic from when he was trying not to fall apart.

“I was scared.” he said eventually, voice raw. “Not of you. Of what I’d do to something good.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re good.”

You sat next to him. Not touching, yet. Just close enough that the heat from your shoulder brushed his.

“So are you.” you said.

He let out a broken laugh. Shaky. Bitter.

“That’s not true.”

“It is to me.”

And that’s when he looked at you. Really looked.

Not the sidelong glances in mission briefings. Not the half-second stares when he thought you were asleep on the couch. This was different.

This was Bob, stripped bare.

And what you saw was everything, the fear he’d never quite shaken, the hope he’d buried under layers of self-control, and the longing so sharp it cleaved straight through the air between you.

“I’m not perfect.” he whispered. Like it was a confession. A warning. A truth he thought might send you running.

“Neither am I.” you replied gently. “But I still choose you.”

He blinked, and his whole body seemed to tilt toward you, like he didn’t quite believe the weight of what you’d just said. Like he didn’t dare.

“But the Void-”

“Isn’t all of you,” you cut in.

“But it could be-”

“And if it ever is.” you said, voice steady now, “I’ll be there. I’m not afraid of the dark, Bob. I just don’t want you to live in it alone.”

The breath he let out was half a sob.

He turned away, just slightly, as if giving himself a second to pull the world back into place but he didn’t move far. And when you reached out and slid your fingers over his, he let you.

Just like that.

A quiet surrender.

A beginning.

You sat there together until the sky turned navy and the stars blinked on, one by one. No grand declaration. Just being. And a passionate overdue kiss that’s been waiting to happen

Because love, real love isn’t always loud.

Sometimes, it’s just two people on a rooftop, holding hands in the dark.

⸻

Letter Twenty-One. Sent.

Y/N,

You told me once that I wasn’t alone. I didn’t believe you then. But I do now. Because you saw me when I didn’t want to be seen, and you stayed.

I love you. In every version of me. Even the ones I haven’t met yet.

Always,

Bob

⸻

[moonstruckme]

blanket fort - “thank you for picking me up- i know it’s late.” with fwb!sirius maybe? I’m thinking like.. you’re not together but you call him cos you need him and he comes right away <33 do with that what u will hehe

Ahhh thank you mal <3

cw: alcohol, attempted sa (mentioned, not in the scene)

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 969 words

You like it a lot when Sirius calls you his. It’s usually by accident. He calls you lots of things—gorgeous, sweetness, dollface—but never in the same tone as when that incriminating my slips out. My darling, he’d said once, teasing, trying to get you into the shower with him (it worked). Another time, kissing overstimulated tears off your face before they could fall onto his pillowcase, my lovely girl. Sometimes, you think it’s a little pathetic of you—not very feminist, that’s for sure. You like being independent. You aren’t anybody’s. You shouldn't want to belong to someone. But you do, and not just anyone; you want to belong to Sirius. 

So it’s possible that it’s only wishful thinking, when cool fingers brush the hair from your face and you think—you hope—you catch a murmured, “Oh, my girl.” 

Regardless of what you may or may not hear, you’d know the feel of that hand anywhere. 

Sirius is waiting when you unstick your lashes, looking down at you with an amused uptilt to his perfect mouth. He pushes more hair away from your eyes. The surface of the restaurant table feels nice against your cheek. 

“What happened to you, hm?” 

“I don’t know,” you reply drowsily. “What happened to you?” 

Sirius huffs out a laugh. “Well, I was sitting at home thinking about this bird.” 

“Gross. Is she pretty?” 

“Stunning. I figured I’d call her to see if she was thinking about me too, so I did, and do you want to know what she had the gall to tell me?” 

You put a hand under your cheek, angling your face to see him better. You are intensely curious. “What?” 

“She said that if I wanted to fuck her, I had to come and pick her up at the fancy hotel downtown. So, here I am.” He gives you a once-over. “I don’t think we’re going to be fucking, though.” 

You frown. “No?” 

“No, sweetness. Sorry.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” He strokes your cheek, smiling in a way that makes you feel all melty soft. “Hey, stay put for me a minute.” 

Staying put feels like all you know how to do. You assume Sirius goes somewhere, but you don’t notice. You blink, and he’s back in front of you, a glass of water in his hand where there wasn’t one before. He gives your shoulder a pat. 

“C’mon, sit up.” 

“M’okay,” you say, even as you do as he tells you. Your head spins once there’s no table to stabilize it. “I don’t need anything to drink.” 

Sirius’ eyebrow flicks up. “Who says it’s for you?” 

“Oh.” You’re strangely put out. “It’s not?” 

“No, it is.” He cracks, grinning. “Just have a little for me, babe. For my peace of mind.” 

You whine as he puts the glass to your lips, but you don’t have much choice. The water presses insistently at your mouth. Sirius holds the side of your face as you take it down, so that’s nice, at least. 

You breathe out after swallowing. You hadn’t noticed your throat hurting before, but it does feel better now. Sirius wipes a dribble from the side of your chin like it’s nothing. 

“I asked you to come here,” you say, “didn’t I.” 

Sirius’ lips quirk. “Demanded was more like it.” You put a hand over your eyes, and he tsks, laughing. “What, lovely, was it a bad night?” 

“Bad date,” you moan. “So boring. Worst conversationalist in the world, I could swear he was trying to get me liquored up.” The smile fades from Sirius’ face. You like this, strangely. You want his sympathy. “He’s staying here, you know. That’s why we met at the hotel for dinner, I was just too stupid to think of it.” 

“He tried to take you up to his room?” he asks. 

You make a wry sound. “Yeah, but he didn’t seem to like when I said I was too drunk to do anything.” 

Sirius skims you over. You don’t know what he’s looking for, or if he finds it, but his expression is uncharacteristically humorless when he nods. “Good girl.” 

You eye him. “Because I’m not having sex with other people?” 

“Because you’re looking out for yourself.” 

You sit with that for a while. You wonder if Sirius would be angry if you had gone up. Sober, that is. You wonder how he’d react if you told him about it later, what he’d think of you sleeping with someone who wasn’t him for a change. What would he think if he knew you only came on this date as an act of desperation? That you’d been so lovelorn, so pathetically hung up on him, that you’d gone out with the first person who made themselves available to you? 

Fortunately, you still have enough of your wits about you to know you’d hate yourself for asking. 

“So,” you say instead, “are you going to take me home now?”

Sirius grins. “I suppose I am.” 

You muster your best grin in reply. “I know how you love to take me home.” 

“Shush, lightweight. Drink your water, then we’ll go.” 

You pick the glass up to appease him. But when you only have a few more sips before leaning your head on his shoulder, Sirius doesn’t complain. 

“Can I ask you something weird?” you murmur. 

“Nothing’s ever stopped you before.”

“You’ll do something for me?” 

“Hm, depends.” Sirius is teasing, but when you fall silent his tone gentles. “What is it?” 

“Call me something nice?” 

You shut your eyes. Just inebriated enough to ask, just sober enough to be embarrassed. You’re sure he’s going to laugh at you. 

Sirius’ kiss lands softly atop your hair. “I’ll call you whatever you want,” he says, in that tone, that soft, incriminating tone, “my sweetheart.”

[ooffmlsorry]

“I’m Pretending I Don’t Love You” Behaviors

Lowkey thinking about doing some one piece x reader prompts with this post but I don't have time so this is all I've got :|

Zoro is definitely staring too long. Chopper would have to treat him for whiplash with how fast he turns his head away from you when he's been caught staring. Red creeping across his cheeks all the way to his ears. He'd make some dumb half-assed comment under his breath. He just can't help it. He stares at you often trying to put all the pieces of you together in his head. You're one of the few things that float in his mind all day: his dream, the crew, booze, and you.

Luffy is "coincidentally" showing up wherever you are. Every few islands, Luffy crash lands into your world bringing a bright smile, a bone-crushing hug, and absolute chaos with him. The "game" doesn't last long, even though it's fun for him to find a way to be wherever you are. He's quick to declare how annoying it is following you around and asks you to just join his crew already so he can be near you all the time.

Sanji is looking away from you when you laugh. You'd think he'd exactly what food you like, he does, of course! But he does that with everyone and you're not "everyone." You're you and sometimes he feels like he shouldn't even be allowed to look at you you're so perfect. When you smile so wide and laugh unabashedly, it's like trying to stare at the sun. He has to look away, his heart hammering in his chest like he's just run a marathon.

Sabo is soooo jealous when anyone flirts with you and he has no idea why. They just...shouldn't?! He tells himself you're too smart and too interesting and too funny for just any ol' bozo to think they can get with you. He's tweaking. Hands twitching to punch whoever is talking to you. Flames threaten to lick at his skin just at the thought of you with anyone. He knows he's jealous, but the reason why escapes him completely. You're just too special.

Law is volunteering to be with you, always. You'd think it'd be patching you up or telling you (coldly) to be careful, but he does that with his crew or anyone in his small circle. He doesn't have to tell you to be careful because he's right next to you and he won't let anything happen. Law goes through loops of logic to justify your being with him on important missions. He needs you, you calm him, give him peace of mind. He knows it's a little unhealthy, but he can't stop himself.

Ace is teasing you constantly. Little stuff that gets a chuckle and an eye roll out of you. He can't have you getting too close, can't imagine you taking him too seriously...even though he kind of wants you to. Getting a little reaction out of you, a blush, a laugh, an eye roll, swatting him away like he's a mosquito, is all he's willing to take from you because he's pretty sure that's all he'll ever get. And he's so smitten he'll take anything you're willing to give him.

[munchhmm]

Oops! All Skin

How the boys would react to reader accidentally revealing themselves ≧ ≦

plz be nice this is the first piece I've ever written

Pairings: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Law, and Ace x F!reader (separate)

Warnings: Implied nudity that's about it ᴥ

Word count: About 3.7k words total

Credit to @cafekitsune for dividers! ෆ (first pic is mine)

Luffy ˃ 𖥦 ˂

Just blinks and tilts his head.

Definitely wouldn’t understand what's going on at first.

Continues (well attempts, before you smack him with your pillow) to try and talk with you like nothings happening.

Huffs dramatically like a baby and closes the door behind him with no urgency.

Doesn’t hesitate to mention the situation in front of the whole crew while you’re all eating breakfast. cue Sanji falling to the floor like he’s dying

You were sleeping in peacefully, the sun slowly starting to rise over the horizon and bleed through your cabin window. The Straw Hat crew rarely got chances to stay in bed past ten in the morning, so surely they were all gonna take it, right?

Well…

“HEY! Y/N!! SANJI COULDN’T SLEEP SO HE’S MAK–” Luffy stopped mid-sentence as he barged into your dorm, seeing you standing with a blanket barely covering half your naked body. The sudden noise startled you, but you didn’t have enough time to react properly. “Oh yeah! Anyway Sanji’s–” the clueless boy stopped again after being smacked with a pillow you quickly grabbed from your bed.

��Luffy! Get out, please!” you say, embarrassed as your face becomes a dark shade of red, attempting to cover yourself better with the blanket. Luffy pouts and turns towards the door. “Hmph, fine, you big meanie,” he says, pouting and slowly closing the door behind you.

Later that day...

By the time you mustered up the courage to go into the dining hall, most of the crew had already eaten. They were now cleaning dishes and cooking utensils. You quietly walked to the table where your serving was still waiting and tried to be invisible, stepping slowly. Once you started sitting down, Nami turned to look at you.

“Hey Y/N! Wow, you really did sleep in this morning. It’s almost noon!”

Before you can respond, Luffy chimes in, “Nuh uh! She was up when I walked into her room a bit ago!”

Your face immediately starts to turn red again, and you glance down at your plate.

“If you were up already, why didn’t you come eat breakfast with us?” Usopp questions as he dries his hand with a towel.

“I just wanted to read by myself for a bit…” you lie, moving food around on your plate, hoping everyone will just drop the subject.

Of course, it's never that easy.

“Wait, were you upset because you weren’t dressed when I walked in?” Luffy asks innocently while digging into the refrigerator. Didn’t he literally just eat?

Everyone turns to you with a mix of shock and amusement on their faces.

“Oh ho ho! Does this mean Y/N sleeps nude? I don’t have to guess what those panties look like!” Brook jokes while Robin chuckles slightly.

“My love, why would you show your body to him and not me?!” Sanji cries while clutching his chest.

The rest of the crew (aside from Zoro, who acts like he’s sleeping) are too stunned to do or say anything and just continue to stare. You sigh and stand from your seat, mumbling, “I’m going back to my room. You guys are annoying.”

After closing the door to your living quarters and sitting at your desk, it isn’t long before you hear a knock at the door. When you get up to greet the person, it’s none other than Luffy.

“I really am sorry for not knocking this morning, and mentioning everything in front of the crew,” he says calmly, with that puppy look he gives when he’s sad.

You smile and shake your head slightly. “It’s fine. I’m glad you understand why I was upset now.”

Luffy smiles back at you and gives his signature giggle. “I did like your chest though, could I see it again sometime?!”

You shove him playfully, with a blush coming back across your face. Maybe you could use this as payback.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Zoro ˆ𐃷ˆ

Immediately turns away.

Poor boy is blushing so hard but hides it really well.

Tries to apologize but can’t say it yet.

Doesn’t look at you for a full day because honestly he’s more embarrassed than you.

Eventually sits next to you and says sorry in his own way.

The crew had landed on an island to restock supplies and, of course, a horrible storm forced them to spend a few days docked. Since the island was smaller, there wasn’t much opportunity to find an inn or hotel, so everyone decided to set up a small camp near the city.

It had been a long day, and you all knew it was going to be at least another three or so days before it would be safe to set out again. The rain and wind were relentless, causing the crew to huddle closer than usual. Tired and hungry, they decided to have dinner and a makeshift shower in the rain before heading to bed.

“I set up this curtain so we could have at least a little bit of privacy. Just don’t touch it, or it’ll probably fall,” Robin says with a smile. After the meal, everyone took their showers, but you decided to take yours last, too busy admiring the way the rain hits the leaves and the smell of earth.

“Your turn, Y/N!” Nami said, bringing you out of your thoughts as she stepped out from behind the curtain, covered by a towel.

You thank her and head over with your own towel and clean pair of clothes. The water feels nice on your bare skin—it was nice not having the feeling of damp clothes clinging to your body, weighing you down. You again found yourself lost in thought, closing your eyes and just listening to the relaxing sounds of nature. It was relaxing. Until—

Bang! Clang! Clang!

You open your eyes at the loud noise and turn around to see Zoro on the ground with the curtain underneath him, rubbing his head and mumbling curses to himself. Before you can react, he looks up and stands, turning to walk away with a blush.

“I, uh, s-sorry. It was an accident.”

You suddenly realize what happened. After drying off and dressing yourself quickly, you make your way to where the girls are sleeping for the night.

“What was that loud noise? Did you knock over our shower, Y/N?” Nami teases playfully, but when she sees your flustered reaction, her look softens.

“Hey, I was just joking, it’s really no big deal.”

You sigh loudly and rub your face with your hand. “Yeah, but it is a big deal that it was Zoro who knocked it over while I was showering.”

The girls look at you, shocked, then they both start laughing. You roll your eyes and lay down facing away from them, waving them off when they apologize through their giggles. Sure, it was funny to them—but to you and Zoro? Just awkward.

Time skip...

The next day comes and goes uneventfully. Rain and winds are still there but have definitely lessened overnight. Everyone begins to pack, since it’s looking like they’ll be able to leave tomorrow. Zoro glances at you a few times but looks away once you notice—no talking though.

“Don’t worry, just tease him about it when we get back on the ship and he’ll be back to his normal self,” Nami whispers to you with a playful wink.

You sigh and roll your eyes, continuing the day like this. No words, no touches, just short looks and blushing.

Time skip...

Finally, it’s sunny—the wind almost nonexistent. The crew heads towards their ship with supplies and admires the beautiful view of the island without chaos surrounding them. You stay toward the back of the group to avoid Zoro, who’s closer to the front.

Once everyone makes it onto the ship and sets sail, they all go and do their own activities. The sea is calm and the waves crash gently against the boat. You sit against a railing on the deck and watch the ocean.

Suddenly, there’s a presence near that flops down beside you. At first you don’t look, but the sound of katanas being set against the wood of the deck gives away who it was.

“So, uh… I hope you aren’t mad at me. I wasn’t looking where I was going and tripped over the edge of the curtain,” Zoro says, looking away from you while rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said that sooner.”

You can’t help but smile at how flustered he is, and how sweet he’s trying to be.

“I’m not mad. If anything, I thought you were mad at me,” you say as you lean your head against Zoro’s shoulder.

He lets out a small sigh like he was holding his breath. While wrapping his arm around you, he smirks and says, “Well, I can’t be mad at getting the chance to see something like that.”

Once again you’re blushing, hiding your face in Zoro’s shoulder.

“So you’re acting like Sanji now, huh?” you ask playfully, trying to hide how flustered you are by his comment.

Zoro tilts his head to look at you. “I’ll take that as my punishment. I’m nothing like that pervy cook,” he says as he places his chin on the top of your head.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Sanji 𖦹ࡇ𖦹

Normal Sanji reaction, nosebleed and falling to the floor on his knees in a desperate attempt to gain your love.

Swears he didn’t look but he definitely did.

Up your ass for the rest of the day literally? jkjk.

Every time he sees you afterwards he just imagines what he saw that day.

But if it scares you? That’s a different story…

The large city spread farther than the crew had anticipated. Of course, everyone was entranced by their own area of interest—Luffy at a butcher shop, Robin at a cute little bookstore that smelled of paper, and Nami was ready to go shopping.

“Y/n, do you wanna come with me? That boutique has the cutest tube tops!”

Before you can answer, she’s already dragging you by the hand to the store—but not without the blond cook in quick pursuit.

“I’ll go with you, Y/n and Nami~”

You can practically feel Nami rolling her eyes.

All three of you go from shop to shop, collecting more and more bags, making Sanji carry them. He didn’t mind, as long as he got to be around you.

After a bit, you find a two-story café that sells a small selection of handmade clothing on the top floor. Immediately, you and Nami walk in and make your way to the second story. Sanji goes up the stairs effortlessly despite probably having 30 pounds of clothing in his hands.

There’s a small changing room in the corner for customers to try on clothing. Not many of the other shops you visited had one, so you and Nami took full advantage.

While you were both in the changing room, Sanji found a beautiful pink and white lace top that made him think of you. Overwhelmed by the idea of seeing you in it, he flings himself over to your dressing room door.

“Y/n~ I found this gorgeous top that would look absolutely amazing on you, my sweet~”

You jokingly roll your eyes on the other side of the door, still changing back into the top you were wearing before.

“Sure, let me see it, Sanji,” you say with a small chuckle.

The door had been locked, so there was no way he assumed you meant to see it at this exact moment, right? Wrong.

Sanji pulls on the handle a little harder than he should’ve, causing the latch to break and the door to swing wide open. You cover your mouth with your hands out of shock, then turn around to hide yourself.

“What is wrong with you, Sanji?!” you scream, your tone more fearful than angry.

He’s already on the floor, nosebleed in full effect, but once he hears the way you scold him, Sanji sits up.

“I’m so sorry, my love, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m looking away, I promise.”

You hear a softness in his voice he rarely shows. After composing yourself for a second, you redress and turn around to see Sanji facing away from you on the opposite side of the room.

Nami gives you a look to ask if you’re okay. You nod at her with a faint smile. The loud noise startled you more than you thought it would—plus, having your crewmate see you in that state definitely didn’t help.

Later that day…

Back on the ship after a long day of fun and a few wild stories from the other members, everyone goes to bed a little early from exhaustion. It was your turn to be lookout first for the night, so you make your way to the crow’s nest, bringing your bags of clothing with you to look at in case you get bored.

It wasn’t long until you heard someone making their way up the ladder. Assuming it was Nami, you smiled and sifted through a bag to show her some of your new skirts.

You were surprised to see Sanji instead. He had an unreadable look on his face.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks quietly.

You nod your head and let him sit next to you.

“I never want to make anyone uncomfortable—especially you.” Sanji looks at you with a soft and apologetic expression. “If anyone has ever hurt you enough to make you that jumpy… I don’t want to add to that. I’m sorry.”

His words make your heart skip a beat. You smile and look out to the ocean for a moment before turning back to him.

“Apology accepted. I can’t be mad at the boy who carried my clothes all day,” you say with a small laugh.

Sanji fakes being insulted.

“Boy?! For you, my love, I am a man!~”

You shake your head with another laugh at his antics, placing a small kiss on his cheek.

“That’s for making me feel better,” you say while laying against his shoulder. Cue another nosebleed.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Law . ̫.

Freezes. Closes his eyes. Turns around. Walks away.

Can’t get the image out of his head and it’s driving him crazy.

Acts professional but is dying on the inside.

“I’m a doctor I’ve seen this, It’s no different” he tells himself but it is different.

Worried about you and your feelings more than anything but doesn’t outwardly show it.

Waiting patiently wasn’t your strong suit, especially with a gash covering your shoulder and collarbone. It was nothing too bad—just a few stitches needed. Having a habit of letting your guard down when fighting finally came back to bite you, and it was a nasty bite.

Law stands on the other side of the room, preparing the tools necessary to patch you up, focused and straight-faced like always. “Are you almost done? It hurts to lay down like this,” you ask with slight annoyance.

“Sit up if you want to, just be careful and push yourself up with your other arm. Do you need help?” he asks casually, as if you weren’t half-naked under the thin paper sheet. You hated having to use them, but keeping on a shirt covered with blood isn’t sanitary.

You shake your head, implying you don’t need help. Law goes back to preparing the needle while you use what little strength you have to pull yourself into a sitting position on the examination table.

It was harder than you thought. You tried to tuck the sheet covering you under your arm so it wouldn’t slip, but instead, you slip—right off the edge of the table and onto the floor, causing a shooting pain to surge through your whole arm.

Immediately, Law is at your side to help you up, trying to ignore the fact the sheet had now completely fallen off your body. You blush when you realize you’re exposed to him and quickly try to cover yourself. Bad mistake. Another shooting pain stretches its way through your arm and shoulder, causing you to yelp.

“Stop moving so much. You’re making it worse. Just wait a second and I'll give you something for the pain.” His ears are red, but his face is still focused and stern. You have your own blush dusting your cheeks as you nod at him and wait for all of this to be over.

He clearly saw, and that was all Law saw for the next few hours. It was wrong, and he knew it, but he was going to try and make it up to you.

Later that day…

It’s been a few hours and the medicine is starting to wear off. You lay in your bed, contemplating if you should go and ask for more. Would he say something? Would he act like it never happened? Will he stop talking to me? All these thoughts race through your mind until they’re interrupted by a knock at your door. Slowly, you make your way to answer, seeing Law holding a cup with pills and another cup filled with water.

His face shows the same expression as before, but a little more flustered. “Here. You need to take these for pain and to prevent infection.” He hands you the two cups cautiously. You smile faintly and take them from him, accidentally brushing his finger with yours.

Law’s ears turn red again at the contact. After clearing his throat, he says, “Dinner will be ready soon. You need to eat so you can heal quicker.” You can’t help but chuckle a little at how he’s acting. It was kinda cute. “Thanks, I’ll be there in a bit. I just gotta clean my room,” you say with a smile, setting down the cups on your dresser. “No, I’ll get someone else to clean it. You need to rest as much as possible,” he says as he turns and walks back toward the med bay.

You stand in the doorway, shocked for a moment. If it were any other crew member, he would still expect them to keep up with chores—within reason. Why were you any different?

Later that night…

After dinner, you find it hard to stand, too tired and sore from the long day. You decide to lay your head down on the table just for a few minutes so you can rest your eyes—or at least that’s what you told yourself.

You feel a warmth on your back and arms, waking you with a groan. When you turn around, you see Law draping his jacket over your shoulders. He freezes for a second before sitting next to you. “You shouldn’t sleep here, you know. It isn’t good for your back.” All you can do is groan again in response—the pain is starting to come back and your legs just won’t move. He sighs and stands beside you.

Before you know what’s going on, Law scoops you up carefully and begins to walk you to your room. You go to protest but find you don’t have the strength to.

Once you make it to your room, he sets you carefully on the bed. You’re already fast asleep during the short walk. He stands for a moment before scoffing to himself. “Sorry for today. Hope this makes up for it,” Law whispers, far enough away where he thinks you can’t hear.

But you do, because you knew he’d never say it to your face—and you’re okay with that. Maybe you’ll have to get hurt more often.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Ace (๑>؂•̀๑)

Combusts out of sheer embarrassment.

Babbling and blushing mess trying to explain himself.

Apologizes a million times and asks all day if you’re upset with him.

Later he teases you about it just to see you get flustered again.

Secretly loved it but feels shameful. poor baby

Summer was coming quickly and everyone was feeling it, the Moby Dick felt like a sauna. Some were laying on the deck, sprawled out like death was taking them over, others wouldn’t accept their fate and attempted to catch any wind that might come their way.

You on the other hand, took the advantage to get some sun bathing in. No better time to tan when you’ll probably get sun poisoning in under thirty minutes right? Wearing a white ruffled bikini and sunglasses, you laid your towel out over a quiet area of the deck.

The breeze was a bit better where you were but you definitely weren’t going to tell any of the crew that. This spot was just for you, or so you thought.

After a while of rotating so you were evenly roasted, laying on your back and taking a nap sounded like a nice idea. Not noticing your bikini top had shifted while doing your last rotation. It didn’t matter anyway since no one was gonna find you here.

Ace got bored of everyone complaining and being no fun, it wasn’t that hot. He quickly noticed you weren’t where the others were and knew you would be way more entertaining than those babies. Boy was he right.

He rounded the corner to the area where you were still tanning but couldn’t tell you were asleep, with a bright smile on his face, Ace walked up with a plan to sit next to you while you were relaxing, but he stopped in his tracks halfway.

Realizing you were exposed, Ace half-way yells while stammering “Oh m-my god I’m s-so sorry I didn’t notice y-you were like…” His voice waking you in a startle makes him finally understand you were asleep the whole time and he could’ve just walked away with no one knowing what happened. shit.

You quickly fix your top and blush while glancing up at Ace “It’s fine, you really scared me though...” Brushing off the situation clearly wasn’t going to happen. Why of all people did it have to be Ace? “But that’s not what I’m apologizing for! Or well yeah I’m sorry about that too… But uh mainly the… Other thing.”

He’s practically steaming by this point, you know what he was really saying sorry about but you didn’t want to make things more awkward than they already were. “Like I said It’s fine I’m not mad, well, I won’t be if you go get me a drink.” you say with a playful wink. Ace sighs with relief and chuckles “Sure, anything for you.”

Later that night…

Once the sun sets the crew becomes a bit more lively, the majority of the heat settled and people wanted to relax. Multiple crew members sit on a long bench out on the deck and yell over each other in drunk slurs, you go to grab a drink yourself when Ace steps in front of you.

Way more cocky than before, he smirks and hands you a drink himself. “For the girl who wanted to flash me earlier~”

A light blush comes across your face as you snatch the drink from his hands. “Well you were the one who liked it~” You say with a playful smirk of your own, he clearly did like it, because all night he’s been doing a shitty job at acting like he didn’t. Every time he looked at you his eyes wandered down lower than they should, and you liked that.

“I loved it actually, but I’d love it even more if I could see the full thing.” Everything about him made your heart skip a beat, sometimes it was hard staying composed around him but you always tried, sometimes succeeded. “Keep talking like that and you might get to one day.” You say while leaning in closer to him.

He doesn’t budge, instead he tucks a finger under your chin and brings himself so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “Y/n I’ll never stop flirting with you, even with that condition on the line.” Then suddenly, he gently presses his lips to yours in the softest kiss you’ve ever had.

You really hope he wasn’t lying.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🕳️ What to Write When You Have No Idea What Happens Next

aka: you’re staring into the creative abyss and the abyss is not only staring back, it’s asking for a rough draft

hi writer. welcome to that fun little liminal space in your project where ✨absolutely nothing✨ makes sense. you wrote the last scene. you know you’re not at the end. but suddenly your characters are just standing there like NPCs waiting for a quest marker and your brain is doing the spinning beachball of death.

so. what now?

let’s break down some actually useful strategies for when you hit That Point™️. not vibes. not ✨manifest your way out✨ energy. not the “just keep writing” slog. here’s what to do when your story is refusing to tell you what happens next:

———————————————

zoom out: do a “scene audit” ———————————————

you don’t need a full outline to do this. take five minutes and sketch a bullet list of every scene that’s happened so far. not just what happened, but why it mattered.

like this:

MC lied to their boss (sets up stakes re: trust/power)

antagonist shows up at cafe (establishes tension + location crossover)

best friend gets suspicious (emotional complication, adds pressure)

this gives you a birds-eye view of what you’ve set in motion. often you’re stuck because you’ve lost sight of the threads you were pulling, your own story has momentum, you just need to feel it again.

—————————————————————

try “ghost drafting” (aka fake writing) —————————————————————

open a doc. start typing what would happen, if you were writing. super casual. something like:

“okay i think the next scene is maybe them at the train station?? or wait--maybe we need to see the fallout of the argument. i don’t really know what x character wants rn but i think y might be planning something…”

this trick works bc it removes pressure. no fancy prose, no perfect structure. it’s literally you telling yourself what might happen. and weirdly? your brain will often finish the scene for you without asking. (the number of times I’ve ghost drafted myself into 800 usable words… witchcraft.)

——————————————————————————

pin your characters to a corkboard and interrogate them ——————————————————————————

not literally. (unless you're into that. i don’t judge.)

but seriously: when you’re stuck, it’s often because your character has no immediate goal or emotion. pause and ask:

what does this character want right now? like, in this moment?

what are they trying to avoid?

what’s keeping them from getting either?

character-driven scenes are rarely static. even if it’s just an awkward dinner or walking to the store, someone’s always trying to do or hide something. if everyone in the scene is just reacting or waiting, you’ve got fog. bring in the fire.

—————————————————

don’t skip the “boring” stuff--weaponize it —————————————————

sometimes we’re stuck because we think the next scene is dull. like “ugh i guess they just… travel to the manor” or “they regroup at the safe house.” but these slow beats are GOLD if you embed purpose.

try giving the “boring” scene:

a time limit or interruption (they’re hiding but someone knocks)

a secret (someone is lying about something small but important)

a reversal (what they expected is the opposite of what happens)

even if it’s a quiet scene, layer it. conflict isn’t just yelling or action. it’s discomfort. it’s misalignment. tension between what’s said and unsaid.

—————————————————————

when all else fails: write the next emotional beat —————————————————————

strip it back. forget plot. forget pacing. ask yourself:

then write that. a monologue. a journal entry. an outburst. a line of whispered dialogue.

sometimes it’s not that you don’t know what happens next. it’s that your character hasn’t processed what just happened, and until they do, the story can’t move forward.

✨✨✨

the void is normal. getting stuck doesn’t mean you failed or picked the wrong idea or that the muse packed up and left for a better writer’s house. it just means your brain needs space to regroup.

writing isn’t linear. stories aren’t built in perfect lines. they loop. they stall. they circle back. and that’s okay.

if you’re in the middle of nowhere, here’s your sign to sit on the side of the metaphorical road, open your weird little notebook, and write anyway. write wrong. write messy. write ghost drafts. the path shows up when you start walking.

🕳️ you got this, writer.

tag me if you end up crawling out of your stuck scene with a little victory paragraph. i’ll bring snacks for the next one 🧃✨

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[cloudedcreams]

thinking of a yandere! friend who just so happens to be your neighbour.

the two of you had been friends for a while, so you were shocked at the sight of him trying to enter your apartment, a heavy box in his arms. he had given you an awkward smile as you opened the door for him, laughing all the while.

"fancy seeing you hear." he'd said, nudging you with the box before scrambling around to make sure it didn't fall. you tilted your head, seeing a few clothes teetering near the edge about to fall over, and you pushed them lightly back into the box.

"you moving in?" you had asked, calling the lift. you could make out the sight of him nodding, his hair framing his chin as he did so.

"yeah. sudden move, rats in the old... oh shit, hair in my mouth. uhh." he trailed off. you let out a teasing snicker before pushing it away, feeling the hate of his cheek as your nails scraped against him.

he wasn't very quiet.

you could hear him sometimes, nights when you were trying to fall asleep spent hearing a scratch against the walls. sometimes it'd be a creak of the bed, of the sound of his palm lying flat on the wall.

you asked him about it once and he made a joke about it. he told you that if you were curious you were always welcome inside, and though you felt the urge to decline you figured it couldn't bring too much harm.

you did live in the same building right? a door away from each other.

his house smelt of burnt ashes and cinnamon. he ushered you inside, telling you there was no need for you to take your shoes off. he sat down on the couch and you lingered nearby before he threw his arms upwards, gesturing for you to come closer.

"don't be a stranger, i don't bite." he said, a teasing glint in his eyes, and you sat besides him. the two of you engaged in a small conversation before he offered you a drink, which you accepted.

a while later the two of you were in his bedroom. it stunk of weed, which you tried to ignore, and you lazed around on his bed. he laid besides you, staring at the ceiling with a distant stare before rolling over to face you.

"we should do this more often."

you nodded, patting his arm before facing him. you could make out a hole in the wall, small and yet large enough for you to peek your eye through.

it was the wall connected to your room. you decided to ignore it.

[just1kiana]

🍓fandom was so dead I had to lock in, there was zero fanfic with my idea

🥑 I would be texting Eris and Mal, I feel like they know what to do

🥤 @kakalu697 @maulmewithangst @writingslob best authors I've ever seen

🐇 I usually write au's that my favourite characters die in

🧃when I was 13 a 27 year old man started texting me calling me his girlfriend and called me, I accidentally answered and the man was clearly drunk laughing and trying to flirt with me and at that age I was terrified, obviously, in fact I was so scared after that that I refused to use any social media for or get online at all for half a year

🎲I'm bad at adding details as much as I want too and because of that no matter the idea the fic will always be bad so I won't write unless I really like a idea and there isn't any fic of it

🧸if we share the same interest about something

🪐joined a discord group chat, best choice of my life, idk the other two my life is pretty much miserable I'm in the middle of exams

🔪"how long will it take to choke on your own blood" "the sound of cutting skin"

❄️character death, angst no comfort @kakalu697 @maulmewithangst

🏜it's three types, death threats cause it proves I wrote the angst the best way I could, the aggressively excited comments, it's good to know someone waits for that next part it gives me hope to keep writing, and the long ones that give ideas or tell their theories

🍦kind and caring maybe, good looking and cool sometimes

🥝not really, even if I lie it's mostly white lies, the last time I lied was last week, I was asked if I'm fine and I said, yes I'm fine, then I passed out from the heat

🦴songs and animations or tiktok and YouTube

🍅needs more details for everything

🪲(it's a tbhx swap au, Nice and LL swapped, Wreck and Moon swapped and Ms. J and treeman swapped)

It seemed like Lin Ling had a completely different life, these people actually cared about his death, not the commoner, Lin Ling

And there was a blonde woman crying over his coffin

The same woman he saw on the pictures on the wall

☁️before that my full legal name was my username like an idiot, but then i decided I had to change it but I wanted to keep the kiana in it but I couldn't come up with any name and decided to just literally put "Just_kiana" but turns out someone already had that so I put a "1" in there

🧩seeing the character I hate dies or anything bad happens to them like no I don't want the angst to be about you

Writers Truth & Dare Ask Game

🎱 ⇢ post your AO3 total stats  🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction?  🌵 ⇢ share the link to a playlist you love 🕯️ ⇢ on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that? 🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis 🥑 ⇢ you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help? 🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love 💌 ⇢ how many unread emails do you have right now?  🌻 ⇢ tag someone you appreciate but don't talk to on a regular basis 🐇 ⇢ do you prefer writing original characters, reader inserts, or a mix of both?  🧃 ⇢ share some personal lore you never posted about before 🎲 ⇢ what stops you from writing more in your free time?  🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings 🧸 ⇢ what's the fastest way to become your mutual? 🪐 ⇢ name three good things going on in your life right now 📚 ⇢ what's the last thing you wrote down in your notes app?  🍬 ⇢ post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character 🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project? 🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on ❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best? 🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity 🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh  🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work? 🍦 ⇢ name three good things about a character you hate 🥝 ⇢ do you lie a lot? what's the most recent lie you told? 🦋 ⇢ share something that has been on your heart and mind lately  🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?  🍅 ⇢ give yourself some constructive criticism on your own writing 🐚 ⇢ do you like or dislike surprises? 🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here ☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username? 🐝 ⇢ tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them 🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them 🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it 🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

[cvnt4him]

Hiii I love you writing, I was thinking Izuku catching you touching yourself…hehe

smut warning !!

Izuku had been held up with work alot more than usual, it was testing season as school was finally coming to an end. Kids drowning in complicated problems as the teachers; izuku, struggled to keep their eyes open during these long boring days. They were all lucky if it happened to be a half day.

He tried his hardest to ensure that his students learnt as much as they could from him. Sometimes he'd stay awake at night keeping you up as well muttering softly in your ear with wide tired eyes full of worry and restlessness, words flowing quickly into your ear about all of his worries and woes of the kids. He was responsible, he felt responsible. He wanted nothing more than the best for them.

With testing lasting quite some time, or at least it felt like it; it was often izuku would come home and burt himself in whatever work he could or go straight to sleep. He needed a break but you couldn't offer that right now, he couldn't get distracted. He needed to be out together for his kids. So even when you tried anything it's not as if he indulged you even a little bit.

You grew tired of his distance, of course you understood however your needs were far too unbearable to go without. It's not like it was illegal for you to take matters into your own hands anyways.

You figured you'd be home alone for the next couple of hours, about 3-4 to be exact. It was still quite early and you had a lot of time on your hands after finishing up around the house.

You scrolled on your phone momentarily before edits of your husband showed up on your timeline, it wasn't abnormal for these things to show up. He's a teacher along with being a hero by night, he still gets asked questions and is even often seen hanging out with other pro heroes.

The way he looked in his suit, his hair billowing in the wind, the stupid velocity in the edit. It all had you giggling to yourself and rubbing your thighs together like some teenaged girl seeing Harry styles.

Your mind wandered the longer you allowed the video to replay, he was all yours. This sexy bulky man full of scars and experience, his mind as sharp as....well a teacher. It was all enticing. Your fingers slowly trailed down to your shorts finding themselves slipping through your waistband with haste you rubbed ran two fingers up your dampening panties that covered your aching heat wincing at the touch.

You removed your shorts as a whole and pulled your panties to the side, allowing your mind to do the rest of the work that you needed.

Soft moans left you as you rolled your head back, your fingers deep in your pussy emitting squelching sounds along with your arousal and slick coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. You'd been like this for some time, chasing high after highschool thinking about your sexy man, he was perfect and you couldn't deny your ache for him.

You legs tensed and your body shook as another orgasm treated to wash over you, your fingers in reacher deeper inside of you while they squirmed with expertise, your other hand rubbing your clit fastly as you tried to suppress your moans that easily escaped. Your mouth agape and head thrown back as you fell into a wave of pure ecstasy.

As you felt your orgasm washing over you, your body growing tired but you couldn't dare to stop; your room door opens a long sigh leaving as a soft and kind of deep voice rings out through your ears.

A gasp quickly leaving you as your husband stills in the doorframe. His eyes wide open as he watched your half naked body cover up, he searched your face for some kind of explanation that honestly wasn't even needed. His cheeks dusted red with all of the blood rushing to his face...and cock.

You stuttered on your words and choked on your breath, trying to come up with an excuse or even an explanation for your actions. You felt guilty even, why for? No idea. Being caught seemed humiliating but also packed such a rush.

You whined in embarrassment, izukus shocked face only softening to one with love. He dropped his back near the door shutting it as he walked towards you shedding most of his clothing, u doing his tie along with unbuckling his belt and undoing his buttons to his shirt. He quickly pulled your flustered face into a quick yet deep kiss, he snatched all of your breath away within an instant.

Holding your face close in his warm scarred large palms. A small moan leaves the both of you as he finally breaks the kiss, leaving you undeniably breathless. It seemed like he still followed your lips despite being the one to end the kiss, a small chuckle leaving him as his fingers stroked your cheek

“ poor thing..I've been so busy I haven't had time for you. that was selfish of me, huh baby.”

Izuku looked down at you with his hair framing his face perfectly, his eyes lidded as he searched your face your eyes still full of lust and desperate for his touch. His hand slowly slid down your shoulder his fingers grazing your own before moving to your thigh and rubbing them, his hand inching deeper into the inner part of your thigh which was still coated in your very own arousal.

The touch to the sensitive skin of your thighs having you melt in his touch, his gaze only applying more pressure and affection to your growing problem.

A small mewl leaves you making him scoff softly in amusement. He places another kiss to your forehead before sighing once more. He was gentle with you as his fingers gently touched the outer lips if you cunt having your pussy twitch from the sudden stimulation.

“ let me take care of you. you deserve it. ”

And with that, you were taken away and ravished by your loving husband.

I think I should start putting warnings when writing smut .... maybe.

[pxpecxdy]

You have altered the chemistry of my brain with talks of blowing Pope… can’t stop thinking about it

After the first time, he’s obsessed, addicted, etc.

Do you think he’s too shy to ask for his girl to blow him again? Like he’s trying to be polite and stuff?

Or would he flat out just ask? In the most blunt, Pope way possible?

So much to ponder…

AN: Anon I don't know what kind of drugs you put in this ask cause I don't know how this got this long! I could write about this all day every day for the rest of my life. I just love giving head! Also I will refer to Pope as Andy in every fic.

Warnings: Detailed description of oral (m! receiving), mild hair pulling

Word count: 1k

He doesn't want to be rude. He won't ask. Sex isn't about him, it's about you and he just happens to feel good too. He can't stop thinking about it. Every time he's with you he thinks about it. Each time you speak he just stares at your lips. When he's not with you, he's thinking about it. Nothing compares to the way your mouth felt on him. He didn't know it could feel like that. It's only happened once. It's beginning to turn into an obsession. When is he going to feel that feeling again?

There's little moments here and there that he thinks you'll do it again. It's the soft moments. When everything goes quiet and it's just the two of you. He thinks it's about to happen when you're trailing kisses down his chest, hands fumbling with the button on his jeans. Andrew's fingers thread through your hair. His eyes squeeze closed when you finally manage to pull his pants off of him. He can feel your hot breath against him. It's finally going to happen after weeks of waiting.

You look up at him, he's wrecked. Your thighs press together harder. He looks so angelic when he's like this, makes you forget about all the sins of his past. Your lips kiss up his thighs before finally pressing a kiss to the aching tip of his cock. It's obvious he's not going to last long, you know him well enough to know the signs.

It maybe lasts 5 seconds before you pull away. A groan tears through him when you do. You pick yourself up and crawl up to where he lays. "Need you, Andy." You whine as you grind against his lap. It's not what he wanted but he doesn't complain, especially when you sound so pretty with your pussy stuffed with his cock.

The next time is in the heat of the moment. Neither of you are big on quickies, it's not what either of you seek out. But when the time arises, sometimes it's a need.

There's a party at the house. Drinks are flowing. Everything is good for once. It's rare for both of you to be enjoying yourself while surrounded by the chaos that is the Cody household. You're laying back on one of the loungers by the pool. Pope is sitting next you, his hand trailing up and down your leg. Every time it moves up he goes further up your thigh. There's some conversation but if you were interrogated on it neither of you would be able to come up with any details. The tension is undeniable. The fuse is growing shorter and shorter. His eyes are on you. They're always on you.

You slide your legs over the edge and push yourself up. Your hand slides across his chest as you lean in and whisper in his ear, "Be right back." You make your way into the house, not before glancing back at him. He watches you close the door to the bathroom behind you.

A minute passes. The knob turns. He doesn't say anything when he closes the door behind himself and locks it. His chest is heaving as he steps closer to you, pinning you to the sink. Suddenly, his lips are smashing against yours. It's hot. It's heavy. It's a fight between you two as you're both seeking control. You both want this. You both want each other.

His tongue is down your throat, his hands gripping the counter behind you. Your hands make quick work of his jeans, yanking them down just far enough to free him. There's a moment when he thinks it might happen. Your hand wrapped around his cock as he pulls his mouth away from yours. Pope's mouth drags down your throat.

Your hands pull away to shove your own pants down. He takes a deep breath, trying to not mess this up. It's not what's on his mind. Your wrists are grabbed tightly before you can finish pulling them down. He's staring at you but not the usual eye contact. His gaze is only your kiss-swollen lips.

"I want you to suck me off." He says bluntly in the way only Pope can do. His hands let go.

You smile at him and nod. He never asks for anything. It's like pulling teeth to get him to answer anything. His wants and needs are buried deep within him.

"All you have to do is ask, Andy" you whisper as you slide down the counter and onto your knees. Your hands are back on him. His hand rests on your head. He's urging you forward but there's not much pressure, there's still a chance for you to pull away if you. But you don't want to. You'd do anything he'd ask of you.

Your tongue swirls around the tip a few times. Up and down his length. You finally stop your teasing before he rips the hair from your skull and take him in your mouth. You bob your head up and down his cock, taking him all the way with every pass. It's taking all your concentration not to gag when your face is brushing against the harsh denim. But the grunts and groans make it all worth it. His hips buck against you, burying himself down your throat when he cums.

You cough a bit when you pull away. A goofy grin plastered on your face, drunk on his cock. He's looking at you like he'd just gone to heaven and was pulled back down. Pope helps you stand back up, his hand pulling at the waistband of your pants. You grab his wrist before he can finish pulling them down.

"Later." You whisper as you press a kiss to his pinkened cheek. He pulls his pants back up and fixes yours. You're fixing your hair in the mirror when he unlocks the door.

"Thanks."

[baepsays]

CONTRADICTIONS OF TIME ⸻ Gojo Satoru.

cw : angst, canon adjacent, just sad shit in disguise of fluff sometimes, suicidal reader, themes of mental illnesses, doomed by the narrative, I am sorry.

They say it feels the most lonely to be surrounded by everybody but having no one to lean on. Being alone is entirely different from feeling loneliness. You can’t be alone in a room full of people. And you hope people understood that; maybe it'd make your life easier.

When everything becomes so mundane in the most suffocating way that the serenity you usually felt in random walks around the block, waiting for the train, or eating your meals turns into strenuous chores. It's never some exact time, day, or moment that you start feeling like this. It just happens. And it just does not want to go away as easily as it comes.

When someone offers the wonders of the world as a reason to look forward to living, you never have the energy to break it to them that the sun melting into the salty seawater or the moon illuminating the blanket of snow on the mountains and the forest of evergreen trees did not fascinate you when you were visited by these suffocating feelings. Feelings that make it impossible for you to feel anything else. 

As heartbreaking as it is to feel like this. But sometimes for others it is worse to feel that what validated their own perception of the world they've created in their mind, the glowing wonderful world, did not satisfy someone else. As someone who thinks the world is running at a speed ten times faster, to intentionally leave you behind, you did not have it in you to be the bearer of the bad news. So you always nodded and went along with what people said.

‘It’ll be alright.’ Right?

It is upsetting to see people strive so hard for such validation. But who were you to take that away from them? Life is an unpredictable course of mess; who knows what or whom you might come across and what might happen literally the next second? But one thing was clear: you did not want to be the catalyst of someone else's misery.

There hasn't been a single day that Gojo Satoru didn't regret meeting you in this life.

It was no fateful day. It could have been just any random Wednesday, but things certainly did not go like that. Satoru was sitting on the bench he always went back to after a busy day; it faced the riverbank, and he only ever saw the sun set from there. But that Wednesday, he saw you standing by the railings that stood as a barrier between you and the river. From what he could see, the brief glimpse of your eyes behind the loose strands of your hair flowing in the air—there was no sense of survival in them. Not in a way where one just flaps around in the water and drowns deeper, but in a way that if you somehow fell in the water, you'd not even try to get to the surface.

In a way, your eyes looked empty; even the dazzling sunset didn't shine in your irises.

So, Satoru ran, as fast as he could, to get to you. He couldn't let you slip out of his grasp. He can't let another person just wither in front of his eyes. “Hey!” He dragged you back towards him, taking quite a few steps back until you two were in the bike lane. You stood there with scrunched brows looking at some blindfolded guy holding you by your arm. A few bikers passed by you two and yelled at you two to get off the bike lane.

He just ignored them. “I am Gojo Satoru.” You just blinked at him and looked to your left, and when you saw a few more bikers coming, you pushed him back by his chest to get off the bike lane. You wondered why he felt so cold; it almost felt like you didn't even touch him. Or maybe that you couldn't touch him. 

“Do you usually introduce yourself this horribly?” 

You wouldn't say it was fate that you met Gojo Satoru. It was not fate when you stumbled into his life, the life he lived on with a smile on his face despite everything that pulled him down. It was no fate that he meshed so easily into your own life, how easy it came to him to love you. But it was probably your unfortunate fate that you could not do the same.

“In a perfect world, I'd kiss you goodbye before leaving for work every day. I'll make you lunch and nag you for eating too many sweets.” You lie on your side, facing him, staring at his beautiful blue eyes shining in the moonlight.

“I would make sure you and the kids don't stay up too late watching shitty movies all night.” Satoru smiled as he stared at your face, completely veiled in the shadow of the dark room.

“I’ll somehow convince you to join us.”

“I’d have to make sure Megumi and Tsumuki aren't embarrassed by your antics in front of their friends.”

The laughs and smiles died down in mere seconds. And the air was heavy; it has always been that way around you two. It was not tension; it was some form of desperation—to hold onto each other as long as you possibly could.

“I'll make sure you don't have to burden yourself with the weight of the world all by yourself. And double-check your taxes—because I know you just leave everything to your accountant.” One of your hands unknowingly reached out to touch his face. He nuzzled into your hand instinctively and held your hand in place, like it could slip any moment.

“Yeah. I don't even look at it.”

“It's not a good thing.”

“I know that.”

“I want to make you dinner every night.” He pressed your hands in his cheeks a bit more as he spoke.

“Ok. You would have to do the laundry as well.”

“I will. And I'll make the bed every morning and run you a bath every night. Detangle your hair when you forget to brush it, and hold you tight until you fall asleep every night.”

You couldn't take this anymore. It was getting harder. It has been hard, but it's getting worse by the day; you could feel it eating you alive from your core. Soon enough there wouldn't be any trace of you left behind. And you wanted it to be sooner rather than later. You cannot lie beside him like this every day and pretend like if he were to go before you, things wouldn't be the same. You would just have to live on, in his name. Because that was the only thing he wanted from you: to grow and surpass these memories he shared with you. And you can't give him that if he wasn't even there to hold you by your hands.

“I would marry you and give you kids who look a little like you and a little like me if I could. In another life I would.” You could feel the corners of his eyes getting wet on the tips of your fingers. And you wanted to wipe them away, but you didn't. And he wanted to let them pour out for you to wipe them away, but he couldn't.

“Why not in this life?”

“Because we can't. We're running out of time.” 

It was not fate that you met Gojo Satoru in this lifetime. It was just unfortunate that the only times you didn't feel lonely or alone were when he left his shirt hanging on your balcony to dry, his blindfold under your pillows, his sunglasses on your bedside table, and little sticky notes with doodles of himself as his signature stuck on your refrigerator. It was just unfortunate timing on both of your parts.

You could only hope that in another lifetime, he was your fate, and you were his.

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE

a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a

cooking in my drafts for a while, i felt damned enough today to post it

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @satoblue @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr @bakugouswaif

[jocelynellie]

Lover Boy -KA¹²

Kimi Antonelli x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Kimi being completely in love with his girlfriend Contains: fluff

Kimi stared at his phone, screen still glowing. His hand dropped slowly to his side. He didn’t speak.

She sat up from the couch. “Well?”

He looked at her. Eyes wide. Breath caught. And then—“I’m in.”

Her face split into the brightest, most heart-squeezing smile. “You’re—Kimi!”

Before he could finish breathing, she was in his arms. He wrapped her up, lifting her off the floor in a blur of laughing, breathless joy. She buried her face in his neck. He spun once, not even aware he was crying until her thumbs brushed his cheeks.

“You’re in Formula 1,” she whispered, grinning through her own tears. “You did it.”

“I only wanted to tell you,” he whispered back. “You’re the first person I thought of.”

“You’re the only one I’ll ever cheer for,” she said.

And in that tiny apartment, with his future finally unlocked, Kimi held the girl who had believed in him long before the world ever would—and realized this was what dreams really felt like.

It didn’t matter where Kimi was, on the starting grid under a sweltering sun or curled up on his couch with the lights off—his mind, without fail, found its way back to her.

Sometimes it was an involuntary reflex. A word, a smell, the way someone tied their hair or laughed too hard at a bad joke. Other times it was more deliberate, like now, in the paddock, where she walked three steps behind him, pretending like they weren’t about to melt into each other the second the cameras were gone.

He could hear her sandals slap against the concrete. Somehow, even her footsteps made him smile.

“Your zipper’s crooked,” she whispered, close enough that the back of his neck prickled.

Kimi paused mid-stride, grinning as he turned slightly. “Is it? Come fix it, then.”

She rolled her eyes but stepped forward without hesitation, fingers brushing his back as she tugged at the fireproof suit.

"Better?"

“Not really,” he said, teasing. “But you touching me helps.”

Her laugh was like a guitar string plucked inside his chest—sharp, warm, and unforgettable.

That night, back in the hotel room they shared, she sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his oversized team shirts, face glowing from the post-shower warmth. She was watching something dumb on TV—some dating show with absurd challenges—but Kimi couldn’t focus on anything except the way she bit her thumb when she was trying not to laugh.

He sprawled beside her, head in her lap, pretending to be interested in the screen.

“Do you ever think about how this is it?” he asked softly, fingers drawing lazy circles on her thigh.

“This?” she tilted her head.

“You. Me. I mean this version of life. Like, I’m eighteen and driving in Formula 1, and I’ve got this, this perfect thing in my life.”

She leaned down to kiss his forehead, her hair falling over his face like a curtain.

“You’re being cheesy.”

“I’m being honest,” he murmured, nuzzling into her stomach.

She ran her fingers through his curls. “Well, I like your cheesy honesty. Even if you still snore.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Like a small, overworked tractor.”

Kimi groaned, but he smiled into her skin. Everything felt more real when it was her saying it, even insults sounded like lullabies.

Some mornings when they stayed together, Kimi would wake up before her just to watch her sleep. Her hair tangled on the pillow, face turned toward him, mouth slightly open. She drooled sometimes, but he thought it was the cutest thing in the world. He’d kiss her nose lightly and whisper things like “I love you” and “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” just in case dreams could hear.

One morning, she caught him.

“Are you watching me sleep again?”

“I’m admiring,” he defended, smirking.

She stretched like a cat, pulling the blanket tighter around her. “That’s creepy.”

“You say that,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, “but you’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned down, kissed her pink cheeks. “You so are.

After a particularly grueling race in Singapore, Kimi stumbled off the podium half-drenched in champagne and sweat, body aching, eyes stinging. It wasn’t even about the win—he’d placed third—but he needed her.

They barely made it to the motorhome before he collapsed onto the couch, and she was already beside him, pulling his boots off with a little wince.

“You’re too quiet,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

He looked at her, eyes tired but so full of love it almost hurt to hold it all.

“I just wanted you.”

“You have me.”

“No, I mean—on that last lap, everything was so loud, I couldn’t even hear my engineer, but I kept thinking… If I mess up, I don’t see her tonight. I don’t get this.”

She climbed into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times—because she had—and wrapped her arms around him.

“You’d see me no matter what,” she whispered. “Even if you crashed, even if you came in last, I’d still be here.”

Kimi buried his face in her shoulder. “Don’t say crash.”

“Fine. Slow pit stop. Mechanical failure. Rain delay.”

“That’s better.”

The night before his home Grand Prix, Kimi stood at the balcony with her by his side, watching the city lights flicker like camera flashes.

“Do you get nervous?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “But not about racing. I get nervous about how lucky I am. That I get to do this—and then come home to you.”

She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, forehead resting on her temple.

“Promise me something?” he murmured.

“Anything.”

“When we’re eighty and grumpy, and I’ve retired with like twenty world titles—”

“Oh please.”

“—promise me we’ll still do this. Just… stand together and look at the lights.”

“Only if you promise to always let me wear your shirts.”

“Deal.”

He tried not to let it show in the paddock, but everyone saw it. Every mechanic, every engineer, every journalist.

They knew Kimi’s gaze always scanned the garage until it found her. Sometimes she wore sunglasses to avoid being too conspicuous, but Kimi could spot her from anywhere—like a lighthouse in the fog. He smiled wider when she was around. He was sharper in meetings, more focused on track. Someone once joked that she was his good luck charm.

“No,” Kimi had said, without a trace of humour. “She’s just my everything.”

Back in private, they had these quiet moments of electricity—those pauses between brushing teeth and turning off the lights, or while folding laundry on the rare Sunday afternoon they had off. Kimi would reach for her hand mid-conversation, or kiss her shoulder while passing behind her.

Sometimes they slow-danced in the kitchen. No music. Just the rhythm of dishwater dripping and the hum of the refrigerator.

“Why are we dancing?” she whispered once, arms around his neck.

“Because you’re in my arms, and there’s nothing else I’d rather do.”

“You’re such a sap.”

“But I’m your sap.”

She kissed his collarbone and laughed into his shirt. “Forever?”

“Forever.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Word count: 1.2k

[cherryite]

barkeep

summary. as a bartender at one of the sketchiest bars in gotham and a med student, you and red hood aka jason todd have a symbiotic relationship. you give him free drinks and patch him up and he makes sure you don't get murdered walking home. at least, thats all you two say it is. (word count. 3.8k)

content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???

warnings. blood and injuries, mentions of alcohol, not proof read oopsie

author's note. why this took me 5 million years to write i don't know, but i'm excited to write more for jason because thats my shawty fr

Working at the sketchiest bar on Park Row, more locally referred to as Crime Alley, hadn’t exactly been your dream gig. But as a med student with a brutal class schedule and rent breathing down your neck like a wild animal, options were slim. And unfortunately, this place paid — mostly in cash, always on time. As much as you wanted out of this part of town, it always had a way of pulling you back in, like an addiction you couldn’t quit.

The bar’s nearly closed now. The lights are dimmed low, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls, and the red glow of the liquor store sign across the street bleeds through the grimy front window like blood out of a wound. All customers and staff besides you have left, leaving the bar quiet — almost eerily so. You’re hunched over the register, thumbing through crumpled bills, when you hear it: the soft click of the front door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the old floorboards.

You don’t even have to look. You know who it is. Your eyes flick sideways, catching a glimpse of him in your peripheral as you finish counting the ones.

“Trying to sneak up on me, Hood?” you call out, voice dry as you click the register shut and turn around, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

He’s already slumped at the bar, a heavy silhouette of exhaustion wrapped in blood splattered leather. His cargo pants are scuffed and torn in places, the usual overkill of weapons strapped haphazardly across his frame. Classic Red Hood. Classic Jason. The low, rasping chuckle that rolls out of him is muffled beneath the red helmet, but it still manages to sound amused. His head tilts back, the movement slow and deliberate, his neck craning as he looks at you. Even with the helmet on, you can feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and unwavering.

“Key word tryin’,” he says, voice thick with static from the modulator. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and duck behind the bar. You retrieve the emergency med kit you started keeping there after the second time he stumbled in bleeding all over the bar floor. Sometimes you can’t stop thinking about how lucky he is — to have stumbled into an empty bar, conveniently being manned by a tired bartender who just so happens to be a medical student.

“Rough night?” you ask, circling around the bar and sliding into the seat beside him as you snap the kit open. Without a word, he shrugs off the jacket, grumbling under his breath as if his bones ache from the inside out.

“When isn’t it a rough night in Crime Alley?” he mutters, a tired edge making its way into the corners of his voice.

You wonder—do all of Gotham’s finest have it this bad? But you already know the answer. Crime Alley is his turf, and it chews him up more often than not. You’ve — unfortunately — lived in the Alley your whole life. Not that many places in Gotham are good places to grow up, but the Alley specifically was awful. You can remember nights when you wouldn’t sleep, the sounds of gunshots ringing in your ears, sirens haunting your dreams like lullabies from hell.

He lifts the helmet off and sets it gently on the bar’s freshly wiped surface. You almost scold him for dirtying the bar again but you don’t, you just glance at him. You still remember the first time you saw his face, just a few months ago. He’d come in the same way, trailing blood, a bullet having kissed too close to his jugular. Could have killed him if it had been just an inch closer. You’d needed to remove the helmet to keep him alive, keep him breathing. He’d let you see him. Really see him for the first time. 

After profusely apologizing and praying you wouldn’t ever say anything, he assured you — probably delirious from blood loss— that it was fine. He even tried to make a joke about knowing where you worked and lived if you talked.. You swear you nearly fainted and he had to quickly reassure you that he was joking.

Now, as you glance over, you catch the dark curls damp with sweat, the lone white streak stark against the rest, curling messily against his forehead. He’s handsome, annoyingly so in your opinion, with broad shoulders, a boyish face, and a sharp jaw. There's a crook in his nose, from having it broken one too many times and a thin scar on his left cheek, faded and pale from age. You turn back to the kit before you stare too long, but not before you catch the way his eyes linger on you. They’re blue with tinges of a stormy grey-green, and startling in their clarity. But you don’t have time to be distracted.

“What hurts?” you murmur, fingers sifting through gauze and bandage wraps, already prepping for the worst. He exhales slowly, the sound almost like a sigh, but heavier. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like his muscles haven’t stopped bracing for a fight, even now that he’s sitting here with you.

“Side,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to his ribs. “Took a hit. Might’ve cracked somethin’.”

You wince sympathetically, tugging your stool closer. “And yet you came here instead of a hospital.”

He huffs another half laugh, dry and rasping. “Hospitals ask questions. You don’t. It’s good practice for med school anyway.” 

The silent ‘I’m also legally dead’ hangs in the air between you, so you don't argue. You just reach for the dark fabric of his undershirt, peeling it back to reveal the bruising underneath. It’s already a deep, angry color, shades of violet and black blooming across his side like a storm cloud under his swelling skin. Blood has started crusting over a shallow gash in his side just under it. 

Your hands hover a moment over the worst of it, instinctively gentle, and his breath catches just slightly when you touch him. You press gently, only to assess the damage, he groans when you press near a middle rib. The sound causes you to draw your hands back instinctively.

“Definitely bruised,” you murmur. “Maybe fractured at worst. I can’t feel any cracks and you’re not breathing as bad as someone with broken ribs would be. You got lucky.”

“‘M always lucky,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm.

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You? Lucky?”

His lips twitch, and just for a second, “Always.” 

You think about how he can’t be that lucky, especially since he’s previously died. You try to not to bring that up, honestly it was an accident you even found out, like most things you learn about him. He had been bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his abdomen, and when you’d lifted his shirt, you saw it. A very real autopsy scar on a very not dead man. 

Maybe it’s the bartender in you that gets people to open up, to spill their secrets. Maybe it was also the high amount of pain meds coursing through his veins. He explained, very vaguely. You didn’t press more after he told you, didn’t ask how it was possible. Yust patched him up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t like talking about it, so you don’t.

You shake your head, grabbing a portable cold pack, cracking it to activate the cooling agent and pressing it against the worst of the swelling. He flinches, not much, but enough to betray how much pain he’s hiding..

“We should wrap this,” you say, nodding toward the gauze. “And you need rest. Like, actual rest. Sleep. More than three hours on a cardboard box somewhere.”

“You offering a bed?” he teases lightly, and the way he says it, soft, laced with something fragile beneath his typical aloofness, makes your stomach flip. 

You look at him fully, something warm curling in your chest as you finally push the words past the knot in your throat. “I’m offering my couch. Don’t push it.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds just a little more real. You wrap the gauze carefully around his ribs, your fingers brushing skin, and despite yourself, you notice the way his breathing hitches every time you get too close. When you’re done, you seal the kit shut and lean back a bit, observing your handiwork. 

“You’ll live.” You meet his gaze again, meeting his eyes as they stare down at you, just letting your words soak in. Just him. Just you. Just the quiet thrum of a city that never sleeps, and the two of you stealing a moment of peace in the shittiest part of it.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “I’m serious. You can sleep on my couch tonight. Rib injuries make it hard to sleep, so you should really be resting somewhere safe. And semi-comfortable.”

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but ultimately he decides not to fight you on it.

You make sure the kit is fully secure, placing it back behind the bar in its hiding spot. You can feel his eyes tracking you as you move about the bar, going through the motions of closing. He doesn’t ask for a drink tonight. Usually you offer him your shift beer — the one drink you get free per shift — half out of gratitude for walking you home, half because the alcohol helps take the edge off whatever he endured that night.

Trying to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you wipe down the final surfaces, flip off the neon sign that flashes in the window, and lock up the register. You try not to let your mind wander, try not to peek at the tired man still slumped at the bar as he gingerly attempts to pull his leather jacket back on with a grimace. You hover a bit, watching him to make sure he doesn’t need any help, even if he would never ask for it. He struggles a bit as he slides off the barstool, and he doesn’t stop you when you quietly nudge your shoulder under his arm, easing his weight across you to steady him. Once he’s steady, you slip away from him as you both make your way out of the bar. You lock it behind you, hitching your your bag over your shoulder

“Come on,” you say, your voice has a gentler tone to it now. He doesn’t argue, he just gives a nod quietly and falls into step beside you as you walk. This in itself isn’t new. He always walks you home after stopping at the bar. It’s part of the unspoken arrangement between the two of you: you fix him up and sometimes give him a beer, he makes sure you get home in one piece.

The streets are half asleep, half alive at this hour of the night. The buzz of faulty streetlights and the distant buzz of sirens are the only noise that fills the air, aside from your footsteps. The night air is cold and it bites at the skin of your face as your breath fogs around your lips. Jason’s walking a little slower than usual beside you, his stride careful but still steady, probably favoring his side so as to not agitate his ribs further. His broad shoulder brushes yours now and then as you walk beside each other, close enough that you can feel the rough leather of his jacket where it touches your sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he murmurs as he breaks the silence, eyes on the ground. “For patching me up.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, the corner of your mouth tugging up a bit. “It’s the least I can do.”

“But I do have to —,” he stumbles a bit over his words, his voice partially strained. “Thank you. I mean.”

There’s a beat of silence. He glances over at you, his bright eyes catch the light of the street lights overhead. “And for offering the couch. Thank you— again,” he adds. It’s quieter this time, and you can feel the uncomfortable thump in your chest when you realize he sounds vulnerable.

You look at him, and something in your chest aches a little. He isn’t one for showing his emotions, at least not around you. On occasion you catch him, flushing embarrassedly after he says something a bit awkward, but he manages to mask it well around you at least.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say. “Figured I should keep you overnight for supervision.”

He huffs a tired laugh, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you as it lingers—it looks soft. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked out for him like this before. You wonder if he’d even let them. You wonder why he’s letting you.

By the time you reach your building, he’s drifted a little closer. Not quite touching, but the space between you feels smaller somehow, like he’s a shadow attached to your back. He follows you up the steps, like he always does when he drops you off. You can feel his eyes in the back of your head and he just watches your back like he always does. But tonight’s different, because he always leaves you at the door, by the time you’re safely inside he vanishes like he was never even there. 

But tonight he won’t vanish, at least not right away.

You slide your key into the keyhole, trying to ignore his presence behind you. You unlock the front door to your apartment, shoving it open with the usual force because the door catches weirdly sometimes. You leave a mental note to yourself to text your landlord about it (again). The apartment is quiet as you lead him in, moonlight shines through the window in your kitchen, illuminating the small space. 

Your apartment is modest but yours and you’ve found ways to make it comfortable with your limited funds. A plush beige couch takes up most of the space in the living room, a large dark wood bookshelf that overflows onto the floor finds its home on the wall, and a coffee table that’s covered in medical textbooks. Various plants adorn the space, pots and planters scattered over nearly every surface that they would allow. Kicking off your shoes, you hang your jacket on a hook on the wall, turning to look behind you. Jason stands in the doorway, his gaze fixated on the deadbolt of your front door. 

“You should get this fixed,” he comments, opening and closing your door a few times to test the lock, twisting it a few times to investigate. “It’s not safe.” His eyebrows are pinched together, eyes fixated on the latch before he breaches the threshold of your apartment, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve texted my landlord about it like, three times,” you say with a sigh, dropping your keys into a ceramic dish by the door. “Scumlord’s ghosting me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a moment, dropping his helmet on the floor with a soft thud, his frown deepening. He shifts on his feet, like he’s weighing if he should say something. You think he mumbles something under his breath as you search for an extra blanket for him, but you opt to ignore it.

Jason almost immediately collapses on your couch once his boots are off, groaning a bit as he makes contact with the plush cushions. The sound is caught somewhere between exhaustion and relief. You have to suppress the small smile that curls at your lips as he sighs, shifting until he finds a comfortable spot. 

You hand him a blanket, before padding over to the small armchair across from him. you curl into the cushions, tucking your knees against your chest. Your fingers play idly with the hem of your sleeve as you observe him quietly. He tilts his head toward you, a few strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead. When he sees you’re already looking at him, his gaze falters. He quickly drops his eyes to the coffee table, like being caught under your attention makes him nervous. Something on the table catches his eye as he reaches out to pick up a book that rests there.

“You read these?” He says, inspecting your worn copy of The Hunger Games. 

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft as the day starts to catch up to you. “I’ve read all of them. Started rereading them a few weeks ago.”

Jason thumbs through the worn pages with a surprising gentleness. You can’t help the way your eyes drag to his knuckles, bruised and scabbed over as he brushes through the first few pages, inspecting it.

“I’ve been meaning to read them,” he murmurs, absentmindedly flipping through pages. “Just— haven't had time.”

You nod, stretching your arms up over your head as a yawn escapes you. The motion pulls your shirt slightly at the hem, the fabric soft from too many washes as it exposed your midriff. Jason’s eyes flit to the movement—quick and fleeting—but when he meets your gaze again, he averts his eyes back to the pages in front of him.

“You can borrow mine if you want,” you offer, blinking sleep from your eyes.

His face expression changes a bit, vague disbelief tugs at his brows. “You sure?” he asks, his voice is tentative as his eyes flicker up to meet yours. 

You brush some of your hair out of your eyes sleepily and nod, your gaze steadily trained on him. “Of course. I have all of the trilogy. It’s no problem, really,” you insist. 

Jason’s eyes once again travel down to the book in his hands. His thumb runs down the crease of the spine, his expression muddled. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, though you barely hear it. You hum lightly in response to his thanks. The silence you two sit in isn’t uncomfortable, just peaceful and calm. The city hums faintly outside of your window, muffled now and more distant, like it knows better than to intrude on the moment. 

A yawn draws itself from your throat again, and this time you don’t fight it as you shudder a bit. The warmth of the room has made your limbs heavy, and the comfortable silence only deepens the tired pull of your eyelids.

Jason notices the noise, his eyes immediately finding your form. “You— You should sleep,” he says, gently, and the tone of his voice makes your skin tingle.

“So should you,” you murmur in response, already uncurling from the chair.

He doesn’t argue with you, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes as you move to the short hallway that leads to your bedroom. You find yourself hesitating in the doorway of your room, your fingers brushing against the frame as you glance back at him over your shoulder. He’s watching you again, not bothering to hide it this time and it makes your stomach flip. He hasn’t moved yet—still perched on the edge of the couch, the book clasped loosely in one hand. The soft lamplight brushes over his features, highlighting the purpling bruise on his cheekbone.

“You can take my bed if you want,” you say quietly without really thinking of the implications, your fingers twitch from where they grasp the doorframe. "I feel bad making you stay on the couch."

Jason shakes his head almost immediately, and you think you should actually go to sleep because you swear you see a flush on his cheeks. God, you really should go to bed. “I’m good here. Couch is fine.”

You nod, trying not to let the twinge of disappointment show on your face, but what else would you have expected him to say. Of course he would say no. Still, a part of you wants to insist. Wants to say that he doesn’t have to sleep like a stranger on your couch. Wants to hold him close and protect him from whatever haunts his dreams. But you don’t. You just linger there for a moment longer before speaking softly.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

He looks up at you like he wants to say something more, his eyes searching your face but you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. He looks like there’s something lodged in his throat that he can’t quite swallow down, catching whatever he wants to say. Despite this, all he says is a quiet, “Night.”

You retreat into your bedroom quickly after that, the door left ajar behind you. You lie in bed longer than you mean to as you pull the cool sheets up to your chin, listening for the sound of movement from the living room. Your mind wanders as you allow your mind to drift to Jason, probably thumbing through the book in his hands still. A deep part of you wonders if he’s thinking of you. You wonder if he knows you’re thinking of him, or if he even cares.

For a fleeting moment as you fall asleep, you wish he’s followed you in— not for anything else than to bathe in the feeling of his presence.

When you regain consciousness in the morning, your eyes nearly snap open as you take in the sunlight spilling through your curtains, pale and golden. Immediately thinking of last night's events, you throw the covers to the side. You find yourself quickly padding into the living room, your bare feet slapping gently against the hardwood of your floors.

The couch is empty. There’s a thump of disappointment in your chest as your heart rate slows.

The blanket you’d left out for him is folded neatly on the back of the couch. The spot where he’d laid last night is faintly indented, like a ghost of him lingers in the cushions. The books you lent him are gone, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

And when you check the front door out of habit, peering out into the halls of your apartment, as if you will catch a hint of red disappearing from view. Your gaze catches on the lock as you close it, because the deadbolt doesn’t catch like normal.

It’s been fixed.

The lock, the one that’s been broken for weeks, now clicks cleanly into place when you shut your door. The deadbolt slides smoothly, no catch. You stare at it for a long moment, blinking against the sudden tightness in your chest. You don’t have long to bask in the feeling, because your eyes are now drawn to a small pink sticky note that clings to the door. Unsure how you missed it earlier, you pluck it off the wood of the door, examining the neat, small words.

Fixed your lock and thank you again for the books. Hope you sleep better knowing it’s fixed. Someone’s gotta look out for you. - J

[snail-day]

Everything is fine, really.

Sum: You’re moving. Starting a new life. Building a family. That’s what you keep telling everyone. What you keep telling yourself. Just sometimes, you hide the truth behind your words, don’t you? It's not like your relationship is a dumpster fire. Everything is fine, really.

Yandere! SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 3.7k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Noncon/Dubcon, Power imbalance, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Dehumanization (brief), Both are cult leaders, Heavy Angst, Dead Dove Do Not Eat. MDNI

There’s something surreal about leaving a place you once called your second home. You can’t help the soft smile tugging at your lips as you pack up your belongings from the sad little cubicle you once claimed as your own. Photos with coworkers, that are curling at the edges, a faint Polaroid here and there. A chipped dish from some forgotten potluck. A few dusty trinkets. Your stash of instant noodles tucked neatly into one of the dented metal drawers.

Change is good, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. What Suguru keeps telling you. And he’s always right, isn’t he?

Though… why does it feel like dread is curling up in your lungs, breathing for you?

“We’re really going to miss you,” your friend murmurs, swirling her iced Americano, the clink of melting cubes loud in the silence that follows. “You know, people are worried about you. You just got into that relationship...”

Right.

A year ago, you started dating Suguru and Satoru. Time has felt slippery since then. 

“Well,” you laugh, light, dismissive, a little too forced. You can feel the weight of her eyes on your hands, watching the way your fingers pick at your sleeves. The same kind of look Shoko gave you the first time she met you — concern disguised as polite curiosity.

Is love really something to be concerned about?

“They just… love me,” you say, the words light, almost too soft. A breathy chuckle follows, barely convincing.

There’s a pause.

Just a flicker too long.

You feel the weight of her eyes narrowing, the silence pressing in.

“That’s all,” you add, quieter this time.

But who are you trying to convince — your friends or yourself?

Because even as you say it, something in your chest curls tight. And you wonder if love is supposed to feel like this. Suppose it’s supposed to hollow you out just to fit someone else's shape.

“You just finished your master’s,” she says, brows furrowed as she leans in, eyes sharp, slicing right through you. “You were going to research in the States. Publish. Become something.”

That one stings. Her words land like Satoru’s when he gets upset, cruel, even when they're coated in care. It's funny how the more you get to know people, the more they start to resemble each other. Maybe those personality tests were onto something after all.

You part your lips to respond, but your friend cuts you off.

Nothing new. It happens more at your main home than it ever did here.

“I mean, come on. None of your friends have even met them yet. You keep coming up with excuses — that they’re busy, that timing’s bad — ”

“They’re building a church,” you say with a shrug, careful to keep your tone light, dismissive. You don’t let the rest slip out.  

A church you’re not allowed to enter.

“They have their reasons. They’re just… homebodies, that’s all. Suguru can be a bit of a germophobe.”

Your friend huffs, something sharp, skeptical, half-muttered under her breath. Maybe it’s a complaint about religion. Maybe it’s the word cult. You don’t ask her to repeat it. It’s safer not to know some things.

So instead, you cling to the part that’s easiest to swallow: Suguru is a germophobe.

You’ve seen it, the way his serene face twists when he catches the scent of your job on your clothes. The way his voice drops, low and quiet, when he tells you you reek like them.

You still don’t know who them is.

Sometimes, when he thinks you’re not listening, he murmurs the word monkey.

You try to hug him. Like you used to after work. Before this shift in behavior.

He steps back.  His expression doesn’t change, not really. Just a small downturn of his mouth, a sigh through his nose. That look he gives when you disappoint him again.

Still, you tell yourself, at least his eyes are always kind. 

He loves you.

He just wants to keep the house clean. Safe. Protected from whatever it is he sees that you can’t.

He points. Wordless. The bathroom.

And you go. It’s easier to obey than to ask why.

The tub’s already filled by the time you get there, steam billowing into the air, curling against the mirror until your reflection vanishes.

You peel your clothes off slowly. Shirt first. Bra next. Then the skirt, tights, and frilly panties Satoru bought you last spring. Layer by layer until you’re bare and small beneath the bathroom light, spine curved, arms wrapped around your chest like that might keep something in.

The water smells like herbs. Bitter roots, crushed flowers, something sharp and metallic beneath it all. You wonder if this is what his sermons smell like. Or maybe its just medicinal.

You dip a foot in.

It burns.

And maybe that’s a blessing.

Because if your eyes water, if your lips tremble, if a quiet, broken sob tears out of your throat when you sink deeper into the tub — it’s just the heat. Just the scalding kiss of boiling water on fragile skin.

Not his words. Not the way Suguru wrinkled his nose when he said you reek like them. Not the muttered monkey you weren’t meant to hear. Or even the way he didn’t look at you as you stepped back into the house, just gestured vaguely like you were something to be fixed.

But once you’re clean — once you’re fixed — you get to be in his arms again. 

He’s kind again. 

He loves you again. 

You ease in, inch by inch, until the water laps at your collarbones. Until your knees curl toward your chest. Until your skin prickles and stings. Until your tears become indistinguishable from steam.

The water wraps around you tighter than he did.

The silence is softer than his praise ever sounds.

And you breathe in the incense like it might turn your lungs into something purer. Something less dirty. 

Something worthy enough for him. 

You stay in until your fingers prune, until your thighs burn red, until you can no longer tell if what’s rolling down your cheeks is bathwater or heartbreak.

The water’s gone lukewarm by the time the door opens with a quiet creak.

Suguru doesn’t say anything at first.

He just walks in, unhurried, dark sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, a soft white towel folded over one arm before he kneels beside the tub, his long fingers testing the edge of the bath. 

Before a click of his tongue, “You stayed in too long again. You’ll get sick if you keep doing this.” 

You don’t say anything. You don’t look at him. You just let him drain the water with a pop of the plug, allowing the water swirl away with a hollow gurgle. Allow him help you up carefully.

The good thing is, now that you’re clean, you can lean against him, and he’s gracious enough to kiss your wet temple. 

He wraps the soft plush towel around you. Tucks it beneath your arms. Smooths his palm along your spine, which should be a soothing gesture. 

Another kiss. Softer. Warmer. Your throat tightens.

 A kiss like that used to make you smile, used to make you laugh, and lean more into him. 

“There,” he whispers, voice low and soothing, almost reverent. “All clean.”

You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Because if you speak, you might cry again, and this time it won’t be from the heat.

His arms slide around you tighter, chin resting on the top of your head. The scent of him — faint cologne, incense, something metallic — fills your nose.

“I love you,” he murmurs, soft as breath against your damp hair.

But it lands heavy.

Not like a declaration. Not like warmth.

It feels like a bandaid smoothed over a wound he didn’t bother cleaning first. A phrase meant to patch, to hush, to make you forget the sting.

You want to believe it. You always do.

But when he pulls away and takes your hand to lead you down the hallway — bare feet on cold tile, steam trailing in your wake — you wonder if he only says I love you when you’ve made yourself small enough to deserve it.

A light tap on your shoulder pulls you back. 

Right. You were living inside a memory again, and now you’re here, surrounded by friendly coworkers and the smell of the breakroom. 

You turn and meet the smile of a coworker, the kind of easy warmth you used to exchange freely. The kind that once made you laugh without checking who was watching.

The smile reminds you of him, of the early days with Satoru. When his jealousy was still quiet. When his touches were only tender. Before you were told that certain smiles belonged to him. That kindness was currency, and you were overspending.

So you lean back, subtly. Laugh too softly. Let the conversation flow around you without joining in.

You keep your eyes on your drink instead, how the cold foam slowly fades into the coffee, thick white threads curling into dark brown. Blending. Disappearing.

White like Satoru’s skin. 

Like his lashes when he blinks down at you. 

Like his knuckles when they dig into your hips, holding you in place as he pounds up into you with something closer to desperation than desire.

“Who was he?” Satoru snarled into your mouth, voice hot and fraying at the edges. Breath burning, words catching on the cusp between annoyance and desperation. “The guy you were smiling at.”

You watched his brows knit, his jaw tight. There was hurt swimming in those bright blue eyes, a sharp, wounded gleam behind the anger. His voice cracked, just barely, softening into something too fragile, too bitter. “That’s my smile.”

Your back arched on reflex, mouth falling open in a gasp that twisted before it could become protest. Before it could become no.

But he wasn’t listening.

Or maybe he was, just not in the way that mattered.

The head of his cock slammed deep — again and again — a brutal rhythm carved from obsession, not pleasure. Too cruel to confuse with intimacy. You could feel your cervix throb, the bruising pressure making your stomach turn. Bile clawed at the back of your throat as your fingers scrambled for purchase - on his shoulders, the sheets, anything that might save you.

“It hurts,” you tried to say.

But it came out as a moan. A strangled, trembling moan that sounded too much like a yes.

Because your body didn’t know how to protect you.

Because sometimes pain and pleasure braid themselves so tightly, you forget where one ends and the other begins.

You tried to shift your hips. Attempted to meet him halfway - to change the angle, to make the act bearable. But Satoru was stronger than you. He always was.

One of his hands clamped around your waist, holding you flush against him, unmoving. The other curled around your throat, thumb stroking slowly along your jaw. It should be a loving gesture, instead it caused you to crawl into yourself.

“Don’t,” he growled, voice shaking now, with something hungry and hurt. “Don’t you ever talk to him again.” His grip tightened. “You’re mine, okay?”

Then another thrust.  Deeper. Meaner.  His cock slammed into the softest part of you as punishment.  Your fingers dug into his bicep, nails raking down to the bone, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. He liked when you clung to him like that.  Blood bloomed in tiny crescents under your fingertips - small, red reminders of the shape your desperation takes.

Your vision blurred.

Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes, slipping free one by one, rolling into your hairline. Your mouth was parted in a silent gasp, breath hitched, lungs straining under the weight of everything left unsaid.

A burst of white bloomed behind your eyes, pressure building until you shattered, climaxing with a silent, choking gasp. Humiliation curled in your chest like a second heartbeat.

You didn’t want it.

But your body gave in anyway.

That’s the worst part.

But Satoru — Satoru always crumbles after.

That’s the best part.

The moment his breathing evens out, he’s already tucking you into his chest, pressing trembling kisses to your tear-stricken cheeks, your hair, your shoulders. His hands shake as they glide over your back, tracing the fresh bruises he left behind.

You can feel it in his body — the regret.

You can see it in his eyes — bright blue and glassy, guilt already welling at the corners. Too much, too hard, too far — all unspoken, tucked beneath the desperate softness in his touch.

“I love you,” he breathes, over and over again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t leave me. I didn’t mean it. I love you. I love you.”

And the tears in his voice feel like salvation. Like if he’s crying, then it must have been love.

He wraps you in the blanket, tucks you into the crook of his body, never allowing you to leave. 

Because it’s easier.

Because even when his hands are cruel, his embrace is always kind.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if that’s love or just the only kind you know how to hold onto.

A shift at the table. A nudge against your knee. The hiss of a soda can opening. 

“Really leaving us, huh?”

The voice cuts through your thoughts, pulling you back to the breakroom. One of your coworkers — grinning, oblivious — nudges your arm with a laugh. “Getting married, playing housewife? Man, never thought I’d see that coming from you,” he winks. “Sex must be that good, huh?”

Your friend slaps his arm before you can even blink, murmuring his name like a scolding. But even she leans in a little. 

And denial settles in like fog, like sugar on your tongue — sweet at first, then sickening. 

Don’t mention the cage.

Don’t mention the safe word being ignored.

Don’t cry.

Your throat tightens. Your vision wobbles at the edges. Smile. Smile.

“The sex is amazing,” you say, voice light, airy, like nothing is stuck behind your teeth. “I mean… two handsome men. What more could I ask for?”

They laugh. The table laughs. You look back down at your drink.

It is nice. Sometimes. When they’re gentle. When Satoru kisses every inch of you. Kissing beauty marks.  Kissing the love bites that Suguru loves to leave behind.  

When Suguru brushes your hair behind your ears and tells you you’re his good girl, gaze soft and adoring. When his touch his so soft as he cradles you in his arms and his thrusts are gentle. 

But.

Sometimes Suguru grips your jaw too hard, pries it open to stuff his thick cock so deep down your throat you feel it in your stomach. Until your jaw aches into the next day. Until the taste of him lingers on your tongue. No matter how much you scrub or swirl around the harshest mouthwash you could find. 

Nothing can erase the taste they leave behind. 

And when you inevitably gag — when you choke and the mess spills out of your mouth — he clicks his tongue and calls you ungrateful. And locks you in the dog crate.

The one under the desk, four doors down from their room. 

The one you thought was for a puppy.

“We already have you,” Suguru had cooed, stroking your cheek. You at the time thought he was teasing. 

Now. 

You don’t like the dog crate. Not when it’s cold. Not when it’s cramped. Not when you’re crying into your knees and they say it’s for your own good, cheek pressed against the metal bars slick with condensation. That obedience takes time. That love is earned.

Not when you’re tossed inside for something as simple as not moaning loud enough, not stretching wide enough to accommodate both of them. Not when your voice turns flat and numb and they whisper like it’s your fault they have to punish you.

It’s an awful feeling. Shrinking inside yourself. Folding in on something you once recognized.

Becoming smaller. 

Quieter. 

A voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts. 

Your friend speaks again, gently this time, almost hesitantly. “Are you sure you’re making the right decision?” Her voice is tentative, concerned. “We’re here to listen, you know. If things aren’t…”

Why does that question make your shoulders feel so heavy?

Why does the air feel thicker?

Why can’t you look up from your drink?

Why does it feel like something is wrapping around your chest — vines, maybe, or rope. Something sticky and invisible threading through your ribs, curling tight around your lungs.

You swallow. Hard.

Suguru would just say it’s anxiety.

Would ease you into his lap, let you rest your cheek on his thigh while his fingers play with your hair. He’d smile softly, whisper gentle reassurances, then press a little white pill past your lips with two fingers and praise you for swallowing so sweetly.

He’s kind. He is. You’re just focusing on the bad. You’re tired. It’s the stress. It's not —

“I’m doing what’s best for my family,” you say, your voice sticky-sweet, saccharine. “My future family, you know?”

You look up. Smile. That same old cheerful smile that used to be real. You used to be so positive. So bright.

So why do you keep caving in on yourself?

Why does every word feel like it’s screaming inside you? 

And you’re the only one pretending not to hear it?

You ignore the lingering eyes when you leave. Ignore the unbearable weight pressing into your shoulders, the subtle drag against your spine like something is slowly chaining itself to you. 

When you unlock the apartment door, the dim light spills over cardboard boxes — stacks of your life, half-packed and waiting for a future that doesn’t quite feel like yours.

The move is for Suguru. He’s always dreamed of countryside quiet, of temples and shrines and misty mornings. Satoru says he’ll miss the buzz of the city, but jokes that the mochi tastes better in the mountains — and besides, that’s where their true lives begin. You’re not sure what that means anymore.

You set down the box of office knick-knacks — photos, notes, a chipped coffee mug — hoping the weight leaves your body with it.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it feels tighter. A tension you can’t stretch out. Like something’s pulling at your ribs from the inside. Weaving itself into your breath.

You glance up at the security camera above the door.

No blinking red light.

They’re not watching right now. For once.

It feels like a small victory, one you don’t let yourself enjoy too much.

There’s a note on the dining table. “Be home tonight — takeout’s on the way for you <3” The heart is big and round. Satoru’s handwriting.  Underneath is a doodle — two smiling figures holding hands, a third one smaller between them. A family.

See? They can be sweet. They love you. They chose you.

You whisper that to yourself as you make your way to the bathroom.

Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe you’re coming down with something. You should really stop taking such long baths. Suguru is onto something with that. 

You barely manage to hold yourself up in the shower. The steam wraps around you like something alive, something watchful. It fills the room in thick waves, clinging to your skin until your limbs feel heavy. You brace yourself against the cool tile, hoping it’ll ground you.

It doesn’t.

It just makes it harder to breathe.

There’s a pull beneath your skin now — something deep, low, and slow. Not painful, not sharp. Just tightening. Like invisible cords wrapping themselves around your body, pressing inward. Like something ancient and hungry has started to bloom beneath your ribcage.

But it can’t be real. You’re just anxious.

Suguru says stress does this to people. That your nerves are delicate. That you need to rest more, stop overthinking. That you’re safer with them than anywhere else.

Maybe he’s right.

You dry off slowly, body trembling. Each step toward the bed feels heavier than the last, your heartbeat distant and muffled, like it’s echoing in a room far away.

You crawl under the blankets. They smell like them. Like Satoru’s cologne and Suguru’s temple incense. Like a home you’re trying so hard to love.

You nestle into the warmth, deeper, deeper, as if you bury yourself far enough, they’ll find you and say you did well. That you were good.

Your breath is slow now. Faint. Shallow. Your lungs are forgetting what to do.

You close your eyes and try to focus on the vision:

Satoru, stepping through the door with a grin, eyes bright, arms full of warmth. Kisses pressed to your face in quick succession — cheeks, nose, forehead — before gathering you into his arms. 

Suguru, following quietly. Murmuring praise as he peels back the covers, as he brushes the hair from your face, his fingers gentle, reverent. Humming that lullaby he always hums — the one you never quite learned the words to. Something from his childhood that he never talks about. 

They must be doing temple things.  Preparing the next step.  Building their new world - a world they haven’t let you see yet.  Suguru swears it will be better.  Purer.  Safe.

Maybe... If you close your eyes and surrender, you’ll be allowed inside. If you’re quiet. Still. Good.

You’ll wake up there. Worthy enough for them. 

But another part of you — the part that still aches in the silence, that tightens when they’re gone — knows the truth.

You’re not like them.

You’re not special.

 You don’t see what they see.

You were never meant to be more than a decoration. A docile thing. A trophy to polish and put back in the cage.

 Something pretty to keep.

And their heaven doesn’t open for people like you.

You curl tighter beneath the sheets.  Breathe shallow.  A broken sound catching in your throat — half a sob, half a pathetic laugh.

And then you go still. Drifting quietly into the dark,  as whatever has etched itself inside you finally begins to take hold. To consume you whole.

[sweaterkittensahoy]

My favorite thing to do is check the parent's face when this happens because you can instantly tell if this is the first time today or if this has been the whole day or if they have known it was going to happen sometime today. It's three different looks:

Oh god, this is so embarrassing.

Fuck me not again.

Sweet Jesus, finally. At least now it can be over soon.

My favorite though is when the parent just NOPES and scoops up the creature that was previously their child and just gets them the fuck out of the way. Like they're in a rush to buy concrete and finish a weekend project. Love it.

Not to be outdone by the parent trying VERY hard to keep the child rage contained until they finish with the very last thing they need to do to get this child out of earshot of everyone in the store.

Just. Parents, how you don't fry them up for dinner, I do not know.

We gotta start taking "child having an absolute meltdown in public" not just as a circumstance to be compassionate about, but as the valuable opportunity it is.

I personally like to close my eyes and pretend I'm the one who's screaming.

Scream for us all, little nugget.