#i never know who to tag in these things sorry

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

taglist: @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ricabobbie @venus111sworld @nanamisboobies @delusionsofgrandeur13 @x3rox @genericpenname @lovemymustache @sweetybuzz25 @asiavvv @jazz-cat-on-a-broom @violetisheresworld @depornable @sugarandserum @emilyyyyyys-stuff @julesneedshelp @rene-with-an-e @caramelsundaysstuff @adeptua @beautifuleaglealpaca@chronicallyicky @s-void @trulovekay @mary-magdaline @moongir99 @goldiesoaked @backtotheintro @ribbitribbitquack @matumogs @xjustxlookingx @prettgirlwhoreadsatnite @angielove07 @olives10 @zzzz20d @greylykaylee @suikasweetheart @deliciouslydisturbed365 @british-ppl-scare-me @bless-my-demons @tofunoodlesoup @rafaelcallinybbay @blahox @dethspllz @casual-darkness @lem-hhn @astridminsstuffie21 @xdcgfvh @viviansvault3 @mygsbin @booboobear-12 @pink-hufflepuff @just-lilita @succulambb

[cheftsunoda]

hiii!

I love your writing sooo much and I just had an idea for a story with Lando (if you write for him)

The idea came to me when I was watching one of his interviews in which he gets asked if he likes cats or dogs and he says that he's DEFINITELY a dog person and hates cats (which should be a crime imo)

Anyway I was wondering if you could write a story in which the reader LOVEEEES cats and Lando likes reader a lot but they tell him that they refuse to date someone who doesn’t like cats so Lando tries to charm/befriend their cat/cats

nine lives — ln4

lando norris x !cat lover reader

smau + blurbs

You’ve always said you could forgive many things in a relationship—bad taste in music, questionable cooking, even the occasional forgotten anniversary. But not liking cats? Unforgivable. Which is why, when a clip of Lando—your boyfriend of almost a year—where he boldly declares “I just don’t trust cats. They stare at you like they’re plotting your death.”, your phone practically explodes with notifications. And right in the middle of your peaceful Sunday morning, curled up in bed with four purring furballs and one very smug grey baby sprawled on your chest, Lando walks into the room holding his phone like it’s ticking.

“They’re all sending me this video,” he says, deadpan. “And now half the internet thinks we’re about to break up because I disrespected Mister Whiskers the Third.”

You blink at him. “You did. And you disrespected me.”

And that’s when he sighs—loudly, dramatically—and looks your cats in the eye like he’s facing his greatest challenge yet.

“I guess I’m gonna have to win them over, huh?”

fc : random pinterest girlies

(a/n) : hi babyyyyyy. thanks for the love:) i am a huge cat person so this was very fun for me to write. my cat was stepping on my keyboard keys as i was literally trying to type it out. LMAOOO

ALSO NOT MY DUMBASS HAVING THIS EDITED AND READY FOR TWO DAYS AND NOT REALIZING. IM SO SORRY.

ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

lando’s ‘undercover’ GQ interview — 6/23/2025

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It starts innocently enough. You’re lounging on the couch in your sunlit living room, a tabby curled against your hip, a calico stretched across your feet, and your ancient, grumpy Persian—Count Meowcula—curled up like a loaf of bread on the coffee table. Lando is still asleep upstairs, likely tangled in the duvet with his mouth slightly open and hair sticking up like a dandelion. You’re scrolling through your phone when the first tag pops up.

@/username000 : NOT LANDO SAYING HE HATES CATS 💀💀💀 @/yourusername come get your man pls

You furrow your brows and click the link.

It’s a recent clip, from the GQ interview he just did the other day. The interviewer shows him an old clip of himself.

And the younger Lando on the video, without missing a beat, replies with boyish arrogance, “Dogs, obviously. Cats are evil. I don’t trust them. They just sit there and judge you.”

Your jaw drops a little. “Excuse me?”

He goes on—oh, he goes on.

“They’re always knocking things off tables. Like, why? For what reason? I could never live with a cat. I’d be on edge all the time.”

You blink at the screen, stunned. A moment later, your mentions erupt like fireworks.

@/username00 : so like… yn owns FIVE cats and lando said THIS?????

@/username0 : the betrayal. the slander. does Count Meowcula know??

@/username1 : if my man ever said this about cats i’d simply let them scratch his eyes out 😭

You let out a little laugh—half horrified, half amused—and glance around the room. As if sensing drama, your youngest cat, a tiny grey kitten named Pickles, climbs onto your lap and stares directly into your phone screen like she’s reading the replies.

“I know,” you murmur to her. “He’s got some explaining to do.”

Almost on cue, heavy footsteps pad down the stairs. You hear a yawn, then a groggy voice.

“Morning…” Lando steps into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s in one of your hoodies and a pair of mismatched socks, hair a complete mess.

You swivel your phone toward him, the video paused on the exact moment he says, “Cats are evil.”

He squints. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Lando flops face first onto the couch beside you, groaning into a throw pillow. “I was, like, twenty! I didn’t know better!”

“The internet disagrees.” You smirk, holding your phone up as notifications keep pouring in. “You’ve got approximately two million cat lovers and a grumpy Count Meowcula very disappointed in you.”

Lando turns his head, eyes squinting at the Persian cat who is, indeed, staring at him with an expression of utter betrayal.

“I told him it was an old interview,” you say solemnly. “He doesn’t care.”

“I’ll never earn his forgiveness, will I?”

“Not unless you make amends.”

He sits up dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Then I have no choice. I must… bond with the cats.”

“Oh?” you tease. “The same cats who are evil? The ones you can’t trust?”

“I was young! I was foolish!” He throws himself at your feet in mock agony. “Please, my love, allow me to prove myself to you—and to Pickles. And to Mr. Whiskers. And… Count Meowcula.” He pauses.

“God, why do they all sound like retired supervillains?”

“Because they are.”

Pickles meows at him, unimpressed. Lando slowly sits back up, adjusting his hoodie and patting his lap. “Alright. I’m ready. Send me your softest warrior.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“I’m ready to face the consequences of my words,” he says solemnly. “Bring me the cats.”

One by one, like some ceremonial trial, the cats are introduced. Pickles curls up beside him without protest. Mr. Whiskers claws his leg once, just for good measure, and then lays on his foot. Count Meowcula eyes him for a solid three minutes before climbing onto his lap and promptly falling asleep.

You grab your phone and take a picture of the scene—Lando sitting stiff as a board, surrounded by cats, one paw resting over his knee like a warning.

Moments later, the tweet goes viral. The top reply?

@/alex_albon : petition for Lando to do a cat photoshoot in apology form.

You grin and show it to him.

“Absolutely not,” Lando mutters as Mr. Whiskers licks his hand. “Okay. Maybe. Only if I get to wear the little ears too.”

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yourusername

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 1,201,005 others.

yourusername : should i leave this muppet because he doesn’t like my babies?

tagged : lando

—

view 72,075 other comments.

alex_albon : yes. absolutely. dump him. lily and i will take you and your cats in.

liked by yourusername and lilymhe

↳ yourusername : omw to the albon farm where me and my 5 children will be APPRECIATED.

liked by alex_albon and lilymhe

↳ lando : HEY HEY WE DO NOT HAVE TO GO THIS FAR

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : i am like the cat whisperer now. ask pickles.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : you screamed when mr whiskers jumped up on the couch behind you. mans was just existing.

liked by alex_albon

↳ lando : HE STARTLED ME.

liked by yourusername

maxverstappen1 : leave him. now. i want to see him walking down the road with one of those hobo sacks.

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : OH MY GOD. YOU ARE ALL SO OVERDRAMATIC. I WAS YOUNG.

↳ maxverstappen1 : do not care. you still said it.

liked by yourusername

username00 : i take it he is still in alot of trouble yn

↳ yourusername : oh yes. very much so. sleeping on the couch currently.

liked by maxverstappen1 and alex_albon

↳ maxverstappen1 : make him sleep on the sidewalk.

liked by yourusername and username00

lando : I AM SORRY BABYYYYY DO NOT LEAVE ME. I NEED YOU AND YOUR 5 CHILDREN.

liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux : leave lando. not bc of the cat thing but just so you can date me😻

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : ALEX. OUT. DO NOT TRY TO WIN OUT ON MY MISFORTUNE.

liked by yourusername and alexandrasaintmleux

oscarpiastri : I, for one, stand for feline rights. #teampickles

liked by yourusername

charles_leclerc: just wait til she has a conversation with zhou about this…

liked by alex_albon, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, yourusername and zhouguanyu24

↳ zhouguanyu24 : oh i already know and sweetcorn and i are offended deeply

↳ lando : BROOOOOOOO

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f1gossipgirls

liked by yourusername and 1,100,100 others.

f1gossipgirls : Lando on live tonight with YN’s kitten Pickles!

tagged : lando and yourusername

—

view 175,007 other comments.

username000 : pickles pawing him in the head killed me #teampickles

liked by yourusername

username00 : @/yourusername you are so powerful. he went from hating cats to calling pickles his son in a matter of a week

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : that’s what good pussy does…bad joke?

liked by lando and username00

username0 : pickles had more screen time than max 😭

liked by yourusername and maxfewtrell

username1 : HE DID THE BABY VOICE AWWWWW

liked by yourusername

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The stream wasn’t even supposed to happen. It started because Max texted Lando “go live you coward I miss your face”, and then fifteen minutes later Lando was setting up his webcam while you sat cross legged on the couch, cradling Pickles in your lap like royalty. You had no intention of being on camera—until Pickles decided to launch himself from your arms and climb straight up Lando’s hoodie mid-intro.

“AH—oh my god—HE’S IN MY SHIRT,” Lando yelps, half-laughing, half-panicking, while you scramble into frame trying to extract the tiny menace from his hood. The comments explode instantly.

@/username0000 : IS THAT PICKLES??

@/username000: this is already the best stream of the year

You finally wrestle the kitten free and sit down beside Lando, both of you breathless from laughing. Pickles, smug as ever, curls into a perfect ball on Lando’s shoulder like he owns the place.

“He’s… decided to stay,” Lando mutters, eyes wide. “I’m not moving for the rest of the stream.”

“That’s called growth,” you tease. “You used to call him a demon.”

“I still think he is,” Lando says. “He’s just my demon now.”

Then Max joins the call. And everything goes downhill.

“Oi,” Max says, grinning into his camera. “Am I interrupting domestic bliss?”

“Pickles almost crawled into my ribcage five minutes ago,” Lando replies. “So yes, but it’s fine.”

You wave at Max. “Hi Max. I saved your best friend from a feline induced death.”

“Legend,” Max says with a wink. “Though if Pickles had finished the job, I’d finally win our Fantasy league.”

Lando flips him off. The chat goes wild. Over the next half hour, it descends into total chaos. Lando’s trying to game, Max is throwing shade, and you’re in the background trying to keep Pickles from knocking over an open can of Monster with the energy of a feral toddler. At one point a conversation sparks.

Max started. “So YN, how many cats is too many cats?”

You thought for a moment. ”Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

“Ten.”

Lando spits out his drink, “TEN?”

You shrugged, “I’m just saying. We have the space.”

Max laughed. “This is how it starts. First it’s one kitten, next thing you know, you’re on a reality show called My Strange Addiction..’”

You laughed, “I’d watch my episode.”

Lando sighed heavily, “Don’t give her ideas, she’s already been measuring out a catio for the balcony.”

The chat is unhinged at this point.

@/username11: lando is literally becoming the cat dad he swore he’d never be and I love it

Then Pickles decides to crawl back onto Lando’s lap mid game, and instead of pushing him off, Lando just says, “Okay okay buddy, you can sit there, just don’t touch the mouse—”

Immediately, Pickles touches the mouse. Lando loses the round. Max howls laughing.

“I’ve been sabotaged,” Lando groans. “By my own child.”

You hand him a tiny sweater. “He earned this.”

Lando holds up the sweater to the camera—soft knit, neon orange, a little lightning bolt stitched across the back.

“It’s giving superhero sidekick,” Max says. “He needs a cape.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say, already pulling out your phone to text your Etsy supplier.

By the end of the stream, Pickles is asleep on Lando’s chest, purring, and Lando’s stroking his tiny head absentmindedly while bickering with Max about who cheated in karting back in 2015.

“He’s so gone,” Max mouths into the camera, pointing at Lando, who doesn’t even notice because he’s too busy whispering, “You’re my best mate, but if you ever touch my mouse again, I swear—” to a literal sleeping kitten.

The final shot before the stream ends? Lando kissing the top of Pickles’ head without even realizing he’s doing it. The comments explode. And the clip goes viral.

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You come home expecting the usual—a trail of cat toys on the stairs, a half consumed cup of Lando’s coffee on the kitchen counter, and Pickles dramatically lounging in your spot on the couch. What you don’t expect is Lando standing in the hallway with his hands behind his back and the guiltiest grin on his face.

“What did you do?” you ask instantly.

“Why do you assume I did something?” he replies, rocking on his heels.

“You only smile like that when you’ve either crashed a scooter or spent a suspicious amount of money.”

“I prefer the term invested.”

You narrow your eyes. “Lando…”

He takes your hand. “Okay. Just… come with me.”

He leads you to the balcony, practically vibrating with excitement. The sliding doors are already open, and the cats are pacing back and forth like they know something’s up. And then you see it. A catio.

Not just any catio. A custom, multi-level, architectural wonderland that stretches across half the balcony. There’s a tunnel system, clear bubble pods for sunbathing, platforms shaped like trophies, and tiny nameplates engraved for each cat. At the top—of course—is Count Meowcula, looking down on his kingdom like he’s about to demand taxes.

You blink. “Lando. What the hell is this?”

“It’s a Catio 2.0,” he says proudly. “Designed it with a guy from Reddit. Don’t ask how much it cost.”

You turn to him, stunned.

“And this?” you say, gesturing to the racing stripe hammock that literally says “PICKLES’ PAD.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Okay that part was my idea. And the tiny pit wall.”

There is a tiny pit wall. You burst out laughing, hand over your mouth. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He shrugs, pulling you into a hug. “You said they deserved fresh air and enrichment. And I figured… if I’m gonna be a cat dad, I might as well go all in.”

You lean up and kiss him, dizzy with love. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he grins. “But you love me anyway.”

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It started as a joke. You were scrolling through Instagram with Lando one night, curled up on the couch while Pickles aggressively kneaded his thigh. Zhou had just posted yet another selfie with Sweetcorn, his fluffy, spoiled cat, perched on his shoulder like a queen.

Lando squinted at the screen. “I’m starting to think Zhou loves that cat more than he loves people.”

You smirked. “I respect it. Honestly, I love sweetcorn too.”

“Okay, weird. But what if we got him, like… a Sweetcorn pillow?” Lando said, half joking, half serious.

You stared at him. “Wait. That’s actually genius.”

Two weeks later, the package arrives.

A two foot long plush pillow—an eerily accurate, almost too realistic version of Sweetcorn, down to the slightly tilted ears and smug expression. You nearly cry laughing when you pull it out of the box. Lando holds it up like he’s presenting Simba.

“We’ve peaked,” he declares. “This is our legacy.”

You’re both waiting outside the Ferrari hospitality unit when Zhou walks up, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, completely unprepared.

Lando grins. “Got you a present.”

Zhou raises a brow. “What’d you do?”

Then you pull the pillow out from behind your back and hold it up proudly.

Zhou stops. Blinks. Takes off his sunglasses in slow motion.

“You did not.”

“Oh, we did,” you laugh. “Meet… travel-sized Sweetcorn.”

Zhou stares at the pillow, mouth open, completely speechless. Then, without a word, he drops his coffee and takes the pillow in his arms like a long lost child.

“I’m never sleeping alone again,” he says.

Lando bursts out laughing. “We made it extra squishy so you’d get maximum cuddle support.”

Zhou is still cradling the pillow, already doing voices— “‘Who needs anyone when I’ve got you, Sweetcorn 2.0.’”

You snap a picture of him holding the pillow like a baby, and before long it’s all over social media.

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lando

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 4,001,008 others.

lando : i have made amends with all the cat people in my life. built a catio, traveled to the albon farm and got zhou a mini sweetcorn. and i can say i finally understand why max broke down the door for his cat children.

tagged : alex_albon, yourusername, maxverstappen1 and zhouguany24

—

view 175,001 other comments.

yourusername : this is the man i love. covered in cat hair.

liked by lando

lando : god i hate how i will do literally anything for you

liked by yourusername

yourusername : love you lannnnnnn

liked by lando

maxverstappen1 : and id break ten more doors.

liked by yourusername and lando

alex_albon : you still flinched when one of ours sneezed but we made progress so idc

liked by yourusername and lando

zhouguanyu24 : mini sweetcorn sleeps beside me every night. nothing will ever top this gift.

liked by yourusername and lando

yukitsunoda0511 : yn!! do you think we can get him to go to the cat cafe in tokyo??

liked by yourusername

lando : no

yourusername : if you love me you will

liked by yukitsunoda0511

lando : GOD damnit

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[neilsbeloved]

company of four

summary: your world stops the moment clark tells you he’s finally introducing you to his friends, not because you want to stay hidden as his mysterious girlfriend, but because of your distasteful past encounters with his friends. (based on this request!)

pairing: clark kent x fem!popular!reader!

tags: fluff / mentions of past bullying / clark being whipped / hidden relationships / first meetings / uses y/n (like twice)

Clark, who was lying down on his bed with arm stretched behind his head, has been watching you try on a gazillion combinations of tops, pants, and earrings for the past hour.

When he had told you that his friends had been wanting to see this mysterious girlfriend he's been hinting on for weeks, you were quite hesitant to say the least.

Actually—you were very hesitant.

Not only were you one of the most popular students in Smallville High, but you didn't exactly have the cleanest track record when it comes to your relationship with people. Clark and his friends—Chloe and Pete—included.

Now, you're still on your fifth pair of earrings. Your ears all red and itchy already.

"You're meeting my friends, not some editor at a fashion magazine." Clark throws a football up in the air, catching it just in time with you turning around.

"Clark," you say sternly, shooting him a look. "Circle one or triangle?"

He straightens up, muttering a quiet apology before answering: "Circle. Chloe likes circles."

You nod, removing the dangling triangle earring on your left ear before replacing it with the circle one. You grab your hair brush from Clark's cabinet, running it through your hair as you walked to the other side of the room in a rush.

"For the bag—which one do you think Pete'd dig?"

"Are you their girlfriend or mine?" Clark jokes, hoping to see even a small smile on your face. He quiets down when you glare at him once more. "Sorry, the brown one."

You throw Clark the burgundy one, moving your regular items from your everyday bag to the brown one he chose.

Clark stands up from the bed, groaning softly as he stretches his back.

"Look, babe, they've been waiting to meet you for over a month now. I'm more than sure they'll be happy to meet you whether or not you're wearing Chloe's favorite color or you know Pete's favorite comic book." He rests his head on your shoulder, hugging you from the back as he rocks you side to side.

You sigh, glancing at him over your shoulder. His nose bumping with yours. "Clark, that's before they find out that your girlfriend's one of the people that were bullying them for years."

"Oh please, you never really wanted to be involved with those people. You were just…" Clark purses his lips, trying to think of the best word. "…misguided, okay? You're not anymore, so you could stop worrying about that and just relax, y'know?"

"I had Chloe be removed as the Torch editor for a whole school year," you start, "Pete got injured in his shin because my friends found it funny to trip him while playing basketball," you add again, Clark cringing at the memory.

You exhale defeatedly, pulling away from Clark to sit on the edge of the bed. Massaging your own temples to try and relieve some of the stress.

Clark keeps a determined look. Taking a seat beside you before he places an arm around your shoulder. The warmth of his body immediately making you melt into him.

"I know you've done things you aren't proud of, things you don't even want to remember… but you can't just avoid those you've wronged forever," Clark pulls you close, nuzzling his face in your hair. "Sooner or later you're gonna have to actually speak to those people and say sorry."

"And if they don't accept my apology, what then? Clark, I'm not gonna let you choose between me and your friends." You snap at him.

Clark looks at you with a surprised look, not expecting you to lose your temper. When you notice what just happened, your features soften, mumbling a continuous apology as you looked at your hands on your lap.

He shushes you, taking your hands in his as he intertwines both of your fingers together. "Who said I had to?"

"If there's one thing I know about my friends, it's that they're not the kind of people you think they are." Clark looks into your eyes with a tenderness you've grown to love about him. "They know how to forgive, and they know how to understand people."

A small smile comes onto your lips as he kisses your forehead, tightening his hold on your hands. "Now stop worrying about my friends and focus on getting ready. I don't think I can last thirty more minutes helping you choose the color lipstick you should wear."

His face shines when he hears a laugh come out of you, willingly letting you go as you stand up to resume getting ready in the corner—close by the window, so you had some natural light whenever you put on make-up—Clark had cleared out just for you.

You smirk at him, teasing and lighthearted, holding out the bullet lipstick you keep in your bag. "Don't worry, Clark, I don't have blue lipstick for you to choose anyway."

The jitters gnaw at you the faster you and Clark arrive at the Talon.

Clark kept his hand in yours, squeezing it every now and then as a sort of comfort. When you see the Talon's signage appear into view, you tense up indefinitely.

"We're here," he announces, parking on the curb faster than you expected. "Ready to meet them?"

You shake your head as an answer but Clark only laughs at you. He exits the car, running over to your side to help you get down from the truck. One of the chivalrous things Clark does that you've gotten used to.

The two of you stand outside the Talon's doors, a considerable amount of distance between the two of you.

Clark calls your name, stopping you right before you can come inside the cafe. "Are we coming in as a couple or as chemistry partners—babe, come closer," Clark pulls you to his side with a scoff.

"Clark." You glare at him, biting back the complaint that tries to surface. "Don't get pushy."

He ignores your warning, shamelessly slipping his hand into yours as he pushes open the doors, immediately getting overwhelmed by the dozens of people inside of the Talon.

Your eyes quickly latch onto two of Clark's friends sitting around a circle table, Chloe and Pete having their own respective beverage as they conversed—or argued—with each other comfortably.

Each step you took felt like a step towards suffocating yourself. Feeling the air inside the Talon barely enough for everyone inside of it.

You clench your jaw, trying your best to keep calm despite the percussions pounding inside of you. Clark kept a smile on his face, unaware of the internal dilemma you're having.

When you finally reach their table, Clark yells out their name. Both Chloe and Pete turning to your direction with a smile, only for it to drop the moment their eyes drop to your interlaced hands.

You gulp. Unable to speak.

Clark opens up with a normal hey, giving them both a side hug before gesturing towards you. The way your name slips off of his mouth making you cringe.

"This is…" Your name rolls off of his tongue in a way that makes you cringe uncharacteristically. "And she's my girlfriend."  Clark turns to you with a smile, wide enough to show everyone his sharp canines.

An uneasy silence settles over the four of you—this time, even Clark isn't safe from it.

This is the worst experience ever you think to yourself as you start brainstorming the quickest way to just fall on the floor unconscious.

By the time you've thought about five ways, you hear someone speak.

"Is this some silly prank? I'm sure I vividly remember you and your group of highschool hotshots doing everything you can to make all of our lives a living hell?" Chloe, being the ever-so upfront member of the trio, says in one breath.

Your jaw drops. Out of all of the things his friends can bring up to you, that one was something you didn't expect.

You try your best to speak up—to apologize for it, but Chloe beats you to it. Again.

"I'm just kidding," she laughs loudly, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons as all of you let out the breath you were all unknowingly holding. "It's nice to finally meet you, Y/N."

You quickly take her hand and shake it, a surprised huff leaving your lips as Pete shakes your hand as well.

Clark looks at the three of you with a proud smile, pulling out a chair for the both of you once the introductions ended.

Before the conversation between the four of you even started, you apologized first. Showing them the raw and genuine side that you had to yourself; apologizing for everything that you and your friends had done to them since grade school.

Clark squeezed your hand from underneath the table, gazing at you affectionately as you began engaging his friends in an all out conversation about something niche.

The moment a Talon staff placed two extra glasses of mocha cappuccinos, another member of Clark’s circle is introduced. This time, someone you’re partially close with already.

“You’re with Clark?” Lana’s voice raises, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

Clark cuts in, “Lana, this is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

The brunette looks to Chloe and Pete, both of them looking at you consolingly. You didn’t expect another round of awkward silence to happen but it does, and maybe you should’ve expected this one the moment Clark told you he’s taking you to the Talon.

After some time of you waiting for Lana to speak, she finally does. “It’s good to see Clark finally happy.”

“Oh,” you turn to Clark, slightly growing confused at the entire situation. “I, uhm—“

“She makes me very happy, Lana,” Clark says with a tone of finality, placing an arm on your shoulder. “Hopefully, I make her happy too.”

Lana smiles, nodding as she excuses herself. A loud huff coming from Chloe when she finally notices your earrings—though you know it was only to get rid of the thorny situation.

A compliment left her lips as she stared at it with fascination, the genuineness in her voice making you smile. Pete follows up with a compliment too, this time about your bag—you're practically glowing with happiness.

Clark throws you a look, catching your eye as that smug little smile on his face tells you that he's soaking up every compliment you got thanks to his brilliant choices.

As it turns out, meeting his friends wasn't as scary as you thought it'd be. Or maybe that's only because they aren't what you're used to.

Nevertheless, it made you feel very much at home; sipping coffee at the Talon, your boyfriend's hand in yours, enjoying everyone's company.

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! xoxo

[certaimromance]

✶⋆.˚ Blue Moon.

“Traditionally, something that happens (to you) rarely or never.”

Spencer Reid x Mystical!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spending time with your new partner on the road can reveal surprising things about him that you didn't know before.

Words: 2k.

Warnings & Tags: fem!bau!reader. mentions of serial killers, victims, religion, high school trauma. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I want to say thank you all for the love you give to the first chapter! I didn’t expect it, and I hope you like this and all the chapters that are coming. I’m putting all of myself into making this funny, deep, and romantic at the same damn time.

You’d been in worse cars.

There was the beat-up stakeout sedan where an agent chewed gum like he was waging war on his own mouth, jaw snapping and smacking with such ferocity it sounded like a percussion section gone rogue. There was the suffocating silence in Hotch’s car, where the weight of his presence felt like ten extra pounds of gravity pressing down on your chest, making every breath a conscious effort. And who could forget that cursed van with Morgan’s playlist—Hits to Impress Women Who Know Better—on an endless loop, like a bad joke without a punchline.

But this?

This was an entirely new flavor of hell, and it came with the soft symphony of rustling paper and nervous energy. It was a punishment that your boss had refused to lift until he deemed it necessary.

Dr. Spencer Reid sat beside you in the passenger seat, knees folded awkwardly like some twitchy origami sculpture, his long legs seemingly too big for the cramped space beneath the dashboard. His worn messenger bag rested between his thighs, overstuffed and fraying at the edges, the faded fabric begging for retirement after countless semesters of academic battles.

He was fully engrossed in the case file.

Correction: completely obsessed.

His thumb was constantly wet with saliva, delicately licking the paper before flipping to the next page with the precision of a surgeon handling a scalpel. Each turn made a faint, incessant shhhk, a tiny but relentless soundtrack to the drive. He scribbled quick, neat annotations in the margins, little hieroglyphics of his own devising, before resuming his careful reading.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, knuckles whitening under your gloves, and forced your gaze back to the stretch of highway unwinding through the cold gray afternoon. Outside, the landscape was blurred by a thin mist that clung to the bare branches like ghosts, and your breath still fogged up the inside of the windshield despite the heater’s best efforts.

The heater’s warmth was a pale consolation, fighting a losing battle against the creeping chill that seeped in around the edges of the window.

“Okay,” you said, without looking away from the road, “I’m pretty sure it’s a federal offense to make that much paper noise before noon.”

Spencer didn’t even glance up, his eyes scanning the pages like they held the secrets of the universe. “It’s 12:07,” he answered matter-of-factly, voice soft but precise.

You shot him a flat, accusing look. “So you’ve chosen violence.”

Another shhhk, another scribble, then a pause long enough for you to seriously consider pulling over and asking him to finish his entire dissertation before you hit the school parking lot.

“Seriously,” you sighed, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel as you flicked on the turn signal, “do you need to read it right now? We’re already on the way to the crime scene. The school isn’t going anywhere. You’ll have plenty of time to wow the locals with your encyclopedic recall of obscure footwear tread patterns and locker combinations once we get there.”

“I’m reviewing the psychological profiles of the victims,” he replied calmly, barely lifting his gaze. “Also, none of them wore shoes with particularly distinguishable treads. One pair of Vans, two Converse, and one generic off-brand sneaker. Very common.”

You blinked, incredulous.

“You actually remembered that?”

He finally looked up at you with a blink of confusion, like the question itself was weird. “Yes?”

Damn it, you knew he was a smart guy, but you never paid enough attention to notice that he was that smart.

You stared back at the road ahead, exasperated beyond words. “I swear to God, if you weren’t so painfully smart, I’d accuse you of being a sleep-deprived alien wearing a human skin suit.”

A long silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Then, faintly, his voice cut through: “That’s…surprisingly specific.”

“It’s been a long week,” you muttered.

A brief pause.

Then, shhhk, the relentless rustle of paper again.

You finally slammed your hand down on the radio dial, cutting off the academic soundtrack with decisive force.

Classic rock burst through the speakers, slicing through the car like a warm knife through frostbitten silence.

Spencer blinked, momentarily scandalized.

“Do you mind if we keep it off?” he asked, voice small and defensive, like you’d just interrupted his morning meditation.

You gave him a long, slow look, one eyebrow arching in skeptical disbelief. “Right. God forbid Stevie Nicks interrupts the pure sanctity of your brain chemistry.”

He blinked again, clearly unsure whether you were teasing or serious.

“Music with lyrics,” he elaborated carefully, “engages the language centers of the brain. It splits attention.”

You slowly withdrew your hand from the dial as if you were putting away a weapon. “Right. No music then.”

He stared at you.

You stared at the road.

The heater wheezed.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you added a brand-new note to your mental dossier titled How to Annoy Spencer Reid in Confined Spaces. You wrote:

— Play Fleetwood Mac.

— Songs with lyrics.

— Breathe.

You exhaled loudly through your nose, an exaggerated sigh of suffering, and beside you, Spencer’s pen paused mid-scribble. The scratch of it against paper stopped cold. Blessed silence.

For five whole miles, you drove in relative peace. The faint wail of a guitar solo played in your mind, like a nostalgic classic rock station providing a soundtrack that gave you some peace of mind. Outside, the winter light hung low over the highway, flat and silver, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Your knuckles were stiff on the steering wheel, fingers flexing every now and then to keep the blood flowing in the chill.

You didn’t know if it was the heater trying its best against the December air or the sheer absurdity of the last few days, but something in you finally began to unclench. Even your irritation with Reid—the fidgeting, the rustle of case notes, the muttering to himself like he was solving three crimes at once—had started to burn itself out. The silence between you wasn’t friendly yet, but it wasn’t hostile either. It settled around you like an old coat. Slightly itchy.

You glanced at the GPS, then at the man beside you: bookish and serious, perched stiffly in the passenger seat like someone who wasn’t sure how chairs worked. His profile was sharp in the afternoon light—cheekbone, nose, brow—a study in concentration and underlying tension.

Well. If you were going to be stuck with him for this case, you might as well entertain yourself.

“So,” you said casually, not looking away from the road, “we’re going to a high school. Want to talk about it?”

Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “Talk about what?”

“High school,” you said, waving one gloved hand vaguely through the air. “You know. Puberty. Locker drama. Tragic cafeteria food. Crying in the bathroom between third and fourth period.”

He shifted in his seat, his spine somehow growing straighter. “I didn’t go to high school in the traditional sense.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Meaning…?”

“I was enrolled in college by the time I was twelve,” he said, like he was just listing a fact about the weather.

Oh, another thing you didn't know.

You blinked at him. “Twelve.”

He nodded, clearly used to this reaction.

“You mean to tell me you skipped the universal rite of passage known as failing a math test and lying to your parents about it?”

“I taught linear algebra to undergrads when I was fourteen,” he offered, as if that cleared things up.

You made a wounded, borderline scandalized sound. “Oh my God. No wonder you’re like this.”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like someone who thinks emotional trauma is best solved with a bibliography.”

His lips twitched. Just barely. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or mild offense. Probably both. That was kind of his thing.

“Did you at least go to prom?” You asked, half-mocking, half-genuinely curious.

He stared ahead for a moment, eyes scanning the horizon like it held the right answer. “No prom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

There was a pause, and when he finally spoke, it was softer than you expected. “No one wanted to go with the weird kid.”

You blinked.

It hit you, not like a dramatic gut-punch, but something quieter. Smaller. The kind of thing that slipped under the armor before you even realized you’d let it in. Like a pebble in your shoe you hadn’t noticed until it started to sting.

Your eyes flicked back to the road. Asphalt stretched ahead in clean, empty lines, the midafternoon sky cold and overcast. The trees blurred past the windows, all brittle branches and leftover frost. Inside the car, it was warm, but not warm enough. You could still feel the chill in your sleeves.

You glanced at him again. He didn’t look wounded, just…far. Like he was watching a memory flicker across some old reel behind his eyes. Like he could still remember the way it felt to be on the outside of everything, like he still could feel it sometimes.

“Everyone was weird in high school, Reid,” you said, voice lighter now, threading warmth through it on purpose. “I think they were just too stupid to realize it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, barely, his mouth tugged upward. A small, reluctant smile. Not the showy kind. The kind you had to look for. The kind that meant something but not really.

And for the first time since the case started, the air in the car felt a little less cold.

He folded his arms, hunching a bit like he was trying not to look too pleased. “Alright, your turn. What were you like in school?”

You grinned, a little too proudly. “Oh, I was a total cynic. Textbook nihilist. Black hoodie, eyeliner, permanent scowl. Sat in the back row like I was contractually obligated to hate everything.”

“That…” Spencer’s brow lifted slightly, a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, “explains a lot.”

You laughed—actual, surprised laughter that cracked open your chest for a second. “I didn’t believe in anything, okay? Not God, not fate, definitely not authority. I was a walking eye roll.”

Spencer turned his head toward you slightly, curiosity glinting in his eyes beneath the slow wash of gray light through the windshield. “So…what changed?”

You hesitated.

Outside, the sun flickered through bare branches like something was moving just behind the clouds. You focused on the road, your fingers tightening on the wheel.

“I think I just hit the wall,” you said after a beat. “Emotionally, spiritually, whatever. I couldn’t keep believing in nothing. It was like…I needed something. A reason to keep moving. So I started looking.”

He was silent, but you could feel him listening. Not just hearing, really listening. You glanced over. His brow was furrowed slightly, not in doubt, just in effort.

“And…did you find it?” He asked, his voice softer now.

You nodded once, eyes still forward. “Yeah. A pull. A pattern. A whisper, maybe. Something that told me there’s more happening than what we see. I don’t know. Some people call it energy or fate. I just call it necessary.”

There was a long pause. When you looked over, he was watching you, incredibly not judging, just…trying to get it.

“I don’t understand it,” Spencer said eventually, careful and honest.

“I know,” you said, glancing over with a crooked smile. “And I don’t get how your brain works either. I’ve literally seen you argue with statistics. Like, out loud. Passionately.”

“They were being misused,” he muttered, stiffly.

You nudged his elbow. “See? Look at us. We’re bonding.”

“I think you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

Outside, the scenery passed by in small-town stillness. Red brick schools. Chain-link fences. Yellowed grass and quiet sidewalks. The kind of place where people shove secrets behind front doors.

You reached out and adjusted the heater again. The hum grew louder, the vents huffing out warm air in tired bursts. Beside you, Spencer was shifting slightly, reaching down toward his bag.

You glanced at him, brow raised. “If I hear one more shhhk of paper, I will start singing witchy manifestation songs at full volume.”

His hand froze. Then slowly, very slowly, he retreated back to his lap.

Progress.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @withloverosse @jisungchan

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[lumiileth]

let you break my heart again pt. ii

part 1 part 3

pairing: Shanks x Marine!Reader, Garp’s Daughter!Reader, Familial!Luffy x Reader, Familial!Ace

tags: Bittersweet, Angst, Unrequited Love, Angst, Non-Sexual Tension, No Use of Y/N, (Extra info on the replies!)

Egghead spoiler warnings

word count: 7.200

summary: She was an anchor, foolishly reaching for the tide, but Shanks was the sea—vast, restless, and never meant to be caught.

or: She realized that Shanks and Luffy were the same - both too wild and free-spirited to be held back, they were always going to chase their dreams, while she just had to accept being left behind.

Foosha Village

12 years before canon

Luffy had said something that made her stop in her tracks, something loud and offhand, like most things he said, but this one stuck.

“Ace is the Pirate King’s son!”

She blinked. At first, she just stared at Luffy, deadpanned, assuming it was just another one of his dramatic exaggerations. But the more she thought about it… the more it made no sense. There was a purge of newborns after the Pirate King was executed, but somehow she realized that Ace did bear a faint resemblance to Roger, with a hint of feminine features. 

“You sure he’s Roger’s kid?” she asked, trying to keep her voice flat, feigning indifference. But her heart was already racing with a strange excitement. She hadn’t spoken much to Ace since he’d shown up; most of her time was still wrapped around her Marine duties. And when she came back, it felt like Luffy had already found his own family.

“Yeah!” Luffy nodded emphatically, mouth full, rice flying. “He hates it, though. But that’s just stupid!” he declared, banging his cup on the table. “His dad is COOL! ”

“But I’ll be cooler!” 

She couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips as she set down a plate of meat in front of him.

And then, just like that, it was gone and Luffy scrambled.

“I’m gonna go!!!” Luffy shouted, shoving the last of his food into his mouth before bolting out the door with the speed only a boy like him could manage.

She looked down at the empty dishes he'd left behind.

Her chest twisted.

It was a strange ache, half-hurt, half-warmth. Luffy had found his brothers. (brother, she reminded herself of the loss, brother, she repeated) He didn’t wait for her to come back to give him a family. He’d found one on his own.

And even if it stung a little… It also made her proud.

She decides to try and talk to Ace if given the chance.

Dadan called out her name.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Dadan said, despite her fear of Garp, she had always liked his daughter, she might even say that she thinks of her as her own daughter.

“Been here a few days,” she replied, gently pulling away from the hug. “I just didn’t have time to drop by. Sorry.”

Dadan lit a cigarette, leaned against the rickety door frame of her house, and exhaled. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. You’re glowing as always.” She laughed dryly. 

“Hah! That’s the alcohol,” Dadan smirked. “So, are ya hanging for a while, or just passing through?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked out toward the trees where distant laughter echoed, Luffy’s, maybe Ace’s too. 

“Not sure, my transponder snail is a bit lethargic, so I left her alone” she said at last. “If I’m getting calls from work, I wouldn't know.”

A silence settled between them before she broke it again.

“So. Ace and Luffy.”

Dadan let out a small laugh, flicking ash into the dirt. “Thank you for taking care of them, I know it’s hard, It’s probably like holding back two hurricanes with a wet mop.”

“You’re not wrong.” Dadan smiled, her expression softening. “But they grew on me. Those boys… they’re gonna tear the world apart someday. In the best way.”

“It’s weird seeing you openly be affectionate of these boys,” She smirked at Dadan,  who widened her eyes, looking like she was caught red handed, “So you do care!” 

“I DON’T!” 

“AUNTIEEEEE!”

Luffy’s voice rang out across the clearing like a cannonball, full of mischief and raw enthusiasm. His rubber arms shot forward, grabbing at her shoulders as he launched himself toward her with a force that would’ve knocked any other adult straight off their feet.

She caught him, barely. Her boots scraped back against the dirt trail as she braced herself.

“Luffy—ow! That’s my shoulder, not a slingshot target,” she grumbled, but she didn’t push him away. If anything, she allowed herself to smile just a little at the boy now clinging to her with the kind of desperation only Luffy could muster.

“Come on, come on, pleaaaase train Ace and me!” he beamed up at her, eyes sparkling with that wide, reckless hope of his.

She raised a brow. “Isn’t Garp training you guys?”

“He’s not here! ” Luffy complained, flailing his arms with cartoonish dramatics. “And when he is, he’s scary! He punches too hard, and he threw me into a mountain last week!”

“That sounds tamer than when he trained me,” she said dryly, crossing her arms.

“But you’re better! You’re cool! And you don’t yell as much!”

He gave her that look. That stupid, effective look. Big round eyes, quivering lip, like the entire world would end if she said no.

She sighed and glanced past him to where Ace stood a few feet away, arms crossed and expression unreadable. But there was a flicker in his eyes, curiosity, maybe? Or a silent challenge.

“I don’t know…” she started, only for Luffy to up the ante by grabbing her hands with both of his and practically shaking her. “Pleeaase, Auntie! We’ll be so good!”

She stared down at him, then she turned toward Ace. “What about you? You okay with this?”

Ace shrugged, but there was a spark of something almost eager behind the casual tone.

“I don’t care, I just want to get stronger,” he said. “If you’re gonna teach us anything, I’ll take it seriously.”

She folded her arms, pretending to consider. “I’m not going easy on either of you.”

“YEAHHHH!” Luffy whooped, already running circles around her. “You’re the best!!”

Along the way, they had realized, maybe, just maybe, her training was slightly harsher than Garp. 

“You’re worse than Gramps!” Luffy cried through a mouthful of food, crumbs spilling onto his lap as he stuffed his face with roasted meat.

“You’re the one who kept slacking off,” she muttered, unfazed, casually tossing a fruit toward Ace, who caught it one-handed.

The three of them were seated around a small fire, the meat they’d hunted sizzling faintly on flat stones and as per usual, Luffy fell asleep after taking in almost all of their food, he was now sprawled out on the grass, his stomach round.

“So, Ace,” she started casually, “I hea—”

“Why’d ya become a Marine?” Ace interrupted, sharp and unexpected.

She blinked, the firelight casting flickers across her face as the question settled between them. It wasn’t an accusation, but it was laced with curiosity. A question he probably couldn’t ask Garp, especially not to Luffy.

“As much as Garp yells at us to be Marines, I don’t think he can force us,” Ace added, picking at the edge of the eaten watermelon, eyes not meeting hers. “You’re strong. You could’ve just said no. Become a pirate. Do whatever you want. Was being a Marine your dream? Who in their right mind dreams of being a Marine?”

She exhaled slowly, watching the embers dance in the pit. “You’re asking a lot of questions tonight.”

Ace shrugged but went quiet, waiting.

“…To answer you,” she said at last, her voice even but distant, “I couldn’t throw away everything Garp gave me. As much as I wanted freedom, I couldn’t walk away from the man who raised me.”

She thought of Garp’s face when Dragon left. The grief buried under fury. The quiet in the house that followed.

“I don’t agree with the system. I’ve seen its ugliness more than most. But Garp… he believed in the good parts. He wanted me to be safe. To be strong. I joined for him… and because I thought maybe I could do some good.”

Ace stayed still, his expression unreadable.

“But my best… it’s not something big or heroic,” she continued, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “I realized I can’t change the world. I just try to keep the people I love safe.”

She hated being a Marine, but she loved her family more, even when it sometimes felt unreciprocated. 

“So you’re okay with me and Luffy becoming pirates?” Ace finally asked, quieter now. Less defiant. Seeking something, permission, maybe. Understanding.

She looked at him, really looked, and saw the way his jaw tensed, the flicker of worry in his eyes despite his tough exterior. He wanted her blessing.

“I want you both to be free,” she said softly. “No matter what path that is. If being a pirate gives you that freedom… then I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Ace turned to face the other way, but she can tell that he was flushing from the way the tip of his ears turned red. 

If Ace can ask questions, she can too. She was always curious if what Luffy had told her was ture or not. 

“Say,” she began gently, testing the waters, “I heard something from Luffy.”

Ace shifted where he sat, not looking at her. “Yeah?”

She hesitated for a moment, then continued, “That your father was Gol D. Roger… Is that true?”

The change in Ace was immediate. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened, and the flicker of peace in his eyes vanished. “Luffy told you that?” His voice was low, guarded.

“Yep,” she said, almost playfully, as if trying to soften the blow.

“That loudmouth…” Ace muttered, burying his face in his arms. Shame crept into his voice. “Of course he’d blab to someone else.”

She watched him carefully. The shift in his body language. The fear. The instinct to hide.

“Before you get angry,” she said calmly, standing up as she sat herself closer beside him, close enough that their knees almost touched. 

“he wasn’t trying to out you. He was just rambling. Bragging about wanting to be Pirate King, like always.”

Ace didn’t respond.

“Go on, then,” he muttered bitterly after a long pause, eyes still downcast. “Say it. Say you don’t believe it. Or that someone like Roger shouldn’t have had a kid in the first place. That I’ve got the devil’s blood or whatever crap people like to throw around.”

Her heart ached for him. This boy, so full of fire and will, still carried the weight of a name he never asked for. She ponders on what she should say next.

“I knew your father,” she said softly.

Ace’s head snapped toward her. “...What?”

“I was a stowaway on his ship when I was young and he took me in right then and there! An idiotic move seeing that my dad was Monkey D. Garp, not that he knew, anywaaays…” She rambled on.

Ace said nothing, but his gaze didn’t move from her face.

“I don’t know what you went through, Ace,” she continued, “truly. But you should know this, if your father had known you, if he’d had the chance… I think he would’ve loved you with everything he had.”

“A demon like that could never love his own child,” Ace muttered, his voice rough with a mix of anger and something quieter, something close to doubt.

But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t settle like truth. They felt… empty. The kind of thing you say over and over until you start believing it. Except, for the first time, Ace wasn’t sure he did.

She didn’t speak right away. Just sat there, letting the silence work its way through the heaviness between them.

“You don’t sound convinced,” she finally said, quiet but firm.

Ace scoffed. “I have to.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp yet gentle. “Why? Because it’s easier to hate him than to wonder what could’ve been?”

Ace clenched his fists in the dirt beneath them, jaw tightening. He looked like he wanted to yell, or run, or break something, but he didn’t. He just breathed. Shaky and uneven.

“You’re the first person,” he said slowly, “who’s ever talked about him like that. Like he was a person. Not a monster. Not a pirate king. Just... a man.”

“I didn’t know him long,” she admitted, “but I knew enough. He laughed too loud, ate too much, trusted people too easily, and risked his life for his crew. He wasn’t perfect. He was far from it. But he loved this world, and that’s why… he would’ve loved you, too.”

Ace blinked hard, head turned away as his voice cracked, “I don’t know if I could’ve loved him.”

She gently nudged his shoulder. “You don’t have to. But maybe, you can stop hating yourself because of him.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment, he seemed so much younger than he usually let himself be.

“Thanks.” It was curt and mannerless, but she knew he meant well. 

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

Oro Jackson

30 years ago

“Say, Lass,” Roger called out, his voice booming warmly as he approached the girl seated cross-legged on a barrel near the ship’s edge. The salty breeze tousled her hair, but her gaze remained locked on the ocean. “Aren’t ya gonna tell me where you came from?”

She didn’t look back, only shrugged. “You never asked, old man.”

Roger barked out a hearty laugh. “Fair enough! So? Where’s home?”

“The East Blue,” she replied simply, her voice carried on the wind.

Roger whistled, his grin widening. “Well, I’ll be damned. What do you know, we’ve got more in common than I thought!”

“You’re from the East Blue?” She finally turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief. The man on his way to becoming the best pirate this world has ever seen, hailed from what is considered as the weakest blue?

“Born and raised,” he said proudly, jabbing his thumb to his chest. “Loguetown. Polestar Islands.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “Foosha Village. Dawn Island.”

Roger chuckled. “Now that you’ve had a taste of the world, the East Blue must feel a little smaller, huh?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes wandered back to the sea, shimmering beneath the moonlight. But something in her expression had changed, a flicker of awe, of longing, of possibility.

“The sea feels alive,” she murmured. “Like it’s calling.”

Roger smiled at that, his expression softening beneath the shadow of his hat. “That’s the pull, Lass. The sea only calls the wild ones.”

“Wild, huh?” she echoed, her lips quirking upward.

“You wouldn’t be on this ship if you weren’t.”

“Guess that’s true,” she murmured, her voice lighter now, like the sea breeze itself.

Roger leaned against the railing beside her, arms crossed as he watched the same vast sea. “You wanna sail your own ship one day?”

She blinked, surprised by the question. It hadn’t crossed her mind, not really. Not seriously.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, her legs swinging off the barrel now. “I don’t think I’d make a good captain.”

Roger glanced sideways at her, but didn’t say anything. He just nodded, understanding in his silence.

“But I think about it sometimes,” she admitted, “A ship of my own. A crew. But where would I even go? What would I be looking for?”

“Freedom,” Roger said,  like it was the easiest answer in the world, his smile brighter than the moon in the sky.  “That’s what we all want, isn’t it?”

She smiled at that, soft and tired. “Then maybe I already found it.”

Roger laughed again, deep and genuine. “Don’t be so sure. The sea’s got a way of making you chase after more, even when you think you’ve got everything you need.”

She didn’t respond right away. But as the waves gently rocked the Oro Jackson beneath them, she glanced out at the world again and wondered.

Maybe one day, when she wasn’t just a stowaway or a tagalong, when she wasn’t behind closed doors surrounded by white uniforms, when she wasn’t faced and burdened with a father’s dream, maybe the sea would call her in a different way.

“Maybe,” she said quietly. “One day.”

“Ms. Marine-chan,” Makino’s voice called out gently through a knock on the wooden door. The teasing nickname lingered in the air, soft and familiar. “Ace is about to leave. Aren’t you going to come see him off?”

“That’s early,” she responded from within, though her voice came out raspier than intended. She held back a cough, stifling it with the back of her hand. The last thing she wanted was Makino’s worry. “Yeah, I’ll come. Is Dadan still pretending she doesn’t care?”

Makino gave a knowing smile just as the door creaked open, revealing the older woman with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow.

“She’s still in denial,” Makino laughed lightly, adjusting the basket in her hands. “I brought something. I peeled one of your tangerines earlier, by the way. It's sweet!”

She handed over the basket and watched as the older woman took it with a small, amused smile.

“That’s sweet of you. Thank you,” she said, plucking a slice and popping it into her mouth before turning to place the basket gently on her table. 

“Alright,” she said, exhaling softly as she reached for her coat, “Let’s go see Ace.”

They walked towards the outskirts of the forest, Ace ventured out not on the official harbor of the island, not when people don’t know who he is.

“Take care, Aceeeee!” she heard Luffy shout, his tiny arms flailing wildly as he waved with every ounce of energy he had.

“Yeah!” Ace called back, just as loud, grinning from ear to ear as his small dinghy drifted further down the river. “See you, Luffy! I’m heading out!”

“I’ll be a lot stronger when I leave in three years!” Luffy yelled with bright conviction, the kind only a child with a dream could have.

Ace’s gaze lingered, now not on Luffy, but on the woman standing quietly beside him. The woman who wasn’t his mother, but who had done more for his heart than most ever could. She had believed in him. Spoke kindly of the father he once despised. Showed him warmth, understanding.

Ace shouted her name.

“Thank you… for everything you’ve done!” Ace shouted suddenly, his voice cracking through the air. 

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She smiled, but it wavered.

“Dadan raised you more than I did, boy!” she shouted back, voice rough with unshed emotion. She tried to wave him off with a scoff, like this was just another casual goodbye, but the lump in her throat was impossible to swallow.

“Ya both did!” Ace yelled. “Thank you again!”

“Good luck, Ace!” she called, the words almost breaking in her chest.

“Bye, Ace!” Makino and a few others chimed in beside her.. “Don’t catch a cold!”

“You just wait!” Ace’s voice rang out once more. “I’ll make my name soon!”

And just like that, just like Shanks, just like Dragon, another person she loved disappeared into the horizon.

Another piece of her heart left to chase the sea.

“You’re leaving?”

Mayor Woop Slap stood at the doorway of her small home. It had always been quiet, always a little empty, but now it felt hollow, it was far emptier than usual.

“I’m a Marine,” she replied simply, folding a shirt into her half-packed bag. “I’m always leaving.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he said, the weariness in his voice sharper than before. He stepped inside and slowly lowered himself into one of the rickety wooden chairs by her table, watching her methodically stuff the rest of her belongings into the bag. Essentials. 

He exhaled. “What happened, lass?”

She paused for a moment, hand still on the bag. Then, in a quieter voice:

“Luffy didn’t cry.”

Mayor Woop Slap blinked, confused.

“When Ace left,” she clarified, her voice strained but steady. “Luffy didn’t cry.”

She wanted to. She nearly did. If she had blinked, the tears might’ve slipped free. But Luffy? He was smiling.

Big, wide, bright-eyed.

Excited about the future, about setting out, about becoming stronger.

She remembered a time when he cried. When Shanks left, he’d cried. That memory was seared into her mind: the small boy with the straw hat too big for his head, screaming on the dock towards a man she had affections for.

But that wasn’t Luffy anymore.

That boy had grown.

Now, if she left, he wouldn’t cry. He’d see it as a challenge. As a step closer to the sea. He’d chase her, not to hold her back, but to find her out there. To cross paths, to brag about his crew, to laugh and share stories with Ace under the sun.

“He’s grown.” She whispered it to no one in particular, but her heart squeezed around the truth and for the first time, she realized—

He didn’t need her anymore.

“So now, ya leaving for good?” Mayor Woop Slap leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied the young woman before him, the one who used to run barefoot through the village, covered in dirt and mischief, now dressed in something neat, her pressed Marine coat not worn, it was folded and on her bed.

She paused.

“I wouldn’t say for good,” she said finally, her voice steady, but she couldn’t look him in the eyes. Because even she wasn’t sure she believed it.

“You’ve always said you’d settle down here someday,” he reminded her gently.

She smiled. “Plans change, Mayor.”

“Luffy woul—”

“Luffy wouldn’t mind,” she cut in quickly, almost too quickly. A soft smile bloomed across her face as she turned her gaze to the window, where the wind rustled the trees outside. “He’s got his dream now. A crew to find. Seas to conquer. Who am I in his grand adventure?”

Mayor Woop Slap studied her. “Does Garp know?”

Her breath hitched. “Huh?”

“Does he know?” he repeated, more quietly this time, his voice weighed down with understanding.

She gripped the edge of the table and swallowed hard.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she muttered, her tone just a little too rehearsed.

The room was quiet, filled only by the creaking of the wooden beams above them. Woop Slap didn’t press further. He just nodded, slow and grim.

“Makino’s worried too, you know,” he added, softer now. “She said you haven’t been by in weeks, just coming in and going, just to buy a drink for yourself.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said with a half-hearted shrug. “Marine work.”

“She thinks you’ve been avoiding Luffy.”

Her mouth tightened. “Maybe I have.”

“You know,” Woop Slap said after a pause, “that boy’s not stupid.” He paused again, realizing he’s wrong, “Okay, he’s an idiot and loud, wild, even more, but something about that boy means well..”

She walked over to the door and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

“That’s fine,” she said, turning the knob. “He’s gonna find me someday and he’s gonna introduce me to his beloved crew and I’d probably cry from being too proud of him or something, I thought of this, y’know.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she opened the door to the cool dawn air and stood in the doorway for a moment, as if trying to remember something she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Take care of them, Mayor,” she said, not turning around. “Take care of my home.”

Mayor Woop Slap knew she didn’t mean her house.

Everything changed, just from one simple mistake.

Isolated, alone, just like she liked, but why is this man in front of her, at her stay?

“Dragon,” she breathed, as if tasting the name for the first time in years. It sat strangely on her tongue, familiar, yet distant. “Why are you here?”

An exasperated sigh escaped her lips. Even breathing has become a chore these days.

“Luffy isn’t with me,” she added, her voice flat. “But he’s fine. Wants to be a pirate. Good for him.” She paused.

“I’m not here for Luffy,” Dragon replied, voice as steady as ever, but she could hear the undercurrent of something else. Concern. Guilt. Maybe both. His eyes, usually unreadable, watched her too closely for her liking.

“Then?” she asked coldly, unwilling to entertain hope.

“I’m here for you.”

She scoffed, sharp, bitter, disbelieving. “Don’t give me that crap,” she snapped. With a shaky exhale, she pushed off the bed, staggering slightly before finding her footing. Even now, she refused to appear weak in front of him. Especially in front of him.

He had been her first heartbreak—not as a lover, but as a brother.

He chose the Revolution over their family. Over her. 

She coughed harder, lurched forward in a way Dragon had never seen, he stilled as he stared.

“What?” she said, voice laced with venom and weariness. “Surprised the girl Garp trained like a damn warhound turned out like this?”

There was a pause. Then Dragon said, quietly but firmly, “Garp would’ve never let what they did to you happen.”

That struck something deep. Her jaw clenched, eyes burning—not with tears, but something colder.

“What do you know?” She clenched her hands that were on her side.

“You weren’t there,” She said, barely a whisper. “Neither of you were.”

She clenched her fists tighter and ushering Dragon to come into the humble abode, it was small, it wasn’t a proper house even, but it was enough for her to get by. She glanced at Dragon, who just stood there, looking at her as if she was some form of entertainment.

“How did you know I was here?”

“It took awhile, but I have eyes everywhere.” 

Silence filled the air once more, she hated this, hated that Dragon was calculating something in which she had no idea of, the air around started circling while the rain turned thunderous. 

“Stop that,” She glared at her older brother, even then, they could still be bickering like siblings, no matter how long time has passed, and contrary to what she thinks, Dragon had always had the best interest for her. 

“Also,” she snapped, finally lifting her gaze, eyes blazing, “stop staring at me. Tell me, why are you really here?”

Dragon didn’t flinch. Instead, his voice came steady, deceptively calm, “How was everyone at the village?”

Of all the questions, that was the last she expected.

He was still Dragon, still the stoic, calculated revolutionary. But for a moment, she could see through the cracks. He missed it—home. Their village. The peace they once thought would last.

At least, that’s what she hoped.

“They’re fine,” she replied, voice clipped, unwilling to give him more than he deserved. “They’re doing fine.”

But her brows furrowed. Why ask about the village now? Unless—

“A close confidant of mine died a while back,” Dragon said slowly, the shadows in his voice sharpening. “She was captured by the Celestial Dragons. Died from an experimentation’s side effect… She was someone’s… eighth wife. Before she passed, she left behind her child, she’s growing up with the same side effects.”

She didn’t respond at first. Only stared, a distant memory tugged at her, half-forgotten and buried deep.

“When she escaped and called,” Dragon continued, slower now. “Your name came up.”

That made her blink. Once. Twice. Then a bitter sigh escaped her lips.

“I’m not in cahoots with them,” she said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

But Dragon wasn’t satisfied. He moved suddenly, grabbing her hand, holding her with more desperation than force. His voice dropped to a growl, “You know exactly what I’m asking.”

“No,” she hissed, trying to pull back. “I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t subjected to something that cruel.”

It was a lie. Or, at least, a half-truth.

She was the other thing.

And she would never say it—not to Dragon, not even to Garp. Especially not to them.

Dragon stared at her like he was trying to pull the truth from her soul.

“Are you like this because of what they did to you?” he finally asked, voice low.

“No!” Her voice cracked on impact. Raw. Furious. Desperate. “It’s entirely different.”

But even as she said it, her hands trembled. The kind of trembling that doesn’t come from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding back too much for too long.

“When was the last time you went back to the village?” Dragon asked, his arms folded, voice calm but edged with something deeper. “You told me you didn’t want Luffy to be alone… so why are you here? Come with us. Join the Revolutionaries. We can change things, bring justice to places no one else dares to see.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she rose from the bed slowly, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor. With trembling hands, she grabbed the front of Dragon’s worn green cloak, clutching it as if she could somehow shake the hypocrisy out of him.

“How dare you,” she said, voice thick with disbelief. “How dare you talk about Luffy being alone.”

Her fists clenched tighter around the fabric. She looked up at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears, not weak, never weak, but exhausted.

“You say that like you weren’t the one who left. You left everything. You don’t get to say that to me,” she spat. “ Me. ”

The last word echoed between them like a punch.

“You only ever cared about the Revolution,” she continued, her voice rising. “If Ginny—” her voice faltered at the name, and it tasted bitter on her tongue, “—if Ginny hadn’t said my name, would you even be standing here right now?”

Her nails dug into the fabric of his cloak. “After everything I went through, everything they did, you think I’d just come crawling back to your cause?” Her voice cracked.

She had once hoped that, just once, someone from her family would come for her .

But Garp had his unwavering loyalty to the Marines, a system that built itself on silence and suppression. Even if he didn’t participate in its cruelty, he never stopped it either.

And Dragon… Dragon had the Revolution. Justice on a grand scale. Justice for the world. Never just for her alone.

And Sh—

“I’m not the only one Luffy has,” she said suddenly, voice quiet, a shift in tone.

Her hands loosened, releasing his cloak. She stepped back.

“He found his own family,” she continued, almost fondly. “You didn’t ask, but… he has brothers. Two of them, I guess… One now.”

She smiled softly, sadly.

“I’m just his aunt. And no matter how much I tried, no matter how much I raised him, nothing will compare to the bond he has with those two boys.” Her voice trembled slightly. “He’s going to be a pirate. He’ll leave when he’s seventeen. I can’t stop him.”

She didn’t need to say it, but it hung there anyway.

Just like you. Just like all of you.

Another person she loved, destined to leave her behind.

She remembered all the little moments Luffy had chosen others over her. The times he chased after Sabo and Ace, leaving her behind in the trees. The nights he rambled on and on about Shanks, eyes glowing with hero worship, until she wondered if he even remembered how she used to sing him lullabies when he had nightmares.

And in those moments, the truth settled in like fog.

She wasn’t the person in his life.

But Luffy—oh, Luffy—he was everything in hers.

“I can’t stop him,” She reiterates, clutching own shirt, over her heart, a feeling of heaviness washing through her.  “And I won’t,” 

Oro Jackson

30 years ago

“Hey,” Shanks started, his voice light with curiosity as he stared up at the sky. “If you could do anything in the world… what would it be?”

They were lying on the deck of the Oro Jackson, the ship gently rocking beneath them as it sailed through calm waters. The stars above glittered like a sea of fireflies. Buggy snored a few feet away, limbs sprawled out in a mess of blankets and dramatic snoozing.

“Hm…” she hummed thoughtfully, brows furrowed in concentration. “Anything in the world?”

“Yeah. Anything,” Shanks grinned, rolling onto his side to look at her.

“Then I guess…” she trailed off, eyes locked on the stars above, “Anywhere.”

“‘Anywhere’ isn’t something you do, stupid,” Shanks chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her dark hair with affection.

She pouted and swatted at his hand, but not too hard.

“I don’t care,” she admitted, voice soft. “As long as I’m with you guys, it doesn’t really matter what I do. Anywhere would be enough.”

Her eyes sparkled beneath the starlight, and for a moment, Shanks forgot how to breathe.

“The sea sure is pretty,” she added.

“Yeah…” Shanks murmured, though he wasn’t looking at the sea, his gaze stayed fixed on her, his expression a little more serious now, a little softer.

“It’s pretty alright.”

Blood coated her hands. It dripped from her fingertips, splattered across her boots, and soaked through the once-pristine white shirt she was wearing. Crimson trailed along the cracked cobblestones beneath her feet. 

The air was thick, still, eerie in its silence. There were no screams, no sirens. No approaching Marine warships, no hurried footsteps of panicked bystanders.

Just bodies. Dozens of them. All fallen in grotesque stillness, twisted mid-motion. Among them, one stood out: a man slumped at the base of the desecrated fountain, clad in the unmistakable attire of a Celestial Dragon. His glass helmet was shattered, the remnants glinting like ice around his pale, lifeless face.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across. It should have been beautiful, serene even, but the bloodied scene turned it into something else. Something wrong. The stench of iron and ozone lingered in the air.

“Boss?” Lucky Roux’s voice cracked through the silence, uncertain. Even he, always the cheerful, carefree one, looked disturbed, his eyes wide as he took in the carnage.

“You guys stand back,” Shanks said quietly, his tone hard in a way rarely heard. He stepped forward, slowly. Deliberately. His crew obeyed without hesitation. “I’ll handle this.” 

She stood at the center of it all, alone, shoulders tight, breath shallow, her face turned slightly toward the dying light of the sky. Her knuckles were scraped raw, arms trembling from restraint more than fatigue.

And yet, the moment she heard his voice—

“Look at this,” Shanks called her name gently, as if afraid he might break her with too much weight behind the word. “What happened here?”

She turned slowly.

Her face, once furrowed with fury or grief, or perhaps both, softened in recognition. That voice. That familiar drawl, steady as the sea and just as endless. It had been years since she'd last heard it, but time did little to dull its comfort.

She dropped the Celestial Dragon’s body like it was nothing more than trash.

Shanks didn’t flinch. He never had, not even when she got like this. But something about the way she looked now, standing ankle-deep in blood with her hands still faintly glowing with Haki, made his heart twist.

No Marines. No Cipher Pol. No Navy dogs on the horizon.

Not even an admiral.

And yet a Celestial Dragon was dead.

“Shanks.”

Her voice was quiet. Hoarse. Almost like it hurt to say it.

Only now did she seem to fully register the chaos surrounding her , the mangled bodies, the blood drying on her clothes. 

She was suddenly hyper aware of every breath she took. But still, her eyes didn’t waver from the red-haired man before her.

That hair.

It reminded her of them . It wasn’t recent that she found out about Shanks, she never knew Shanks came from there. Not until much later. He knew her kin, her pain, and still never told her. That betrayal sat bitter at the base of her throat, but this wasn’t the time.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was still clipped, tight.

“Can’t I greet my favorite Marine?” Shanks offered with a half-hearted grin. It was lighthearted on the surface, but not a single muscle in his body was relaxed. His stance was measured. Ready. Even his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Long time no see, Ms. Marine, how are you?”

He walked forward, and with each step, the air thickened with the pressure of Haki, his own Haoshoku clashing faintly against hers. It wasn’t hostile, but it was undeniable. The ground beneath them groaned as if to bear witness to what could happen if they didn’t tread carefully.

Shanks sensed that some of his newer crew members collapsed behind him on their ship, unable to bear the weight of it.

“You’re leaking too much,” she muttered, not looking back at the chaos behind him.

“Right back at you,” Shanks replied dryly. “Half my men are face-down and we haven’t even talked yet.”

Silence again. Not awkward, just... heavy.

“I didn’t think you were the type to kill a Celestial Dragon out in the open like this,” Shanks said eventually, his voice low, gesturing with a small nod toward the bloodied corpse slumped on the stone pavement.

She didn’t look away.

“Didn’t think I’d go this far, to be honest,” she muttered, her breath still unsteady, “Something snapped, I...”

Around them, the air still hung heavy with the iron scent of blood. It was eerily quiet now, but still she realized that this wasn’t a place to linger.

She finally glanced down at her hands, still faintly glowing with the remnants of her power, slick with crimson. Reality began to settle in. The Celestial Dragon lay still. Dead. The world government wouldn’t let this go unpunished.

“It’s not safe here,” she murmured, wiping her palm against her coat with a grimace. “I have to go.”

Shanks looked at her hands, still bloodstained, trembling with something deeper than exhaustion.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

She stared at him. “What?”

“Not forever,” he clarified. “Just for a while. You need to disappear. At least until the heat dies down.”

“I’m not afraid of this.”

“I know,” he said, his voice gentle. “You were never afraid of anything, were you?”

Shanks smiled sadly. “But you think I want to watch them erase you? You think I haven’t seen what happens to people who stand up to them ?”

She didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened. Her whole body was wound tight, like the wrong word could make her snap.

But Shanks didn’t move closer. He just let the weight of his words hang between them, steady as the sea.

The sea he had chosen over her. 

“Shanks,” She had whispered, loud enough for Shanks to hear, “I’m dying.”

Shanks’ smile faltered.

Just slightly.

Enough for her to notice.

The weight of her words settled like lead between them. The battlefield, the blood, the bodies, suddenly all of it dimmed beneath the gravity of what she had just confessed.

“I’m dying,” she said again, this time with a strange calm. Not a plea. Not even sorrow. Just… fact.

Shanks’ brows pulled together. “What are you talking about?” Shanks’ fists clenched at his sides. “Have you told anyone ?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Of course she hadn’t.

“That’s why you’re doing all this,” he said, looking at the carnage around them. “You think if you go out swinging, it’ll mean something.”

“No," She shook her head, but gave no explanation, "you wouldn’t understand even if I told you.”

Shanks stepped even closer now. Close enough to see the cracks in her mask, the tremble in her lips, he wasn’t sure if that was from adrenaline or some sort of weakness.

“You always felt too much,” he said softly. “Even back then. That’s what made you beautiful.”

“Don’t even start, Red-haired,” She spat out, not wanting for old feelings to resurface, but she knew why Shanks was saying nonsense, “Why are you even here, go back to your precious Red Force,” 

“I’m not letting you die here,” Shanks said with finality. “Not like this. Not alone. Not in blood.”

Her eyes met his. And for a brief moment, she looked like that girl again. The one who laughed too loud. Who dared to dream, even when dreaming was a crime for herself at that time. 

“Shanks, that’s not why I told you.” She closed her eyes, feeling too much.

Her voice was low, ragged, as her bloodied fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, dragging him closer. Her breath ghosted just shy of his lips, had the moment been different, it might’ve meant something else entirely.

“I’m not your captain,” she said through clenched teeth, each word laced with bitterness. Her grip on him tightened. “I will never be your captain.”

Shanks didn’t speak. He understood. This wasn’t a moment for argument, this was her flare, her fire still burning even as her strength faded. Letting her talk was the only right thing to do.

“Don’t you dare,” she rasped, drawing in a breath that trembled, “don’t you ever dare let my body fall into the hands of those World Government bastards. Do you hear me?”

Shanks’s expression darkened, but he remained silent, his eyes steady on hers.

“Shanks.” Her voice cracked, and something unfamiliar flashed across her eyes, grief, anger, betrayal. Something raw. “As much as you hurt me… as much as you humiliated me…The times where you forced me to even think about leaving Foosha for good, but even then…”

She faltered, her knees buckling. Shanks caught her before she could fall.

“I trust you more than anyone,” she breathed, almost like a confession. “More than Dragon. More than Garp.”

"So that's why I want you to—"

And that was the truth that broke her, Shanks widened his eyes at the revelation she had just spat out.

This woman, the Vice Admiral feared across seas, the sister of the world’s most wanted man, the grandchild of a Marine legend, was strong. She wielded all three forms of Haki. She had once sailed under the Pirate King (Though as a mere stowaway)

She was strong.

Until she wasn’t.

As the tears finally fell, they didn’t fall from weakness, but from the weight of everything she was never allowed to say. It cascaded to her bloodstained cheeks, she faltered.

All that strength, the kind that had carried nations on her back, that had stared down gods and monsters, trembled now in the space between her and Shanks.

“I have no idea how and why you’re here, but I trust you , Shanks,” she whispered again, as if saying it louder would make it too real, too dangerous. “So don’t… don’t let them get their hands on me, don’t you dare let them near me…”

Shanks swallowed hard. Her grip on him was iron, trembling but stubborn.

“I won’t,” he said at last. “Not a damn bone of you will be theirs.”

Her head dropped forward, resting against his shoulder now, the weight of her frame sinking into his. She wasn’t unconscious, but she was tired. Soul-tired.

“You always did talk too much,” he murmured into her hair, voice low, trying to steady her. His coat draped itself around her shoulders like instinct, like memory. “You could’ve just said you wanted me to stay.”

“Shut up,” she muttered weakly, and he almost smiled.

The air around them was heavy still, tainted with blood and silence, but it was no longer suffocating.

Behind him, Lucky Roux and Yasopp kept their distance. Not out of fear. But reverence. They knew better than to interrupt this kind of moment.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet,” Shanks whispered. “We’ve still got a ship to catch.”

She let out a broken chuckle.

“I just…” she rasped, a trail of blood leaving past her lips, trembling with every word she had forcefully spat out. “Wished I could see Luffy, just one last time.”

And just like that, Shanks’ composure cracked. Just for a second.

Because he knew he wouldn't be able to fulfill her wish.

And so, without another word, he held her tighter. As if that could stop the inevitable. As if memory and history and pain could hold her here.

And for the first time in a long, long while—

Red-Haired Shanks was afraid.

[guiltyasdave]

marry, kiss, or kill me

pairing: Dave York x Carol York

summary: Dave and Carol's kinky origin story (which is canon, thank you).

word count: ~2.6k

tags/warnings: explicit smut -> mdni, young carol and dave, fluff, flirting, dirty talk, talk about kinks and boundaries, unprotected p in v, nipple play, ass and titty slaps, hair pulling, a bit of rough sex, alcohol consumption

a/n: written for @thatcorporategirlie's never have i ever challenge, kiwi babe i'm sorry for being so late and also for stealing @sizzlingcloudmentality's man and prompt lol <3 (and of COURSE thank you daphne for holding my hand through this as always!!!)

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍

In truth, Dave feels a little too old to play a game like Never have I ever. But here he is, surrounded by people he barely knows. Sitting in a loose circle on the floor, his legs crossed, Carol leaning into his side. 

They’d only been dating for a couple of weeks and honestly, he was a bit surprised when she invited him along to a housewarming party of one of her friends. 

He likes Carol. He really, really likes her. She makes him laugh all the time. She’s much smarter than him. She wants a family, just like he does. Things feel easy with her. Right, somehow. And maybe it’s too early for that, but he could see himself build a life with her. So, he took it as a good sign and accepted the invitation. 

Most of the people around have been part of her friend group in high school, and he sees her turning into a different version of herself. A little less mature, a little more reckless. Giggling with her girlfriends, sipping on cheap wine, not like the ones that the both of them pick out together now. It makes him wish that he had already known her back then. It has him feeling a little younger himself, makes him forget about the pressure that his life is now shaped by. 

He’s been letting Carol pull him along, letting her introduce him to her friends. He’s been pretending that he doesn’t notice the appraising glances that are thrown his way, the variations of more or less subtle expressions on their faces aimed at her. 

Someone had suggested to play drinking games, for old times sake. The mere idea had been met with wild giggles and enthusiasm. So that’s what they’re doing. 

Carol’s hand is resting on his shoulder with a casual possessiveness that he likes. Sometimes her fingers slide upwards to play with strands of his hair. She’s slurring her speech a little when she whispers into his ear, and he thinks it’s adorable. 

He also has to admit that the game is much more fun now than it was in his high school days. Everyone is a bit older, a bit more experienced, so the most harmless confessions don’t lead to scandalized gasps and embarrassed laughter like back then. 

The guy on his right side thinks for a moment, then comes up with, “Never have I ever had a sex related injury.” There’s a second of contemplating, with no one touching their drinks just yet. Dave’s saying a quiet prayer of gratitude that he hasn’t, because he’s heard stories from a buddy of his, and well— 

Then, Carol pipes up from beside him. 

“Do bruises count?”

There’s another moment of stunned silence, and he feels a charged kind of heat traveling up his nape, where her fingernails are now teasingly scratching over his skin. She exchanges knowing looks with a few of her girlfriends, who are beginning to giggle again.

“Like a hickey, you mean?” a young woman across from them shyly asks, obviously unaware of any other indication. Carol smiles at her warmly.

“Yeah babe, like a hickey.” 

Her lips curl around the glass when she takes another sip from her wine.

It’s late in the evening when they stumble into Carol’s small apartment, both just on the right side of tipsy, enough that they could barely keep their hands off each other on the cab ride. Dave keeps kissing her hungrily as he’s walking her backwards to the bedroom, dimly lit with the yellow glow of a lamp on the nightstand.

He’s paying special attention to her neck, knowing that she likes the way his end-of-the-day stubble scratches over the sensitive skin there. The breathy moans that she responds with are music to his ears. Dave waits until they’re surrounded by soft sheets, with her hands buried in his hair, until his mouth gets more demanding. 

His lips are traveling down, his teeth sinking into the skin beside her collarbone, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue pressing hard against her flesh. She mewls underneath him, nails digging into his scalp, trying to pull him even closer. When he finally lets go, he can already see the purple bruise beginning to blossom under her skin. He looks up to find her looking at him, her eyes glinting knowingly in the low light. 

“What did you really mean? About bruises?” he asks, pressing a softer kiss to the abused skin. 

“Who says I meant anything more than this?” 

Her tone is teasing, challenging him. 

“Me.” 

He pushes himself up until he’s at eye level with her, placing kisses on her mouth, her cheeks. She laughs softly, cupping his face with one hand, kissing him back and holding him against her for a moment. 

“Okay,” she concedes, her fingers gliding over his shoulders and down his biceps. He suppresses a shudder at the goosebumps that follow her touch. “I— I sometimes like it when things are a little… rougher?” She shrugs, her expression just shy of embarrassed. “Rough enough to bruise, I guess.” 

Dave inhales sharply. The suggestion had tugged at the back of his mind all evening, obviously, but to hear her say it… His cock strains hard against the fabric of his pants and he lowers himself down just a little, giving himself just a hint of pressure against her thigh. Of course, she zeroes in on it like a huntress onto her prey. Her grin would be sharp enough to cut him if she tried. 

“Do you like that, too?” 

He gives something between a shrug and a nod, gratefully accepting another kiss when she pulls him down towards her lips again. “I— maybe. I’ve never—” 

“Would you want to try?” 

And fuck, does he want to try. Just— It always left him feeling kinda fucked up, when he jerked off to another porn video labeled rough sex or hard spanking or punishment. Wasn’t he fucked up for getting off to that? And sure, the women in the videos were getting paid for it, but would any of them really… want this? 

“Are you sure?” 

It’s the opposite of how he wants to be right now, his voice all timid and unsure of himself. He wants to be powerful, in control, but in this second, it rather feels like the opposite.

Carol laughs softly and nods, gripping his shoulders and motioning for him to move. He goes willingly, watches her take off her dress and straddle him in only her underwear. The bruise he sucked into her skin is an uneven shape in the semi-darkness, a mark that he left on her. Fuck, he’s gonna leave more if she really wants him to. 

“Okay,” she coos against his cheek, peppering his skin with kisses. “I’ll tell you what I like, and if you want to, you can do that. Deal?” 

He can only nod, his throat bobbing as he swallows. 

“I like being slapped.” Her voice is soft, her breath ghosting over his chest. “On my ass, my tits. Pinched, too.” Dave’s hips buck into her and she moans into his mouth. His hands find her waist, holding her tightly. 

“What else?” 

She grins at the tone, at the way the question comes through his gritted teeth. She leans down, her mouth right next to his ear. 

“I want you to fuck me, so hard that it hurts. So hard that I’m sore the next day.” 

Her teeth nip at his earlobe while her hips bear down on him, a soft moan escaping her when he meets the movement with his own. 

“Okay.” His voice is husky to his own ears, already breathless with arousal. His cock is throbbing in his pants. “You’ll— you’ll tell me? If it’s too much?” 

“Of course,” she promises. Her hands dip under his shirt, gliding over his naked stomach, up to his chest. His muscles quiver under her touch. “Get this off?” The words land on his lips along with her warm breath and he lets her push the fabric upwards, revealing his bare skin to her. He feels like he’s already burning up, his body hot under her fingertips, eager for what’s to come. 

Dave’s own hands find his belt buckle, hastily opening it and pushing both his pants and his underwear down in one quick motion. His cock is already leaking, hot and heavy when he pumps himself once. Carols reaches back and opens her bra, letting her tits spill out and right into his waiting hands. 

He has always liked playing with her nipples. Liked how it made her squirm, how needy it made her moans sound. He starts like this, with what he knows. She shifts around in his lap, sighing his name. The soaked fabric of her panties rubs against him, teasing him. 

With his eyes trained on her face, he scrapes a fingernail over her nipple, watches her mouth fall open and her eyes squeeze shut when he pinches the hard nub between his thumb and pointer finger and tugs. Just a little bit, just to try, but the reaction spurs him on. 

“Again, please,” she sighs, her own fingernails digging into his chest. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, both hands finding her breasts now and tugging simultaneously, a bit harder this time. 

Carol’s moan reverberates through the room and her back arches, pushing her breasts into his hands. It elates him, to be able to make her feel like this, to elicit this reaction from her. 

Impatient now, driven by hot need pulsing through him, he pushes her underwear to the side and thrusts his hips up, sinking into her. She meets him halfway, with a cry of his name on her lips. 

Her slick warmth engulfs him as her tight walls open up for him, making room for how his cock snaps into her. One of his hands is still toying with her nipple, teasing and tugging, and his name falls from her lips in needy little whimpers. He loves to watch her like this. And there’s more, more she allowed him to do, things he wants to— 

He hesitates for a second, taking her in, the bliss on her face, the movement of her body. Then, as if his brain finally short-circuits, he gives in to the desire. His hand connects with her ass cheek in a satisfying slapping sound. A loud, surprised moan tumbles from her mouth, in time with her nails digging into his flesh and her walls clenching around him so tightly that it takes all his willpower to not come then and there. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, his hand coming down a second and a third time before he can stop himself. It’s a strange thrill, letting himself loose like this. And to see Carol take it all, to know that she asked him to do this, that she likes it— 

He thrusts upwards with all the force he has while she bears down on him hard, crying out his name again. He wants, needs more. Gritting his teeth, he anchors her to himself with one hand on her hip while the other connects with her breast. It’s intoxicating, seeing the way her flesh bounces under his touch, seeing a shudder of pleasure ripple through her, seeing her throw her head back in reaction. 

He wants to do it again, see it again, so he does. His hand colors her flesh red, marking her, bruising her, adding to the spot by her collarbone. 

Without thinking, his fingers tangle in her hair, giving it a light tug. She reads the question on his face without needing words. 

“Fuck, please.” 

Her grin mirrors his when he fucks up into her and fists the strands tighter, pulling her head back and exposing her neck. Her nails scramble for purchase on his chest, probably leaving her own red marks on him. 

Her walls are engulfing him impossibly tight, her thighs are trembling, and he feels his climax approaching dangerously fast. With one hand still in her hair, the other trails down her naked body, groping where he can, until his fingers find her clit and press down with practiced ease.

“Wait,” she gasps, and he stills instantly, letting go of her hair like he’s been burnt. Was he too rough, did he hurt her, read her wrong? 

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t—” 

His hands cup her face, searching her expression for any indication of what might be wrong. 

Carol shushes him gently, her lips connecting with his, her tongue slipping into his mouth for a short moment. 

“I’m okay.” She allows herself a grin and a nip to his bottom lip. “I just thought, maybe we could—” She hesitates, a hint of a blush coloring her cheeks. “Maybe you could fuck me from behind?” 

“Fuck,” he murmurs, kissing her back more urgently now, his own teeth sinking into her lip in retaliation. “Move, then.” A playful slap lands on her backside, making her giggle. 

She scrambles off of him and to her knees, taking off her underwear in the process and flinging it across the room. When Dave gets to his feet, she’s already kneeling on the mattress, her bare ass presented to him, her back arched and her legs spread, giving him a perfect view and perfect access. 

“So hard that you’ll feel it tomorrow?” he asks, leaning over her and leaving kisses over her shoulders. 

“So hard that I’ll walk funny tomorrow,” Carol quips back, making him groan. 

Hooking his hands over her hips and holding her steady, he fucks into her in one hard stroke, making her cry out. Pistoning into her, making sure that she feels him as deep as possible, that he’s staking his claim even inside of her. He slaps her ass again as well, a few times in quick succession, mesmerised by the red that’s blooming across her skin almost instantly and the sweet sounds of her moans in his ears.

She has sneaked one of her hands between her legs and he feels her clenching around his cock over and over, covering him in her wetness with every thrust that he punches deep inside of her. 

“Come for me,” he demands when he feels her becoming almost impossibly tight, feels her walls beginning to flutter, his hand finding her bruised skin once more.

Her scream of his name is muffled into the sheets, but the wild trembling of her body and the rhythmic squeezing of his cock hit him with full force, pulling him over the edge right along with her. 

Her hand blindly reaches for his at her back and he links his fingers with hers, spilling his own pleasure into her. His whole body feels shaky, the orgasm spreading through his whole body, down to his fingertips. He already knows that he’s gonna be addicted to this. 

Gently, he maneuvers her body onto the mattress and lets her pull him down beside her. She looks wrecked, but the smile on her face is dazzling, making him want to kiss her beautiful mouth until his lips are raw. 

“Was— was this okay?” he breathes out, his chest heaving and his skin damp with sweat, but his expression probably matching hers perfectly. 

“More than okay,” he assures him, running her fingers through his hair. 

It’s stupid, but looking back later, Dave swears that he knew at that moment that he wanted to marry her.

thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are love <3

[marigold-hills]

your hands; mine (Stalker Remus AU) Part 6

PART 1 | | PREVIOUS PART

The first spoonful is like silk.

Remus moans. Audibly, aloud. At the taste, at the texture. Bites into a chunk of frozen chocolate and it starts to melt on his tongue - calling it silk is a disservice. He wants to savor, to be slow about it, but he eats like a dog lapping up its favourite meal. Can’t hold himself back until the bowl is empty.

He looks up when Sirius’ milkshake makes a slurping empty sound. The straw is still in between those pretty lips. Sirius is wide eyed and staring, like he’s stuck in some liminal moment inside of his own mind.

Remus feels a trail of melted ice cream dribbling down the edge of his chin. He wipes it off with the back of his hand. Thoughtless, licks it off: tongue outstretched to catch every drop like it’s something holy.

Sirius chokes.

Just like that, Remus is brought back to himself. Feels ashamed. Dirty, ugly display of greed and bad manners. “Sorry,” he says, playing with the spoon to occupy his fingers.

“Looked like you enjoyed it.” Sirius’ voice wavers and he coughs a bit, like he’s regaining a breath.

“I did. Thank you.” Remus’ mam raised him to be a polite man. He knows this about himself. He tries to remember how to be one.

“You murdered someone for me,” Sirius says carelessly and flippantly and so very blunt. “Least I can do, really.”

Remus knows what he did. He sees glimpses of the blood on his hands. Sees the man towering over Sirius like a shadow. But somehow, despite all of this, in the cozy night of Sirius’ flat, amidst the kebab and the ice cream, he’s forgotten.

Now he remembers. Like a tidal wave rising and rising and rising. The memory is more like realisation: he killed a man. He ended a life. This person no longer exists, who they were and who they could have been, gone because of Remus.

It doesn’t make any sense. How can something - how can someone - be and then just not be? 

“Huh,” Remus says, or tries to. “Excuse me,” he thinks he adds as he stands up and walks to the bathroom. Kneels on the white tiles. Dry heaves into the white toilet bowl. It smells like citrus chemicals, sharp and harsh and cloying at his nostrils and throat. His eyes water and he closes them on a cough and remembers the one Sirius let out when the man kicked him.

There must be a bruise. Remus should have checked him over better.

Should have done a lot of things better.

The taste of chocolate turns vile. Shaky legs, he forces himself up and over the sink. Cupped hands under the tap he fills his mouth with water. Washes it out and spits it out and gargles. 

You murdered someone for me. 

These new builds are made in such ways that things echo. In a white-tiled bathroom even thoughts do. 

Sirius’s block of flats was only completed three years ago, nobody else has ever lived there. It’s not like the rows of houses where Remus lives, each of them passed down through generations or through estate agents. Where death and birth have happened so much they become commonplace. 

Here, Remus feels like the moment he stepped over the threshold he brought with him a ghost. Ghosts don’t belong in flats like this one.

Remus splashes water into his eyes and thinks he better take the ghost back with him. Better make space for it in his own narrow life. Underneath the washing machine, maybe, or in the slit between the fridge and the counter, where he can never quite properly clean. 

It will share his bed now, Remus thinks. Drink his tea. Look at him from behind mirrors and across the windows and just over his shoulder, out of reach and out of touch. 

Remus didn’t think he would be inviting someone’s presence to join his life. He’s been living alone since he moved out of the cottage, a decade ago. It’s a long time to make routines and get used to one's own ways.

“Remus?” Sirius calls out from the living room. His voice is far from the bathroom door. 

✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

Tags!

@hoje--aqui

@rae-lune

@wickedcoeur

@shunstanpike

@floretissogay

@remoonysiriusly

@lunalovegoodsgirlfriend

@father-imperator

@brighterthanthou

@a-pine-cone

@tealeavesandtrash

[lotusloong]

Fine Dining

Relationship: Sun Wukong X Female Chubby!Reader

AN: So I got permission from @skymoral to write this! I used their Mafia AU Wukong to write horny filthy smut cause I really like him ♥ Nearly 6k words and 90% of it is just straight up smut, you have been warned.

Tags: Smut, D/S Dynamics, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Cunnilingus, Anal Play, Ass Eating, But only a little, Minor Violence, A random demon threatens Reader, Wukong takes care of the problem, Implied/Referenced Torture, Slight Yandere Themes, Reader loves her protective monkey tho, Reader has anxiety, Female Reader, Chubby!Reader, If I missed any tags let me know

Read it on AO3!

With a quiet ‘click’ you shut the door closed behind you, standing shyly as the meeting concluded. You kept your hands clasped and close to your chest, watching as daddy’s business partners packed up their documents and cash, shaking hands and chuckling at inside jokes. Some of the older members still had whiskey in their glass and weren’t going to move from their chairs until they were finished. That was okay, Wukong didn’t mind when they stayed over time. He had laughed to you once that the drunker they were, the more secrets they gave away.

You gave a dreamy sigh as you watched your husband, your insides tingling. His shoulders rolled as he cracked his neck, a cigar gritted between his teeth, and the sight of it makes you smile. The meeting must have gone very well if he was breaking out the cuban. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit pants, the suspenders holding them up on clear display. He always complained about running hot during these meetings and having to take his blazer off. You never complained, you got to see that beautifully sculpted chest in a buttoned down dress shirt that could barely contain him.

You were just admiring the curve of his biceps when a shadow falls over you.

You look up to see a cat yaoguai you don’t recognize leaning on one arm against the wall above you. You take a step to the side, edging away from the stranger in a way that's not obviously rude but still gives you personal space. Daddy always told you to be on your best behavior when his business partners and their goons came to visit, and you were a good girl who did just that. That didn’t mean you wanted them in your personal space.

“Uhm, hello-”

“What’s a cute little thing like you doing in a dangerous place like this?” The cat, you think he’s a leopard of some sort, purrs at you. His tail flicks upwards with interest even as you edge further away.

“I-” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“You must be an assistant or something, cute piece of eye candy like you.” You try not to grimace at his words, remembering to be polite and courteous. “Why don’t I take you out tonight, huh? Have some fun?” You shudder and wrap your arms tight around yourself.

“N-no thank you.” You mumble. The cat stares at you for a long moment, ears pricked up and focused on you. After a beat of silence, he lets out a chuckle.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“...No, thank you.” You repeat. The leopard snarls and steps further into your personal space, and you cringe, ducking down to make yourself smaller.

“You think you can say ‘no’ to me, bitch? You’re fodder here, for us to enjoy and use how we want. If I say you’re going out with me, you’re-” His claw is in your face, index finger pointed threateningly at you. You bite down hard on your bottom lip to keep from whimpering in fear.

Another figure steps into your personal space, and you’re about to cringe and run away, when the new person wraps an arm around your plush waist and pulls you close. You look up to see Wukong, his diamond red eyes glancing between you and the cat yaoguai with laser focus.

“Everything okay, peachy girl?” He rumbles, puffs of black smoke pouring from the corners of his mouth. His unruly hair flows down his back, and immediately one of your hands moves to wrap around the soft locks, twirling it around your fingers to soothe your nerves. Your belly is roiling with anxiety and fear - fear that you’ve disappointed him by not being the gracious host you’re supposed to be as his wife. This cat is going to complain about you and Wukong is going to be so upset-

“Sorry, Great Sage,” The leopard gives a polite bow, sending you a wicked glare, “just a little confusion between-”

“When I want your opinion I’ll pull your brown nose out of your boss’ ass.” Wukong growls, the lit end of his cigar burning bright as he takes a deep breath to keep his temper. The yaoguai’s eyes widen in fear and he ducks his head, his hands trembling where they’re clasped before him. Wukong turns his body towards you, pulling you closer to him and lowering his voice to a quiet purr. You bury your face against his chest as he speaks.

“What happened, peachy? You can tell daddy.” His words should be comforting, but all you can think about is how you’re causing problems by being here. You had just wanted to visit him and ask if he would have lunch with you, and now you’ve managed to piss off this mobster and he’s going to be so disappointed in you-

“Whoa, whoa…slow down baby, slow down. Deep breaths.” It startles you to realize that your breathing had been growing quicker as your thoughts spiraled. You squeeze your eyes shut and tremble, unwilling to look at Wukong’s face, and the frustration that will no doubt be burning in his eyes at how difficult you are. You do as he says and breathe, trying to rein in your emotions and not cause even more trouble. You angle your head up, gently tugging at his hair for him to lean down. He does so without complaint and your lips brush across the shell of his ear as you whisper.

“I just wanted to have lunch with you and then he-...He started talking to me and asked me out, I said no, I said no, daddy-” Even if he’s upset with you for this, you want Wukong to know that you would never leave for a night out with someone else. He needs to know that you wouldn’t do that.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright.” He whispers back to you, a calming chirp in his voice. “Then what?” You swallow your nerves.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” You start, but Wukong gently tuts, his claws tracing soothing circles over your entire back. It helps ground you. “I didn’t mean to upset him…He said I can’t say ‘no’ to him, that I’m-...”

“...You’re what?” He hisses. You shiver at the sound.

“...I’m fodder for everyone to use…” You whimper the words out, feeling ashamed. Bile rises in your throat that you force back down, choking on air. A low growl starts up in Wukong’s chest, right against where your head is still cradled against him. Fear freezes your veins to ice and a cool numbness washes over you. He’s angry with you now. He has to be.

You peek up at him, fully expecting to see red diamond eyes glowing and glaring at you, a snarl of disgust and disappointment on his handsome face as he shoves you away from him and tells you to get out.

That is not what happens.

His glare is pinpointed on the yaoguai still before you both, who is now trembling with barely restrained panic. Wukong uses two clawed fingers to pull his cigar from his mouth and hold it out, using his thumb to flick the ashes onto the hardwood floor. He angles his head up and blows a black smoke ring, wisps trailing from his lips like a caress. He's so handsome when he smokes…

“Bull King?” He calls over his shoulder towards his brother in arms. You watch over his shoulder as Demon Bull King looks up from his conversation with Erlang, large ears perked up and attentive. He had been casually swirling the amber scotch in his glass as the two of them spoke, Erlang looking slightly more relaxed than usual surrounded by allies he respects.

“Yes, brother? What's the problem?” The bull snorted. His and Erlang’s eyes glanced over the sight the three of you made, taking in your uncomfortable body language and Wukong's simmering rage. You see Erlang’s eyes narrow, his third eye honing in on the leopard before you both. 

“This one is yours right?” Wukong asked, voice calm. 

“Yes. New hire, kinda stupid.” Bull King laughed, his grin sharp and mean and full of teeth. Erlang snorts as well, his posture changing from relaxed to business within moments when he picks up how tense Wukong currently is. You could feel the muscles of your monkey’s back flexing under his shirt, but his body language was still calm as he observed his cigar. His hand was still rubbing soothing circles against the small of your back.

“How much?” The Monkey King asked. 

“Uh-” Bull King shrugged, rolling his eyes skyward as he thought. “Think 500 even? You wanna buy him?” 

“Something like that.” Wukong muttered. 

“Of course brother, I've got plenty more-” Demon Bull King barely spoke the words before Wukong moved, his arm leaving you with lightning speed towards the leopard. 

The cat couldn't even choke out a gurgle to plead for his life before Wukong's clawed hand was gripping tight around his throat and squeezing. The leopard’s mouth opened in a silent cry, eyes wide and panicked as his feet left the ground. The pressure of Wukong's hand around his windpipe grew worse and he kicked his feet and tail desperately for any kind of way to ease the burning in his lungs. Wukong was scowling now, upper lip curled and revealing the massive canines hidden beneath. With no hesitation he brought his lit cigar up towards the leopard's mouth.

“What should I do with you, hmm?” He purred. A shiver raced down your spine at the tone of his voice - something dangerous and cruel coming to the surface as he glared. You bite your bottom lip, trying not to squirm too obviously as heat pools in your lower belly. You feel the length of Wukong's tail side up the length of your legs and wrap around the curve of your ass, keeping you close to his side and not at all helping with the warmth gathering in your core.

Wukong brought the cigar closer to the yaoguai’s face and you prepared to watch as he put the burning filter out on the idiot cat’s cheek. Instead, your mouth dropped open in shock as Wukong instead dropped the whole cigar into the gasping mouth of the leopard, using his now empty hand to force the mobster’s mouth closed. The thrashing grew wilder and more uncoordinated, a high pitched whine of agony leaving the leopard's chest as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Wukong didn't flinch, not even when the cat managed to land a hard kick to his shin. 

“You lay your eyes on my mate, try to steal her from me, insult her and her honor, and then try to brush it off like it's no big deal.” Wukong hisses, dragging the flailing mess of a yaoguai closer to his gritted teeth. The leopard is sobbing against the hand covering his muzzle, fat tears streaming down his face in rivers as smoke puffs out his nose at a rapid, uneven pace. He watches Wukong's teeth as they move closer, as if to bite into the fur of his jugular and tear him to pieces. The Monkey King does no such thing, simply tossing the thug to the ground with a growl. 

The leopard hits the hardwood with a dull ‘thud’ and immediately starts to hack and cough, spitting out a drool-covered cigar and wet ash that stains the fur of his muzzle grey. He heaves for breath as henchmen surround him. One of the stronger enforcers stomps his foot on the leopard’s back, squishing any breath he may have managed to scramble into his lungs in an instant. 

“What do you want done to him, Great Sage?” He asks. Wukong thinks for a moment, pulling his lighter from his pocket and fiddling with it, switching the flame on and off as he thinks.

“Get him some place comfortable for now. I’ll visit him later.” The henchmen do as he says, dragging the whimpering mess on the floor out the door without hesitation. Wukong waves a hand at another goon, who rushes up to Demon Bull King with the previously mentioned cost for the leopard. Bull King snorts in amusement, taking the offered cash without complaint and going back to enjoying his scotch while chatting away with Erlang.

You stand stock still behind your husband’s back, shocked by how fast everything changed and trying to process what you just saw. Wukong turns to you, red eyes staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. His thumb still fiddles with his lighter, the repeated glow of the flame coming on and turning off making him look more demonic than usual. Your nerves are still frayed, and all you want to do is collapse in his arms and kiss him, beg for forgiveness for not doing what you were supposed to do-

“Come on, sweet peach.” His arm wraps tight around your waist, his thumb stroking the curve of your tummy as he pulls you into his firm side. The smell of his cologne and musk wash over you, making you shudder in relief as you bury your nose against him. Your own arms wrap tight around his waistline, gripping onto the material of his dress shirt as you walk out of the meeting room.

The walk through the hallways is quiet and tense. Wukong looks straight ahead as you move, taking each turn that leads straight to your shared bedroom. You try to calm yourself as you walk, letting the peace and comforting presence of your husband chase away the lingering anxiety you felt back in the meeting room. Before long you find yourself standing in front of your bedroom door and Wukong ushers you inside with a gentle push of his hand against the small of your back.

Your arms wrap around yourself in an effort of comfort as the door clicks shut behind you. You turn to look at Wukong, opening your mouth to apologize again only for him to hold a hand up to silence you.

“Strip.” Is all he says. You’re a good girl, so you listen. 

You take your layers off one by one, shivering not from the chill of the room but from the heated red eyes watching your every move. Your nipples harden and your core heats up despite the lingering anxiety of disappointing him taking root in your heart. Your arms go back to how you had them before, hugging yourself and pushing your tits close together as you give your husband the most apologetic look you can muster.

“I-I am sorry, daddy. I really didn’t mean to-...to ruin things-” You start, only pausing briefly as Wukong uses a finger to beckon you closer to him. Without hesitation you step up to him and his warm hands grip yours and bring them up to the buttons of his shirt. Catching on to what he wants, you begin to undress him, trailing your fingers delicately over every inch of fur and skin revealed to you. The intimacy of the moment has your breath stuttering in your chest and you can feel your slick dripping from your cunt and onto your inner thighs as you work. Wukong’s own hands settle back onto your waist, thumbs stroking the soft curve of your belly to your hips, his eyes watching your every move with an intensity that’s almost too much. You slip your fingers into the waistband of his slacks and work them off, happy to see he went commando today.

The hard length of his cock is completely unsheathed and presses against the curve of your mound and the softness of your belly. Thin trails of precum bead at the head and smear against your skin, you can feel it throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

You don’t know if you should bend over and beg him to fuck you sensless or get on your knees and plead for his forgiveness. 

Your anxiety must show because his hands are suddenly both cupping your face, his thumbs stroking over the ridge of your cheekbone as he angles your head to look up at him.

“Now, listen to daddy, baby girl. You-” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you tight against him. The warmth of his chest bleeds into you, soothing your frazzled emotions. “did nothing wrong today. You were sweet and thoughtful for wanting to get lunch with me, and you were very polite before that needle dick tried to-” He snarled and glared off to the side before taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The anxiety ebbed away, your heart feeling lighter as he reassured you.

“S-so…you’re not mad at me?” Wukong chuckled at your words, the force of it shaking his chest under your hands. You bit your bottom lip, your hips wiggling in eager anticipation at the sound, your cunt twitching.

“No, sweet peach, no. I was actually thinking…you looked so upset by everything, it’s my job to make sure you’re happy and well taken care of…” Wukong threaded one clawed hand through your hair, gripping the strands and pulling till your throat was angled like an offering before him. You moaned softly at the action, eyes fluttering closed in bliss. He brought his lips down to the juncture of your throat, giving a teasing nip to the skin with incredibly sharp canines. You bucked your hips against his in desperation at the feeling. The previous bite mark he left was still fresh on your skin, along with the numerous purple hickeys he left. You wanted him to sink his teeth back into your shoulder and break the skin again, to make you cry his name as he marked you for the world to see as his.

“I’m going to take care of you, sweet girl.” He growled into your ear. He nipped at your earlobe, making you hiss at the sting before pulling away from you. You whimpered in protest, hands sliding away from his soft fur as he made himself comfortable on your bed. He lounged back against your shared pillows on full display, his cock thick and engorged where it leaked over his tummy.

“Well come on. Don’t keep daddy waiting~” He purred. You shuddered, feeling weak in the knees as you eagerly climbed up to join him. You wanted that cock inside you, forcing you open and making you see stars as he used you-!

“Nuh-uh, what are you doing peaches?” He interrupted you as you settled on top of him, thighs locked around his hips and your pussy hovering over his dick. You raised a confused eyebrow at him even as you rocked your slick pussy against his length.

“I-I thought…” You trailed off, unsure what else it is he could have meant. Wukong chuckles, his claws settling onto the curve of your ass and pulling you upwards, away from his hips and towards-

His face.

You stutter, gripping his shoulders and digging your knees into the mattress below to stop him from pulling you further up. He was strong enough that he could do it regardless, but he pauses for you anyways.

“You-you want-? I don’t think-” You try to protest despite the fond exasperation on his features. “What if I hurt you somehow? Or I’m too heavy-?” Wukong barks out a laugh at that, sharp canines on display.

“Sweetheart, you know what I’m capable of. I’ve carried mountains without issue! And if, somehow, you were magically able to hurt me I would brag about it for the rest of eternity.” He brought a hand up to gesture at his face, putting on a voice that had you giggling into your hands. “‘Oh, what? This? Yeah I ate my mate’s juicy cunt so good she bruised my neck while cumming.’ Come on, don’t be silly.” His hand moved to the meat of your ass and gave it a harsh slap, your hips jumping at the force. You squealed at the sting of his palm and moved forward, his arms sneaking their way under your knees to pull them above his broad shoulders.

Your hips hovered above his muzzle as you peered down at him, still unsure. Wukong’s red eyes were focused completely on your mound and the slick coating the skin of your thighs. He licked his lips, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as drool coated his fangs. The heat in his gaze made you shudder, your nipples hardening as pure want coursed through you. 

“O-...okay daddy…” You whimpered.

“Good girl. Now take a seat on your throne.” He purred the cheesy line at you as you grabbed onto the headboard for stability as you lowered yourself closer. An amused snort barely makes it out of you before his hands are suddenly gripping your waist tight, yanking you the rest of the way down and onto his eager mouth.

You cry out, back arching as heat envelopes your sensitive pussy. He wastes no time letting you adjust, Wuong’s tongue already bullying its way between your lips and lapping at your slick with the intensity of a man starved. He sighs under you, his whole body going lax as his hot breath leaves his nose in a harsh exhale against your mound, eyes fluttering closed as he savors your taste. You can only sit there and take it, moaning your approval as the thick muscle of his tongue pushes against your clit before going back down to lap against your hole. One of your hands grips the headboard till the wood creaks under your fingers as you ride his face properly. Your other hand tangles in his thick mane of hair, tugging at the strands while you grind your pussy against his mouth.

He groans low in his chest at the feeling, letting you take your pleasure from him. You let your head fall back as bliss consumes you, getting lost in the feeling of his hot mouth working wonders against your dripping hole. His tongue is thick and hot, pressing against your engorged clit before he suckles the nub hard enough to make your knees shake where they sit around his head, and then moves back down to stretch your gummy walls with his tongue.

“F-fuck, daddy-! Feels so good…so good, oh my g-od-!” You whimper. Wukong groans against your pussy again, and a wet sound echoes from behind you. You peek over your shoulder to see his free hand gripping his cock, squeezing up and down in time with his tongue as it fucks your needy hole. Precum dribbles in a steady stream down his pink length and coats his hand, the sight of his slick making your cunt clench down hard on his thrusting tongue. You need him, you need him inside you-need to taste-

You squirm and buck your hips desperately, trying to get his arm wrapped around your waist to relax just enough for you to reposition.

“Daddy, daddy please let me-I want to turn around-” You plead. He pulls his mouth off your swollen cunt with a desperate gasp, licking his chops as his chest heaves under you.

“...You want to turn around?” He pants, giving you a questioning look. He takes a moment to nip and suckle at the skin of your thigh as you try to catch your breath.

“I want your cock, please daddy-...please, I want to choke on it-” You stare longingly over your shoulder where his hand is still playing with the head of his dick, thumb rubbing over the weeping head. That should be your hand, your tongue lapping up all that musky smelling pre and swallowing him down till you choke.

He chuckles underneath you, a cheeky sound that makes your heart squeeze inside your chest.

“Well, whatever my peaches wants~” He removes the arm locked around your waist, gripping your hips with both hands to help flip you around. You shuffle and try to keep your legs from hitting him in the face, settling back down with your plush tummy pressing against the length of his chest as you lay across him. Hard muscle is unyielding to your weight, your tits pressing together on top of his waistline as you move your face closer to his cock. His fur tickles your nipples, his hands find their way to the meat of your ass, and his hot and heavy cock is pressed right against your face. You coo at it, nuzzling your cheek against its heat as precum smears across your skin.

The heat of Wukong’s mouth returns to your dripping pussy, sucking hard at your puffy lips and making your hips buck uselessly against him. Pleasure coils in your tummy and you moan, sticking your tongue out to kitten lick the thick cock before you. Salty pre floods your mouth and Wukong’s musk fills your nose, heady and addicting. You trail your tongue downwards, stopping to suckle at a particularly thick vein pulsing with your daddy’s heartbeat, and reach the folds of his sheathe. Wukong’s tongue is pressing hard against your spasming hole, so you decide to return the favor. You press your own tongue into the sensitive skin of his sheathe, lapping at the base of his cock hidden underneath with wide strokes of your tongue, savoring the salty taste of his sweat that's gathered there.

A rumbling groan leaves him from under you, his own mouth working fervently in response to your touch. You kiss and lick your way back up, drooling openly and lapping at his sensitive pink head before sealing your lips around him. His hips buck up and push him further into your mouth, and he presses a sweet kiss against your clit in apology. 

You hum in the back of your throat, unbothered, and swirl your tongue over the leaking slit. You relax your jaw as much as you can, taking a deep breath in through your nose as you push yourself further down his cock, until you can feel the head nudging the back of your throat. So much is still left in your hands, his heavy balls sitting full right below you.

You focus on using one hand to squeeze the part of his cock your mouth can’t reach, letting the weight of him sit fully on your tongue and dribble precum down your throat. Your other hand makes its way to his sack, massaging and playing with his balls as they twitch against your palm. You bob your head slowly, trying to match the rhythm of his tongue as he wiggles it inside you. It's so hard to focus when the heat coiling in your belly winds up tighter, your cunt fluttering and leaking over his face. Wukong indulges in your taste, the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your twitching hole filling the room.

And then his fingers dig into the meat of your ass cheeks, spreading them open to get a view of your asshole, twitching in time with your oversensitive cunt. Your cheeks burn knowing that he's watching, but you don't stop, keeping his fat cock shoved as far down your throat as you can handle. A thick vein pulses in time with his heartbeat against your tongue. He pulls his mouth away with a shuddering gasp, his hot breath puffing against your heated skin. 

“Gonna eat this tasty ass out, so you just be a good girl and take it, okay?” You don't even have a chance to respond before his thick tongue is wriggling against your hole, the tight ring of muscle clenching down hard. You keen at the feeling, your hips stuttering and your hands moving to grip at the fur of his thighs. You pull off his cock to moan, the heavy weight of it leaking against your cheek as you're forced to accept his touch. You can feel his tongue, wet and thick as it presses against soft gummy walls of your ass, your pussy clenching on nothing as he plays with you how he wants. It's overwhelming, being stretched in such a new way.

You had talked about anal in the past but hadn’t found the right time to actually experiment with anything. The foreign feeling of his tongue takes a moment to adjust too, but within moments you find yourself pushing your ass back against his mouth, moaning your approval with your face pressed against his length.

“F—fuck thats…nggh, it feels good daddy-” He gives an approving hum from below as one of his hands lets go of your ass. His fingers trail delicately over the puffy lips of your pussy before sinking in knuckle deep with ease. His fingers curl and press against the sensitive spongy spot inside and the coiled heat gathering in your tummy tightens. You’re babbling now, repeating his name like a mantra as the coil finally snaps and you cum. Your cunt gushes over his hand and face, his tongue pulling out of your ass to lap from your clit all the way back up, groaning at the taste of your slick. Your hips buck uselessly against his hold, your legs squeezing tight around him as you rock back and forth. 

When you finally catch your breath again his hands are roaming the expanse of your hips and lower back, rubbing soothing circles into the muscle as his mouth suckles away at your oversensitive lips. You whimper and wiggle at his touch, oversensitive to the point of discomfort.

“Ss-too much…” You moan, aftershocks still tearing through you and making your limbs shake. Wukong simply chuckles underneath you, and within moments you find yourself flipped over on your back, pillows beneath you. You look up at the towering frame of your husband as he looms over you, his thick mane of hair falling over his shoulders and around you like a curtain. With weak hands you reach up and tangle your fingers in it, pulling him close and kissing him. You can taste yourself on his tongue, his breath is hot against your lips. His hands roam from your hips and over the soft curve of your tummy and waist, finally cupping your tits where they’re sandwiched between the two of you. His fingers sink into the softness of your body, indulging in the squish and smirking into your kiss at the whimpers you give. 

When he pinches your hardened nipples you squeal, breaking the kiss to throw your head back against the mound of pillows beneath you and bucking your hips up and into his. Despite its exhaustion your body responds to his touch, heat already building back up in your core.

“Wukong…pl-please daddy, fuck me, I-...I want it so bad-” You plead, staring up and into his molten eyes. They glow softly in the dim light of your bedroom, and the eerie glow sends shivers racing down your spine. He presses another kiss to your lips, one hand leaving your chest and trailing down to your mound. He grips his cock and drags it through your puffy cunt, smearing slick and precum as his head pushes against your hole.

“Fuck, alright peaches, alright…Let daddy take care of you, gonna fuck this slutty pussy till you’re screaming-” He pants, his breath puffing like steam from his muzzle. He licks his chops and presses inside, his cock stretching you open and making your thighs shake where you have them squeezed around his hips. His tail circles around the length of your calf, another way to ground himself to you.

“Sh-shit…slides in with ease, huh baby? Such a good slut for me, always so eager…your cute little cunt knows who owns it, huh?” He hisses, grunting at the tight squeeze his words cause. You whimper and gasp, tugging desperately at his hair as your body tries to adjust to the thick cock bullying its way inside you. Your back arches and presses your tits against the soft fur and heated skin of his chest, his arms immediately moving to circle under you and hold you close to him while his hips rock against yours. 

It’s slow and tender, the way he starts. His hips give shallow, deep thrusts against you as he huffs in your ear, his lips pressing kiss after kiss to the juncture of your neck. The closeness has your clit grinding against your waist with each thrust, the fur there tickling your sensitive skin even as it's coated in your own slick. He holds you like he can’t bear to let you go, as if you’ll disappear the moment he separates from you. You grip him tighter and press a kiss to the shell of his ear, whispering against it as the head of his cock kisses the entrance to your womb repeatedly. 

“I won’t leave…never, I’ll never leave you Wukong. I l-love yo-u…!” Your voice sounds ruined when you speak, and it has him groaning low in his gut as his thrusts turn sloppy, his rhythm lost as he loses himself. You keen and wrap your legs tight around his hips to keep him snuggled deep inside you, biting the muscle of his shoulder as the heat inside you coils tighter and together once more.

“L…love you-...too-” He moans brokenly, and it’s enough. You cum once more, squeezing his thick cock where it’s buried inside you. He follows after you, a broken sound leaving him as he shudders over you, warm viscous ropes of cum pouring into your slick cunt and squirting back out when the pressure becomes too much. You can feel it filling you up, flooding your womb and leaving you feeling full and satiated as your whole body trembles with aftershocks. You hold Wukong close to you as his arms finally give out, letting his weight settle on top of you. You pant together and bask in your shared bliss, his cock still giving the occasional twitch as more cum leaks out from him and into your already stuffed pussy. 

You bring a shaking hand up and play with his long hair, twirling the strands between your fingers as you remember what it feels like to be human again.

“Th-thank you…” You manage to squeak despite the exhaustion you feel. Wukong shifts above you, pulling his face from where it was buried between your tits to look up at you.

“...Hmm?” He grunts. You give a tired snicker, delighted by the dazed look on his face.

“Thank you for taking care of me like you do. You always come in to save me when I need it.” You mumble. You try not to think of the discomfort you felt earlier with the leopard, wanting to keep the peace of the moment for just a little longer. Wukong smiles and presses a kiss to the area right above your heart. “Course. Anything for my sweet peach.”

[lpmurphy]

Begin Again

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Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Tag List: (comment if you would like to be added!) @foolishseven

Word Count: 5,831

Read on AO3 (Up to Chapter 15!)

Chapter Two: Ghosts in the Room

Jack hadn’t expected much out of the last hour of his shift. Maybe a kid with a Lego up his nose. A couple of college freshmen who couldn’t hold their liquor, or a bouncer’s right hook. A sprained ankle, maybe a code blue to keep him humble on his way out the door. If he was lucky, a combative drunk or a transport delay would pad the clock and justify the overtime. Routine. Predictable. The kind of night that bled into the last and the next without much distinction.

He certainly wasn’t expecting Elizabeth fucking Baker.

Neither of them moved. She stood in front of him like some cruel trick of memory, and for a second, God help him, he thought maybe he was dreaming like every other time he’d seen her face. That he’d blink, and she’d vanish like all the other things he’d lost. 

But she didn’t.

She was real.

The sounds of the world—voices, a ringing phone, the beeping of monitors—fell away into nothing. He forgot the X-rays gripped in his hands. Forgot the aching in his shoulder, the sting of antiseptic on his skin, the low-grade headache from too much caffeine and not enough food. Forgot the thirty years he’d spent convincing himself that leaving her had been the right thing.

Instead, it was just her. Just him. Locked in a stalemate he didn't know how to break. They stayed that way for what felt like hours, the rush of his blood in his ears louder than anything that existed outside of that room. Fuck, the IED blast had been less disorienting. At least with that, there’d been warning. A gut-deep prickle, a second of awareness before shit went sideways. This, her, hit with no warning at all. Time didn’t just freeze; it detonated. Memory roared in his ears louder than any explosion ever had. His vision tunneled, ears ringing, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

She stared at him like a ghost had walked through the door, and Jack felt like one. Hollowed out, drifting, as if something ancient had cracked open inside him. Something he’d carefully kept sealed away for decades. In an instant, thirty years slipped away like fog on glass. All he could see was her, exactly as she was the last time he saw her, and yet, not at all.

In a single breath, he was eighteen again. Barely a man, stupid and terrified, standing on her parents’ porch trying to memorize her face before he left it all behind. Already hating himself for what he was going to do when the sun rose the next morning. And she was still her. Still the girl he’d left standing in the glow of the porch light, wearing that damn jacket that always looked better on her than it ever had on him, whispering goodnight while he whispered goodbye.

A hundred thoughts fired at once. You look good. I missed you. I'm sorry. None of them made it out. 

For the last time, he was able to imagine what would happen if she ever saw his face again. There were no tears. No screams. No anger. Instead, she blinked, just once, and in that blink was everything; disbelief, fury, relief, fear. A thousand yesterdays flickered behind her eyes before she turned, just slightly, like maybe this wasn’t happening. Like maybe if she moved fast enough, she could undo it.

Beth’s lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she bit her lip, her hand hovering at her collarbone, fingers curling slightly like she didn’t know where to put them. Her hand tremored slightly before it found the thin gold chain she wore around her neck, twisting the pendant in her fingers. Her eyes never left him, too wide for him to meet, pinning him in place like her gaze might tunnel straight through.

“So,” she whispered, barely more than a breath, “that’s where you went.”

His breath caught somewhere deep in his throat, his eyes pinching shut before he forced a steadying breath. Jack opened his mouth to say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything.

But all that came out was:

“Hey.” 

He regretted it the second it left his lips. Thirty years, and that was what he led with? That was the best he could do? Just hey? Like they were bumping into each other at the goddamn grocery store? A dry, humorless laugh puffed from her lips. She folded her arms over her chest, more shield than gesture, and tilted her head like she was still trying to make sense of the fact that he was standing in front of her at all. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, lips pressed together in a hard line, and he could almost hear the whispered words that followed that look every time; you’re an idiot, Jack Abbot.

“Hi, Jack,” she said.

He tried to recover. Stumbled after the moment like he might still catch it and fix it. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

Beth nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, it has.”

Silence folded in between them again. Not comfortable, but not quite hostile. Just… tight. Because what do you say? What do people say to each other after thirty years of silence? He knew how to handle patients; screaming, silent, combative, hurting. He knew how to handle other doctors, nurses. Knew how to take and give orders. But this… He didn’t know this. Words swirled through his mind so fast he could hardly hold on to them, stringing together sentences that he couldn’t speak, and knew wouldn’t help. They were thirty years too late. Way too fucking late.

She wasn’t looking at him now; at least not directly. Her eyes drifted past his shoulder, over the curtained trauma bays and the nurses’ station behind him, like maybe if she looked long enough, she’d find the version of him she remembered instead. The one who hadn’t left.

He stepped forward without meaning to, instinct more than intention, but stopped himself before he closed the space between them. Beth looked at him again then. Really looked. And there it was; the flicker. The flicker of something just barely below the surface, but didn’t stay long enough to name before she dropped her gaze. She looked down at her sneakers, toeing the rubber against the floor before lifting those blue eyes again, unreadable now.

“You look…” she gestured towards him, but her words trailed off before she let her arms fall to her sides. The sentence withered between them.

“You too,” he said, too quickly. Then quieter, “You do.”

From the bed, Abby raised a brow, her head lolling slightly to the side. The morphine dulled the sharpness in her eyes and turned her words a little slurred around the edges, but not enough to blunt her suspicion.

“This is weird,” she murmured, looking between them like she was trying to solve a puzzle no one had given her the pieces for. “You both are being weird. Do… do you two know each other?”

Beth opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. They stuttered on the inhale, caught somewhere in her throat. Her gaze flicked back to Jack, arms still folded tightly across her chest. Jack held her gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, then looked away.

“We went to high school together,” he said finally, tone careful. 

Beth let out a breath that was more scoff than exhale. “Right,” she said, voice low and edged. “High school.” She nodded once, slow and deliberate, her face tight. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jack didn’t flinch at the ice in her voice, but it was close. Instead, it crept into him in a bitter chill that sat heavy in his gut.

Abby blinked. “So… you dated?”

“Something like that,” Beth muttered, cutting her eyes toward the curtain like she was done with the whole conversation. Like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, standing in front of the man who once promised her the world and then disappeared like it meant nothing.

Abby seemed to accept the answer, settling back against the pillow with a shrug. “Still weird,” she murmured, eyes drifting shut. “But okay.”

Beth didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept her arms crossed, her shoulders tight, her fingers still twirling the pendant at her collarbone and eyes locked on him like they were keeping him pinned to the floor. Jack wished she’d just fucking say it. All of it. Scream, cry, curse him out. Anything but this: this quiet, sharp nothing. He felt himself shift, uneasy in his own skin that had grown two sizes too small since he stepped into the room. He hadn’t felt like this in decades. Not in combat zones. Not in trauma bays. But standing in front of her, with all the years between them pressed in close and her daughter studying him like she was appraising a used car, he felt like a goddamn kid again; uncertain, apologetic. Hungry for a kindness that was no longer his.

She finally looked away, turning towards the bed and brushing a gentle hand through Abigail’s hair in an absent, comforting gesture. “Jack, this is my daughter, Abby. But I assume you already knew that.”

The two syllables hit him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. Abby. 

The name lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and unyielding. How many times had she said it through laughter? Or shouted it over the noise of the garage at the shop? Or murmured it like a secret only he got to hear? He swallowed against the weight in his throat. No. People named their kids after all sorts of shit; books, songs, dead relatives, characters from shows. Hell, he’d treated enough Chandlers and Phoebes with birth dates in the late '90s to know better than to assume anything.

Before he could stop it, before he could think better of it, the word left him, rough and quiet. “Abby?”

The color drained out of her face in an instant. Beth’s eyes widened like an animal caught in the headlines, lips parting with a sharp inhale, almost like she was ready to deny it or explain it or say anything at all. But, Abby beat her to it.

“Wait…” she said slowly, blinking at him through the haze of pain meds, her voice syrup-thick and amused, “You’re the guy from her prom picture! The one with the stupid ass mullet!”

Beth let out a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Abigail.”

Jack blinked, caught off guard, and turned to the girl—Abby, Jesus Christ—with his name, giving her an incredulous look. “It was hardly a mullet.”

Next to her, Beth made a face somewhere between a grimace and a laugh and crossed her arms again, but not before that flicker of amusement betrayed her. Jack caught it and turned back toward her, one brow raised. “What?”

Her lips pressed together, trying and failing to hold back the small smile they fought to stretch into. “It was encroaching on mullet territory.”

“Not even close,” he shot back, the indignation crumbling into a breathy chuckle.

Beth shrugged. “Mullet adjacent.”

That sly little smirk broke through at last, tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. It was subtle, almost cautious, but unmistakable. And just like that, he saw her again: bare feet on the dash, his jacket around her shoulders, laughing at something stupid he said. Thirty years slipped right off her face and he saw the girl he remembered.

Abby tilted her head, studying Jack like he was some mildly disappointing exhibit at the end of a long museum tour. “Huh. I thought you’d be taller.”

“Abby.” Beth warned, voice tight.

“What? I thought. That’s not the same as saying. I didn’t say he’s short. We’re short, Mom. I mean… he kind of is, but—”

“Abigail Quinn.” Beth hissed, sharp eyes focused on her daughter. The way her head snapped to glare down at the girl made his spine straighten; he’d been on the receiving end of the Sheriff Baker stare more times than he could count, and she’d perfected it in the years since then. "That's enough."

“I’m just making an observation,” Abby mumbled, blinking slowly. “What do you want from me, woman? I’m high as giraffe balls. I’m not responsible for my actions right now.”

Beth pressed her lips together. “Stop it.”

Abby turned toward Jack with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry. You’re very tall, Dr. Mullet.”

Jack barked a laugh before he could stop it, and Beth immediately dropped her face into her hands. She groaned, dragging her hands down her face before dropping them into a resigned cross over her chest.

“Morphine?” she asked, pink crawling up her freckled chest to her neck.

“Two milligrams, IV push,” he confirmed, still chuckling.

Beth grimaced. “Wonderful,” she muttered, rubbing her cheeks. “Then we’re in for a show.”

“Oh, Doctor Mullet and his little dork almost-doctor got me on that good shit, Mom,” Abby drawled, a dreamy grin on her face as she sank deeper into the bed.

“Watch your mouth, child,” Beth said automatically. 

Jack stifled a laugh, exchanging a look with Beth, who mouthed an apology while he checked Abby’s IV. “She should be pain-free for a while,” he told her. “We’ll up ‘em if we need to, but from the sounds of it, she’s doing just fine.”

“Hell yeah,” Abby sighed like it was the best news she’d ever heard. “Compliments to the fuckin’ chef, dude. I’m rollin’. ”

“Abigail…” Beth warned, but the sigh that followed made it clear that she wasn’t fighting too hard anymore.

“What?” Abby looked positively affronted. “I didn’t curse. I just said fuck. Wait… Fuck. I said fuck. Fuck! I said it again. Fuck! Ah!” Her eyes widened in slow, horrified amusement while she laughed. “Mom, help me. I can’t stop saying it. This is crazy. I feel crazy.”

Beth placed a hand over her daughter’s mouth with a heavy exhale. “Close your eyes,” she ordered flatly.

“I’m gonna close my eyes,” Abby said dutifully, blinking hard like it required real effort.

“And your mouth.”

Abby gave her a loose thumbs-up, added finger guns for good measure, and clicked her tongue with a grin before melting back into the pillow. Beth turned back to him with a tired sort of smile, lifting her brows in apology as Abby mumbled something unintelligible and blissful behind her.

“I’d apologize, but I’m sure she gave you hell before the meds, too. She’s always been a rather spirited child.”

Jack shook his head, mouth tugging up at the corners. “Hey, beats the criers.”

Beth let out a quiet snort. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s coming. You should’ve seen her when she got her wisdom teeth out. She sobbed like it was a national tragedy. Thought I was abandoning her to a life of soft foods.”

He chuckled, and for a second it was easy. They were just two people with life stretched between them, swapping stories that didn’t leave scars. But the laughter faded too quickly, and in its place came silence. It hung between them, heavy and hesitant. He cleared his throat. She fiddled with the cuff of her jacket— his jacket. 

Jack’s eyes wandered over her, caught on the details he hadn’t had the chance to take in until now. The bright green scrubs. The hospital badge on the glittery reel clipped neatly to her waistband.

UPMC Mercy: Emergency Medicine.

He took it in with a quiet nod, a flicker of something like pride stirring low in his chest. She’d done exactly what he always figured she would. Not like he ever had a doubt; she’d always had the brains and the backbone. There had never been another option for her; just stubborn, willful Beth with a twenty year plan and practiced script signatures written in glitter gel pen.

But his eyes snagged on the badge a second time. Dr. Elizabeth Baker.

What had the kid’s chart said? Morgan? Abigail Morgan. But the name next to the ID photo wasn’t Morgan. Just Baker. Still Beth.

He gestured toward the badge. “You been at Mercy long?”

She blinked like she’d forgotten it was there, brushing her fingers over it absently. “Oh. Yeah. About eight years now. Not for much longer, though. Started there when we moved back from Boston.” Her hand dropped. “I was in the middle of a code stroke when the school called, or I would’ve been here sooner.”

“Boston, huh?” he asked casually, crossing his arms, still gripping the iPad like a vice.

“And Denver for my residency before that,” she nodded, gently swatting Abby’s hand away when the girl reached over to pet the fabric of her scrubs. 

Jack gave a quiet nod, a smirk playing at his lips. “What happened to never moving to Pittsburgh?”

“Well,” she huffed a breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching, but the smile never quite made it. “Guess sometimes life just doesn’t go according to plan. Right, Jack?”

The words hit him harder than he cared to admit. She hadn’t thrown them, hadn’t spit them like venom, but they burned through him the very same. No, he thought. It certainly doesn’t. 

Beth reached out to flick the edge of his badge with a dry little smile. “You copied me.”

He gave a soft laugh, glancing down at it. “I wouldn’t say I copied you. I prefer… ‘was loosely inspired by.’”

“Oh, whatever.” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. “Doctor Abbot always did have a nice ring to it.”

His smile faded into something gentler. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it did.”

“Mom.”

Both Jack and Beth turned toward the bed. Abby laid on her back, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes like she was trying to scrub away the fog in her brain. She stayed like that for a long beat, unmoving. Christ, the kid was right. She was higher than giraffe balls.

Beth tilted her head, waiting. “Yeah?”

Abby didn’t look up. “This is weird.”

“What’s weird, baby?”

“That you know him.”

Beth glanced at Jack, who looked just as caught off guard. “Yeah, it is a little strange, isn’t it?”

Another pause.

“He gave me drugs.”

Beth sighed. “That’s quite literally his job, boo.”

Abby dropped her hands and blinked at them. “That’s actually insane.”

Beth let out a snort she didn’t bother to hide. “Go back to sleep, weirdo.” Abby nodded and shut her eyes again, a gentle grin tugging at her lips like she hadn’t nearly made Whitaker cry an hour ago. Beth rolled her eyes and turned to Jack, clearing her throat before gesturing to the iPad. “The nurse said she had imaging done before I got here. CT?”

Jack’s gaze shifted, as if the reason for his presence in the room had just slipped his mind. He gave a small cough, then pulled up the images. “Nah, just the usual.” He handed her the tablet, and she took it without hesitation, quickly swiping through the images with a clinical focus.

“Comminuted spiral fracture of the distal tibia and fibula,” Jack stated, slipping into a rhythm as the words came easily. “It’s displaced, probably from the way she came down on it, with some soft tissue damage around the break. Mild paresthesia in the toes, but I’m not discounting nerve involvement yet. Cap refill’s sluggish, pedal and tibial pulses are both at 1+, so—”

“Tibial’s up to 2+ since intake,” Beth interrupted, her voice matter-of-fact, her gaze still glued to the screen. “Cap refill’s still over two seconds, though. She’s got some sensation back in her toes, but still not reacting to stimuli.” She squinted at the fracture, zooming in for a better look, unaware of Jack’s raised brow. Smartass didn't fall far from the tree, he thought. Finally, she glanced up and noticed his curious expression. Beth shrugged, offering him a wry smile. “I did my own neuro check when I got here. Sorry. Mom thing.”

“I don’t remember asking for a consult,” he scoffed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You didn’t, but you’re getting it anyway,” Beth didn’t even look up from the iPad as she continued to squint at the images. “And poking a kid with a pen is hardly a consult, especially when you gave birth to the patient,” she shot back, her tone dry. “Probably going to need a few pins, so we’re looking at surgery. Sixteen weeks with subsequent PT if she’s lucky.”

He stood opposite her, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same,” Jack muttered, still scanning the images.

Beth’s eyes flicked over the X-ray one more time, then paused. She squinted, leaning in closer before she let out an exasperated sigh and shoved the tablet back towards him. “Hold this,” she muttered, turning behind her to fish through her purse for a pair of black rimmed glasses, grumbling, “Swear I went fuckin’ blind the minute I turned forty.” 

She turned back to him with a huff, slipping the glasses on and holding out her hand for the tablet like this was just another consult. Like he wasn’t standing there being quietly fucking leveled by the sight of her. She tapped her nail against the screen, gesturing above the main break. “There’s a fracture above the main break as well. Jesus, what did those girls do? Throw her?”

He frowned down at the screen. “Where?”

“Look,” she sighed.

She stepped beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his. The warmth of her body sent a fleeting jolt through him. He stiffened, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but the heat lingered. His focus wavered, and just for a moment, he let it. While she watched the screen, he watched her, tracing over the lines of her face that hadn’t changed while everything else had; the same gentle slope of her lips, the freckles that clustered bold along the bridge of her nose and faded across her cheeks, the chew of her lip when she was deep in thought.

He still had to look down at her. Her shoulder still pressed lightly to his bicep. And then, forcing himself, he looked back at the screen.

Beth leaned in even closer, explaining with a calm precision as she gestured. “See this little line here? That could mean more soft tissue involvement. Might be worth a CT to get the full extent of it.”

Jack nodded, his voice a little tight. “Yeah, I’ll get that ordered.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the unexpected awareness of her presence. 

“So is ortho coming down, or is this going to take another thirty years too?” She asked. She stepped away, and he felt himself deflate. 

Ouch. He shrugged slightly with a tight nod. “Depends on who is on call tonight. But if we’re lucky? Oh… I’d say sometime within the next century.”

That earned a laugh. Brief, but dizzying; a bright, snorted sound that lived only in memories of chemistry labs and that old paper mill. She smiled gently, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped her tight twist behind her ear, and his fingers twitched at his side. He tucked his hand into his pocket, clicking the display off and tucking the tablet under his arm. Blue eyes turned to him again from behind dark frames, assessing him with that same sterile, clinical stare that was far too detached to be her own. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. Her eyebrows lifted over her glasses in a silent challenge to go on. He sighed; always too goddamn stubborn for her own good.

He opened his mouth again. Here goes fucking nothing, he guessed. Only been avoiding this for three goddamn decades. He glanced over at her daughter, now finally adrift in a drug-induced haze, before tipping his head toward the other side of the curtain.

“Hey, could we—?”

He didn’t get the chance to finish before her head snapped towards the bed at the sound of quiet weeping. Part of him, the one that had never wanted this conversation in the first place, was relieved. Aching shoulders sank slightly when she turned away from him to step quickly to the side of the bed and pulled the rail down with quick, practiced fingers. The kid’s eyes were open, cheeks stained with tears, lips trembling. Her shoulders shook with each quiet sob.

And here come the tears.

“Hey, baby. I’m right here.” Beth cupped her daughter’s face in both hands, her voice low and gentle. Abby continued to cry, the morphine giving her just enough slack to let the dam break. She took a gasping breath that Jack felt in his own chest, but Beth only offered her a soft smile and brushed her thumbs across Abby’s cheeks. “Hey. Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Beth inhaled slow and deep, nodding gently when Abby hiccuped. Her daughter took a shaky breath in time with her, exhaling on another hiccup while Beth murmured soft encouragements between breaths. Tears slipped down Abby’s cheeks as she blinked up at her mother, lips trembling.

“I broke my leg,” she choked out in a hoarse whisper. “I heard it. It cracked like a glow stick.”

Beth nodded, brushing her fingers through Abby’s hair with a sympathetic smile. “I know, sweetheart.”

Her lip quivered. “I can’t cheer anymore.”

Beth glanced at Jack, a silent apology in her eyes, then turned back to her daughter. He stayed rooted at the foot of the bed, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was medical persistence; a habit. Reflex. Maybe it was something else. His own morbid curiosity about what she had become without him.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t walk away from this bed as easily as he did all the others.

“It’s gonna heal,” Beth said gently. “You’ll be okay, Abs.”

“It was my last season,” Abby whimpered. “It’s over. It’s all over, and it didn’t even start yet.”

“Oh, honey…” Beth sighed.

Jack watched her lower herself onto the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, her back to him like a closing door. Without hesitation, Abby folded into her, clinging like she was the only solid thing in the room. She buried her face in Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, rubbing slow, soothing circles across her back. And Jack saw not the sharp-tongued teen, but a little girl. A child wrecked by pain and disappointment, reaching for her mother the only way she knew how. For a fleeting moment, she looked like the face that had clawed its way out of his memory when he’d first walked in with Whitaker, before he’d really seen Abby at all.

Fuck, she looked just like Beth.

“I’ll have to wear a cast at Homecoming,” Abby hiccuped, burrowing deeper into Beth’s arms. “It’s going to be in all the pictures. Mia told me that Emma told her that she heard from Zeke that Luke said Gavin was going to ask me, and now he won’t because I look like some tragic teenage cryptid.”

Beth rested her chin on Abby’s head, nodding along to the spiraling logic. “If Gavin doesn’t ask you because you broke your leg, then Gavin isn’t a boy worth your time.”

“I don’t even want to go anymore. I’m going to look so ugly.”

“Oh, you stop,” Beth murmured, easing back just enough to meet her daughter’s wet eyes. “You’ll look beautiful. We’ll find a dress that hides it.”

“Oh my god, Mom,” Abby groaned, looking up at her like she’d suggested smearing dog shit on it. “It’s Homecoming. No one wears long dresses to Homecoming. That’s prom.”

“I wore a long dress to my senior Homecoming,” Beth replied calmly, ignoring the wobble in her daughter’s voice. Jack nodded slightly, though he wasn’t sure to who. She had. It was green.

“Yeah, like a million years ago!”

“Okay, okay. No long dresses, got it,” Beth relented with a sigh, pulling Abby to her again before pivoting. “We’ve got a few months to figure it out, and your mom can do wicked things with a hot glue gun and some rhinestones. Remember your Eras Tour outfit? A cast is nothing. I’ve got this.”

Abby let out a wet laugh. “That’s so tacky.”

“It’s Homecoming, baby. It’s all tacky.”

“Someone’s gonna draw a dick on it.”

“Then we’ll turn it into an elephant.” Beth laughed, tucking the blanket gently around her and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe lean into it. Start the school year with a Sharpie and a warning.”

Abby nodded, and for a moment, Jack thought the melodrama had been soothed away. The sight of her like that… He’d always known Beth would be a good mom. He just never thought he’d get to see it for himself.

But then Abby wiped her nose on Beth’s shoulder with a shuddering breath.

“And now I’ll miss winter conditioning. Which means I’ll suck at volleyball too. Which means I won’t get captain. Which means Kayla probably will.” She groaned like the words physically hurt. “And I hate Kayla! She’s a dumb bitch and she can’t even serve.”

Jack had done his best to stay quiet at the end of the bed, pretending to look busy, though he wasn’t sure why he was still in the room at all, but that made him huff out something dangerously close to a laugh. Abby caught it and squinted at him like she’d been personally wronged.

“Don’t laugh, Doctor Mullet. This is, like, my entire life, and it’s over.”

“Don’t look at him, look at me.” Beth’s voice stayed calm, redirecting her daughter’s glare back where it belonged. “You’re right. It’s absolutely devastating, and I am so, so sorry, baby. But it will heal, and you still have summer ball. We’ll listen to what ortho says, and we’ll go from there. Us Baker girls are tough, remember?”

She smoothed her hand over Abby’s hair. “We’ll get you fixed up, grab whatever you want to eat on the way home, and spend the weekend watching whatever you want until I start work on Monday. How’s that sound?”

“Can we watch Gladiator?” she mumbled, voice thick.

Beth smiled softly. “Until we’re no longer entertained.”

Abby hiccuped a laugh and nodded. “Can we key Kayla’s car?”

Beth stifled a snort and lifted her face to rest her chin on top of her daughter’s head, fighting a smile. “No, we can’t.”

“But I hate her.”

“I’m aware.”

Abby sniffled again and let out a long, exhausted breath, her body starting to go limp against Beth’s. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” she groaned.

Beth nodded sympathetically, patting her back. “Morphine’ll do that.” She glanced up at Jack, her tone shifting like they were discussing a shared case on rounds. “Can we get her some Zofran? Four milligrams?”

Jack gave a slight nod, his gaze still on Abby. “I’ll have someone bring it.”

“Like right now,” Abby gagged, her whole body tensing with the warning.

Beth moved fast. In one motion, she slid her hand into her daughter’s hair and swept it back, the other arm guiding Abby forward. “Okay, baby. Over the side. There you go.” She murmured, not even blinking as Abby retched.

Jack stirred from the edge of the bed, instinct pulling him forward. “Let’s get you a bag,” he said, already reaching for one behind him. He held it out for Beth to catch it with a grateful glance. She shook it open and held it under Abby just in time for another rather productive heave. Beth didn’t flinch, didn’t grimace. She just kept whispering soft nothings, rubbing Abby’s back, solid and steady and sure. The girl vomited again before she gave a dramatic groan and slumped into her mother’s side. “I want to go home.” 

“I know, baby.”

“Doctor Mullet gave me drugs,” Abby mumbled, still a little green and catching her breath. “He did this to me. He ruined me.”

“Yeah,” Beth sighed, voice small. “He does that.”

Jack took a breath and stepped back. He shouldn’t be there, he knew that. There was no clinical reason for him to remain in that room. He felt like a voyeur, standing in the middle of something private and tender; staring in at a moment that didn’t belong to him, but felt like punishment. Like atonement. Like the universe had taken him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to watch what he had forfeited. Abby curled tighter into Beth’s arms and started to cry again, her face buried against her mother’s jacket, sobbing in great, shuddering waves. And Jack couldn’t look away. She looked so much like her. Not just in the shape of her face, or the stubborn tilt of her brow, but in the fire. The fight. The cracked-open heart. All of that spirit packed into a frame too small to hold it, trying to breathe between the sobs. 

And for a moment, Jack saw it. The collateral. The wreckage. A glimpse of everything he must have left in his wake that August so many years ago that he tried to avoid, playing out in front of him like penance. The ache twisted in his chest like something sharp and half-forgotten. He shifted back another step, the another before he finally turned and pulled himself from it.

“I’ll grab that Zofran,” Jack said, his voice tight. “Ortho should be down to grab her soon.”

Beth nodded, still rocking Abby gently. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He returned the nod, already moving toward the door like it was an escape route. His hand curled around the curtain, holding it just enough to slip out, but he paused. Behind him, he could still hear Abby’s sniffles, the rhythm of Beth’s voice soothing her like an old song. Something in his chest buckled under the weight of it. With a resigned breath, he turned back.

“Hey Beth?”

She looked up, tired but composed, like she’d been bracing herself for him.

Jack’s jaw twitched. His tongue was sandpaper in his mouth, but he forced the words through. “It was good to see you. Really.”

Beth nodded slowly, the smile that stretched across her face just a little too tight to be easy. “Well,” she exhaled, brushing Abby’s hair back from her damp forehead, “better get used to it. I start here on Monday.”

His brain caught on the words like a misfired round, jamming before it could make sense of them.

Oh. You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.

“You—wait. You’re the new doc?” The words came out dumb and breathless, like his mouth was scrambling to catch up to the rest of him.

Beth didn’t get a chance to answer.

Abby gave one last lurch and vomited straight into Beth’s lap.

Beth froze. Her hands hovered midair, her spine locking with slow disbelief. Then she let out a long, slow breath, and turned to Jack with a look so flat it might as well have been bulletproof.

Her smile was tight. Icy. Impeccably restrained.

“Surprise.”

[moonwalkingprincess]

Marshall's anatomy part 1

(Eminem x nurse reader)

Not mockingbird sorry...

The ER was chaos.

Alarms. Calls for trauma bay assistance. Stretchers rolling through too fast for the tired eyes around them. You barely had time to breathe when the call came in: young woman, unresponsive, no pulse on scene, CPR in progress. Cardiac arrest.

You read the name off the form as you snapped gloves on: Hailie Jade Mathers.

You froze.

No. Couldn’t be. The name, sure, but that Hailie? Eminem’s daughter?

Your breath hitched, but your rhythm didn’t falter. You were a fan, sure. You grew up with Lose Yourself, Mockingbird, all of it — but this girl was a patient. Not a celebrity’s daughter. Not a headline.

A life.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Come back.”

And like a miracle, her pulse returned.

“(Y/N)! You’re up,” someone barked. That shook you back.

Fan or not, she was your patient now.

Chest compressions. IV. Epi. Time melted into mechanical, practiced movements.

You leaned over her, pressing steady, deep. “Come on, girl. Don’t make me lose you.”

Then a weak cough. Her eyes fluttered. A monitor beeped with life.

You stepped back. You’d been in this moment before — but never with a name that echoed through your childhood headphones.

She was going to be okay.

Two hours later, she was conscious, groggy, and stable. You checked on her quietly, offering a calm smile when she met your gaze.

“You did CPR?” she asked hoarsely.

“I did,” you answered gently. “But you did the hard part — you came back.”

She gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

You left her room to chart the incident. You were scribbling notes when someone approached. You didn’t look up at first — not until the footsteps slowed, and the silence grew… tense.

“I’m looking for the nurse who was with my daughter.”

That voice.

You turned. Hoodie, hat, sharp stare.

Marshall Bruce Mathers III. Eminem. Right there in the ER hallway, looking both completely out of place and somehow completely real.

You cleared your throat. “That would be me.”

He stared at you like he was trying to read more than your name tag. “She said you saved her life.”

“I was part of the team. CPR brought her back. She’s stable now.”

His jaw flexed. “I owe you more than I can say.”

You gave him a soft, professional smile. “You don’t. She made it. That’s enough.”

But he shook his head, voice low. “No. Not for me. Look, I know people like to be subtle, but if there’s anything I can do — tickets, money, shout-out, whatever — name it.”

You hesitated. It was one of those moments that you knew could go viral, or get weird, or never be spoken of again.

So naturally, your tired brain went rogue.

“Well… I’d like to date you,” you mumbled under your breath, just soft enough that you thought he wouldn’t hear it.

Wrong.

He paused. Head tilted slightly. “What was that?”

Your eyes widened. “Nothing. I—I was kidding. I didn’t think you’d hear that. I meant something normal. Like… a gift card. Or a hoodie.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “I meant like concert tickets or money.”

“I figured.” You gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry, it was a joke. I’ve been up since five.”

He studied you for a second, then something shifted. His mouth twitched up. He looked younger when he smiled, like the weight on his back lifted a little.

“You know what?” he said, surprising you. “You’re cute. Let’s grab a drink.”

You blinked. “Wait. What?”

He shrugged, casual like this wasn’t a plot twist in a fanfiction dream. “Yeah I would like to get to know the woman that saved my baby girl's life.”

You laughed — a breathy, disbelieving sound. “Is this real?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“You don’t have to feel pressured just because I saved your daughter’s life,” you teased, trying to cover the way your pulse had quickened.

He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I’ve been pressured into worse things than a drink with a hot nurse.”

You bit your lip, warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Alright. Fine. One drink. I pick the place.”

“Good. I hate Hollywood restaurants.”

“You are Hollywood,” you joked.

He smirked. “Nah. I’m just a dad who’s damn lucky you were on shift tonight.”

You smiled. “I’ll text you. If you don’t ghost me.”

“Please,” he said. “You think I’m letting the woman who saved my daughter ghost me?”

[bloggingboutburgers]

Hi ! I don't know if you've heard of it, but I recommend you In Stars And Time ! I've seen your comics about aro/ace rep and this game is super good at it, in addition to the fact that it's an amazing game in general. (slight spoilers below)

There's a (human) character who's aroace and struggles to accept herself, and it's heartwarming to see her understand over time that it's okay to feel like this and she doesn't need to change <3

There's also the main character, who is ace and some flavor of aromantic, and their relashionship with Mirabelle (the aroace girl) is veeery qpr looking, so it's basically a given for the fandom now (fandom that's actually very respectful of aro and ace identities)

The dev (@/insertdisc5 ) is French too !

And there's amazing enby représentation !

So uh thank you for reading all this, I am sorry to bother you but I've been thinking about your blog and I wanted you to know that this game existe, plus it's really not known enough which is sad..

If you decide to check it out, that's awesome but make sure to check the trigger warnings ! It's basically the hurt/comfort trope but on a much bigger scale

Have a good day ! (Or whatever time or the day it is in the US...) I love your comics <3

Thank you for the recommendation! We actually started the game with my partner a while ago (we didn't expect any French at the time so going into that blind was hilarious), but then I guess life came up and we got out of time and never continued it yet... We still aim to get to the end of it at some point!

(On that note I believe the creator is Canadian actually? Maybe French-speaking Canadian? ...But idk I might be wrong)

Yeah either way we haven't gotten to the point where any character is confirmed to be aroace. There's definitely hints and relatable moments which have been very satisfying (hints of other things in other characters too tbh), but nothing I could call a confirmation of anything, so I guess we have much to see still! (...Well, now I guess who the aroace character is supposed to be, if anything, didn't know that yet 🙈 I'll add a spoilers tag in the tags if that's OK!)

Definitely liked what I've seen thus far though, it's been a vibe, and from what I've seen I'd recommend it to anyone for any reason, it's a very intriguing came in a good way and the character designs are pristine^^ So yeah, it deserves to be known!

[voie-lacte3]

the boy on the cruise—

01 First Glance...

| check out the series masterlist!

| taglist!

you'd never seen so many hawaiian shirts in your life.

there were pineapple prints, floral button-ups, a group of dads in matching flamingo tanks, and at least two separate parrots on shoulders that may or may not have been real. it was chaos. hot, loud, sunscreen-scented chaos.

you gripped your suitcase handle tighter, squinting toward the cruise terminal. “we're sure this is the right ship?” your mom glances back, pushing her sunglasses up. “its called the emerald star, babe. look at the side.”

sure enough, painted across the side, in looping green letters, was emerald star – 14 night at sea. fourteen days. two weeks of endless ocean, buffet lines, bingo nights, and being trapped in a small room with your parents. you couldn’t decide if it sounded like heaven or purgatory.

your dad was already speed-walking ahead, weaving through families and honeymooners like he had somewhere to be, even though you weren’t boarding for another twenty minutes.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket— your best friend, of course.

| soulmate: u better meet a hot guy and fall in love

| soulmate: idc if he’s a waiter or a magician or the guy who refills the shrimp

| soulmate: make it HAPPEN

you snort and shoved your phone away. only your best friend would romanticize a trip you hadn’t even boarded yet.

inside the terminal, everything felt cold and over-air-conditioned. you followed your parents through security, checked your bag, and got your keycard, a little white and green plastic thing with your name printed on it and a number: deck 7, cabin 7428.

the ship itself was… massive. you'd seen pictures, but stepping into the atrium was something else. the ceilings were high and gold-trimmed, a live band played near the main staircase, and someone immediately offered you a flute of orange juice with a strawberry on the rim. you took it wordlessly, still wide-eyed, honestly, this cruise had you wondering how long it took your parents to save up for it.

somewhere nearby, a voice called out, “you're gonna get nice and tan sweetie,” followed by a small chuckle.

you glance over but dont really focus, just a boy your age and an older woman. he was tall, lean, curly-haired, had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a hoodie in his hands. something about him made you pause for half a second, but then your mom was tugging you toward the elevators.

“we're on deck seven!” she said brightly. “lets go check out the room!”

you followed, taking one last glance back, but the guy was gone. the pair had turned the corner, probably heading to their own cabin.

whatever. probably just some tacky high schooler trying to look cool.

little did you know that in two days, that same guy would be buying you a drink by the pool.

and by the end of the cruise… well.... you weren’t going to be able to forget him.

not even if you tried.

a/n: i KNOW its not really interesting rn, but we had to kinda set the cruise vibe yk?? 😭

tags: @bluebvrriee @v4mpire-bit3s @neroloops @m-e-m06 @icollectrubberduckies @tuttifrutt1 @unsaidjaelinrose @sorry-for-party-rocking-rah @courta13 @thegr8estpuff

{divider cred goes to @strangergraphics}

[aitheria]

Gin x Reader (Sfw!)

SMUT-FEST 2025 PROMPT: TELL IT YOUR WAY. Recreate and rewrite your favourite Bleach moment in your own words!

Summary: Gin had told Rangiku sorry, but what did the eyes of a secret lover see?

(CH.178, Bleach)

Tags: Canon-verse, angst, established relationship, breakup, anger, jealousy, one minor mention of blood

Word Count: 700

"Goodbye Rangiku, I'm sorry"

His words echoed in your ears, a steady beat in your temple as you clenched your fist. Your throat felt dry as your eyes burned with the memories of a moment not for you. The feeling of despair felt acidic as it settled in your stomach. You had played along, a look of shock and feigned distraught on your face as you stood along with everyone else. You watched him go; knew he'd go. Dammit, you helped him go. Assisted your Captain in leaving the Soul Society, knowing he'd never hold your hand and drag you along with him to who-knows-where. You were the secret lover in every dark corner, every time he curled a forefinger for you to follow. You were the silent arms that held him as he crawled into your bed for passionate refuge.

You didn't cry in that moment as you watched. You didn't shake with rage or pull out your own zanpakuto. How could you? How could you raise a fist or sword against the man you so desperately loved?

The man who never loved you.

He had admitted he was cruel, a snake who swallowed things he liked whole. You laughed it off, kissing his cheek, saying how much you adored cold-blooded things. In truth, it ate at you. Every day, you wondered if he would come around if he could come around. If you had his physical affections, how could you not obtain a piece of his heart as well? It became your life’s mission to be his shield from reality, your own delusions muddled somewhere between the layers of his lies and silent mission. His being consumed you. His affection was venomous. It warped you into a hollowed husk of who you once were, sweet and slow it sunk into your soul. He wrapped around you like a constrictor till you could no longer say anything besides, I love you.

"I love you. I love you. I love you, Gin."

Yet he could not swallow his pride for a moment and apologize to you as well? He had rubbed bony fingers over your knuckles whispering in your ears all the mundane jobs that would now be yours. A selfish role forced on you to clear him of guilt. Make sure Izuru doesn’t falter on his duties, make sure the persimmon trees continue to bear fruit and make sure Rangiku doesn’t cry or drink too much. You punched the bed, gritting your teeth in jealousy, your heart sank-

Rangiku Rangiku Rangiku.

You could not compare yourself to her. She was a golden sun, the light of his life. But you happily accepted being his penumbra, you balanced so well between the light and dark. How many times had he come to you- bags under his eyes, a frown and shaky breath speaking in riddles of things you did not understand. You offered solace and solutions, never asking for his conclusions. You offered your time, your intelligence and of course your body. How you’d fall into his lap, a smile on your lips, that characteristic grin on his. Moans like hymns from your mouth minutes later as he sunk his fangs into your sensitive skin.

You bit your lip, wrapping your arms around yourself, sinking into the despair. Without him what was there? He had been a part of your life for decades, your first and last love. Your nails dug crescents and blood welted on your flesh as you clawed at your arms. If only you could remove any presence of him, there was no antidote for his venom. No cure for your broken heart. You heard how his voice softened with longing and regret as she held a sword to his throat, watched his body deflate in subjugation. He didn't even look at you as he ascended, those sly eyes stuck on her.

Always her.

He left you nothing to remember him by except his scent in your sheets, crumpled and worn. The tears formed then, catching in the corner of your lips. The salty taste did nothing to quell your jaded heart. You hated him, you loved him and most of all you missed him.

Alone you would wallow in his absence.

[saturns-peachy-honeymoon]

dating dallas winston hcs

content: what it would be like to date dallas winston

warning: suggestive. honestly, dallas is his own warning at this point

Dallas is so jealous 

He will literally fight a guy for looking at you

You’re one of the few people he shows his softer side to

Dally is always stealing stuff for you 

He’ll give you his ring to wear 

You make him want to be better 

Dallas would never say it out loud, but it’s really important to him that you get along with the gang. Especially Johnny and Ponyboy (they will definitely be tagging along on many of your dates) 

Will give you his jacket in a second 

Always patching him up after fights

Dally loves sneaking in your window (and sneaking you out of your window for that matter)

Your parents most definitely do not like him (sorry, bestie)

Dating Dally is like having scary dog privileges - no one dares to mess with you 

He’s the best at keeping secrets 

Dally’s not always the best at apologies (usually takes a push from someone in the gang to do it right)

Lots of late-night drives 

Dallas steals stuff for you constantly 

You’re one of the only people who can calm him down when he’s in one of his moods

He definitely tries to rile you up cause he finds you hot when you’re angry 

He actually really likes it when you call him on his shit 

When you guys make out he is always trying to slide his hands under your clothes, he's insatiable

Dallas is lowkey highkey a horndog (sorry, not sorry)

Dally claims what’s his, and if you’re his person, trust everyone will know

His hands are ALWAYS on you

Around your waist

Hugging you from behind

Pulling you into his lap 

Hand on your thigh 

Will make out with you anytime, any day, no matter who’s present 

He's shameless. But god, help the idiot who calls him out on how affectionate he is with you

Dally is always calling you “Babe”, “Doll”, and “Angel” more than your own name 

The gang hears him call you “My girl” so much they didn’t know you’re actual name until they finally met you 

The gang is constantly teasing him about going soft 

He doesn’t say I love you or I miss you in the traditional way, but he is so loyal 

“Dally? What are you doing here? It’s 2 a.m.” You asked as you watched your boyfriend slide through your window. 

“I was in the neighborhood,” He said smoothly, grabbing your hips to pull you closer. 

You gasped, “Dallas Winston, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.” 

“Nah, doll,” Dally scoffed, playing with the hem of your t-shirt. “Just wanted to see ya, that’s all.”

a/n: who’s gonna tell him? 

If you’re alone, Dallas absolutely melts when you touch his face. He always leans into your hand like he hasn’t been touched that gently in years… which he hasn’t

He will never admit it, but he loves it when you run your fingers through his hair 

You help him see the sweeter things in life

[in-the-drowning-deep]

WIP Wednesday

Thanks so much to @woundedsoul12 and @p0lkadotdotdot for the tag! I've been getting into OC as companion stuff again as a break from DABB planning/uni work, so here, have some Esha and Lucanis banter.

Gentle, no pressure tags for @themildmahariel, @dancing--lights, and anyone else who's working on something they'd like to share.

(If Treviso was saved) Lucanis: Esha, about the dragon attack… Esha: Don’t. Everyone’s always so bloody sorry. I don’t need to add you to the list. Lucanis: Then I will not say it. But if you could ever use my blades in Minrathous, you need only ask. Esha: I… I’ll think about it. Thanks. Esha: Lucanis? I found out who killed Lorelei. If that offer’s still on the table… Lucanis: All I need is a name. Esha: You’ll have it. Thanks. Spite: They will die. Choking on blood. Begging for mercy. They never gave. Esha: Good. (If Minrathous was saved) Esha: How’re things in Treviso? Lucanis: Bad, and worse by the day. The blight has infested the canals and the locks are broken. There is little we can do to stop the spread. Esha: Venhedis. I’m so sorry, Lucanis. If there’s anything I can do… Lucanis: I’ll let you know. Lucanis: The locks in the southern districts… Esha: Yeah? How’re they holding up? Lucanis: They’re working again. Almost as if a trained civil engineer had looked them over. Esha: I, uh… Lucanis: A trained engineer with force magic, no less. Esha: Kaffas. Teia ratted me out, didn’t she? Lucanis: Esha, about the canals… Lucanis: You did good work. Tell me how much it should cost. Esha: Nope. Lucanis: Come now. You are a professional, yes? Tell me how much a contract like this would come to. Esha: Shan’t. Lucanis: Esha- Esha: La la la, can’t hear you. What were we doing again, Rook?

[cricky-butspicy]

No idea if this has been asked before, and there's too many answers to go through for me to ACTUALLY find it- question for Slasher boys!

If the reader was, let's say, hurt by their family and possibly kicked out for coming out to their family as gay, bi, trans, or anything along the LGBTQ+ spectrum before they went off to college, how would the Slasher boys react to finding out that tidbit of knowledge?

ANOTHER THING- EXPECT ART OF MY READER INSERT AT SOME POINT IN TIME WHEN I FIGURE OUT MOST OF HIS DESIGN. You have a moth lover reader insert coming at ya, prepare yourself for tiny, moth color painted desk helper robots he collects and names, and prepare yourself for cute, moth themed jackets

I think there is a way to go to the magnifying glass and search posts by words/tags they contain! It's easier than going through the whole blog. If anything, I usually will link you an answer if it's been previously answered! So, no worries! This one hasn't been answered.

They seem fine at a glance. Of course they are sorry you had to go through that and are upset by it, but really, it's hard to see how upset they are by it. Like the tight fists and the bitten tongues and the pure rage trying to seep out of their skin. They focus on you when you tell. They make it about you and how they are worried about you and your feelings. They don't let you see just how worked up they are from hearing something so terrible.

Hope that these boys don't know your home address and hope that you don't give them time to find out! Also hope that you are clear on who was bad and who was good to you in your family. Otherwise you might just find that they are taking a "trip" for a few days! Where are they going? Oh, nowhere special. Just a little place they know that they want to spend a little time at. Oh? You want to come? Sorry, but maybe next time! They just need a little them time is all!

And if you look and see in the papers that your family was massacred, don't even worry about it! You get calls about them all passing away under a mysterious attack? Murderers that look to have killed in cold blood. That's so strange! Who could have done it? And Soleil and Atlas come back and ask you how you've been while they've been away and you tell them of this "tragedy" and they wonder what on earth could have happened! They comfort you a lot; they do know even separated family can have complicated ties to a person, but they assure you everything will be alright. They were so cruel to you. They didn't deserve you. You're better off without them. They'll help you through this. Everything will be ok <3 And you know, you are perfect just the way you are, right? No one could ever tell you differently, you know? Not on their watches. Not. On. Their. Watches.

In reality, this is a hard one for both of them to hear. Soleil has some major problems accepting his own sexuality while Atlas's mom has major problems accepting his sexuality and his older-half sibling's, Deimos, sexuality and gender identity. Soleil is scared his family and the world would despise him for coming out and accepting his feelings (which I will tell you, would never happen with his family. They are a very accepting group of people and love him no matter what) while Atlas's mom wants to save her children for her god (who she assumes is their god naturally.) Atlas thinks it's horseshit, and will openly flaunt how in love he is with Soleil around her and that Deimos is fucking Monty behind her back (which she full-heartedly denies,) and that her god can screw themself. He's not worried about other people's opinions like that. Especially not his mom's.

They take care of you in the way they know how.

-

I look forward to your self insert!!! I live to see them all! 🥰💕 Poor Soleil will have a time! He's terrified of most flying insects but especially of butterflies with moths as a close second! He's a fearful guy! But I LOVE MOTHS SO I'M EXCTIED!