#I GOT SAD

[darby-rowe]

🗝₊˚⊹♡ — thinking of daughter of hephaestus!reader awkwardly trying to flirt with luke castellan

luke first approached you in need of a new sword after some child of ares completely shattered his old one.

at first, you were confused as to why luke chose you specifically. but after the initial confusion wore off, butterflies immediately flared up deep within your tummy when the realization hit. luke chose you.

of course, you tried to rationalize the decision. all the other hephaestus children who were on blacksmith duty clearly had busier workloads. you, on the other hand, had your schedule cleared.

but still... the way luke smiled so politely at you, spoke to you with a gentle respectfulness — you were almost convinced he was thinking of kissing you. almost.

usually, your clients would leave and come back when you were finished, but luke stayed and watched your every move. asking you questions, humming in agreement and nodding his head, keeping his eyes on you. the whole exchange had you on edge, but every time you cracked a joke and heard him laugh, your already tense muscles loosened up just a smidge.

luke watched in awe as you hammered the glowing metal into his desired shape. you made it look so easy, and you didn't even flinch when some of the sparks caught on your uniform.

"and this... doesn't hurt? like at all?" luke asked as you handled the metal forged from fire.

and all you could do was smirk at him, sweat appearing on your hairline. "not at all, pretty boy,"

you gulped as those words left your mouth, but luke didn't seem to mind as he let out a breathless chuckle and looked down and away. was he... blushing?

you took the nearly-finished piece and plunged it into the bucket of water sitting off to the side, hearing it sizzle and watching the water boil almost immediately.

"sounds like a benihana's!" you commented, voice raised over the sound of sizzling metal. your face burned as luke looked at you with confusion and your face fell. "you never... been to a benihana's before?" luke shook his head, and you wanted stick your head into the forging fires.

when you handed luke the finished product, his face immediately lit up. taking a step back, he began to test it out, and you watched with slightly parted lips as you took your front-row seat for luke's swordsmanship.

"this is incredible," luke said, genuinely. "thank you so much. you're a life-saver,"

before you could say anything else, luke was already off to who-knows-where, but not before he's stopped by a couple of aphrodite girls who began to ooh and ahh at his new toy. dressed in all pink, smelling like luxury and springtime.

you pressed your lips together tightly before forcing yourself to swallow down the lump in your throat.

no time to feel like shit about yourself. you have to get back to work.

series masterlist.

[spideyhexx]

to add onto this…

tw little bit mean coryo

Coryo being too mean at some point, he just hits a nerve with you. Maybe it was a bad day too outside of your complicated relationship with him and he pushes everything too far with his words, whether it be about how you look, or straight up calling you dumb or an idiot or a straight up slut and you’re pulling away from him as soon as you feel the tears start to come.

You try to compose yourself. Crying in front of him because you’re upset is something worse than crying cause he made you come over and over.

Coryo would be confused until he’d hear the unmistakable sniffle coming from you, “are you fuckin’ crying? Are you serious?”

And he’d want to make more fun of you so bad. It would be itching on his tongue, desperate to spill out and he almost does, but you start crying more when he points it out. It’s getting to a full on sob and Coryo doesn’t understand why his heart is starting to wrench at the sound of a legitimately upset cry. He would come to the conclusion himself that the words were too much. Why, he’s not sure but if he thought on it he’d figure it out. A flash of wanting to hug you and say he’s sorry crosses his mind but he can’t bring himself to try. In fact he’d just leave, mumbling something about seeing you tomorrow and at the very most, he’d brush his arm against yours.

In a weird way, his quick touch, (which you didn’t know if it was accidental or not but we all know it was on purpose), would give you the smallest moment of relief. Of another warm body against your own in this time of upset even though he’s the one who caused it. You’d watch him leave, wishing you could just ask him to stay but that thought makes you disgusted with yourself. So you stay in bed, cold and alone and sob till you fall asleep.

When Coryo doesn’t make any jabs at you during class the next day, you have to coax it out of him. You both are feeling this weird and strange thing and you’re annoyed at him for leaning into it. You practically beg him to make fun of you.

let’s chat about coryo, here :)

[isacksteban]

I'll Miss You — Chestappen

When Checo comes back home, the lights are turned on, and his welcome mat has been turned upside down. Checo doesn't try to unlock the door; he already knows the lock has been picked. 

He valses in, slams it open to make his presence known, and hangs his coat over the staircase railing. A faint creaking noise reaches him. It's coming straight from the bedroom. Checo feels like an idiot, a little lost and a lot more annoyed — Max knows what happened.

Checo kicks off his shoes and turns on the lights. He climbs the stairs. Sure enough, the infinitely quiet whisper of a breath can be heard through the walls. 

"Why are you here," Checo asks as he walks into his bedroom, because it's mid December in Puerto Vallarta and seeing Max laying flat on his bed was not what he expected though he was glad it was Carola's weekend with the kids.

"I thought I'd pay you a visit," Max replies with the slightest slur — of course he was drunk. "Can I not visit my favourite teammate?"

Checo looks him up and down. Max's wearing his usual clothes, minus his sneakers — he knows how Checo feels about wearing shoes upstairs — and his hair looks unkept. Overgrown brown hair sticks to his neck and temples, damp; he must've come out of Checo's shower a mere moment ago. 

"Get out of my bed. Your clothes are dirty."

Max tilts his head at a weird angle. He eyes Checo from behind his shoulder, too awkward to be coy, and purses his lips. 

"I was going to leave anyway. Your bed is too small for me. I guess it's only fit for such a tiny man."

Checo has been letting the news of Liam replacing him marinate inside since Qatar and has no energy to argue with a Max that's half-drunk and bratty. He shrugs, leaning onto the doorframe.

"Whatever. The door is open."

Their eyes meet. Checo isn't fazed by the blank canvas that is Max's expression; he can see his eyes flicker from one eye to another, tracing his mouth, lowering to his neck — his adams apple, raising back up. Max is thinking. Contemplating whether to actually leave or to stay, most likely. Wondering which option would piss Checo off the most. Debating what kind of reaction would be more entertaining to witness.

Checo doesn't give Max a single clue. He gets started with his morning routine instead. He unbuttons his coat — his Red Bull branded coat — slides it off his chest, and throws it into the laundry basket next to the bathroom door. His button-up shirt takes more time: the buttons are smaller, and Checo's light-headed due to sleep deprivation.

He doesn't need to watch Max's eyes to know he's staring. And Checo could put on a show, flex his muscles, arch his head back, but ultimately, he's trying not to sway Max one way or another. Whether Max decides to slip under the covers or slip out of his house will forever remain his own decision. Checo's never been into the idea of making that choice for him.

He slides off his pants. It's clinical, mechanical; the sound of Max swallowing is loud in the silence, but so is the rustle of fabric, and that makes it easier to ignore. He slips off his socks, his wedding band he's yet to get rid of. 

Standing in his underwear in front of Max Verstappen will never not be nerve-wracking. No matter how many times he's been looked at, clawed at, touched, caressed, grabbed, bruised, punched, Max's presence feels brand new each and every time. It's familiar, still. Checo knows what makes him tick. What living under a gaze like Max has does to a person. And though Checo does not shiver, his arms are covered in goosebumps, and he doubts it escapes Max's notice. 

When Checo pushes the bathroom door open, Max clears his throat. He sounds rough, like he's been screaming. Or— well.

"What if I don't want to take off my clothes?" he asks, pointedly. It's not a genuine question. He's testing him, like he's never been naked in front of Checo before, like he doesn't know how Checo will respond.

"Your pyjamas are in the bottom left drawer."

"I know that."

"Of course you do. Shut up, then."

Max snorts. He rises from the bed. Checo turns to look at him. Much like Checo a second ago, Max undresses in short, blunt movements. First the coat, then the button up, and finally the pants. He leaves the socks on, his watch. But that doesn't come off as much of a surprise anyway. All the while, Max holds Checo's gaze. It holds weight. Some heat, some triumph, some fear. There's always some fear in Max's eyes. It was there, too, the day they met, when Max got much too close for comfort and told him in that sunny-bright voice that he loved him. 

Checo does not think that there is a single emotion Max knows quite as well as fear.

"There. I'm naked. What now?" 

Checo lets out an involuntary, brief chuckle. "You sound annoyed about it."

"That's because I am annoyed about it."

"Why did you get naked, then?"

Max eyes flicker away for a finite second. "Well, Checo did. I wouldn't want to make him feel stupid, you see."

"How gracious of you," Checo says, and beckons him near with a twirl of the fingers.

Like gravity is pushing him, Max goes — he's never this obedient, that's how Checo knows he's aware of his Red Bull situation. His step is hesitant. He stumbles around Checo's bed and stops just shy of Checo's hand. He could almost pass for embarrassed, if Max knew such a thing as shame. His eyes zero on Checo's fingers. The rough, tan, freckled skin.

Max has filled out with the years. His cheeks are slimmer, eyes less sunken in, lips a shade or two darker than his skin. He blushes, now, it seems. Checo stares at the pink flush dusting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and tries to cope with the knowledge that Max Verstappen blushes the same colour as his nipples.

He must do a bad job at stifling his laughter. Max's eyes narrow, the picture of defensiveness, and he pouts. 

"What is it?"

"I'm not mocking you," Checo attempts to soothe.

"I never said you were!" Max barks back, flushing darker and prettier. He shifts away. Takes a step back. 

Checo loses all mirth at once. He'd almost forgotten how porcelain-fragile Max could be — even when Checo is the one who should be hurt right now — beneath all that bravado and taunts. Checo leans against the wall behind him and taps his thigh with the hand that isn't brushing Max's chin. It's a bit of a gamble. A shot in the dark. He isn't sure if Max would recognise the command, or even respond to it, but he won't lose anything by trying. It might help dislodging the stick out of Max's ass, at the very least.

Max's pupils dilate. His body tenses, nostrils flaring. When he drops to his knees, it's so loud and sudden that even Checo flinches. Checo can't stifle the deep exhale of relief that comes then. Max is looking up at him with the same expecting eyes as when Checo joined the team — when they fucked for the first time. But the same way he was trembling, hesitant, and pure four year ago, now there's something cheeky about his air, the way he eyes Checo through his lashes.

Checo rests his palm under Max's chin. Max leans into his touch, warm, affectionate. Checo bites back a wave of pink-gold feelings that he'd rather not confront sober at one thirty in the morning. 

"And you call me the dog," Checo says, fully knowing he shouldn't, when Max nuzzles his thigh.

Max blushes all the way down to his neck, and he stops moving. Checo tucks a lock of brown — realistically, dirty blonde — hair behind his ear. Something vicious inside his heart relishes in seeing Max in a vulnerable position again. Not in pain, not risking death, not stressed out of his wits — but genuinely and wholly vulnerable. Here, Checo could reach and squeeze his throat, and Max would let him. Here, Checo could call him a dog, and Max would blush and like it.

"Still into it?" he says, low in his throat. "The name-calling."

Max shakes his head, cheek pressed against Checo knee. "I was never into it to begin with. That was all just wishful thinking on your part, stupid."

"Yeah, don't even try. I haven't forgotten the time you came just from being called a slut."

"That was years ago!" Max protests.

"So?"

"So it's irrelevant."

"Mh. Sure."

Checo traces Max's jaw with the tip of his fingers. He thanks God — if God exists, but now isn't the time for existential thoughts — for making the angel on his knees in front of him the last person he's had the pleasure to drive alongside before having to retire. He doesn't tremble, when Max's mouth kisses his palm, though the tremor in his heart is so powerful he fears Max might hear it.

"You're staying."

"Is that a question?" Max huffs.

"Does it need to be?" 

"I'm staying."

"I know." Checo swipes his thumb right under his eye. The skin is soft, giving. If he applied just enough pressure…

Max whines, "Stop thinking about gouging my eyes out, will you?"

Checo startles. Almost. "How did you know?"

"Puh. Because I've thought about the same thing a million and a half times, of course. You're not very original." 

Max blinks up at him. He grins, more smirk than smile, and nibbles at Checo's fingers. Checo pushes them further into Max's mouth in retaliation. Max makes a half-muffled noise of surprise — or annoyance — and takes it in stride. Checo presses the pads of his index and middle fingers against Max's tongue. It's plush. Wet. Wriggling against him.

"You're disgusting," Checo comments.

Max bites down, gentler than he most likely could've. It barely even hurts. Checo smirks. He takes out his fingers, and with nowhere to wipe them, licks them clean. Max stares at his tongue intently. 

Oh, yes. He's staying alright.

"Get on the bed," Checo tells him.

Max, for a moment, stays transfixed on his mouth. Then, "And what if I don't?"

"Leave my house in your socks and panties, for all I care. See if the winter breeze treats you better than I can."

Max glares, indignant, but obeys and climbs into the queen-sized bed. It's all awkwardly long limbs and pale skin. There's no grace to his movements, no thought behind what he does. Max sinks into the plush mattress and stares off into the void. Checo wonders if he's the only one who gets to see him like this. If others get to fuck the Max that's charismatic, polished, sexy — the Max that Checo's never met and never wishes to meet. If he is the only person in this world that gets to see Max without pretences. If Kelly, the woman carrying his child, gets to see him like this.

Checo sits in between his legs, criss-crossed. He's slouching and the angle probably gives him a double chin: Max looks at him like he's holding the stars between his teeth. That's something he's come to learn about the driver laid so softly against his maroon sheets. No matter how much Max claims to care about no one but himself, claims to be ruthless and unforgiving, there is not a single being on Earth that has looked at Checo with as much adoration as he.

"I don't want to have sex," Max says.

Checo looks at him, his expression softening. "Okay?"

"Maybe I just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" Checo echoes, his tone neutral but curious as he waits for Max to continue.

Max shifts, sitting up and unintentionally moving closer to Checo. Their faces are so close that their breaths mingle, and Max hesitates for a moment, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I'm sorry."

Checo raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "Sorry for what?"

Max takes a deep breath, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "About... about what happened with your seat. About Liam." He pauses, his gaze dropping to his lap. "It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. You’ve done so much for the team, for everyone, and they just—" He cuts himself off, he seemed more upset about the whole ordeal than Checo did.

Checo watches him for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "Max," he says softly, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "you don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your fault."

"I know, but—" Max looks up, his expression filled with guilt and frustration. "I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. I should’ve stood up for you, Checo. You deserved better than that."

Checo smiles faintly, though there’s a sadness in it. "It’s Formula 1, Max. It’s not always fair. And you? You’ve got enough on your plate without trying to fight my battles too."

"But you’re my teammate—" Max’s voice wavers, and he quickly corrects himself. "You were my teammate. And more than that, you’re my friend. I should’ve done more."

Checo’s hand squeezes his bare shoulder gently. "You’ve always supported me in your own way, Max. And I appreciate that. But this... this is just how it goes sometimes. Liam’s an alright kid, and I’ll find my place again. I always do."

Max swallows hard, his chest tightening. "It still doesn’t feel right."

Checo’s smile grows a little, the warmth in it reassuring. "It doesn’t have to. What matters is that we both gave everything we had while we were teammates. I’ll always be proud of that. And you should be too."

Max nods slowly, but the weight in his chest doesn’t quite lift. "I just— I hope you know how much you mean to me. Not just as a driver, but as a person."

Checo’s eyes soften, and he pulls Max into a brief but firm hug. "I know, Max. And you mean a lot to me too. Now, stop beating yourself up about it, okay?"

Max doesn’t respond immediately, but as he leans into the embrace, he feels a flicker of comfort, even if the guilt hasn’t entirely faded. For now, it’s enough.

There's a moment of silence. Max's breathing is heavier, of course, and his arms come to circle Checo's chest in a mimic of a hug. Checo presses his teeth to the arteries. It's gentle. Max hisses low and soft in his throat.

"You're warm," Checo tells him. It's true; it's worth saying because Max used to be as cold as the dead of night. He's never felt as alive as now.

Max nods, his nose brushing Checo's jaw. He inhales. It's shaky. "I could almost pass for a real human being, now. Right?"

"I wouldn't know." Checo presses an open-mouthed kiss to his clavicle. They don't look like they could pierce the skin anymore. There's flesh, now, filling out the dips. Checo likes seeing it.

It stings, much more than he'd like to admit, to know that Max was hurting at the thought of having to drive alongside someone other than Checo.

Max’s gaze flickers with something fragile, a desperate attempt to mask the sadness threatening to consume him. He leans in closer, his lips brushing Checo’s cheek. “Did you miss me?” he murmurs, but his voice lacks its usual confidence, trembling under the weight of everything left unsaid.

“No,” Checo replies, forcing the word out like it doesn’t choke him. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Rude,” Max mutters, though the tease feels hollow. Something flickers in his eyes—fear, maybe, or regret. His lips press into a thin line before he asks, “Did you find someone else?” The question hangs heavy in the air, but what he really wants to ask remains unspoken: Is that why you’re leaving me, leaving Red Bull?

Checo bites down, mean and sharp, and ignores the needy gasp that he hears. “Don’t give me that shit. Fuck, Max.” His voice cracks, betraying him as he shakes his head, his breath hitching. “How could I find anyone else after knowing what it’s like to love you?” He looks away, his jaw clenched tightly, his own emotions clawing their way to the surface.

Max blinks, stunned by the confession, and his facade crumbles. “Then why are you doing this?” His voice is quiet, shaky, and it shatters the fragile calm between them. “Why are you leaving, Checo? I don’t understand.”

Checo exhales harshly, dragging a hand through his hair as if it might anchor him. “Because I have to,” he says, and the words sound more like he’s trying to convince himself than Max. “Because this team — it’s your world, Max, not mine. I’ve done my part. It’s time for me to move on.”

“But I’m still here,” Max says, his voice breaking on the last word. His hands tremble at his sides, helpless to stop Checo from slipping away. “I need you, Checo. You’ve been the only constant in all of this — the one person who’s ever really been there for me.”

Checo turns back to him, his expression softening for a moment before the pain returns, sharp and unforgiving. “Max, you’ll be fine. You’re stronger than you think.”

“I don’t care about being strong,” Max snaps, frustration and sorrow colliding in his chest. “I care about you. I don’t want to do this without you.”

Checo detaches himself from Max's neck. It glistens with spit and the pink imprints of Checo's teeth. He brushes the bite mark with the tip of his fingers, an odd satisfaction rising. Max chases his gaze, when his mouth chases after Checo's, it's easy to let their lips collide. 

Checo palms the back of his neck, pressing them together, and Max responds with familiar enthusiasm. The rhythm of his mouth, Chdco knows peculiarly well. The slow glide of his tongue. The hint of too-sharp teeth. He'd make a good vampire , Checo thinks, head in the clouds, as their lips slide against each other. 

His eyes fall shut. It's much too easy to lose himself in the cadence. Max kisses him, and if he was the type of man to like to pretend, Checo could almost make himself believe everything's normal. They aren't athletes, he isn't divorced, Max doesn't have a child on the way. Max's hand rises and cradles his cheek. There's an overwhelming amount of care in that simple gesture. Checo's heart beats with the strength of a hurricane. A finger toys with his earlobe. Another swipes right above his cheekbone. Checo has given up on this too long ago to feel at peace with finding it again, and he chokes on tears he will never shed.

"I missed you," Max rasps against him. His hips have started rocking on their own, a slow and gentle roll that makes Checo grit his teeth to stifle moans of his own. "I'll miss you."

"Did you?" he counters, out of breath, biting into the plushness of lips. "Weren't you too busy playing house with your Kelly to think about anything else?"

"Jealousy is a good look on you." 

Max licks into his mouth, the way he knows makes Checo's brain stutter. Checo's hands grab at his hips a little desperately. He pushes him down. The obvious hardness in Max's underwear only serves to spur him on. They grind together, gentle, sensual, Max's panting a melody in his ears. 

Checo's always been too vocal. He moans, effortlessly, watches as Max's eyes glaze over with want. Knowing that Max wants him, still, after so many years of the same thing, does odd things to his heart. He certainly should not feel so much elation — he certainly should not feel many, many things. But it's mid December, he hasn't slept in three days, and Maz is open and willing and warm on top of him: Checo yearns achingly so. 

"I'm not jealous," Checo has half the mind to reply.

"You are. Te extrañé, you know."

"I didn't."

Max kisses him softly, saccharine sweet. He's blushing all over, stomach trembling, and here's a neediness to him that does Checo in. He dips his fingers under Max's boxer briefs.

"I know why you left." 

"Hm. Do you?"

Checo looks into his eyes. A beat passes. Max raises his hips, allowing him to slide the fabric down his thighs. Checo does. He brushes his hands down his skin, teasing the inner thigh, watches as Max's breathing speeds up. There's nothing Checo hasn't seen before: fragile flesh, dark patches of hair, scars. None seem fresh. They are all months old, at least. Checo feels — strange, seeing this. He fears it might all be gone the next time he blinks. 

Max is all flushed, looking as content as a cat in the sunlight. He reaches for Checo's own underwear. Checo lifts his hip and Maz as consequence, amused by the way Max seems absolutely enamoured by his strength. His boxers are removed. Now that the nervousness is gone, Checo appreciates Max's eyes on him. They speak more sincerely than his mouth, most of the time.

Why didn't you ask me to come with you? Max wants to ask, though he knows it would be futile. He knows why. It was never about Checo in the first place. Sometimes, running away is all it is: running away. Sometimes, people go, and that is all there it is to it. Checo did not leave the team because it would break Max's heart.

It's a blur afterwards. Max knows where Checo hides his lube, apparently, because in just a few blinks, he's already squirting some into Checo's palm. Checo watches without hiding his amusement.

"Are you clean?"

Max pauses. He clears his throat. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — gross . "You think I'm not?"

Checo considers him. He does not think Max would lie about this.

"I think I don't trust the woman carrying your child."

Checo rubs his fingers together to warm them. Max settles in his lap again, pressing their hips together — obviously not wanting to speak about the woman waiting at home for him. He's definitely worked up, flustered enough to fiddle and twitch. Checo wants to kiss him. He does. There's too much fondness and adoration in his heart to ignore. He doesn't know what to do with all of it. Restless, Max kisses back. 

"Maxie. Tell me if it starts to hurt."

Max gasps, nods, and buries his face in Checo's neck. A single finger eases in slow, easy. Checo knows Max's body like the back of his hand. He knows what he wants, knows how stubborn he can be. Knows that he likes gentleness no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Max shifts around. Checo kisses the crown of his neck. 

"Feels different," Max confesses, once Checo introduces a second finger. 

"Bad different?"

"Mmhh— no. Just, different. Kelly doesn't like touching me like you do."

Checo brushes a hand along Max's spine. Max shivers, moans and cuts himself off at once. Checo waits patiently for him to relax. His second finger is halfway there, and they have all the time in the world. It's winter break and Checo no longer has to spend half his time split between his kids and his job.

Max pants into his mouth, warm, and Checo immediately forgets about his children. "More?" he asks, softly.

"Yeah." Max sighs. 

Checo kisses his jaw, his cheek, his neck. There's so much skin to kiss. The clothes he wears to cover himself to purposely are long gone, leaving nothing but the marks left from years of hurt. Checo likes to trace them with his tongue. The scar tissue is interesting, the texture different, and much more sensitive than the rest of him.

Max trembles a bit. It's normal. Checo makes sure to move his hand gently, carefully, easing him into the sensation. Checo would rather keep this as slow and sweet as possible. A bead of sweat trickles down Max's temple. He's frowning, brows knit tightly together, and Checo smirks, because he knows that means Max's trying to keep it cool. 

Checo crooks his fingers the way he remembers it. Just a bit to the right, deeper than he'd think possible, he brushes a spot that has Max tense and hissing between his teeth, throwing his head down. He moans just as high-pitched as he did back when they came this close for the first time. Impossibly fond, Checo kisses his forehead. 

"Is it still good?"

Max glares, though it's ruined by his deep flush and his shaky breathing. "No, I hate this. I'm currently— mph, yeah, okay —really, not, really not into this."

"Just making sure," Checo shrugs, and presses into his prostate again. 

Max shakes all over. Their mouths meet again, as if guided by an invisible string, and they kiss deep and messy and wet. Max's lips are slick and bruised a deep pink. Checo stretches him diligently for a good two minutes before the first complaints reach him.

"H— fuck. Hey, 'm not, fragile, okay? You'd think you, out of all people, would know…"

"I do know."

"Then take your dumb fingers out!"

Checo raises an eyebrow. "Are you hurting?"

"No, obviously, I'm— ngh, ah, I'm— ready."

"Ready? For what?"

Max stares at him in obvious distress. He opens his mouth, probably to insult him, but Checo cuts him off with a twist of the wrist. The moan that follows is longer, sweeter than the others that preceded. Max pants, thighs trembling around Checo's arm.

"Come on, Maxie. You can say it."

"Don't call me— don't call me that."

Checo sighs, pressing down the arch of Checo's back. He goes, pliant and malleable, and Checo holds him close. He can pretend it's all for sex, at least, if Max asks why he's so touchy-feely. Though, to be fair, he probably is far more touch-starved than Checo ever was. Checo kisses him again; it's a thrill he can't get over yet.

Gently, he speaks. "Okay, tesoro, okay. What is it you want?"

Max nuzzles against him, hot and breathy and warm. "Fuck me?"

Shit.

"Yeah," Checo says, choked up by emotions he won't name. "Yeah, of course."

They breathe together, into each other, melting against skin and lips and curious fingers. It's gold-bright and hot, wet, and when Max moves and sinks into him, he worries he might burst into tears. Max's arms circle his neck. He holds onto him like a lifeline. Checo rests his hands against his hips, guiding him up and down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Max's sweat-slick chest. 

"Ah— Ah , Checo, this is…" Max trails off, muttering curses under his breath. He makes a lovely picture. His hair is damp, clinging to his face, even messier than it usually is. The scarlet-brown eyes that dig into Checo glisten slightly. It's a relief to know Checo isn't the only one being a crybaby here.

He presses a kiss to the hollow of Max's throat. His hips roll upwards. "How do you feel?"

"Nhhh, ah, good. Good."

"Just good?"

Max grinds down, a tad desperate, scrambling for purchase against Checo's chest. He bites at his lips viciously. Checo tastes blood. He likes it.

"Shit! No, yes, good. It's good," Max stammers, "Ah. More?"

"Anything— anything you want," Checo promises. 

He means it. If it denotes he can keep Maz like this, awkward in his sensuality, blushing red and furious, chasing after his own pleasure in Checo's lap, then he would give him anything. His palms brush against Max's waist, his belly, and then down. Max honest-to-god whines. 

"Fuck's sake," Checo rasps.

His hips snap forward, and Max seems to fold onto himself. He keeps the pace slow. At every thrust, he wonders just how deeply he can go, how much of Max he can reach. It's overwhelmingly good. The sounds of skin slapping skin would be embarrassing, if not for how little Checo cared to be embarrassed. Max's mouth had opened at some point to never close again. 

"S— Sergio . Close. 'M close." 

Checo kisses him as answer, a mess of spit and tongue and too much teeth. They roll their hips together, slow, slow, and every time, he hits the same spot that has Max writhing and twitching. His moans grow louder and whinier. His thighs tremble with the effort, but not a single moment does he stop moving. Checo's scalp tingles. He can feel it just under his skin, his release, knows he won't let himself come until Max has.

"H— Hey, Maxie, you know I— you know I did miss you, right?"

He doesn't know why he's saying this. He doesn't know where the words are even coming from.

Max's eyes soften. When they kiss, it's honey-sweet. "I know you did. You're a terrible liar."

"Just to you," Checo counters weakly. He shakes his head. Max breathes against his temple. "I can't lie to you."

"And do— ah, ah , do you know why that is?"

And for once, it's a sincere question. Maybe Max knows, but wants him to say it outright. Or maybe he truly has no idea. But it's a question, and it's genuine, and for once it doesn't sound like Max is playing him like a fiddle. 

"You know me too well…" 

"We're one in the same." Max's eyes close, lashes fanning across his cheeks prettily. Checo's hand works him up and down as they move. "We both share one — nhhh, I'm close — we both—" 

Max comes with a high-pitched noise and a single tear caught in the corner of his eye. Checo watches, fascinated, as his body tenses as tightly as a nocked arrow, and suddenly, release spills all over his fingers. It's quick. It looks intense. And as soon as it's over, Checo's body decides that's enough, and he comes much the same way. He throws his head back; the pleasure isn't something he can properly describe, but it's bone-deep, and it feels more emotional than physical.

Checo reaches up and brushes his thumb under Max's eye. He catches the tear there, and it disappears as moisture on their skin. Their shared breathing is shockingly loud, now that the heat of the moment has passed, and Checo's suddenly glad he lives in a secluded area. Gone are the times he had to live atop a store, now he has more than enough money to live in a house, alone, with walls thick enough to fuck his former teammate without being disturbed. 

"We both share one soul," Max murmurs then. Their eyes meet. 

Checo had never forgotten how beautiful Max could be. But it still hits him like a truck, right then and there, to realise that he is holding him in his arms. They've fucked before, but they've never made love. An itch in his brain he never realised he even possessed is satisfied, and Checo thinks he could sleep for a thousand years. 

He smiles. "I would have gone with you. I know it wasn't the point. I know you didn't think about me when you were told you were being dropped, and I'm not mad about it. But, I want you to know that I would come with you to the ends of the world."

Warm hands cradle his face. "I did think about you. Always, I do."

They shuffle around. Max slips under the grey blankets — Checo bites back a wave of satisfaction, but this is his bed, and Max is sleeping in his house, warm, safe, cared for, and it's all he has ever wanted — while Checo goes to retrieve baby wipes and towels.

When he comes back from the bathroom, Max's socks have been thrown onto the floor. Checo doesn't bother chastising him for it. Max meets his gaze with a grin. He stretches his entire body, arms thrown over his head, throat exposed and pink, and Checo wants. They sit together. Checo cleans him up. Max buries his face in his chest.

"D'you feel alright?" His voice is gentle enough to surprise even himself.

Max's arms squeeze him. His leg is thrown around Checo's waist. "Mh. I'm glad I didn't leave when I heard you come in."

Checo breathes in his scent. He thinks Max's shampoo might be a mix of almonds and something else.

"How did you even find my house?"

Max blinks slowly. "I have my ways." He wasn't going to tell Checo that he called Lance and begged him to send it.

Checo flicks his nose. "You're impossible. Fine. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Does that mean Checo is letting me hog his bed?"

"You sound so excited about it, I'd feel bad kicking you out."

"Hah! You love having me here." Max grins. His cheeks are still rose-tinted. It's impossible not to kiss him square on the mouth. 

Checo savours the taste of him, his smell, his presence. He hasn't felt this peaceful in a while.

"Stay for a while. Yeah?"

"I have work."

"It's the holidays."

"And after?"

Checo shrugs, holds him a little closer. "I have a spare bathroom and you have a plane."

"You should've just said so!" Max presses their foreheads together. The air between them mingles. "Okay. I'll stay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And sometimes, that's all there is to it.

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Low-Rise Melancholy

—

Time written- 11:33 p.m (Pt.2)

Jason Todd/fem!reader angst

—

You found him curled up in bed, unmoving for quite some time.

He arrived home, but said nothing. He shuffled out of uniform, carelessly abandoning piece by piece of his gear on various surfaces, carelessly draping his jacket over the closest chair.

He had enough mind to at least settle his utility belt and weapons on the desk in your shared bedroom before shuffling to bed, climbing into the mattress with so much as a slow, heavy exhale.

You had witnessed this since the moment he came home, feeling the tension shroud your shoulders before he even as entered through the door. Along with his angry episodes, which he kept out of your way around ninety percent of the time, every once in a while, you’d be witness to a violent slip up.

You followed behind the giant man like a scared puppy, stopping at the bedroom doorway just in time for him to turn on his side, his back now facing you.

He hasn’t moved for a fair hour, rendering you nervous rather than relieved he wasn’t angry. An hour full of checking up on him, wondering if he was ready to eat or talk. Anything.

He said nothing, as per usual, but answered your concerned question via raising his arm out, extending his hand out with an open palm. Would you like me to stay with you?

You settle your arms around him from behind as best you could once you slip into bed, enjoying the warmth that radiated off his back when you held him.

Just like before, Jason said nothing, broad shoulders rising and falling as his heavy lidded gaze nearly caged his eyes behind long lashes, vision long since unfocused after hours of reckless thoughts and dangerous intentions he’s always battled with after patrol.

His eyes close fully, a short, defeated exhale leaving his nose. Still, he doesn’t move, not even when he feels your soft, small hands cradle along his sides, caressing him in a largely limited embrace.

You’re always worried when he gets like this, but your options in soothing his pain were limited.

Your vigilante, your hero, your Red Hood, who refused to acknowledge your presence. Never intentionally.

You wanted nothing more than the man who stole your heart and gave it back but promised to hold it.

Jason Todd; your boyfriend, your big, red cuddly bear, your gentle giant sweetheart.

You wanted to be a strong shoulder for him to cry on, but in this case, you blamed your tensed up morning shortly followed by a series of severely unlucky events.

A short tremor of his shoulders caught you by surprise, making your head raise in question after settling behind Jason for nearly eight minutes. After a moment of waiting, to your dismay, you hear a small shudder from the exhausted man you held in your arms.

It broke your heart once you pinpointed those signs all together, realizing what Jason had been doing this entire time since he arrived home.

A ball of tension grew hotter in your throat, your eyes flushed so full with tears.

His teary, glistening eyes opened upon hearing your tiny hiccup, his head shifting up from its concave perch along your pillow to meet your gaze. His own heart ripped into two at the pitiful little attempt to stop yourself from crying, but you couldn’t help it.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimper, small fingers involuntarily clasping along the hem of his grey shirt for a second or two.

When Jason approached the border of tears, his mouth didn’t curl with a strong lip quiver. Instead, his brows furrowed, his eyes nearly squinting in a pitiful attempt to make the tears halt and retreat.

All will to fight left him once he got home, himself included.

Now, all that flooded his heart was an overwhelming, bitter guilt, forcing him out of his melancholy to register the woman who’s bed he laid on for nearly two hours.

He shifts completely, encasing you in his warm, heavy arms, stroking back wisps of stray hair to peer down at you with worried, furrowed expression.

Were you scared? Were you scared of him getting angry and violent? Images of your terrified face after such an episode were burned into his mind, and a face full of tears was at the top of that crude list.

“No, no,” Jason insists as he puts up a battle once more, fighting back what tears he could. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t.. I— Shit, I didn’t mean to—“

His voice fails, his tone trembling in seconds. His own attempt at rebuilding his crumbled walls failed, leaving cascades of fluttery dust over piles of pebbles.

“M’sorry,” Jason mutters to you, sniffling noses brushing against each other. “Didn’t mean to make you sad. Don’t.. Don’t cry, babygirl. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” your whimpering tone persists, feeling his fingers cradle the back of your head, smoothing down your hair while yours cling to his shirt collar, insisting that you could handle his pain, shoulder it with him.

His mood swings were never his fault. His death was never his fault. His moments where he shut down entirely, leaving you completely powerless to aid him from the shadows, any of it, all of it, wasn’t his pain to shoulder in general.

You wished you could take it all away, but you believed you could only do so much.

“I don’t know how to help you,” you tremble as you admit to him, watching his brows curl downwards in further distress to your confession, your eyes glassy with grief bordering on defeat.

“I want to help you, Jason. I do. Please, tell me how.”

You only knew what he shared with you in the past, so you understood enough. His complications with himself, the curse of hyper individualism rendering him towards a plethora of self doubt, no matter how much he wanted to defy it. He just didn’t know how.

You wanted to be strong for him, but feared you weren’t as tough as you wanted to be.

Jason didn’t want strong, even though he knew you were. he wanted permanence, superglued stability on both of your behalf.

His hand cradled your head against his shoulder, taking in the sweetness of your hair, the warmth of your body dressed in one of his loose fitting shirts, curtesy of you stealing his clothes every evening.

The echo of your heartbeat keeping you alive long enough for you to adore him, to cherish him, to love him like no other he had ever felt before. This returns him towards his quiet tears, but unlike before, he allows himself the freedom to express himself more.

Grief included.

“You just being here… helps, okay?” Jason whispers, cradling your face in his warm palm. “That’s it. That’s all you need to do. Just… don’t leave. Please.”

Please, don’t leave me alone.

Your fingers instantly trail up towards his cheeks, catching his tears in the cradle of your palms. For a moment, your guilty, defeated expression shifted towards one he recognized instantly.

Strong, filled with a temporary determination he recognized many times before when you refused to give up. You refused to give him up.

Those were the eyes he fell in love with, belonging to the woman who desired to help him. His sore heart ached at your persistence, craving that just as much as your eagerly awaiting love.

His shoulders shake, his breathing grows raggedy, shortly cut and uneven. A few of his tears caught along the strands of your hair, the rest seeping down onto the very same pillowcase that harbored most of tonight’s anger and frustration.

His head settled against your chest, relying on your strong heartbeat to keep him submerged in pure sleep. His heavily scarred hands remained stagnant around your waist, thumbs lightly swirling along bare skin while yours settled to comb through his inky, tussled locks.

For the next hour or so, you held one another, cradling each other as the tears long since run dry, leaving two tender bodies submerged in a thin veil of slumber.

Crying together was the last thing on both of your minds tonight, but it’s the most Jason had ever felt accidentally understood, especially now as he refuses to let go of his anchor.

Seen, heard, recognized, loved.

Alive.

[virgil-is-a-cutie]

Sad angst idea of once Stanley and Stanford get done with saving the world and such finally reveal Stanford and that Stanley was alive all along to their mom, who I hc is just 20 yrs older than them so she's in her 80s, and in walks Filbrick.

Filbrick...gets angry, starts to shout, and just like that scene in Grey's Anatomy where Meredith is hiding behind a wall at the hospital as her mom screeches at her bc she thinks it's a young Mer, Stanley does the same.

He shrinks, he makes himself small before he hides away behind a wall bc he goes back to being the small little child who couldn't do anything right for his dad to praise him.

And Ford loses it. He starts to yell at their elderly father while Caryn goes to her free spirit boy and comforts him.

[ezrazwrldz]

for everyone i’m tagging here and more

thank you for being in my life and making things better for me - you’re the people inspiring me and making me able to get out of bed in the morning, you’re the people inspiring me to work towards my passion of becoming a tattoo artist. you’re the people who i am nothing but grateful towards. you’ve provided me something that’s beyond words - you’ve given me an indescribable happiness and honestly you feel like a found family for me, as someone with a really crappy home life. you make me feel safe and heard. you’re all genuinely angels and i’m so so so happy to have you in my life, even if we don’t actually interact that much and you’ve still been tagged, you’ve done something right. you’re all amazing people, and if you’ve done one thing in your life, you’ve made mine 10x better, and i’ll always be appreciative of that, every day. and you should be proud of yourself. you deserve to be. you all deserve nothing but the best life can give you, okay? i love you all so much, and genuinely see you as a family. thank you<33333333

sorry i’m feeling kinda sentimental rn xD

@justaragdollysblog @shortmomma1993 @or3oartz @the-cat-sorcerer @rafareba @justsomeonewow @nyxiewentmissing @espressodepressoconanpressodepressoconan @a-chronic-overthinker @astro-eats @joneleslament @strawberry-souffle

sorry if this is weird lol

[happy-snake-noises]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends), Jinx & Vi (League of Legends), Vander & Vi (League of Legends) Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Vi Needs a Hug (League of Legends), she gets one, Caitlyn and Vi are in Love (League of Legends), Vi Needs Therapy (League of Legends), they're lesbians your honour, No Lesbians Die, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Nightmares, Vi Has PTSD (League of Legends), This is in no way a fix-it, POV Vi (League of Legends) Summary:

Her sister’s soft smile faded into the void as she screamed. Screamed until her throat was raw, shredded. Until she could only wheeze and breathe as she stared up at the clearing sky.

They fell.

OR Vi misses her family and Cait and Vi find comfort in being gay

(Spoiler warning for the end of Season 2, Act 3, it's all based on the canon events)

[sunsmiter]

What happens to Frank?

What happens to Frank Horrigan when the Enclave has no more use for him? When his duty is over and the Enclave has no more need for a filthy mutie like him?

Assume the Enclave wins. The NCR is purged, their Rangers fleeing northwards, their fortresses abandonned. The Brotherhood is broken, their bunkers breached, their power armors deserted. Assume the Slavers have fled, hunted down by Enclave patrols. the Enclave, finally, is victorious. Now, only one question remains: What next?

What’s next for Frank Horrigan, Enclave Special Agent, supermutant cyborg, experiment, and doomed to die once his duty is complete? Will he walk happily to the slaughter, knowing he's to the executed, and accepting of his fate? Will he, for the few final hours he has left, as the stims stop and the sedation ends, will the horror finally set in, of what he's done and what he's become? Will he die unrepentant, forever swearing his loyalty to a faction who wanted him dead, praising Richardson as the last breath leaves his rebuilt lungs? Will he die in company of his beloved President, shot by the hand that fed, beat and leashed him?

Will he die remorseful, for once in his short, brilliant, violent life, cursing the men who doomed him and turned him into what he was?

Will they even afford him an execution? Will they simply turn off his life support and leave him to keel over, collapse and wither from the augments they knew he could not sustain? Will they kill him like any other filthy mutie or an Enclave traitor, a bullet to the back of the head? Will they take him in a moment he's unaware, or will he know perfectly well of his execution, yet sit down and wait for it? Will he even fight back?

The Chosen One, long dead by then, is not there to save the Wasteland. Or him, for that matter.

Or perhaps, Frank Horrigan is not as obedient as they believe. Perhaps, as his cybernetics fray and his reagents grind to a halt, in final moments of lucidity granted by the waning stims, he realizes what is about to happen. He was loyal. He was the Enclave’s finest soldier, their greatest enforcer.

And is this his reward? Is this the thanks he gets? To be put down like a dog?

Maybe he fights. Maybe he makes them bleed. Maybe, as his body finally begins to give in, as his augments shut down, as his muscles spasm from withdrawal, he still crawls toward the bastards who killed him. Maybe, in his final breath, he reminds them why they feared him.

And when they finally bring him down, struggling against the monster they had made, he leaves ruins behind him. Even in his last moments, bisected, bleeding, arm and leg rotators broken, bionic eye shattered, he was still crawling towards the bastards that betrayed him.

And when he is finally dead, a pile of corpses around him, the Enclave will erase his name from their records. He will be forgotten, utterly obliterated from history, as if he never served at all. He will be gone, as if he never were, and the Enclave will celebrate the removal of this stain upon their purity: the death of a mutant, and not a soldier.

Or perhaps, his watch ends, and he goes quietly.

Years. He served for years, he served them with his flesh, his strength, his literal blood and bone, and now they’re done and there’s nothing left to do but let him go. Perhaps he knows, perhaps he knew all along, he was just another walking corpse.

When they finally come for him, he does not resist. The last orders are given, the last Vertibirds set off from the oil rig - rusting by then - and the sound of the few remaining engines fade. Switches are flicked. Weapons are stowed away. Officers cheer.

And Horrigan receives his last order.

He accepts this as he accepted every other command, because that is all he has ever known. The chems are already thinning in his veins, The cybernetics they forced into him strain, his organs burn under the burden of enhancement.

Perhaps, as they lead him away, he does not feel fear. Frank Horrigan does not know fear. But in those last moments, as the final dose wears off, as his thoughts clear for the first time in years, perhaps, just perhaps, there is regret. A flicker of something buried under decades of conditioning. Just a flicker of what could have been…

But of course not. He is Frank Horrigan. He does not question, because to do so would have been beyond him. He does not struggle. 

He does not fight back, even as the bullet enters his skull, and he dies ignominiously, obeying the man that killed him.

His ride’s over, and it’s time to die.

[into-thew00ds]

Erm I’m sorry what the scallop is that??? (Big ass dawg thing)

"I'm lucky Toby was close by.. This one is much bigger than the few I've seen this season."

[delusionaltoma]

Thought about victor and got sad

[calkale]

guys im ngl i should not have watched brokeback mountain today

[cokowiii]

WHERE. MASTERPOST. ME GOING INSANE. LOVE THE SILLIES. WHERE TO READ?????

Unpinned but still exists

[mayor-thaniyel]

Heyyy guys hei, mod/host here

SIGHS I UHM DIDNT CALCULATE THE TIME IT MAY TALE TO MAKE ART FOR EACH ASK AND IM GETTING REALLY TIRED OF DOING THAT IM SO SORRY

thought it is a cute idea (and it really is) but i started feeling like its just going to become a chore

so it'll be less common....

I also started to realise this was making it harder to post as well since we didn't like or even want to post replies unless it had an image with it so yeah, i didnt want to restrict responses at all :(

[powerlineangel]

Doing more reqs tomorrow i was super tired today (and someone said something abt my art that made me dissolve into a pool of self pity) so no more today..

[internet-goblin]

[aroacemumder4177]

I was feeling kind of sad so I wrote a poem

Who are You

Who are you?

Are you my mother?

No, You can’t be her

My mother is always pained

My mother favors my brother over me.

My mother dyes her hair to get rid of the grey

My mother obsesses over crime shows and her dogs

My mother spent a year painting bird houses

My mother didn’t fight for me to stay

You’re not my mother.

Who are you?

Are you my father?

No, you can’t be him

My father is always tired

My father played video games until she came along

My father gets angry sometimes

My father hates the word hate

My father wants to travel

My father wishes we were okay

You’re not my father.

Who are you?

Are you my big sister?

No, you can’t be her

My big sister is always there

My big sister has boy problems

My big sister is healing

My big sister used to have long talks before we went to bed

My big sister is not afraid to cry

My big sister wasn’t treated fairly

You're not my big sister.

Who are you?

Are you my brother?

No, you can’t be him

My brother is always talking with friends

My brother shares birthday parties with me

My brother loves video games

My brother wants to love someone

My brother doesn’t know what to do half the time

My brother never wants to grow up

You’re not my brother.

Who are you?

Are you my little sister?

No, you can’t be her

My little sister is always trying to grow up

My little sister lies

My little sister watches anime

My little sister wants to be like me

My little sister forgets to return library books

My little sister never got spanked

You’re not my little sister.

Who are you?

Are you me?

Yes, we are

We always hide from emotions

We like to watch kids shows

We listen to music while wanting it to listen back

We try to be the perfect kid every one wants us to be

We want to care for something more than a cat

We are never going to be what others want

You are me.

You are not me.

We may be similar but we’re not the same

We like different colors

We like different clothes

We hate different foods

We want to be like someone else

We are not someone else.

I am me.

Who are you?