#pause the doom scroll | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alinathinkstoomuch · 4 months ago

Text

Light Blue Shirt

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: hotch's dad bod has been driving you crazy and it only gets worse when he pulls out your favourite light blue shirt that you hid from him. warnings: suggestive content, established relationship, hotch is a menace (when is it my turn!!!?!?), i have unintentionally made hotch seem like a lover of doggy style uhmm.. sorry promise next fic we will delve into some new positions word count: 1.7k ✧ masterlist

i will be making my way through tate’s new album and what about it!

Mornings with Aaron were always a bit of a blur — half-asleep kisses, shared coffee, the distant sound of Jack’s cartoons playing in the background. But this morning? This morning, you were wide awake.

And considering you weren’t much of a morning person, that was really saying something.

It had started out like any other, with Aaron stepping out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips as he rifled through the closet. Normally, you’d be groggy, scrolling aimlessly through your phone (doom-scrolling, as Aaron liked to scold you for it), still half-buried in the warmth of the covers.

But today? Today, your blood ran cold the moment you saw it.

The light blue shirt.

You had hidden that damn thing. You knew you had. Tucked it away in the spare closet under the guise of out of sight, out of mind because every time he wore it, you lost yours.

The way it stretched across his broad shoulders, how the top buttons always strained just a little too much, teasing a glimpse of his collarbones, and — oh God —the way the fabric draped over his stomach, soft but firm, inviting. That shirt was dangerous. Like super, totally, jail-worthy dangerous.

And yet, there it was, sliding over his arms, his fingers expertly buttoning it up as if he didn’t just pull a landmine of temptation out of nowhere.

You gawked. Actually gawked. Your mouth had parted, your phone frozen in your hand, every thought in your brain screeching to a halt as you watched him tuck the shirt into his slacks.

“Everything okay, angel?”

You scrambled to collect yourself. “Of course. Yeah. Absolutely,” you blurted, slapping your phone onto the nightstand and tossing the covers off like it was a totally normal morning and not an active test of your self-restraint.

Hotch turned slightly, adjusting his cufflinks, and good lord, even his wrists were attractive.

“You’re, uhm… planning to wear that shirt? At the office? All day?”

He paused mid-adjustment, brow furrowing. “That is generally the purpose of a shirt, isn’t it, honey?”

Smug. So smug.

You hummed, pointedly ignoring him as you threw yourself into making the bed at a record-breaking speed, chucking the pillows in no particular order.

You could feel his gaze, lingering on you like the press of fingertips against skin.

“You know,” he mused, voice far too casual for someone who was undoubtedly laying a trap, “it was very odd that I had to look in the spare closet for this shirt.” A brief pause. “I don’t recall putting it there.”

You swallowed, schooling your expression before turning to face him, feigning innocence like your life depended on it. “Weird,” you said, voice a little too high-pitched. “That’s so weird.”

“Almost like someone put it there on purpose.”

You exhaled a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, that’s ridiculous.”

He stepped closer. “Is it?”

His scent — warm cedar and clean linen — was a little too close, seeping into your lungs, threading itself through your ribs like it belonged there. Your eyes dropped, completely on accident, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way that stupid shirt pulled over ever so slightly across his chest, the curve of his stomach, the fabric fitting too well in all the wrong ways.

You regretted it instantly. This was exactly why the shirt had been banned. It was not even eight in the morning, and your thoughts had already derailed into places they had no business existing before coffee — or at all, really, if you wanted to maintain even a shred of decorum.

“Did you hear that?” You pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “I think Jack’s calling for me.”

Hotch didn’t even pretend to fall for it. He didn’t turn his head, didn’t so much as glance toward the door. He simply stood there, completely unmoved, because he had long since mastered the art of seeing through your bullshit. “Jack’s at the table eating cereal.”

“Okay, well,” you huffed, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at composure, “maybe he needs more cereal.”

Aaron took another step closer, erasing the space between you like it had never existed in the first place. His hands found your hips, smoothing over the curve of your waist before settling firmly on your ass.

“I think Jack’s fine.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Thoughts came and went, none of them appropriate for the hour, let alone for a house with a child in it.

“Just admit it, angel. You hid the shirt didn’t you?”

“I did no suc–” The words slipped off your tongue, landing somewhere on the floor when you felt his fingers flex, squeezing just enough to make you forget what you were even trying to defend in the first place.

His hands pressed you even closer to him, stealing the last bit of space you had left. “What was that, my sweet angel?”

Your dignity. That’s what you were trying to defend.

You swallowed, blinking hard, trying to reboot your entire system. “I—”

“I didn’t quite catch that,” he interrupted, his voice far too amused at your expense. “You were saying?”

You were saying something. You were definitely saying something.

“I need coffee,” you managed, the words rushed. “Lots of it.”

Before he could stop you — before you could stop you — you pushed away, slipping past him with all the grace of someone pretending they hadn’t just lost.

As you reached the door, his voice followed.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

You spun halfway, your eyes all glares and daggers.

“No, you will not be.”

With that, you took the stairs two at a time, eager to put some much-needed distance between you and the absolute menace you called your boyfriend.

Downstairs, Jack was already finished with his cereal, swinging his legs idly under the table as he drained the last of his juice. A quick glance at the clock told you Jessica would be here any second, and sure enough, a soft knock at the door signalled her arrival.

Perfect timing.

You moved to help Jack with his backpack, giving yourself the illusion normalcy. And just as you thought you had successfully dodged whatever antics Aaron had planned next, you heard his familiar footsteps behind you.

Because of course he wasn’t done with you.

You turned, fully expecting him to be put together — tie knotted, suit jacket in place. But no, none of those things had happened. And you knew it was on purpose. Because normally by now he’d be ready to walk out the door, every detail in place. But instead, he stood there deliberately unpolished. And worse? He was lingering.

He met your gaze briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turned his attention to Jack, ruffling his hair as he crouched to say goodbye.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your fingers into your temples as you moved toward the kettle. But the second you heard the door click shut, your spoon wavered mid-air and the coffee slipped through your fingers.

Dark grains scattered across the counter, a mess spreading over the surface like a visual representation of your crumbling self-control. You sucked in a sharp breath, blinking down at the spill as if it had personally betrayed you.

You reached for the paper towels, determined to fix something—but before your fingers could grasp them, a hand beat you to it.

“I got you,” Aaron murmured, just as you hesitated, your retreating fingers gripping the edge of the counter instead, bracing yourself against something far stronger than frustration.

Because he wasn’t lying when he said he’d be right behind you.

He was.

Pressed flush against your back, entirely there, his body moulding into yours as though he had been built to fit against you. He calmly swept up the coffee grounds into his palm, leaving you with no room to do anything but feel him there.

You could take this to HR.

You could really get him into some trouble.

“Aaron.”

He hummed slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“The sugar,” you managed, and it sounded pathetic, like a plea for something entirely different.

“Of course.”

His warmth retreated as he reached into the cupboard for the pink ceramic sugar jar — the one you’d insisted on buying when you unofficially moved in.

Aaron never took sugar in anything. If it were up to him, he’d leave it in the paper bags it came in, neatly folded over with a clip, untouched and forgotten. But you?

Sugar went everywhere.

Between the constant spills, the half-open bags, and the tiny grains mysteriously appearing in places they shouldn’t, you had deemed it completely justifiable to buy the overpriced but pretty container.

And despite his grumbling at the time, he never moved it from your designated spot.

Now, he pulled it from the cupboard, holding it with an air of innocence as he turned back to you.

But there was nothing innocent about the man standing in front of you right now.

You reached for it, but just as your fingers brushed the ceramic, he pulled it back.

Your eyes snapped to his, irritation flaring instantly.

“Why don’t you want me to wear this shirt?”

You groaned, dropping your head back. “Seriously? You’re denying me sugar and blackmailing me with it?”

Aaron’s eyes dragged down your body before his lips parted. “Well,” he began, “I get my sweetness from somewhere else.”

Your entire body locked up.

“Looks like you will too,” he added, holding the sugar just out of reach, “until you learn to be honest.”

You almost slammed your forehead into the cupboard behind you because oh my God.

For a full three seconds, you just stared at him, at the absolute audacity written all over his face, at the way he stood there, completely composed, smirking at you like he hadn’t just said the most heinous thing imaginable before denying you coffee.

And for what? A shirt?

“Great heavens, Aaron, it’s a stupid shirt,” you huffed, throwing your hands in the air. “Fine. Wear it. Wear it to work, wear it to meetings, wear it to court—hell, wear it to bed for all I care.”

His smirk deepened.

“Is that an official request?”

You jaw dropped, your hand flying to swat at his chest but he barely flinched.

“Or,” he continued, catching your wrist far too easily, “how about I compromise?”

Your brow lifted, suspicion creeping in.

His fingers traced idly over the inside of your wrist. “How about,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just above your pulse. “I wear it now — and you don’t have to admit what you did…”

You inhaled, a warning brewing on your lips but then —

“All you need to do,” he finished, his voice deceptively soft, “is just bend over the counter for me.”

dividers by cafekitsune

#aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner one shot #criminal minds #hotch #ssa aaron hotchner #Spotify #aaron hotchner x reader #mine🌟

1K notes · View notes

satoruxx · 10 days ago

Text

THE SPACE BETWEEN COMFORT AND CHAOS.

✧ PAIRING: wolf!toji fushiguro x f!reader | 9k words

✧ SUMMARY: this fic has always been 18+ but now especially I MEAN IT mdni, toji gets horny fr this time (like 2.5k words of just that), masturbation, toji gets turned on by love idk, rut/heat cycles, basically abo/hybrid mating tendencies, idk let me write my porn sigh, misogyny, um stalking, more hybrid mistreatment, talks of murder, the typical blood as a metaphor for love :/

✧ RHEYA'S NOTE: lol okay i'm vv sorry for the six month absence.. had to get that degree :33 but hopefully this chapter being 9k words and having horny toji makes up for it.. however pls do heed the warnings! i yap a lot about mating and other abo things so if that's not your thing pls scroll TT.. anyways i'm thanking you all so much for your patience !! hope you enjoy <33

prev. | series masterlist

"pause."

toji's form stops abruptly, and you bite back a chuckle when he turns to glare at you over his shoulder. "what?"

you grin, rocking back on your heels even as the rest of the street continues bustling around you. "i'm hungry."

the street's lights reflect over toji's facial features, and the way his jaw drops looks extra comical. "already? we just had dinner."

you frown, affronted. "that was like an hour ago."

toji snorts, rolling his eyes, though it comes off fonder than you expected it to. "so you want dessert?"

you nod eagerly, and a muted chuckle escapes the wolf as you catch up to his side. his jade eyes scan the lively streets critically, before falling on you again. "well, go crazy."

you immediately grab his wrist and tug him along, peering at different stalls and stores despite his protests. toji ends up just crossing his arms as he waits for you to buy your dessert (ice cream, you've decided. on a cone). he watches you grin as you pay and then hurry over to him, both of your hands full.

"here," you chirp, shoving a cone into his hand. a few melted drops stain his skin, still cold to the touch. "for you!"

he huffs. "kid, i told you i don't like sweets that much."

"that's what you say at first." you point your finger at him as you lick up the dripping sides of your own cone, gaze all too knowing. "but then you try it and realize you can't get enough."

toji rolls his eyes, but still obediently takes a lick. the flavor of chocolates and some other sweet confections burst across his tongue. it's strong, almost unbearably so, but then it settles on his palate and leaves a satisfaction in its wake. he can't help the subtle twitch of his lips, almost pleased, and you give him a smug smile.

(it seems like he will always be doomed when it comes to sweet things.)

you both walk home in relative silence, save for the occasional bit of chatter when you remember something you haven't told him. the streets are still bright and bustling with people trying to enjoy their saturday night, and toji feels a little more comfortable because it's so easy to blend in.

"are you sure you don't want me to hold those?" you ask pointedly, peering at all the shopping bags he's balancing on his arms. "aren't they heavy?"

he gives you a sidelong glance—affronted. "seriously? how weak do you think i am?"

you raise your free hand in surrender, biting back a laugh as you look at him with that same spark of a challenge in your eyes. "don't you sleep with a nightlight?"

toji's glare is boiling when it settles on you. "shut up and eat your ice cream."

you chortle, nudging his side with your elbow, and he groans under his breath. his fingers itch. it would be so fucking easy to just grab your free hand that's swinging listlessly at your side. the lines of his large, rough palm pressed against your smaller, gentle one. his fingers would curl around yours so gratefully, sweet and soft and yet still keeping you attached to him.

(he can't elaborate on how pleased the thought makes him. keeping you at his side, where he can always see you. where you can always see him.)

but all he can do is clench his fist, internally reprimanding himself for taking such liberties with you to begin with—even if it's just in his own head.

when you both make it back home, you hop in the shower quick and then toji takes his turn, so used to the mundane routine. he heads into the bathroom, not before making a sarcastic jab at your choice of pajamas for the night (doughnuts, printed in all shapes and colors), to which you just punch his arm as he cackles.

toji enjoys the feeling of the searing hot water burning into his skin. psychopathic maybe, but it feels comforting. it's not like he was given the luxury of hot water back when he was underground.

(that being said, even once he'd started living with you, it's not like he took hot showers often. in fact, he'd sometimes find himself relying on cold showers. especially when you were around him. a fleeting touch here, a meaningful glance there, and he'd find himself under pelting ice, breathing heavily through his nose until he's finally got himself under control.)

even now he tries not to think too deeply about that, focusing on enjoying his warm shower. he feels a little guilty when he stops to consider that you probably have no idea that his thoughts about you are so fucking depraved.

(poor thing. you don't deserve something so unhinged breathing down your neck.)

and unfortunately that's all he truly is. unhinged. an animal that lacks self control. and you are nothing of the sort. sweetness and good all bundled up into a human being. night and day, dark and light, sun and storm.

good and evil.

toji knows this well. knows that he has no right to let his claws tear into your perfect flesh and rip you to pieces. only monsters ruin perfection after all.

and perfection you were. he knows you don't really see yourself that way, but it's hard for him not to. reminds him of statue deities the old artists left behind to stand in museums under heavy spotlights. for people to flock to, eager and awestruck as they marvel at beauty like they've never seen it before. and he'd bow front of you, knees digging into rough earth, bloody and bruised as he reaches for your marbled fingers. letting stone gently tickle the sharp curve of his jaw, trace the scar cutting over his lips. maybe when he finally looks up at you he'll only remember your smile immortalized into the stone.

but toji is selfish. he doesn't want to worship a statue. he'd rather have you as is, life thrumming through your veins the way blood does. warmth bursting from under your skin and seeping into his own. and there's a part of him that knows you'd touch him so eagerly, ready to please and give him everything that he's ever wanted. you've already been so generous—giving and giving and giving some more. if he asked to let him take you apart, would you dare say no? would you let him sort through sinew and muscle until he's found your very core? would you let him hold your beating heart in his claws no matter how many times they nick the flesh and make you bleed?

you would, with stars in your eyes. in fact, there's a greedy part of him that thinks you'd do the same in return. tear him apart piece by piece with careful fingers until he's nothing but laid bare in front of you. press your flesh against ragged scars and bruised skin, rough with use and danger. if he focuses a little harder, he can feel your touch linger on those scars. your lips will follow, pressing deep against his blood, staining you wine red. but you'll just smile, light bursting behind your silhouette (angelic; awe-inspiring), and he'll once again be speechless in front of you.

(powerless in every sense of the word.)

this is followed by yet another dangerous thought—just how much of an animal would you let him be?

it would be easy to cage you between his arms, close enough that he can count every eyelash and see every shade in your skin. it would be easy to hook his claws around the waistband of the fabric that hid you away, press a searing kiss into the stripe left by the elastic. it would be easy to reduce you to a shaking mess, quiet whimpers escaping into the space only he shares with you.

it's ridiculous, how quickly his obsession bleeds into arousal. a thin line, his toes dancing over it. but he doesn't have it in him to dwell on the shame behind it. it's instantaneous, how heat starts thrumming through his veins at the thought of you, alighting every expanse of flesh and breaking through skin.

toji bristles, tail flexing even under the weight of the water.

you have to know what you're doing. weren't you ever warned about dangers like him? wasn't it common sense not to dangle prey in front of a predator's eyes?

(though, if he's being honest, toji doesn't feel like much of predator. if anything, you're the predator, circling him with attentive eyes that makes his hair stand on end. makes him want to expose his underbelly and let you pounce.)

it doesn't make sense to him, how his mind relates someone as sweet as you to a role so unflinchingly unkind. in reality, the only one who's fucked enough to take on that role is him. the true animal—unhinged, reckless, cruel.

the only one who'd dig his fangs into your flesh and tear you apart with no hesitation. let sweet blood drip from his lips, lapping away until not a drop is left. reverent—because he knows how valuable it is.

the problem is you'd let him.

welcoming, with open arms and a warm smile that makes him want to take even more. more and more until nothing is left.

(would you enjoy it? his claws encircling your fragile wrists and pressing them into sheets. heavy body weighing yours down, scarred muscle meeting soft flesh. fanged teeth digging into the tender meat of your lips. perhaps you'd tell him as much, quietly sighing into his mouth, singing his praises and whispering a sweet combination of toji please, more.)

blood rushes south, his cock hardening so quick it's almost humiliating. this had been an ongoing issue for months now. toji never thought anyone would have the ability to drive him up the walls like this. not that you had gone around deliberately trying to give him a hard time (no pun intended), but it'd become more difficult to ignore. even just noticing little things—like the texture of your fingertips against his skin or the way your scent bleeds into the walls of the house. or the way his height towers over you and forces you to look up at him in a way that is so easy to imagine in certain other scenarios. in between his legs, gentle hands on his knees, eyes peering through lashes, and swollen lips wrapped around his—

fuck.

he's rock hard now. thick and aching in a way that makes him feel almost ashamed because there's no reason he should be acting like a whelpling who's just been thrown into a rut for the first time. no, he'd been an adult for a long time. one that had gotten through a lot worse than this.

(it's seared into his brain, the way the faceless doctor from the underground would hand him suppressant pills a couple weeks before a rut was due to hit, eyeing him to make sure they were swallowed without any issues. his body remembers scratching at the stone ground of a cell as he snarled through the pain of one of his most natural instincts being manipulated through a drug.

it was normal for them. every hybrid there had experienced being put aside for a day or two, labeled "out of commission" for a fake sick period while they rode out their cycles with no help or relief.

what would've normally been a couple weeks of rut was cruelly suppressed into two short days. in that time, toji was confined to a special cell with no outside contact. no fights, no interactions with any other hybrid.

all he had was the time to get increasingly more feral and frustratingly turned on. and no way to deal with it but ruthlessly fucking his own fist until he was exhausted.

exhausted, but never satiated. never satisfied.

after all, the suppressant pills couldn't erase the nature of his instincts. the part of him that craved not for a simple release, but for the experience of sharing a rut with someone. craved forming a connection with another being who could not only provide relief through it, but also take every bit of devotion he had to offer. the pills were effective in dulling down the intensity of ruts and heats, and shortened the length of them tremendously. but even after all that, they were still animals—there was no denying it. no, none of it could be erased; the instinctual craving for a fucking mate.)

all of those years under suppressants had made toji forget what a real rut felt like. but if it's anything close to the way he'd been feeling lately, he was definitely screwed. his mind had become increasingly more creative, able to conjure up the most inappropriate images of his most shameful fantasies. and this issue could only be fixed by jacking off until cum was dripping between his fingers and he felt even more ashamed than he did before.

which is exactly what he's being pushed to right now.

it seems almost instantaneous the way his fist wraps around his cock, throbbing flesh hot and angry. he bites back a hiss at the sensitivity, the hot water doing nothing to help his already searing flesh.

toji knew to start expecting flare ups of arousal. after all it was just a part of his nature, but a headache all the same. unfortunately, when escaping that hellhole he called a home, he didn't think about what would happen to his body now that those bastards weren't pumping his body full of suppressants.

sukuna had once said that it was their way of stripping them of their natural instructs, domesticating hybrids without them even knowing. the thought had pissed both of them off, but the tiger was right. nothing inherently natural about controlling such a significant facet of their bodies.

if he had more time to prepare his escape, he would've broken into the medical wing and stolen a few years' worth of suppressants for himself.

hindsight. instead, now he has to deal with these admittedly intense pangs of carnal desire. he knows why. how long had it been since he'd had a natural rut? definitely not since eighteen, because that's when he'd given up his freedom and they started feeding him suppressants (after all, can't have a feral wolf in rut running free throughout the barracks; bad for business; too dangerous to control). it makes sense that his body is working on overdrive now that it's finally tasted freedom.

(finally tasted a sweet scent and warm smile.)

toji isn't sure what he'll do when his rut really hits. he had thought that maybe he could get away with lying to you, passing it off as some contagious sickness and locking himself in his room for a few days until it passed. but then he got nervous thinking about just how bad this rut might be, and he figured he probably wouldn't be able to keep it from you even with the walls acting as a barrier.

there was also the option of telling you the truth. you'd probably be so accepting about it; after all, you've been nothing but understanding. and it seems like you know more about hybrids than your fellow humans, so he's sure you wouldn't judge him for something he can't really control. and yet despite all that, the thought of telling you feels strangely nerve wracking. some strange implication behind admitting just how vulnerable he'd truly be (and some sick thrill at the unspoken boundary that could end up being crossed).

a boundary line that he had scratched into the floor over and over again. so intent on denying the thought of ever being that close to you.

and yet he can't deny it. can't deny that the idea of trailing his tongue over the swells and divots of your body doesn't make him salivate. like the thought of your lips pressing into the ridges of his neck doesn't make his ribcage jump.

(like the thought of you saying yes to him doesn't make him want to lay the entire galaxy at your feet. because saying yes to him means something more than you'll ever realize. means bonding yourself to him for a lifetime. souls intertwined, the way only a mate can be—)

toji's presses his forehead against the damp tiled wall, exhaling shakily. there's a reddish pink shade crawling up his skin, spreading like liquid gold. his fist feels like nothing special, but it still offers a semblance of relief from that stupid aching feeling. the warmth of the water and the remnants of soap makes it easy for his fist to slide back and forth, and god he's so fucking hard. he's starting off fast, but he doesn't really care. all he knows is that it feels good, and it's utterly humiliating to be jacking off in the shower when you're just across the hall, so he just wants to get it over with.

but his brain? his brain lingers, cruel in its torture.

if he closes his eyes, toji can picture you doing it instead. your hand's a lot smaller, but it's softer than his—not rough with scars and callouses and danger. maybe you'd touch him slower, not as stupidly fast as he is, not with the mission to just get off and be done. no, you'd probably touch him with intention, eager to take him apart. he'd be glad to let you do as you please, so pathetically ready for whatever you want from him.

his fangs dig into the scar cutting over his lip, almost hard enough to taste blood. he thinks about sinking those fangs into the open canvas of your neck, and his dick twitches in response, eager and swollen. he tightens his grip and twists his wrist in the same way he's always done, knowing it'll get him there quick.

toji's head presses harder into the tiled walls, and he blinks the water away from his eyes as he tries to focus. his brain conjures up a strikingly detailed image of you pressing your lips against his dick, and that itself shoots a searing hot flash of arousal up his spine. but that's not all. he imagines that you'd be a lot more generous with your touches than he is. you'd touch him all over, gentle fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw and over the slopes of his cheeks. down over the planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. gentle, the way only a lover's caress could be. chills run over his skin, the shiver so pleasurable it makes his breath hitch.

his high creeps up frighteningly fast, tingles shooting up the nerves in his body like he's never touched himself before. the muscles in his arm strain as heat pools in his lower belly, licking at his insides like an uncontrollable flame. the sound of the soapy water each time his hand moves is embarrassingly inappropriate, and he's briefly struck with the filthy thought of the type of sounds he'd be able to pull from your body if you just gave him the chance.

he wonders where to touch you to make you sing. where you'd be the most sensitive. what spots would have your voice catching on a strangled moan or have a breathy whimper escaping your throat. maybe you'd beg him for more, or perhaps you'd demand it from him. maybe you'd give in finally tell him what he's been dying to hear. in that same sweet voice, quietly sighing an earnest toji, i love y—

ropes of cum splatter between his fingers, and he's thankful that his muffled grunts are drowned out by the shower. his hips twitch, instinctual, and his dick pulses with every spurt, pelvic muscles contracting with effort. and throughout all of it, all he can think of is you.

(horrible, he is. so dirty, filthy.)

"ah fuck—" he feels messy, and hypersensitive. he stands there for a minute, catching his breath and doing his best to quell the mess in his head. it takes all but a minute to wash away the evidence of his crimes, but the thoughts of you still linger—infectious and deep.

(he thinks maybe he'll never be rid of you. you've latched onto him the way he has to you—parasitic and flesh deep. some part of him really likes that; a sick and twisted part.)

the wolf huffs out a tired sigh, standing under the pelting water like some kind of mindless idiot. what kind of freak was he? you offer him a place in your home and here he was jerking off in your shower with nothing but filth in his head. he's terrible; a dirty animal.

and yet, he feels good. feels good in the same way he feels when he sees you smile. or when you finally come back home. or when you grin at him from across the dining table as you watch him dig into his food. or when you accidentally fall asleep while watching some stupid movie.

his brain is foggy, and there's still a few aftershocks of pleasure tickling his nerves. but his guilt is smothered by that good feeling, pressed down into the deep recesses of his subconscious as he focuses on how you seem to have such an influence on his emotions.

(powerful, sneaky little thing.)

"hey toji?"

your muffled voice cuts through the pleasant haze in his head, and the panic is instant. he flinches so hard his elbow thuds against the shower wall, eliciting a yelp that he tries hard to recover from.

"y-yeah?!" he winces at the voice crack (trying to pretend he didn't just bust to the thought of you not a minute earlier), and clears his throat.

"i'm running low on period stuff so i'm gonna run down the street and grab some pads."

"i can go grab em if you want?" he replies, scrubbing his skin with a quickening pace, but then you chuckle and wave him off.

"no no it's fine. enjoy your shower. it's like two streets over, i'll be back soon."

"well…" he hesitates, but then nods even though you can't see him. "fine. be careful, y'hear?"

"yeah yeah…" your voice fades away as you head down the hall, and toji's shoulders relax. for a second he thought you might've somehow heard his less than appropriate little session, but instead you're just updating him on something he probably wouldn't have cared about many months ago. but here he is, ultimately caring so deeply.

hot water streams between toji's eyes, and he pushes his wet hair back with a tired huff. his ears fold under his palms, muffling all noises and for a second, the raging thoughts in his head subside.

(if it were up to him, he'd stay in this peaceful bubble for as long as he could. hoping, dreaming, praying that you'd join him in the space with no protests. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.)

****

the streets are a lot more deserted than they were a few hours prior, back when you were dragging toji to eat ice cream. now there's only faint chatter, the occasional squeals of laughter and excitement permeating the sounds of your slippers against pavement. normally you would've dragged toji out with you, especially so late on a saturday night, but since this is barely a 15 minute walk and you've been here countless times before, you decided not to bother him.

after all, you would grant toji as much peace as you could give him (god knows he deserved it and more).

there's some faint song playing over the speakers when you enter the store, instantly fading into muted background noise as you smile at the elderly man behind the counter. he recognizes you, a local frequenter, and smiles back before going back to the paper he was reading. your steps take you to the feminine products quickly, memorized route guiding your feet, and then you're scanning the shelves for familiar colors and brands.

the store is almost completely deserted, save for a few other likeminded individuals who needed a late night run. your fingers drift over boxes until you finally find the brand you like.

"excuse me? can you help me with this?"

the flinch that comes from you is almost embarrassing, but you're genuinely impressed by how quietly this guy seems to have snuck up on you. you glance over your shoulder carefully.

dyed blonde hair, dark roots, narrowed beady eyes. and yet a sheepish, awkward smile that makes your shoulders drop when you notice the box of pads in his head. you tilt your head questioningly, quirking a brow. he raises the box. "my girlfriend sent me out to get supplies but i have no clue what to pick for her…"

the helpless smile that crawls onto your face feels natural. at least he was trying, that in and of itself was a lot to ask for these days. "well do you know if she has a heavy flow or a light one?"

"heavy i think?" his brows furrow thoughtfully. "she says she bleeds a lot…"

"well then this is probably better for her than that." you reach for a different box on the shelf, one that's specifically labeled for handling heavy bleeding. "they're better for heavier flow. and they're longer so that should help her out."

he takes the box from you carefully, before smiling. something shines in his dark eyes. "thank you so much. i'm clueless when it comes to this stuff."

you chuckle, shaking your head. "no it's okay. at least you're trying."

"i would've been lost without your help. i'm naoya by the way." his smile gets a little more pointed, that gleam in his gaze brighter. he sticks his palm out expectantly.

warning bells start ringing in your head, but you don't know why.

"oh uh, nice to meet you…" you trail off, cautiously taking his hand. you're sure he's being polite, but you don't really understand why he's telling you his name. maybe it's paranoia, but you bite your tongue and hold off on giving him yours, something telling you that maybe you shouldn't be sharing that information.

the blonde doesn't comment on your lack of forthcoming, but something feels off. he looks like he knows something, like he's dissecting you on a surgical table. you let go of his hand, and awkwardly smile, before turning back to the shelf. his voice gets a little louder. "naoya zenin."

you freeze. the name washes over you, a brief sense of warmth, before it bleeds into something cold and jarring. you know this name well—heard it murmured from scarred lips a few times (in a voice that was filled with nothing but distaste.)

now if you think back, you can remember the same blonde hair and dark eyes being in the background of pictures you've seen on the internet. random news articles of what the head of one of the biggest companies in the country did that day. you don't know why you couldn't remember it earlier. maybe you just weren't expecting to see naoya zenin at your tiny little store so late at night. but he looks calm, as though it's all intentional, as though you should've expected to bump in to him like this.

the warning bells ring louder.

"so!" the blonde claps his hands together, brightly smiling as though he's catching up with an old friend. "how is he?"

you feel your tongue grow numb. an image of a moody scowl and twitching ears flashes behind your eyes, and you finally realize that warning bells had nothing to do with your own safety.

(too preoccupied with dedicating your care to someone else. someone who's probably patiently waiting for you back home.)

"who?" you're playing dumb, and you're sure he knows it because he just laughs and quirks his brow knowingly.

"you know who." he pins you with a level stare. "toji of course. my precious cousin."

you remain quiet, mind spinning. you're not sure if you should lie or continue playing dumb or just run and hope he isn't fast enough to follow. but naoya just continues on without a care in the world.

"let's stop beating around the bush." the blonde's smile drops, voice going serious in the same way you've seen it go on those television interviews. "i don't know how or why you're connected to him but i'm sure you know what he is by now."

"ah yes the wolf ears and tail really gave it away," you reply sarcastically, not even bothering to keep the bite out of your tone. naoya grins predatorily, making a show of leering at your blatant hostility.

"well yes, the poor beast was unfortunately born that way." naoya waves offhandedly, before his expression sours. "just my luck, he had to be born into my fucking family."

you snort out a scornful laugh, crossing your arms. "well it makes sense. i mean he might be the wolf, but it's pretty clear that dogs run in the family."

naoya pauses, before his smile returns. this time, it is icy, and yet there is spark of malice flickering in his eyes. "hah! you're more interesting than i thought. you look so boring from afar, you know?"

you glare at him irritably.

"but! you're much more entertaining than i expected. maybe that's why toji's hanging around you." naoya glances down at his fingernails with feigned interest, his voice dropping. "it's a shame he didn't teach you any manners though."

his hand drops to his side, and his expression darkens so fast it makes your head spin. "if it were up to me, i'd cut your tongue out and deliver it to him, you know?"

your bravado shatters, blood going cold. naoya seems to catch the change, so he just smiles again with that fake politeness. "but father says we should be nice and talk it out. so that's what i'm doing! i had no clue how i was going to find the time to chat with you, but i'm glad i caught you today."

you swallow, fingers creasing into the sleeves of your sweater.

"you know, when i told father i saw toji with you today, he was surprised. that freak doesn't seem like the type to get help from others, let alone humans like you and me." the blonde hums, amused. "but seems like he liked something about you. that, or you had something pretty valuable to offer."

you almost roll your eyes. clearly this asshole liked to hear himself talk.

"i mean i'm kinda surprised that you got close to that freak. don't you have any survival instincts?" he tuts, exaggeratedly pouting at you like you're nothing but a dumb child. the blood in your veins grows hot with indignation.

"he's not dangerous." your voice is resolute, stating a fact rather than an opinion. naoya observes you with mild interest. he hums thoughtfully, and you shift your weight not knowing what to do.

"you know, i saw you both being all cute on your little shopping trip." naoya's expression turns bored, almost like he's disgusted. he leans against the shelves haphazardly. "it's a shame i lost you both in the crowd as you left though. i would've stopped by at your house otherwise."

the threat is not lost on you. and something churns in your gut when you think about this man being anywhere near your house. near toji.

"i don't understand," you say, raising your head. you have no clue how you manage to keep your voice steady when your heart is beating so fast, but you'd rather not look too deep into that. "what exactly is it that you want from me?"

"you have…influence," naoya grins, peering at you. his expression is mocking. you think you might vomit. "i'm sure you can bat your eyes and convince my dear cousin."

when you swallow, it feels like rocks are sliding down your throat. "convince him to what?"

naoya's grin drops, eyes narrowing dangerously. "to go back to where he belongs."

your words tumble forth before you can even stop them, hot and indignant. "and what if he doesn't want to go back there?"

a burst of laughter escapes his throat, though it is sharp and unamused. "don't you get it? he doesn't have a choice. that's all he was born to do anyway."

you glare at him, teeth digging into your tongue so hard it hurts painfully. naoya's expression turns bright, a very dramatic flare of sick amusement filling his tone. "ohh i finally get it!"

he leans closer to you, smirking. "who would've thought my dear cousin went and found himself a girl!"

the traitor organ sitting in your ribcage gives an eager jump, getting distracted by its original threat. you steel your expression. "what are you even talking about?"

"no need to play coy. i understand!" he raises his arms like he means no harm, a greasy smile still splitting his face. "that just means you really should be able to influence him."

"you don't even know what you're saying." you roll your eyes, turning away from him, though you still keep his figure in your peripheral. "it's not even like that. we're barely even friends. the most i would say is acquaintances."

the lie bleeds through your teeth easily, molten lava. worth it if it means keeping him safe. away from the treacherous vines that seem so intent on chasing him and pinning him down.

"oh sure." the blonde chuckles, looking at you with a sharp mockery in his gaze. it's obvious he doesn't believe you, especially with how quickly his tone turns chilling. "i don't really give a damn who you are to him. let him know what he needs to do, or we're gonna have a problem."

"and if i can't convince him?"

naoya shrugs casually, but then he pins you with a stare that makes you feel like your bone marrow is turning to lead.

"well then, we'll just have to see what happens, won't we?" he says nothing more, but the implication is very clear. the blonde then glances down at the pads in his hands. his expression goes disgusted once more, and he haphazardly chucks the box back onto the shelf. "ew…" he mutters, dusting his hand over his coat. his eyes find you again, and then that same smile appears once more. "anyways, i'll definitely see you around! get home safe!"

your pulse is thudding wildly as you watch him leave, a heavy onset of nausea making your stomach churn like never before. the hidden threats were so carefully placed, but not obscure enough for you to miss, and that scares you even more because it says that this guy is just that confident. you stand in the aisle for another two mins, mind running in a thousand different directions. suddenly you feel strangely exposed, like you've been placed into a glass box for someone to observe your every movement.

(suddenly, you feel completely and utterly alone. scared and vulnerable and in real danger. suddenly, all you can think about is the brooding wolf you've left at home, and how seeing him is the only solution to making these feelings go away.)

you're out the door before you even realize it. your legs carry you back in the direction of your home, but your paranoia leads you to take as many convoluted turns that you can think of (because you can't shake the feeling of those beady brown eyes digging into your shoulder blades).

naoya zenin. you don't know how he shares blood with toji. if you squint hard enough you can maybe find some similarities in features. but still, you cannot understand how someone so outwardly horrible can be related to someone like toji. toji is not warm, not inherently sweet. but he is good, and that much is obvious to you. the same way you know this naoya is bad, with nothing but negative intentions.

when you finally reach your doorstep, you keep your head down and slip inside. your fingers double check every lock, every window. your mouth feels dry and there's too many weaknesses and he's definitely still out there and—

"hey."

the voice makes you jump, and when you look up, toji is staring at you—confused. his brow quirks as he peers at you through his wet hair. "well that was dramatic."

you sigh, quelling the thundering of your heartbeat. sweat beads on the skin of your palms, and you drag them over the fabric of your pants. "you just scared me."

"oh yeah, i'm so fucking terrifying." he sits on the couch, aggressively drying his wet hair with a towel. you snort, grinning as your eyes trail over the way his pointed ears fold under the weight of the fabric.

"shaking in my boots." toji rolls his eyes at your reply, and you pull off your coat with a quiet chuckle.

(honestly a little jarring how easy it is for you to relax in his presence. how easy it is to start smiling again.)

"i thought you went to get supplies?"

you freeze, glancing over your shoulder. "w-what?"

he motions to your empty hands. "you didn't get anything?"

your stomach drops. "oh um…" you clear your throat. "they were closed. so i came back."

it's almost laughable how quick the lie slips from your mouth; sickening, really, because it shouldn't be quite so easy to lie to someone who obviously trusted you. you've felt guilty before, but not like this. this goes past the dull surface ache and settles as a deep stinging, fraying your nerve endings. maybe it's because you know that you have no right to keep this from him; after all, it's his family. but something about the gleam in naoya's eyes makes your hair stand on end. if it were up to you, you'd stand in front of toji with a smile even with knives raining down your back.

the way toji's brow arches tells you that he's a little confused, maybe a little skeptical, but he shrugs and turns back to the tv, turning it on with a flick of his finger. "well okay then. i can grab some tomorrow on my way back home."

you inhale through your nose, forcing a smile. there's really no point stressing. naoya can't do much to you to begin with, not without starting something potentially dangerous with toji. so you just push it to the back of your mind and take a seat next to the grumpy wolf you realize you would do anything for.

(even lie.)

"thank you, toji," you say earnestly. the wolf gives you a sidelong glance, ears twitching at the sound of your voice, and he scoffs.

"whatever. it's not like i haven't done it before. quit bein' dramatic."

you grin, watching him cross his arms and sulk like an overgrown puppy. for some reason, his expression settles the chaos in your chest and you decide that whatever problem it is, you'll do anything it takes to keep it from him.

(perhaps it's silly, thinking that you could easily stand in front of a hybrid capable of tearing you to pieces and expect to be able to protect him. but you know he would do the same for you, and that's why it feels all too natural. easy.)

you think you will always be willing to offer him whatever space you have left. comfort, chaos, and everything in between.

****

toji doesn't consider himself a very intelligent person. not to say that he's dumb. no, he thinks he excels at street smarts. after all, no one survives a life like his without a brain.

but in terms of emotional intelligence.. well he doesn't feel all that confident. yet another area where he feels like you're a lot better than he is.

it scares him a little, how fast you can read him. how you can pick apart his every expression and behavior like it comes naturally to you. and then how you're able to to adapt and give him exactly the response he needs. whether it's sweet comfort or rational courses of action—it's perfect.

(you're perfect.)

but he's not like you. he cannot pick people apart, can't look at them and figure out what they're thinking. cannot read them like an open book the way you can.

but right now, he feels like something is wrong.

it's been almost a week since he's noticed this change in behavior. you've been looking over your shoulder like you're in some kind of horror movie. eyes constantly scanning your surroundings, fingers fiddling with the window locks. even peering outside through the gaps in your curtains.

you're nervous, he realizes. paranoid, like something's chasing you. whatever it is, toji understands that he doesn't like the way worry looks on you. in fact, he hates it. hates the way his ears can pick up your increased heartrate. hates the way he can smell the spikes of anxiousness in your scent.

he's trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. trying not to be nosy and let you deal with your own issues like an adult. but then his mind wonders if there's something really wrong, if someone's giving you a hard time or stressing you out, and then he just gets angry.

(don't you know that he adores you? don't you know that you need only say the word and he'd kill a man for you? don't you know the amount of power you have over him?)

regardless, he's still trying to be a good housemate and respect your boundaries. but it's becoming increasingly more difficult to watch you come home everyday like there's someone chasing after you. even now, he watches you double check the door locks before you hurry over to your windows. double check the locks, tug the curtains shut, peer outside through the gaps.

only when you're done do your shoulders relax, and when you turn around, you jump when you notice him standing there staring at you. the surprise bleeds into a quick, barely there smile. "oh hey! how was your day?"

you don't even wait for his answer before you're turning around to hang your coat up, and that's enough to make him crack.

"alright what the fuck is wrong with you?" toji's voice cuts through the silence like ice, and you internally wince. defensive walls rise quickly, and then you're turning on him with fire in your eyes.

"excuse me?"

toji's bulky arms flex as he crosses them, staring down his nose at you completely unfazed. "you've been hiding something."

"i—"

"—and don't even bother tryin' to deny it. it's written all over your face."

the wolf watches you inhale heavily, and the crease in between your brows makes his fingers twitch (eager to reach out and smooth them down carefully).

you sigh, defeated. "remember last week when i went to the store that one night?"

toji nods.

"i, um, bumped into someone there." your fingers rub over your arms in an attempt to be soothing, and toji's frown deepens in tandem.

"who?"

you glance at him. guilt gnaws its way up your esophagus. "um, naoya zenin."

toji's reaction almost makes you vomit. his ears stand up straight, tail going rigid, and the anger that contorts his expression makes you shiver. "what?!"

his voice has taken on a timbre you haven't heard before, an inherently primal growl ripping through his vocal cords in a way that sounds almost painful. you wince, trying to placate by backtracking.

"i was gonna tell you—"

"what the fuck did he say to you?!—"

"he just—"

"that fucking creep i swear to god—"

"toji." your palms find his forearms in this strangely natural way that makes his stomach churn. steadying, stable, everything that he lacks. "please. can we just relax and sit down?"

his ears droop slightly, but he still maintains his heated glare. not that he's necessarily angry at you. but his palms feel too sweaty and his heartbeat feels too fast and his stomach feels too heavy. still, he forces himself to breathe deep through his nose, quelling the instinctual rise of feral panic that seems to want to burst from his veins. he lets your hands, barely able to fit around the width of his arms, maneuver him to the couch.

when you take a seat next to him, he can smell the nerves.

(spiked; hints of bitterness hiding between layers of sugary sweet.)

more so, you look guilty. it briefly strikes him that perhaps you feel bad about keeping this from him. he's then struck with a similar feeling when he realizes he's kept something from you too. this is all followed by a searing streak of anger when he remembers the reason why you both have been hiding things from one another.

(maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live up to their expectations of him. be the real curse of the zenin bloodline. they always said he was an uncontrollable animal. maybe it would be okay to finally prove them right. have his family's life force dripping red rivulets through his pointed claws. taste its metallic tinge between his sharpened teeth.)

"he came up to me at the store," you start, wiping down your palms on your thighs. "he already knew that i knew you. said he saw us walking around that night shopping."

toji's claws dig into the flesh of his palm painfully. the memory is now tinged with something poisonous. always breathing down his neck.

"he was talking about how his father was surprised that you were even interacting with another human. and then he said it was a shame he lost us in the crowd because otherwise he'd come to our house for a visit."

you watch the wolf next to you clench his fists, and your lips slant.

"what else did he say?" toji tries to keep his voice even, but it comes out strange. your teeth dig into the flesh of your bottom lip painfully.

"he… he said that since i was clearly c-close to you, i should convince you to do something."

"and what's that?"

you pause, before letting the bitter words spill. "convince you that's it's time to go back where they want you to be."

"that fucking asshole!" toji's voice is akin to a roar, and you wince as you watch him stand and snarl like he's been beaten. he pushes his claws into his hair and grits his teeth. "how fucking dare they even—"

another pained growl rips from his throat. the sound makes your stomach coil, and before you can stop yourself, you're reaching out to grab his arm. his head whips around at the contact, baring his teeth with a snarl as he ears point upright. but then he sees your expression, sad and tired, and his shoulders drop immediately.

"you know that i don't want you to go, right?" you ask him quietly. toji stares at you, long and hard. his jade eyes are bright with anger, but there's a hint of fear in there that makes you want to cry.

"… you sure?" his voice is so quiet you almost have to strain to hear it. your fingers tighten around his forearm. even with the way he is standing over you, you think he looks smaller. like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"i'm sure." your voice is resolute, like it's always been when it comes to him. his exhales slowly, and you smile at him in this tragic way that makes him want to rip his eyes out.

(you're too good. too trusting. too confident in the fact that he won't lead to your downfall.)

"kid," he calls out, voice strained.

"hm?"

"i gotta tell you somethin' too."

you frown, but then you're pulling him back to the couch (right next to you; close enough that your scent wraps around him once more—warm, blanket-like), and then you're looking at him earnestly. "what is it?"

he tells you all about his run in with naobito zenin. details the angry confrontation in which his stupid uncle had warned him to go back to where he belonged, tired of the wolf's running game. how the old man had been close to calling his men to come get him before toji had resorted to nearly crushing his windpipe in retaliation. how naobito had warned toji that hurting him was a punishable offense that would lead to him being locked up again. and how, at the end of it all, toji had told him that it would be worth it if it meant being rid of the stupid zenins once and for all.

and then he finishes by telling you that his uncle was so convinced toji would end up back there on his own anyway, because he was nothing more than a mindless animal.

(he carefully leaves out the threat naobito made about putting him down. and he also leaves out how none of that scared him more than the idea of his family's clutches ultimately reaching you.)

you sit there and listen with an expression that bleeds horror. the divot in your brow is so deep toji worries it may become permanent, and your eyes shine with a sadness he's never seen before. when he's done speaking, you exhale shakily.

"kid, i'm never gonna be rid of them," he says quietly. "they're always gonna be breathing down my neck. which means they're always gonna be breathing down yours too."

you nod slowly, eyes distant as you stare at the edge of the coffee table like it's got all the answers in the world.

"there's nothing i can really do." he finishes with that final statement.

you chew on your bottom lip quietly. something is working behind your eyes, calculating, evaluating. "you threatened him?"

toji scoffs. "of course i fucking did. threatened to kill him and his brat son."

you turn to him, eyes alight. "would you?"

toji's heart leaps into his throat. he will never deny the amount of times he's thought about it. since the day he was old enough to realize his own brute strength. every day he was thrown into that damn cell. every fight where he would scratch and claw just to live another day. and every day since the old man stopped him in the streets.

the thought has lingered in the back of his mind, poisonous. rotting. because he knows that it is the only way. he knows that they deserve it. he knows that it is the one path that could lead him to peace.

(that could lead to him wiping the worry from your eyes.)

it's always been there. and now you…

"you can't be serious?"

"toji, answer the question. would you do it or not?"

"of course i would!" he fires back quickly, before taking a steadying breath. "you don't get it, kid. i got no love for them. been dreaming about ripping those bastards apart since the day i was smart enough to realize they only saw me as an animal."

you nod slowly, still chewing on your lip. something settles behind your eyes, and the thrill it sends up toji's spine is almost sadistic. your voice is flat when you speak, but it does not waver. "toji… if there was something that came into my life that was threatening me and my loved ones. our livelihood, our safety, our security… i wouldn't really be thinking about morals anymore."

toji stares at you mutely, and you continue. "so… if there's an unwelcome guest showing up at the door, and we've asked them—no, begged them—to leave us alone and they haven't listened… then maybe the only thing left to do is force them to leave."

his mouth runs dry, and simultaneously, his ribcage jumps. you're looking at him with all the conviction in the world, and something in his deep complicated web of feelings for you shifts on its axis.

(you are sweet. you are peace and comfort and good. you are innocent and untouched by the horrors of the world in the best way. you are completely humane and understanding and you give nothing but kindness. you've offered him the world and he's gratefully cradled it in his palms. which is why this deeply root loyalty, this protectiveness, this affection—it has all come so naturally to him.

he would show mercy if you wanted him to. he would rip apart limbs if you wanted him to. he would dig a knife into his own intestines if you wanted him to.

but this. this is something he's wanted; dreamed about for as long as he can remember. cursed himself for thinking about because it makes him evil and wrong and horrible. but here you are—giving him support. telling him that you want it too.

this utterly wrong and animalistic thing that makes him the monster.

maybe you aren't all that pure. maybe he's the one who corrupted you. but then he thinks back to the fire in your eyes, that same resolute determination in your tone. and then he thinks that it couldn't have been him. it had to have come from within you, this desperate and complicated decision.

and then toji realizes that the reason it appeared is because you value him so highly. because on your moral scale, it is worth it to sin if it means keeping him safe. it is worth it to be animalistic if it means having him by your side.

he wants to envelop you in his arms. find your lips and breathe his own soul into you because he knows you'd keep it safe. knows you're willing to do whatever it takes for him.

the same way he is for you.

he loves you, he thinks. it's just that simple.)

and that's all the confirmation he needs.

taglist: @h4wkz @babyblue0t7 @en-happiness @ourfinalisation @lymsfm @mahoubitch @teddybeartoji @deedeeznoots @polarbvnny @starmapz @nonamebbsblog @echodead @totallygyomeiswife @venussdovess @your-mum3000 @haydensjw @abadbitchblogs @marajafarli @twinky-wink @t4ters @17362939 @shadowlover321 @koko-1025 @daniella666girl @d1cklethep1ckle @an-ever-angry-bi @hibiscy @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @thisisew @crystaldreamland @namjooningera @call-memissbrightside @chugao @szired @keiva1000 @yoongies-bby @giamee @hypnoctiis @nappingmoon @tananaxx @twinklingbeautifulstars @friedchicken-tendou @cupcaketeddybehr @sp1racle @ninani-nanina @entumtum @huuuhwhaat @satorushousewife @moonlitreveri3 @seren-dipitt

if you asked to be on the tag list but don’t see your name here, it’s either because your blog was blank/empty or didn’t have an age. if your name is here but you didn’t get a tag notif, check your privacy settings !!

701 notes · View notes

strawberry-nugget · 1 month ago

Text

Based on the ‘somebody point me to the best ass eater’ tiktok trend

Tags // Warnings: MDNI, Suggestive, Crack

Characters are 20+

It’s Wednesday afternoon, that dooming hour after a 10 hour long patrol that included everything a hero should do in the span of a week. It has left you and Katsuki beaten and bruised, tired, and grimy all over your hero costumes and he has —rightfully so— spent the fifteen minute drive from his agency to your favourite restaurant whining because he will have to have his car detailed again.

Nonetheless, you’ve been doom scrolling on Tiktok from the second he stepped out of the car to get you the food he promised you; all you can eat sushi, boba tea for the drive back home and maybe a sweet treat that you hope and pray is strawberry mochi.

You're scrolling through endless edits, ‘get ready with me’s, pets, babies and yet the only thing that gets your attention is that new silly couple trend.

“Somebody point me to the best ass eater” the song chants and numerous girls have recreated the trend with their boyfriends and it’s just so silly, so stupid, so so funny that you wanna do it too.

You look around the parking lot, scanning to see if there’s any people around but it’s for sure empty, given the fact that it’s too early and you click on the sound on one of the TikToks and decide to set your phone on Katsuki’s phone holder on the dashboard.

And right on cue -perfect fucking timing- there goes your hero, with two big fat paper bags filled with food on one hand and two boba teas on the other. You can’t help but smile an evil grin as he sprint marches toward the car.

He opens the door, practically collapses in the seat, and you scrunch your eyes as you smile at him when he hands you your tea before smooching your lips. “Boba for my girl” he smiles against your lips and then, kisses you again.

“Katsuki gimme your phone baby” you ask and reach your open palm at him.

“Sure—“ he hands you his phone, presses his lips into a thin awkward smile as you go to open Spotify. Then his eyes fall finally on your phone on the dashboard.

“wait, the fuck is your camera open?”

“Shhhh I wanna film something”

He sighs, deeply, almost comically, rubbing his face with his palm.

“Can’t we go home first, i'm so tired” he whines, his voice cracking like you asked him to do another ten hour long patrol, but you just giggle, sipping on your tea before setting it down.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” you grin, unlocking his phone and queuing up your shared playlist—because ambiance matters, obviously.

Katsuki groans again, louder this time, and slouches into the seat like he’s trying to merge with it. “If it’s another cutesy dance thing, I’m crashin’ this car into the nearest pole.”

“You just got this car”

“And i'm damn serious”

“You say that every time, but then you eat up the comments when they say you look hot,” you quip, tapping through TikTok with laser focus. “It’s not a dance. It’s just a sound. A trend. Just trust me.”

“No,” he says immediately.

You ignore him and cue up the sound, and before he can protest again, your phone blasts from the dashboard: “Somebody point me to the best ass eater—”

Katsuki freezes like someone’s just shot him with a tranquilizer dart. One eye twitches, while he's giving you the nastiest side eye.

“What the fuck—” he starts, but you’re already cackling, doubled over in your seat, wheezing into the straw of your boba like it’s life support.

“You’re deranged,” he mutters, ears red, one hand suddenly gripping the steering wheel like he’s going to need it for emotional support. He bumps his forehead against it once, twice, then groans like he’s aging in dog years.

You pause the video and open a new draft under the sound, already giggling as you press record.

“Please, let’s go again. At least try to pretend you’re eating my ass.”

There’s not even a beat of hesitation—even if the phone is still recording, Katsuki reaches, lunges over your seat, full chest-over-console, arms reaching like a man possessed and makes it fly flat onto the back seat and grabs both of your hips with his palms to shimmy you towards him. He leans, leans fucking over your thighs with his mouth all open like a horn dog.

He’s fully tilted, upper body hunched over your thighs like you’re the dinner you’re supposed to be having at home. His mouth is still open, stupid and dramatic, like some depraved cartoon wolf seeing red.

“KATSUKI WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” You’re shrieking now, half laughing, half horrified by how fast of a turn this took.

“WHAT!?” He yells, sounding genuinely offended.

You’re laughing so hard, you're wiping actual tears from your eyes, when Katsuki, very slowly, very cautiously, says

“You’re askin’ me to eat your ass here.”

You choke.

Literally choke. You’re coughing into your boba straw. Katsuki’s immediately panicked, reaching across the console to slap your back softly and manspreads into the driver’s seat

“No! Katsuki—no! That’s not—” You’re laughing and wheezing at the same time, eyes wild, mouth burst open so wide that your jaw could just drop to the floor “That’s not what it is! It’s just a stupid TikTok sound!”

“But the sound said—” He furrows his brow like he’s solving math “It said—somebody point me to the best ass eater. You told me to pretend I'm eating your ass. How else am I supposed to do it then?”

You start giggling again and grab his bicep. “Yes, but it’s not literal! That’s just the trend! You point at your boyfriend when the sound plays and look really smug, maybe pretend you’re eating something out of my hand. It’s supposed to be funny!”

He blinks, pouts, fierce vermillion eyes stare deeply into your soul, like you’ve offended him once again.

“So… you’re not asking me to eat your ass.”

“NO, KATSUKI.”

“Shame” he says, lips pursing to the side of his face as he throws his hands in the air in surrender. Smirking. Eyes wide in condensation.

“KATSUKI- I wouldn’t ask you to do that in broad daylight, at a parking lot” You’re breathless from laughing, stomach sore and tears streaking your already grimy cheeks as you swat at his arm. “And wait, hold up—What do you mean ‘shame’?”

Katsuki just shrugs, forges a motherfucking stank face and says “Woulda done it.”

You nearly spit out your drink. “IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING LOT?”

He raises an eyebrow and deadpans, “You were the one who pulled out the camera and told me to pretend.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” You’re halfway between scolding and wheezing, already imagining the absolute clownery that’s going to flood your comments once people realize what just happened if you were to post that video.

He leans back against the driver’s seat with a long, satisfied exhale, smug little smirk curling at the corner of his mouth like he just won a fight no one else was in.

“I’m just sayin’. If you wanna do stupid internet trends, don’t blame me when I commit to the bit.”

“KATSUKI”

“Ahhhh” he whines, voice cracking again, mocking “Katsuki this, Katsuki that, just get on all fours and let me get to work”

“Shut up bro, what the hell”

He raises his brow at that, latching his forehead to yours. Had it been any other time you’d gulp, but he cracks a laugh, lets you know it’s not that serious… yet.

“Call me bro one more time” His lips twitch. “See what happens.”

Katsuki bites his lower lip, his nose bumps into yours. You pretend to shove him away, scrunching your face in fake disgust, but he pulls you back in, huge biceps trapping you in between his arms as he places ugly sounding kisses to the top of your head, your cheeks, your face. Anywhere he can land them, seriously.

“Im all dirty and musty from patrol you freak”

“Mmmmmmm” he smiles deviously, licking his lips.

You slap your palm over his mouth before he can say whatever ungodly thing he was about to follow that noise with.

“You need to be stopped.” You’re fully hot in the face now, not from any sort of flustered romantic nonsense—no, from the secondhand humiliation of knowing that your camera was absolutely still recording when he started making mating sounds over you telling him you’re absolutely musty after patrol.

Then again, Katsuki licks your palm.

“OH MY GOD—EW” You rip your hand away and flail, smacking the dashboard. “You’re disgusting. Depraved. Unwell.”

“‘S what you signed up for,” he says proudly, smug as hell and sipping on his tea like he didn’t just try to go full National Geographic in the front seat of his car. In front of a recording camera too.

“You’re not even denying it anymore.”

He shrugs. “I’m a man of the people. They want ass eater representation.”

“The people?! You didn’t even know about this trend a second ago, what people!?”

“My fans,” he says, nodding solemnly.

“Your fans? Katsuki, you have one fan and she’s sitting right here rethinking her entire life.”

He hums again, but this time it’s smug and low, and he wiggles his brows in a way that tells you he’s about to say something that will absolutely get him banned from the bed for tonight.

“So you are my fan…” he laughs, falling back on his seat, pulling that silly face he thinks is the sexiest thing on the planet—newsflash, it is. He looks at you, up and down, licking and biting his lips “Sorry sweetie, I don't sleep with groupies.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “I’m going to make you sleep on the couch.”

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

754 notes · View notes

talon-the-hawk · 2 months ago

Text

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Entertainment

TW: I mean...kinda yandere behaviour...but it's a yandere fic so like if you're not into that why are you reading this far into the post? 🥲

It started off small.

A hushed giggle from Garfield as he watched something on his phone just out of Dick's line of sight.

An amused snort as Roy scrolled his phone in boredom when chilling at one of Jason's safehouses.

Konner and Jon commenting on "a new stream they saw" while over at the manor, leaving Damian and Tim confused and oblivious.

Your popularity in the content creation community was growing rapidly by the day, with your range of viewers extending out of Gotham and moving world wide. You gained a steady community of fans, with some even sending you gifts and letters. Of course, you made sure to use a P.O box to conceal your address in case someone somehow linked you to your past life as Bruce Wayne's child. Through maintaining a semi-regular streaming schedule mixed with uploading to youtube every month left you with quite a chunk of cash in your pocket. So much infact, that you soon decided to drop the couple of college courses you were taking to pursue your content creation career full time.

With the added fame came opportunities to collab. Soon enough you were streaming with the people you used to idolize. It was almost a power trip, the way you ended up being a figure that was adored so commonly.

Adored. Shown affection, unlike when you were with them.

Surprisingly enough, Damian was the first to find out. Damain: the little brother who had taunted you endlessly, mocked you in front of everyone, and showed little remorse for any of it.

Jon was giggling on his phone, eyes stuck to his screen as he watched a youtube video of some sort during one of their many hangouts.

" Tch, can't you put that device down for one moment?" Damian huffed, looking over at the boy.

"Aw, lighten up. Come watch with me." Jon chirped, motioning for Damian to sit down next to him. He reluctantly agreed, posture still slightly too stiff as he sat down on the couch next to Jon. The youngest Kent propped his phone up in his hands, eager to show his friend the newest content creator he had found. His finger hit the play button, and it only took a couple seconds for Damian's eyes to narrow in recognition.

Surely not.

It sounded like you. There was no mistaking it, the same soft timbre that he would make choke up with tears now rang out confidently in an enrapturing way. Each word seemed to catch the complete attention of everyone who watched, bringing a sort of comfort that settled itself in his ribs.

When did they get so popular? Does Bruce know his child is building a reputation anonymously?

It was clear to Damian when he looked over at Jon that the youngest super had no idea it was you, and he supposed that made sense. Often times when Jon came over Damian made a bigger show of ostracizing you from the rest of the family. Now that he really thought about it, he realized that Jon had never really heard you speak in person. You had always tried to get out of Damian's vicinity whenever you spotted him, especially when he was with Jon.

Jon clearly saw he was lost in thought, snapping his fingers in front of Damian's face.

"Hello? Earth to Damian?"

Damian's gaze just slowly returned to the small device.

"I need to go find someone, I'll be back."

For Dick, he was doom scrolling on instagram one night after patrols when a certain reel made him pause. It was a clip one of your viewers had taken from a stream a while back, one where a fan of yours had made a huge donation. The donation requested you to share some sort of talent you had, and as per your usual antics you focused your camera on your new bedroom (still wearing a mask and sunglasses to keep yourself as unidentifiable as you could) and prepared.

"God, this is embarrassing. I actually learned how to do this a while back in order to try and impress some of my family, but that's a story for another time-" You snorted, before flipping over to walk on your hands. You did a little lap around your space before eventually standing back up, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of your nose to make sure they didn't fall.

There was no mistaking it was you, he'd recognize his baby bird anywhere. But what he wasn't prepared for was your small show of talent. He tried to recall any previous instances of you showing an interest in any sort of acrobatics, but his mind came up blank. Matter of fact, he was struggling to come up with a recollection of any of your hobbies.

Surely you've talked to him about something you were interested in before, no? He was your older brother, he should know about your hobbies.

Dick racked his brain, trying to come up with any memory of even holding a proper conversation with you, and his guilt seemed to increase every time he came up empty. He vaguely recalled a time you had asked to show him "something you thought he would like", but he had brushed it off as it was close to the time he was set to patrol.

He bit down on his bottom lip in guilt, clicking on the caption of the reel and trying to see if the person had tagged your official account. They hadn't (which honestly he found insulting, the clip was your hard work and this pathetic internet leech couldn't even be bothered to give you credit-) but in the hashtags he found what he assumed to be the same you went by on most platforms. He quickly typed it into his search bar, letting out a gasp at just how popular you seemed to be.

His baby bird was really taking after him in the entertainment industry. Although it wasn't really the same thing, Dick couldn't help but feel like he was part of your inspiration to become a famous personality.

He spent the next couple of hours carefully combing through your content, memorizing every reoccurring joke you held with your audience and how you acted as a safe space for your community.

God, he really needed to go find you and tell you how proud he was of your success.

Author's note:

Hey y'all! Dw, dw...Jason and Tim's reactions are coming soon lol :p hope you guys enjoy the chapter and please lemme know what you think! Ooh, also if you have any title recommendations for this fic, that would be baller because I've been really struggling to find one hehe!

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato @icefox8155 @wizzerreblogs @darling-dearesttt @depressed--therapist @crazycaoticsimp @briceericeee

#batfam x neglected reader #batfam x reader #no beta we die like men #yandere batfam x neglected reader #yandere batfam x reader #gender neutral reader

761 notes · View notes

throttleheart · 2 months ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Stuck With You

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader TW: panic attack, mention of past panic attacks Genre: pre-relationship, comfort, fluff, slow-burn

Word Count: ~4.2k

Summary: You hate heights, Lando suggests to go on a Ferris wheel.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You’ve been afraid of heights your whole life.

Not the “ooh I feel tingly on a tall building” kind. The real kind. The kind that takes your breath away—not in the poetic way, but the terrifying, can’t-get-air-in kind.

You’ve hated it since you were little. Since that day on the mall’s glass staircase, when your knees locked up halfway up and your mom had to carry you the rest of the way while strangers whispered.

And you’ve been good at avoiding it since. Until now.

Until him.

Lando.

Who asked, with that careless sparkle in his eyes, “Wanna hit the fair this weekend?” like it was the most casual thing in the world. And you’d smiled—smiled—and said yes before your brain could catch up to your trauma.

Because it was Lando. Because his laugh made your stomach feel like a shaken soda can. Because you’d been toeing that line between friendship and something else for weeks, and this felt like a chance.

You thought: Stick to the ground. Eat something. Win a stupid prize. Don’t go near the rides. Easy.

But of course. Of course he’d want the damn Ferris wheel.

“Tallest one in the country,” he’d said two days later, scrolling through his phone and grinning. “You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t even blinked. “I’m not great with them,” you said, keeping your voice light. “But I’ll be okay.”

Cool. Casual. Lie of the year.

And now here you are.

At the fair.

Your legs feel heavy as you walk behind him, pretending to take in the lights and sounds—when really, you’re hyperaware of the giant, rotating circle of doom looming in the sky.

Lando turns around with a prize in hand—a plush pink star with a goofy smile—and hands it to you.

“Thought it looked like you,” he teases. You raise a brow. “I have a derpy face?” He laughs. “No. You’re just soft and adorable.”

Your cheeks warm. You’re distracting me on purpose, you think. And it’s working.

Until he grabs your hand and pulls you toward the ride. And the Ferris wheel comes into full view.

You stop walking.

You don’t mean to. Your body just… halts.

Lando turns, confused. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. “Totally.”

But your stomach is already flipping like it’s in a washing machine.

You step forward again, carefully. The closer you get, the more you feel it: that pressure in your chest, the tingling in your legs, your brain whispering: don’t get on.

But Lando’s watching you. His hand brushes yours again. His smile is so wide.

You tell yourself: Be cool. Just breathe.

—

The gondola is smaller than expected. Open sides, metal bars, the whole thing creaks with every shift of weight.

Lando steps in first. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Just—hang on.”

You glance at the seat beside him. Your chest tightens.

“I’ll sit across from you,” you blurt.

He frowns, already moving to scoot over. “Why?”

“Just feels more balanced that way.”

He doesn’t question it. Just shifts, no fuss. “Sure. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

You sit. Slowly. Fingers gripping the bench like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

The gondola lurches slightly as the door closes.

You flinch.

Lando notices. His smile dims a little.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

You flash him a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yup. Just enjoying the ride already.”

He chuckles. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”

The wheel starts to turn.

You inhale sharply. Keep your gaze down. Your knee starts to bounce—small, controlled. You press your hand against it. Still trying to play it cool.

He leans back, arms resting on the sides. “You ever done one of these before?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Once.”

A pause.

“Didn’t go great,” you admit.

Lando tilts his head. “How come?”

Your throat tightens. But you answer. “Middle school. Friends forced me on. Then rocked it—on purpose. Thought it was funny.”

Lando’s jaw tenses. “That’s horrible.”

“They thought it was hilarious. I had a full-blown panic attack. They laughed the whole time.”

He’s quiet. Then says, soft and firm: “That’s not funny. That’s just cruel.”

You shrug, like it doesn’t still echo in your bones. “Been scared ever since.”

You look away. Try to swallow the rising wave of panic. You’re doing okay. Not great. But you’re up here. You’re making it.

And then—you stop.

The wheel jerks to a halt.

You both sway in place—then nothing.

Frozen.

Silence.

You feel it before you hear it: the panic crawling up your spine.

A crackle from the speaker overhead.

“Apologies, folks! We’re experiencing a temporary delay. Please remain seated. We’ll be back up and running shortly.”

You don’t breathe.

You don’t move.

Because moving might tip the gondola.

Because tipping means falling.

Because this is your nightmare.

You stare straight ahead, rigid.

Lando blinks. “Hey. You okay?”

You don’t respond.

“Y/N?”

Your breathing is shallow now, eyes darting to the bars, to the space beneath your feet, to the sky that suddenly feels too open.

“I can’t…” you whisper. “I can’t move. I can’t breathe.”

“Hey—look at me.”

You don’t. Can’t. The panic has fully locked in.

“Hey. Eyes on me, yeah?” His voice cuts through the rising noise in your head. “You’re alright. It’s okay.”

You blink hard. Force your eyes to his.

He’s calm. Present. Not mocking.

“I’m coming over,” he says.

“No—don’t—”

“I’ll move slow. Promise.”

And he does. Inching forward, crouching low to keep the gondola steady. You grip the bench like your life depends on it.

When he finally kneels in front of you, he doesn’t reach out right away.

“I’m right here,” he says gently. “You’re safe. Okay?”

Your legs are twitching. Your hands have gone numb.

“Can I touch you?”

You nod once, barely.

He takes your hands, wraps them in his. His thumbs stroke slowly over your knuckles.

“You’re not alone,” he murmurs. “You’re not back in middle school. You’re not stuck with people who don’t care.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t even feel it.

“You’re with me.”

You press your forehead against his. Whisper: “I tried to act like I wasn’t scared.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be cool. For you.”

His eyes soften. “You are cool. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s brave as hell.”

The wind blows again. The gondola creaks. You flinch hard.

He tightens his grip. “I’ve got you. It’s not going anywhere. It’s just a sound.”

The minutes pass slow. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. You don’t know anymore.

Lando stays close. Keeps whispering.

“You’re doing so well.” “I’m proud of you.” “Breathe with me. In. Out. That’s it.”

Eventually, your knee stops bouncing. Your hands loosen. Your breath evens—just a little.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He smiles. “Always.”

Then, finally—finally—the speaker crackles again.

“We’re back up and running now—thanks for your patience.”

The wheel moves.

You squeeze Lando’s hand so hard you might bruise him.

He just squeezes back.

When your feet hit the ground again, you almost collapse.

Lando’s arm slips around your shoulders. Steadying.

“You did it,” he says quietly. “You freaking did it.”

You glance up at him. Your voice breaks: “I cried on you.”

“Yeah.” He grins. “But I look better with your tears on me.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a smile.

“Never again,” you mutter.

He leans closer. “Unless you’re with me.”

You meet his gaze. Warm. Familiar.

You nod. “Maybe.”

⸻

The fair is still buzzing.

Kids run past with neon cotton candy, parents yell over the sound of pop music blaring from a speaker, lights swirl above the carousel like fireworks. The world is moving again, but you’re not.

Not yet.

Your feet are planted on the gravel just beyond the Ferris wheel exit, and your body still feels like it’s up there—like the sky’s still spinning and the ground might give way.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

Lando notices.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Wanna sit somewhere for a sec?”

You nod. Quiet. Grateful.

He scans the area and spots a bench near the edge of the fairgrounds, tucked beside a lamppost. It’s quieter there. Farther from the noise.

He doesn’t say anything as you both walk, but his hand brushes your lower back—barely there, guiding, steady. Every step away from the wheel feels like shedding a layer.

By the time you reach the bench, you’re breathing more normally. Your knees still feel like jelly, but your chest is less tight.

You sit first, arms loose in your lap. Lando drops down beside you, hands resting between his knees, body angled just enough to face you.

For a while, neither of you says anything. Just the hum of the fair behind you, the sound of gravel crunching under people’s shoes, the faint thump of your heart trying to find a rhythm again.

Lando’s voice breaks the silence. Soft. “I meant what I said. Up there.”

You glance over.

He’s not looking at you—just staring at the blinking lights reflecting in the puddle under a nearby booth.

“That you were brave,” he continues. “And strong.”

Your throat tightens again. But this time, it’s not panic.

“I didn’t feel strong.”

He finally looks at you. “You didn’t have to. You were. You are.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he keeps going.

“You could’ve said no. Could’ve stayed on the ground. But you didn’t.”

“I should’ve,” you whisper.

“But you didn’t,” he repeats, more gently. “You wanted to push through it. For yourself. Maybe a little for me, too.”

You snort. “A little?”

He smiles. “Okay, a lot. I’m flattered.”

You exhale—almost a laugh. It feels good. Weirdly cleansing.

Lando leans back against the bench, legs stretched out. Then, after a beat: “You know… I was scared, too.”

You blink. “What?”

“Not of the height,” he adds quickly. “But… of messing this up. With you.”

That stills you.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his voice is quieter now. “You’re important to me. I didn’t want to push too hard. Or make you uncomfortable. I just… I didn’t know how much you were holding in until we got up there.”

You look at him. Really look. His messy curls are caught in the wind, hoodie slightly askew, expression open and honest in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say softly.

He turns his head toward you. “No?”

You shake your head. “You did the opposite.”

Another pause.

Then you whisper: “I’ve never had anyone stay with me during a panic attack before. Not like that.”

He swallows. “Well. Get used to it.”

Your brows lift. “What?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is steadier now. Confident. “You don’t have to go through stuff like that alone ever again. If you don’t want to.”

Your heart does a slow, heavy thump.

Something shifts in the air.

He’s looking at you differently now—like he’s seeing past the fear, past the pretending. Seeing you. And letting you see him back.

Your voice barely carries: “I don’t want to.”

He nods. His eyes flicker down—like he’s about to say something else—but then he hesitates.

And you? You lean in. Just enough that your shoulders brush. That your knees knock lightly. That the space between you starts to dissolve.

He tilts his head, and his voice lowers: “Can I…?”

You know what he means.

You nod.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not quite.

Not yet.

He leans in first—slowly, cautiously—until his forehead rests gently against yours.

You close your eyes. Breathe him in.

And then his lips brush your temple. Light. Gentle. Careful, like he’s testing the idea of loving you.

You lean into it. Into him.

Your voice comes out like a whisper: “Thank you for today.”

He hums. “Thank you for trusting me.”

The night stretches around you, golden and soft. And in that quiet moment, sitting on a bench at the edge of the fair, you realize something that scares you even more than the Ferris wheel did:

You’re falling for him.

And for the first time —it’s safe to fall.

⸻

The walk to his car is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just full. Full of everything neither of you is quite saying yet. The kind of silence that feels like it has a heartbeat of its own.

Your steps crunch on gravel. His hoodie sways beside you, the sleeve brushing your arm now and then. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t either.

When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door for you like it’s instinct. Like it’s habit. Like maybe he wants it to be.

You settle into the seat. The plush pink star he won for you gets its own spot in the back. You glance at it and smile. It’s ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

He gets in, starts the car. The headlights cut through the dark.

It’s a 20-minute drive back to your place. You’ve done it before with him, but this time feels different. The music’s lower. The air’s warmer. Every red light feels like a chance to say something you don’t quite have the words for.

Halfway through, his hand shifts to adjust the volume—and his pinky brushes yours where it rests on the center console.

Neither of you moves.

Not away, not closer. Just… lingers.

You steal a glance at him. His jaw’s tight, eyes on the road. But the corner of his mouth twitches like he knows what that touch meant.

You stay like that the rest of the way.

⸻

He pulls up in front of your place and throws it in park, but neither of you reaches for the door.

You turn to him. “Thanks for driving.”

He glances over. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You nod once. “I meant it, earlier. I’ve never had anyone stay. Not like that.”

He leans back, one arm over the wheel. “Then they were idiots.”

That makes you laugh, breathy and unexpected.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Tonight felt like…”

“More?” he finishes for you.

You nod.

The silence after is weighted. Warm.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But when you say goodbye, it’s a little softer than usual. When he watches you walk up to your door, it’s with a look that lingers.

You close the door behind you and press your back to it, heart still thumping. You don’t move for a long time.

Your phone buzzes three minutes later.

Lando [11:22 PM] hey, you home safe?

You smile. Type back.

You [11:23 PM] yep. sitting on the floor like a weirdo. decompressing. thank you. again. for all of it.

Lando [11:24 PM] you were amazing tonight i hope you know that

You [11:24 PM] not sure that’s the word i’d use lol but i appreciate it

Lando [11:25 PM] i’d use it also brave. also cool. also adorable (especially when you cried on me)

Your face heats up instantly.

You [11:26 PM] stop i’ll die

Lando [11:26 PM] nah. you’ll live besides i’m kinda hoping i get to be there the next time you fall apart a little

You freeze.

Because it’s not flirty. Not really.

It’s honest. It’s real.

It lands in your chest like something you’ve been waiting to hear without knowing it.

You stare at the screen for a full minute before typing back.

You [11:27 PM] you might regret saying that i’m a mess sometimes

Lando [11:27 PM] guess i like messes especially the brave, soft, stubborn kind especially when they look at me like you did tonight

You bite your lip. Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then, finally:

You [11:28 PM] i’m still scared but not of you

Lando [11:28 PM] good because i’m not going anywhere

⸻

You wake up slowly.

The kind of slow that comes after an emotional hangover—the kind where your body’s still carrying the echoes of everything you felt the night before. You blink at the ceiling, blink at the soft morning light leaking through your curtains.

And then you remember.

The Ferris wheel. The panic. His hands around yours. His forehead resting against yours. The way he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your phone buzzes.

You fumble for it, heart jumping even before you read the screen.

Lando [09:12 AM] morning any lingering trauma or just the usual morning grumpiness?

You laugh into your pillow.

You [09:13 AM] mostly just bed hair and a need for caffeine trauma seems to be on vacation this morning

Lando [09:14 AM] glad to hear it coffee and pancakes? my treat. i know a place

Your heart stutters.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary.

You could say no. Could claim you’re tired, or that you need a day to recover. But the idea of sitting across from him with a warm mug in your hands and his eyes on you—

Yeah. That’s what you want.

You [09:14 AM] text me the address i’ll meet you there

Lando [09:15 AM] on it dress code: emotionally stable and hoodie-compatible

You [09:15 AM] so… hoodie and unwashed hair?

Lando [09:16 AM] exactly the dream girl fit

⸻

The café he picks is small. Warm. Tucked between a florist and a bookstore you’ve never noticed before. It smells like cinnamon and fresh bread and the clink of ceramic cups.

He’s already at a booth when you walk in—hood up, curls a little chaotic, one leg bouncing lightly under the table. There are two mugs already there. One’s pushed toward your side.

When he sees you, he lights up.

It’s not a huge thing. Just a subtle shift—his knee stops bouncing, his shoulders loosen, his smile softens like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

“You came,” he says, sliding your mug a little closer.

“Of course I came,” you say, sitting across from him. “You promised pancakes.”

He grins. “I also promised to never emotionally traumatize you via theme park again.”

“Big promises,” you murmur. “You planning to keep them?”

His foot nudges yours under the table. “Every single one.”

And suddenly you’re warm all over, and it has nothing to do with the coffee.

⸻

You talk. About everything and nothing. About the time he accidentally dyed his hair green for a bet. About your favorite childhood cereal. About the weird dreams you both had last night.

But every now and then, the conversation goes still. Soft. Like something’s humming under the surface.

Halfway through your pancakes, you say, “I keep thinking about how it felt. Up there.”

He looks up immediately. Alert. “Bad thinking or…?”

You shake your head. “Not the panic part. Just… how I felt with you.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. He doesn’t need to.

Because his hand slides slowly across the table—until his pinky hooks around yours.

“I keep thinking about it too,” he says quietly.

Neither of you lets go.

⸻

It starts with a text, a couple of days later.

Lando [5:41 PM]

you home?

You [5:42 PM]

yep

blanket burrito on the couch

why?

Lando [5:42 PM]

perfect

i’m on my way

You blink. Sit up.

You [5:42 PM]

???

you can’t just show up mid-burrito

Lando [5:43 PM]

sure i can

i’m bringing snacks

You [5:43 PM]

…okay fine

what kind of snacks?

Lando [5:44 PM]

you’ll see

(also tell your blanket to make room for me)

⸻

He shows up fifteen minutes later with a paper bag full of stuff that shouldn’t go together but somehow works—popcorn, sour candy, chocolate-covered pretzels, a single apple for “balance.”

“You know,” you say as he dumps it all on the coffee table, “this is a chaotic spread.”

He grins. “It’s us. We’re chaotic.”

You roll your eyes but scoot over, tugging the edge of your blanket open.

Without hesitation, he slides in next to you. Close enough that your legs press together under the blanket, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It kind of is.

You put on a movie—something neither of you really watches. The room is dim except for the screen, and everything feels quieter than it is.

At some point, your head ends up on his shoulder.

At some point after that, his arm settles behind you, fingers brushing your hair absently.

And neither of you moves.

⸻

Halfway through the movie, you shift to look at him. Your faces are inches apart.

He doesn’t pull back.

He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—soft, curious, almost-smiling.

Your heart’s doing that fluttery thing again. The one that says go even when your brain’s whispering wait.

You speak first. “This feels… different.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It does.”

You swallow. “In a good way?”

He nods. “In a really good way.”

You pause. “So are we…?”

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t know what you want—but because you do.

“I want this,” you say. Barely a whisper. “I want you.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

You nod.

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in—slow, deliberate—and when his lips meet yours, it’s gentle at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like a question.

You answer it by leaning in closer.

And then it deepens.

Not rushed. Not messy. Just real.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your smile tugging at your lips like it can’t help it.

“That was…” you start.

“A bit overdue?” he offers, grinning.

You laugh. “Yeah. That.”

He tightens his arm around you. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time in a long time, you feel steady, too.

⸻

At one point, Lando shifts, glances at you. “Can I…?” he asks, motioning toward your lap.

You blink. “My lap?”

He gives a sheepish little shrug. “It looks comfortable.”

You lift an eyebrow but smile. “You’re such a menace.”

He grins, already laying down, head gently resting on your thighs. “But a charming one.”

You don’t argue. You just adjust the blanket, tuck it around both of you again, and softly card your fingers through his hair.

He hums. Eyes flutter closed. His lashes fan over his cheeks, and you swear your heart squeezes.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the soft hum of the TV and the gentle rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Every few seconds, his hand—resting on your knee—twitches slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to move closer, speak louder, say more.

Then, slowly, he turns his head and presses a light kiss to your knee through the blanket. Then, again, but to your hand this time—just a gentle press of his lips against your skin, like he’s thanking you without words.

You freeze for half a second.

And then melt.

Because it’s not loud. Not demanding. It’s soft and reverent and real.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, and he whispers without opening his eyes, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe with someone.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me neither,” you whisper back, fingers curling gently around his hand.

You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder lightly.

And for a long while, neither of you needs anything more than this.

⸻

Lando doesn’t move much after that.

He stays curled against you, cheek resting softly against your thigh, one hand loosely cradling yours like he’s afraid to let go—even in his sleep. His breathing evens out slowly, each rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythm of your fingers brushing through his hair.

You glance down at him.

His lashes are still, mouth parted slightly, expression softened into something completely unguarded. He looks younger like this. Softer. And it hits you again—how rare this kind of quiet is for someone like him. Always moving. Always on.

And now… he’s here. Asleep in your lap. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t dare move.

The TV drones on, forgotten. Your focus is entirely on him—the weight of his head, the warmth of his hand, the way your heart feels full and fragile all at once.

You didn’t expect this kind of closeness to feel so easy.

Or maybe it’s not easy—it’s just right.

You shift slightly, just enough to adjust the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Your fingertips drift along the curve of his jaw for a moment, feather-light.

And when he sighs in his sleep, thumb twitching against your palm, you feel it again—this pang in your chest like something’s blooming and breaking at the same time.

Because you’re falling.

So slowly, so deeply.

And you don’t want it to stop.

Not when he looks like peace personified in your lap.

Not when your hands still remember the press of his lips from earlier.

Not when you’ve never felt safer with anyone in your life.

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. Close your eyes. Just breathe him in.

And you think, God, I’m in trouble.

But it doesn’t scare you like the Ferris wheel did.

Not even a little.

⸻

460 notes · View notes

httpsserene · 11 months ago

Note

Lando smut driveroom after hia dnf🫠🫠

dnf therapy — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐝 #1 | #4 | #16 | #44 | #55 | #81 x fem!reader blurbs. requested! explicit sexual content. hurt/comfort. sexual propositions. depressed charles. mercedes f1 team slander. sir kink. face-sitting, vaginal sex, masturbation, voyeurism, blowjobs, cunnilingus, angry sex, shower sex (all light or implied).

synopsis: what goes down in their driver’s room with you after a dnf.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. river baby, this one’s for you xxx we all know what inspired this one lmao !!! i will not be doing extended fics for any of these, they are quick drabbles as a little writing exercise for me!

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐦𝐚𝐱 #𝟏

You’ve never found Max’s skill for talking endlessly annoying or draining. In fact, you can recall telling him that hearing him eagerly explain about racing or other topics that interest him is attractive, multiple times. However, you’re not sure if you can withstand much more of him rambling through a retelling of every single lap he raced before he had to retire, looking for any possible point where he could’ve done something different to prevent it.

The two of you are sitting on his small couch, pressed side to side, and you’re offering small nods of agreement and hums of understanding during his pauses between words that echo in the small private room. His helmet was shoved in a random cubby, his balaclava draped on top of it but, he hasn’t made any other progress in taking off his race gear. His gloves are still covering his hands as he fiddles with the straps around his wrists, his race suit and boots still properly secured, the smell of sweat and gasoline–the scent of man alluring to your nose–the heat of his body radiating against your side instigating the warmth that floods your cheeks, and the sound of his lisp curling seductively around his speech prompting less than pure thoughts as your heart flutters and thighs press together.

Max is unaware of the sudden twist in your thoughts as he verbally attempts to calculate just exactly where he could’ve improved his outcome, his voice rumbly with an undertone of displeasure, when you cut him off.

“Let me make it better,” you offer.

The Dutch driver cocks his head at you, his expression confused and humored, “How can you make my DNF better? I do not think you can go back in time and—”

“No, Max,” you interrupt, teeth tugging at your bottom lip gently, “Let me sit on your face.”

Visibly, you see his breath catch and eyes widen. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to formulate a response, tongue flicking out to dampen his lips as he thinks—before his pupils blow large, and he swallows audibly.

“Oh,” Max starts, finally tugging his gloves off and tossing them to the floor, then moving to undo the strap of his race suit, “That would make it better.”

𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬, 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 #𝟒

He’s pacing the small length of the room angrily, ranting about his retirement loudly enough that you know it’s seeping through the thin walls. You stare at him with a slightly concerned gaze, getting slightly annoyed as his race suit tied low on his hips threatens to smack you in the face every time he turns around.

You’re well aware that Lando is quick to anger and brood as he freely makes everyone aware of where the blame needs to be placed. But, the dark and unyielding look in his eyes leads you to believe that he’ll be a little too real to the press today and you would hate to have to deal with a simultaneously enraged and ashamed Lando once he realizes what he said. Then, you’ll have to comfort him as he overthinks his words and doom scrolls through Twitter to see what people are saying about him. You would like to sleep tonight, so you can’t have him embarrass himself today. Thankfully, Lando’s a man, a very simple man at his core.

You stand up from the couch and pull off his hoodie that you stole. Lando continues to rage and pace, not aware of your movement. You undo the buttons of your shirt, shrugging it off to stand in your bra and jeans. Lando doesn’t notice your state of undress until he spins around to find you topless and shimmying your jeans down your hips.

“Um,” Lando stutters, eyes fixed on your tits, “Why are your clothes off?”

“Get over here and fuck your anger out,” you command, “So when you talk to the press, you don’t say the stupid shit you're telling me now.”

Lando mumbles and pouts offended as he scrambles to lose his race suit, “‘s not stupid shit.”

You roll your eyes and reach out to tug him forward strongly, humming as the length of his body knocks against yours, easily stuffing your hand down his fireproofs and kissing on the meat of his neck, “mhm–I’m sure it isn’t.”

𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐜, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 #𝟏𝟔

The room is silent as Charles blankly stares at the wall, you’re not sure if he is aware of your hand comfortingly scratching along his back. He only offered words of exhaustion and depression as he slipped quietly into his room and curled next to you as he dissociated from his retirement.

You’ve tried everything. You cooed soothingly, you complained about the result, and you even loudly expressed how terrible you think the car and Ferrari are and he didn’t say a single word. He simply continued to stare at the wall, his suit and helmet still on, visor down, and expression unreadable. Anxiously, you shifted next to him, not used to experiencing Charles this out of it. And suddenly, the idea came to you. Breaking the silence, you suggested giving him head to relieve his stress. Charles said no. Your brow furrowed perplexed at his denial; he’s never rejected a blowjob before. You took it one step further and offered to let him fuck it out of you (you were previously adamant on the “no sex in the driver’s room” rule because sound carries), and you were sure the Monegasque was about to say yes before he shook his head violently like he was forcibly removing the thought, and mumbled something along the lines of, “I don’t deserve it.”

That is something you will not let slide. Charles doesn’t need to punish himself after he’s already out of the race, but if he won’t allow himself to indulge in you, you’ll strongly encourage him to.

“Okay, Charlie,” you whisper, “If you’re sure.”

He doesn’t zone back in until he hears your whimpers seep into the air, snapping his head to look at you. He finds you with one hand tugging at your nipple and your other hand shoved under your skirt—from the movement, he can guess that you’re two fingers deep. You hear Charles choke audibly and you can’t help but toss your head back and giggle, the laughter turning into a moan of pleasure as your fingers pass over a sensitive spot.

“I-I think–merde,” Charles cuts himself off as he stares at your show, “I think I’ve changed my mind.”

The helmet stays on.

𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧, 𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐬 #𝟒𝟒

You’re unsure if Lewis is even mad about his retirement. The man seems mentally deranged as he laughs gleefully about ending his race early. Understandably, he is complaining about the bottoming of the car and the hell it’s wreaking on his back–so, maybe the joy is justifiable, your man is…older.

The thing is, Lewis switches from rambling about his back pain to complaining about Mercedes and repeating how he can’t wait for a change in scenery at Ferrari. In the Mercedes motorhome. Loudly. You know he’s doing it on purpose based on the vengeful look in his eyes. He recalls almost every single moment the team dismissed his critiques and suggestions, every single moment they didn’t appear at his podiums, every single moment they thought he wouldn’t leave, every single moment they took him for granted. And, Lewis is more than welcome to express his grievances—but you would still like him to leave on good terms as Toto did promise you a custom G-Wagon (not that Lewis can’t get you one himself; you would just hate to see him ruin his connections).

Lewis also can’t help being hot. He sits comfortably splayed out on his couch, a towel tied loosely on his hips from his shower, chest bare as beads of water fall downwards and get caught in the maze of his toned abdomen, his tattoos become art pieces as you appreciate the sight fully. He continues to partake in his amusing one-man conversation as he clasps his chain around his neck—and you break.

“Let me suck your dick,” you blurt out, cheeks flushing, surprised at your own words, “...sir?”

Lewis pauses, raising an eyebrow at you from where you’re leaning on the room door.

“Well, I don’t know why you’re still standing over there if that’s what you want. Kneel.”

The sound of your knees hitting the floor sings in the air, “Yes, sir.”

𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢, 𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫 #𝟖𝟏

Oscar’s already sequestered himself away in his room before you were able to intercept him on his way. The mechanics are lowly gossiping about how mad he was when he pulled himself out of the car and they watch after you in fear as you make your way to your boyfriend.

Oscar? Mad? He’d never take it out on you, there’s no reason for the mechanics to be worried. Except when you enter the room, the vibes are peculiar. Oscar’s calmly folding his race suit, boots tucked away into their proper place, standing in just his fireproofs—they compliment his body well, extremely well. He turns to look at you and there’s a smile on his face as if he hasn’t retired from a race. He opens his arms for a hug, and you hesitate for a moment before fulfilling his request. His arms wrap around you warmly and he nuzzles his face into your hair, pulling back briefly to press a kiss on your forehead before tightening his embrace. It feels more like he’s comforting you than you’re comforting him. He walks the two of you backward to his couch and pulls you down to sit on his lap.

Somehow, Oscar brightens more, “Hi, baby,” he grins, hands moving to fiddle with the hem of your shirt.

“Uhh, I’m sorry about your race?” Your tone of voice is unsure.

“Oh,” he laughs dismissively, “It happens sometimes–it was listed in the job description.” His right hand slips underneath your shirt as he speaks, moving calmly to tug the cups of your bra down underneath your chest, squeezing lightly at the plush weight in his hand.

You’re convinced he’s severely concussed, but it doesn’t stop you from arching towards him, your hips rolling forward unconsciously, “Ummm— ‘s there a-anything I can do to help?”

Oscar’s hand draws out of your shirt and halts the grind of your hips in a flash, he coos at you, “Aw, that’s so sweet of you to offer…let me fuck your tits—please?”

What were you going to do, tell him no?

𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐣𝐫, 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 #𝟓𝟓

You’re going to slam your head on the corner of the sink and hope it knocks you out. You’ll do it if means the sounds of Carlos’ whining stop. He forcibly pulled you up on the counter of the sink and told you to stay put as he showered so he could talk it out to you.

Naively, you thought the sound of the shower running would muffle his words and you were wrong. On any other day, you would be fine to support him through his complaints but your period is due to start in a couple of days and the irritation and sore muscles are already affecting you. Originally, you were eager to watch Carlos shower—that’s a sight plenty of women and men alike would kill you for. Then, the glass fogged with steam depriving you of something to ogle. And, if there’s one thing a woman is experiencing besides pain, sensitivity, and anger before her period, it’s being horny. You rationalize your thought process as you get undressed; Carlos gets some stress relief and you get to hear moans and grunts of pleasure instead of his huffing, grumbling, and whining.

You slide the glass door open and closed as you step in the shower, completely bare except for the necklaces, earrings, and anklet with the #55 charm he gifted you randomly, “Carlos, por favor, be quiet.”

The Spanish man’s mouth is agape as he stares at you, frozen in the middle of his motion of scrubbing soap along his arm, “¿Qué?”

You roll your eyes, tugging the soapy cloth out of his hand and setting it on the shower shelf, “There’s better things you could be doing with your mouth.”

Carlos blinks, returning to the present and sinking to his knees in the too-small shower.

He stares up at you with his big, sweet, lust-drenched, brown eyes, his hair a mess from the spray of the shower, and his voice cracking as he speaks, “Yes, definitely.”

2K notes · View notes