#I don't know if it's his blood or someone else's

[al-1-na]

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 ~ 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

Based on this req.

Pairing: Drew Starkey x gf!Reader

CW: angst angst angst

Summary: When Drew begins pulling away, you're left questioning everything-especially when rumors swirl about him and a co-star. So you leave. No goodbye. Just gone. But how will he react?

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

01 | 02

It started with unread texts.

At first, you didn't think anything of it. People get busy. People get distracted. Especially when they're actors on the brink of something big. You'd text him in the mornings-simple things like "Hope you slept okay" or "Wanna grab dinner after set?"—and by the time the sun went down, maybe he'd shoot back a tired thumbs-up emoji. Sometimes not even that.

It stung, but you brushed it off.

The thing about love is that it makes you good at making excuses. Too good.

You and Drew had been dating for a little over a year.

It wasn't always like this-God, no. He used to call you on the way home from set, just to hear your voice. You used to fall asleep on FaceTime when you were in different cities. He used to make you laugh so hard your stomach hurt.

But now, the silence between texts stretched longer, like slow, heavy breathing. He started replying in fragments. "Busy." "Can't tonight." "Rain check?"

And you kept telling yourself it was fine. That he was tired. That he was just overwhelmed. That he loved you—he just didn't have the energy to show it all the time.

But then the date nights stopped.

You had this little tradition— every Thursday night was yours. No matter how chaotic the week was, Thursday meant takeout and wine and the two of you cuddled under a throw blanket watching the worst movies you could find. And that was your anchor.

That was your constant.

Until suddenly, it wasn't.

The first Thursday he bailed, he said something had come up on set. The second, he said he was sick. The third, he didn't say anything at all. Just didn't show.

You waited until 11:47 p.m. before finally blowing out the candle you'd lit for ambiance and packing away the pad thai that had gone cold. You didn't even bother texting him. What was the point?

What made it worse-what twisted the knife-was opening Instagram.

There he was. Smiling in the sunlight next to Odessa.

The caption wasn't anything special-just a "grateful for days like this @" kind of thing-but the comments were wild.

"omg are they dating??"

"i KNEW there was something between them"

"sorry to this girl but drew and odessa >>>>"

Your hands went cold as you scrolled, the blood rushing in your ears.

You didn't want to be that girl. You didn't want to spiral. But how were you supposed to feel when the man you loved hadn't touched you in days and yet looked so warm and alive in someone else's frame?

You turned your phone off and buried it under your pillow.

It got harder to talk to him.

Every time you tried —every time you even so much as hinted at how distant he felt-he'd change the subject or wave it off.

"I'm just tired," he said one night, brushing a kiss against your hair. "Don't make this into something it's not."

But it already was something. You were starting to feel like a ghost in your own relationship-like some vague obligation he kept around out of habit.

And you hated yourself for not knowing how to fix it.

The apartment was quiet a few nights later — quieter than it had ever been.

You sat curled on the edge of the bed, suitcase half-zipped on the floor. Your chest ached, not with rage, but something far more hollow. Exhaustion. A kind of numbness that settled into your bones after weeks of trying, waiting, and hoping.

You hadn’t planned to leave like this. Not really. You didn’t even know where you’d go — just that you needed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere that didn’t smell like his cologne or echo with the memory of his laughter.

You didn’t leave a note.

You left the keys on the counter, the spare hoodie of his you always wore folded neatly on the couch. Then you walked out the door and didn’t look back.

No goodbye.

Just… gone.

Drew didn’t realize you were gone until late that night.

He got home around 1 a.m., buzzed from a wrap party, the city humming outside the window. He’d promised himself he’d talk to you tomorrow. Apologize. Explain. Try.

But when he stepped inside, something was… off.

The lights were out. The scent of vanilla candles—your usual—was gone. The blanket on the couch sat undisturbed, flat and unused.

“Babe?” he called out. “You up?”

No answer.

He checked the bedroom. Empty.

The closet. Half your stuff was missing.

He paused, suddenly aware of the open space. The missing toiletries. The silence pressing in on him like a vise.

His stomach dropped.

He found the keys on the counter.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “No…”

At first, he thought maybe you just needed space. A night away. But hours passed. Then days. No messages. No calls. No posts. Nothing.

He texted you.

Drew: Please call me. I didn’t know it was that bad.

Drew: I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Just tell me where you are.

Drew: Please.

Nothing.

He tried your friends. Half of them didn’t know anything, the other half refused to talk. He checked your favorite coffee spots, drove past the bookstore you loved, even swung by your sister’s place.

It was like you’d vanished.

And for the first time in his life, Drew Starkey panicked.

Not the usual kind of panic — this was a bone-deep terror that he’d pushed the one good thing in his life so far away that you didn’t even feel the need to say goodbye.

He sat in the apartment, your absence clawing at the walls, and wondered when exactly he’d let it all fall apart.

He thought about the way you used to light up around him.

How he used to feel like he could breathe when you were in the room.

And how now, the silence felt like punishment. And he deserved every second of it.

One week later.

Drew was on set when Odessa sat down beside him. She looked hesitant, cautious, and a little sad.

“You okay?” she asked.

He didn’t look up. “Not even a little.”

She hesitated before speaking. “I got a message from someone I think you should see.”

He looked over, brows furrowed.

She handed him her phone. A DM. From your best friend.

It read: “Please tell him to stop calling. She’s not ready to hear from him. And no, she didn’t leave because of you. She left because she didn’t recognize herself anymore.”

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he handed the phone back and stood up abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Odessa asked.

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight. “To fix it.”

It took him three days to find you.

You’d booked a place three towns over — a little AirBnB near the coast, somewhere quiet. Solitary. You weren’t running from him, exactly. You were just trying to remember who you were before loving him took up all the oxygen in the room.

When you opened the door and saw him standing there — eyes red, sweatshirt wrinkled, like he hadn’t slept — your heart stuttered in your chest.

“What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t let it end like that,” he said, voice hoarse. “I couldn’t let you think I didn’t care.”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t act like you cared.”

“I know.” He swallowed hard. “And I hate myself for it.”

You stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame to keep yourself grounded. Your heartbeat was roaring in your ears, your body torn between stepping forward and slamming the door shut.

He looked broken—his usual composure stripped away, the charming exterior gone. Just a man standing in the wreckage of everything he neglected.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” you said softly. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It mattered,” he whispered. “I just didn’t realize until you were gone how much of myself I’d lost trying to keep up with everything else… and how much of you I pushed away in the process.”

You didn’t speak.

He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving yours.

“I stopped answering. I stopped showing up. I stopped being your partner, and then I looked around and wondered why you weren’t still holding on.” His voice cracked. “But the truth is… you held on longer than anyone should have.”

Your lips trembled, but you forced yourself to ask, “So why now? Why show up when I’m finally breathing again?”

He paused. And then he told the truth.

“Because I don’t want to be the reason you forget how to love. And because I finally realized that you weren’t just any part of my life—you were the best part. And I threw it away.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to forgive me today. Or tomorrow. I don’t even know if you ever will. But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still believes in us… I’ll wait. I’ll show up. I’ll be better. Even if it’s too late.”

You looked at him, really looked—saw the man who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, the man who once knew exactly how to hold your hand when the world felt too heavy. But also the man who made you feel like a burden, like background noise in his own life.

You stepped back into the threshold and looked him in the eye.

“Drew,” you said, voice shaking but steady, “I loved you so much I forgot to love myself.”

And with that, you gently closed the door.

Not a slam. Not a scream. Just the soft click of a chapter ending.

He didn’t knock again.

He stood there for a long time, forehead pressed to the wood, whispering your name to a door that wouldn’t open.

And for the first time in a long time, you chose you.

Whether he ever earned a second chance or not… wasn’t your burden to carry anymore.

@daryldixon83 @favzcarpentr @soft-starr @k4yr14 @43hughes @cokewithcameron @psychocitylights

[hrrtshape]

hi!! im a huge fan. i know you said you were in a yapping mood, and i was curious about the boarding school st. lazarus you made that you mentioned in ur better cr!

just wondering like, everything. what's the culture there, is there a uniform, stories of you && coryo ,, etc. the scoop if you will. thankyouthankyou!

ok so it's not a boarding school!!!!!!!! i know. day school. tragically. i go home. i live 40 minutes away if i'm walking which is crazy because if you look at nyc from a map you'd think that'd be like 5 minutes. i just go straight and then turn a corner and then straight. if it's raining i'll stand outside and text "someone bring me a helicopter" with full sincerity. anyway. my boyfriend drives me to school because he loves me very very very very very very very much i hope

somehow it's always longer than it should be. like it bends. like manhattan bends around this stupid school and steals five minutes from me every single day

ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm so it's in carnegie hill which means everyone's parents have very loud opinions on rezoning and once a girl's dad tried to sue a bakery for serving him gluten when he emotionally believed it was gluten-free. anyway. the school. it's not a boarding school (tragic). it's a 30k per semester day school. thirty. thousand. per semester. i'm not embarrassed. but saying it feels like i'm daring god to smite me. or like. calling the irs to chat

the building is huge. horrifying. old in a way that's not romantic but structurally concerning. it looks like someone said "what if we did hogwarts but took out the whimsy and added asbestos." there are lions carved into the stonework and they glare down at you like you cheated on your latin test

pigeons sit on their heads and act like they own the place. they probably do. they've been here longer than the freshman

there's a plaque on the front gate that's written in a mix of latin and threatening serif. it says something about "truth" and "light" and "excellence through adversity" which feels aggressive when you're already late and holding a bagel with no napkin. the gates are black and heavy and creak when they open, which would be dramatic if it wasn't also deeply annoying when you're holding an iced coffee and a binder and your keycard fell in a drain ten minutes ago.

you walk in and there's a courtyard with a marble fountain that sounds like it's trying to win an oscar for sound design. like. you can hear it from the third floor english hallway if the windows are open. which they always are. because the school has money for koi ponds and augmented reality labs but refuses to invest in functional air circulation. priorities

sometimes people hang out by the fountain. usually to "study." they don't. they vape and talk about other people's siblings. sometimes there's a violinist. he's not employed by the school. he's just.......… around. someone said he used to teach here. someone else said he's a ghost. either way he plays vivaldi at 8:04am and no one stops him.

the inside of the building is just as dramatic. the staircases creak. the hallways echo. the floors are so shiny it's like walking on guilt. the ceilings have mouldings. the kind of mouldings that feel legally protected. and there's chandeliers. not one. not two. several. for no reason. i asked a teacher once why they were there and she just said "aesthetic legacy." ok. roger that

the library is two floors and has a spiral staircase and a librarian who once gave someone detention for dog-earing a penguin classics edition of ulysses. there's a rumour that she lives in the archive room. she denies it. but her mug says "my blood type is dewey decimal" so like. we know

every room has a plaque with a name. the balthazar science suite. the cohen humanities corridor. the bishop astor media centre. i don't know who these people are. probably donors. probably ghosts. probably both. my theory is that for every building donation, someone's spirit gets trapped inside the walls and has to haunt the photocopier until the next capital campaign

also the bell system is weird. it doesn't ring. it chimes. like a cursed nursery rhyme. three soft tones. a lullaby for overachievers. it plays at the start and end of every period and the tone literally says "this is a prestigious institution where we will kill you. gently." we all just stand up and move. no one questions it

the front office smells like printer ink and lavender and passive aggression. the admin staff have name tags and clipboards and a kind of cheerful menace. if you forget your id, they give you a visitor badge and a look. you know the one. the one that says "you are disappointing the ancestors"

we have vending machines that sell eel rolls. eel rolls. vending machine. eel. there's a recording studio next to the planetarium. a tea room on the mezzanine floor with like. napkin rings. a greenhouse on the roof. not metaphorically. physically.

there's a hallway that smells like lavender and another that smells like laser ink and the cafeteria has a sushi bar. the drama kids keep trying to rehearse in the speakeasy study room but no one has the spine to kick them out. there's a girl who takes off her shoes in the meditation room and everyone lets her because her dad's on the board. her feet smell

you get assigned an alumni mentor. you get a starbucks account. you get handed a schedule and it says "literature studies" and "fencing" and you go ok.

the uniforms are stiff. they're good-looking. it's like navy and light grey and sometimes white if it's a formal day. i love em. the blazers have embroidery. people have names on their tags. one guy in our year tried to make a "casual fridays" movement happen and it got shut down within twenty minutes. he's still mad about it.

i'm in the yearbook committee. and blackmailed my way into the school council. coryo's in model un and the school council and also is the captain of the basketball team. he runs all three. like of course he does wow it makes sense why the school's a bit of a dictatorship. he edits my essays. he pretends not to.

he sits behind me in world history and once threw a folded-up packet of xeroxed court documents at my head. we kissed in the art gallery stairwell after a student-led climate panel. someone definitely saw. no one said anything. he sends me stupid little messages like meet me in the greenhouse in five minutes or i will swallow soil

the school is… ,,,,,,,,,,.........i don't even know. it's not weird. it's not dark academia. it's not euphoria. it's just full. there's always something. the girl next to you is learning japanese for fun. the boy across from you is mad he didn't win the tech competition and now he's rebuilding his robot from scratch. people write tok essays like they're letters to the un.

you know that one vending machine in the library hallway that just. doesn't work. ever. but they won't replace it because someone's cousin is on the tech team and they say it's "being monitored?????????? yeah. that's the one that ate my money three times and gave coryo a vitamin water once that was probably somehow five years expired. we drank it. it was fine. we felt immortal for two days.

there's this girl in my history class who prints everything on cream-coloured paper. like not white. not off-white. full-on brutalist parisian memoir coloured paper. no one knows where she buys it. someone said her godfather works in publishing. i don't care. i just want to know how she gets her margins to align so cleanly

people keep acting like the greenhouse is some rare oasis of calm but it's genuinely so humid in there i get angry. physically angry. and the girl who runs the gardening club walks around misting things and won't let anyone open the window. "they'll dry out." ok. and i'll pass out. do you want me on the floor with a nosebleed or do you want your basil alive. choose

there's an unofficial rule that if you get caught crying in the staircase between the music wing and the robotics closet, someone has to give you gum. doesn't matter who. doesn't matter what kind. it's like a tax. last week it was coryo. he gave someone a whole pack of orbit and then made fun of them for liking debussy. it's a vicious cycle. i got annoyed. like. why are you giving someone gum??? asshole

the english teacher keeps trying to make fetch happen. and she never blinks. and she once told us she translated the iliad by hand for fun. anyway she terrifies me and i respect her more than most people in my life

every wednesday there's a girl who stands outside the student council office with a clipboard. she has braces and the power of god behind her. she's been "collecting names" for three years. we don't know what for. she never tells anyone. you just see her. and you sign. and you hope you're on the good list. like santa. but santa won't write an expose in forbes about you in 20 years. coriolanus has not signed and im scared he's gambling our future children and riches away !!!!!!!

they installed a water refill station that plays bird noises. no one asked for it. no one knows who requested it. but the noises change sometimes??? one day it was seagulls. one day it was tropical rainforest ambience. one day it made no noise and it felt wrong. everyone just stood there like…………. where's the bird

there's a rumour that if you're on the debate team you get a special locker near the server room and it has better wifi. this might be true. the debate team all carry portable chargers and look smug. one of them definitely stole my charger in september and said it was a necessary strategic acquisition.

the sushi bar in the cafeteria has a tip jar. it's not real. it's just there for atmosphere. someone once left a poem in it. someone else left a band-aid. i once saw lilyrose drop in a metrocard and walk away with no expression. when i asked him he just said it had 37 cents on it. ok.

also there's a corner of the art gallery where the lights flicker and the head of visual arts keeps saying "we're working on it" but it's been three years and it still flickers and it still smells like whiteboard cleaner and every time i stand there for too long i feel like i'm about to have a vision. which is fine. because that's where coryo kissed me. during climate week. while holding a binder. because romance is dead and i killed it with my bare hands

we have a school-wide wi-fi network that everyone hates but won't admit they use. it's called lazarussecure. the password is stlazarusnewyork btw. so cool. except it's not secure. it's slow. it breaks during lunch. there's this one girl in my english class who has her own hotspot and she's basically a god now

someone made a meme page for our year group and admin tried to take it down. didn't work. it got funnier

we once had an assembly where the guest speaker was an alum who started a skincare line. she talked about collagen for thirty straight minutes. someone fainted. it wasn't related. they just hadn't eaten. but it made the whole thing feel very dramatic and cultish

ohhhhhhh by the way we have such a cool conference hall like grah

ok so i need you all to remember that 90% of these people are rich and choose to be STUPID on purpose. like it's a decision. no one's asking them to act like this. no one's holding a gun to their head saying "pronounce rousseau like 'ra-soo.'" they just do it. they just wake up and think "hmm. what if i interpreted reality incorrectly today." and then they do. and everyone claps

there are cliques. obviously

the ones whose parents are on boards.

the ones who summer in places that don't have google street view

the ones who are secretly broke but act like they own equestrian land in monaco

the ones who actually do own equestrian land in monaco and won't shut up about it.

the kids with bodyguards.

the kids with cousins in congress.

the kids who think they're main character just because they went to harrow for a term and cried. THEYRE NOT THEY SUCKY SUCK

right. it's more like gravity. there's just groups and proximity and whoever got invited to blair's birthday brunch that one time. that's how it works. there's the girls who are on varsity dance and have initials for names. em. vee. jay. they eat protein bars in the hallway and their entire lives run on a tight rotation of toner, sleep-deprived charisma, and gym shark discount codes. they all have matching water bottles. no one knows who started it. they just do

there's the boys who wear the blazers wrong. never buttoned. sleeves slightly rumpled. perfect gelled hair but in a way that says i didn't try even though we all saw them adjusting it in the stainless steel reflection on the juice bar. they're the ones who take econ because they want to "go into finance" and then get a b+ and cry behind the server room. losers

you've never seen someone fall apart like a boy who realises he's mid at game theory

you've got the legacy kids who show up to ethics class late with a coffee the size of their head and say things like "oh i talked to my mom's assistant about that" in response to......anything. they don't even mean it in a bad way. they just don't know how conversations work. someone once said the sentence "my grandfather owns a minority stake in a war documentary distributor" in front of me and i still think about it at least once a week

then there's the student council-adjacent types. like me. like hi. sparkle sparkle. i'm glinda. i'm involved. i'm everywhere. i'm the one you ask if you want to know what movie to watch when you're sad but want to feel like a parisian orphan. i'm the one who shows up to the student council meeting with a dirty chai latte and three highlighters and sits next to coryo like i'm not also plotting to make the vending machines sell melon soda. we're not power-hungry. we're just very charming and very effective. ok

the artsy kids are a disaster in the best way. they take up half the cafeteria with their sketchbooks and chipped nail polish and i'm doing a piece on emotional scale. ok. what does that mean. do you need help. they always look cold. they always have a sharpie in their pocket. one of them has painted the same vase for two years straight and no one has the courage to ask why. someone said it's a metaphor. i think she just likes the shape

science olympiad is half future billionaires and half kids who peaked at nine. they do everything in groups of four. they walk in a diamond formation. they have inside jokes about like. cell cultures and arsenic poisoning. one of them made a powerpoint about the logistics of time travel and presented it unprompted during english media culture. i think he cried. no one said anything. we all just clapped once and moved on

the musical theatre kids……….. ok. well. i don't know what the drama kids are doing half the time. but they're actually not that bad. i know i KNOW but listen. they're too tired to be annoying this year. they're overworked. they're always running lines or painting sets or begging the tech team to stop turning off the lights during rehearsal. i was supervising their set production and actually....learned a lot of lines of hamlet. words, words, words. i caught one of them asleep under the piano in the recital hall and just left him there. he looked peaceful. like a corpse

the yearbook committee is a warzone. i'm on it. i've fought people over captions. we don't have time to pretend we're "the quirky creatives." we're too busy fighting the layout software and sending passive aggressive emails about photo quality.

the newspaper kids are worse. they think they're reporters. they call meetings. they act like they're about to uncover watergate and then write 600 words on why the vending machines reflect late-stage capitalism. YOU ARE NOT CARY GRANT IN HIS GIRL FRIDAY DO YOU HEAR ME

then there's the floater rich kids. they're the ones who are somehow in three clubs but no one's ever seen them attend a meeting. they get asked to be on every committee. they say maybe a lot. they're hot and loud and mostly run on charisma and la mer moisturiser. one of them once said i'd join model un but i don't want to fix anything. i kind of respect that

and finally you've got the weird in-betweeners who aren't really in anything but somehow have access to everything.

they know all the locker combos. they've sat in on meetings they weren't invited to. they walk around during third period with a school-issued ipad and the kind of confidence that suggests they're either a spy or someone's nephew. i don't know how they do it. they're not mean. they're not sweet. they're just… there. haunting the group chat. sending pdfs no one asked for. being ten minutes early to everything and still shocked when people don't know their name.

also there's a genre of boy here that i have no name for but you know him. he's on the basketball team but also takes latin. he carries a protein shake in a carabinered bottle and quotes catch-22 like it's a flex. he wears his backpack on one shoulder and says things like "the gatsby movie was better than the book actually" with conviction. he flirts horribly and when you call him out he says you're projecting. coryo has almost become one of them at least twice. i keep him humble to the bone

then there's the girls who are always leaving. they've been "moving to paris" for four semesters now. they walk into school in sunglasses and leave before fifth period and you ask "where are you going?" and they say "pilates." they're never in class but somehow always at events. they know what they're doing

there's a specific war happening between the ethics and morality class and the tech help desk. it's unspoken. they fight with eye contact. i don't know the origins but it has to do with a socratic seminar that devolved into a presentation about "data laundering in school-issued devices." one of the tech desk kids just kept saying "open source doesn't mean you're free." whatever that means. i don't know. i liked the poster !!!???!?!?

our student council president (also my boyfriend. hi. he's rich. (off screen squealing) keeps saying we should "streamline the student body." he won't explain what that means the fucking loser. he says it's metaphorical. he also said "i could run this place with four people and a fountain pen." which is terrifying. he might be right

there is a girl who keeps writing to admin demanding a rebrand of the cafeteria lunch trays. she said the beige plastic was "a violent affront to contemporary palettes." she started a change.org petition. she got sixty signatures. someone drew devil horns on it and left it taped to the aquarium.

she cried. then doubled down

the group chat for my english class has not been normal since the first month. someone keeps changing the name. someone else keeps adding random faculty. we live in fear. one time it was called "wednesday suicide pact (annotated)." the teacher never addressed it. she just posted a pdf of a sylvia plath essay and logged off. no one's heard from her since

the alumni mentor programme is a scam. they matched me with a woman who wrote for the cut in 2013 and now freelances about "narrative wellness." we had one zoom. she told me i had "old eyes." what does that mean. she sent me a playlist. i haven't opened it

there's a hallway in the second building where no one gets signal. we call it the dead zone. someone once said you can hear the school crying in there if you listen hard enough

i said it just smells like broken radiator and whatever perfume the year 10 girls are all copying from each other. no one laughed

the kids in architecture club are building a miniature model of the school for "posterity." they said it's about "documenting space under capitalism." i said ok. they said they needed hair samples for scale. i left

also there's a boy who wears sunglasses in the planetarium. every time. he says it's for light sensitivity. he is the same boy who threw up during theatre week because he ate an entire tin of espresso beans before curtain call.

he's now banned from the recital hall. but he still shows up. every single time. sunglasses on

ok also the starbucks. sorry. the ON-CAMPUS starbucks. yes we have one. yes it's open before first period. yes it has a staff punch card system. no we don't work there. we're just that powerful. it's inside the arts building which is probably illegal because the floor plan says "cultural annex" but it literally has a drinks fridge and one guy named aiden who always spells my name wrong on purpose. whatever

we have a dynamic.

i get the soy milk matcha latte. every. single. time. the girl who runs the milk rotation tried to shade me for it once and i just said "it's me and the latte against the world." and she nodded. we haven't spoken since. i don't care if it's overpriced.

i don't care if it's not "real matcha." it's green. it's sweet. it makes me feel invincible. sometimes i drink it too fast and shake in tok but that's between me and my spiralling metaphysical assumptions

we ball.

anyway. the starbucks also does this thing where they play weird music during first period. like not even lo-fi. i'm talking glitched out 2010s youtube ad-core. one time it was just a looped sample of someone whispering "capitalist hellscape" over nature sounds. someone must've made a complaint because now it's mostly jazz. except last week they played the national anthem on loop for forty minutes. no one said anything.

we were all too scared. especially me who's not an american but russian so i constantly feel like someone's about to grab me with a net and send me out to siberia. I WAS BORN IN PARIS NICOLE OKAY???? I DONT TALK TO BEARS . wow okay.

we have gourmet vending machines. i know i mentioned the eel rolls but did i tell you they also do tiny tiramisus???? @kerryshifts move in??? and soba bowls. and for some reason........... gluten-free pistachio biscotti?? which i'm like ok mum's influence is showing ig like............. she probably owns the supplier. leash, collar, bunny tail and all. they also once stocked blue cheese and no one took accountability for it. like it was just there. fermenting in public. rotting with confidence

like most of the boys in there who said that

the tea room has a reservation system. which is stupid. i hate it. i use it every week. it's on the mezzanine and it has actual place cards and a rotating menu and a girl named juliette who pronounces "camomile" like it's a threat. i go there between double english and model un. coryo always finds me. he never books. he just shows up and makes fun of how i hold my fork and drinks my tea even though he said he "doesn't trust infusions." he's dramatic. he's obsessed with me. it's so sickening oh if someone could save me

also there are three water fountains in the east building. one of them's normal. one of them is broken. one of them plays rainforest ambience when you press the button. this isn't a joke. it makes little chirping bird noises and everything. i don't know who coded it. i don't know who installed it. i asked the facilities guy once and he just said "it's on a loop." ok??? what kind of loop. what kind of bird. there's no plaque. i'm repeating myself.....wow ok im going insane

we have a zen garden. you're not allowed to touch it. someone did once and got a full write-up and a week of detention. she didn't even step on it. she just leaned in. there's a motion sensor. it went off. it beeped. admin got involved. someone said it was cultural. someone else said it was aesthetic.

anyway she cried and now we're all scared to walk past it during third period because it sees you

there's also the vending machine,,,, that one i mentioned but i also called the number on it and it just rang twice and went to voicemail. i left a message saying i wanted to book a limousine to the debate semi-finals. no one ever got back to me. but the next week there was a limousine parked outside the music wing and no one claimed it

the cafeteria sushi bar has mood lighting. like genuine dimmer-switch lighting. you can't see the rolls. you just have to guess. i once picked up something i thought was avocado and it was straight-up wasabi. i cried. serena laughed so hard he fell off the stool. the chef bowed. i said thank you. i hoped she'd die. we moved on

also. and this is real. someone tried to start a student-run speakeasy in the library archive room and it lasted three days before being shut down. they had menus. someone brought in a milk frother. there was a password system. "punctuation." i'm not joking. they used "punctuation" as the password. you had to whisper it through the shelf. i respect the vision. poor execution.

so we also have this cursed little hallway. it connects the language immersion wing to the tech help desk. no one walks it voluntarily. it's freezing. always. like hospital-corridor-during-a-power-outage cold. one time someone's hair clip shattered from the air pressure. another time the lights flickered and a girl dropped her smoothie and screamed. i walk it daily. because my locker's there

also did i tell you about the aquarium in the biology room???

it's huge

it's got its own little corner and a name plaque and everything. except the name plaque says "donated in memory of horace." no one knows who horace is

no one's ever said anything about horace. the fish are fine. one of them's missing an eye. the marine bio teacher insists it's natural. it isn't

there's also this thing where every year during winter, some senior decides they're gonna "host a salon." no one ever defines what that means. it's just them in the tea room, talking about being misunderstood while quoting philosophers wrong and eating strawberries like they're in a renaissance painting. last year someone brought a harp. the tea room staff revolted. it was beautiful

the printer on the third floor humanities wing is haunted. this is not up for debate. it prints blank pages. it jams even when empty. it once printed someone's private google doc notes from 2017. unprompted. they were about twilight and political theory. the girl cried. the printer blinked. nothing else happened. it remains operational. admin won't replace it. they said "it builds character." ok. have i mentioned this? i feel like im going insane

you know that thing where a school has "morning announcements"????? yeah. ours are pre-recorded on fridays. by this one guy in year 12 with the smoothest voice on earth and an ego the size of the upper gym. he once said "congratulations to the fencing team on their moderate success" and got suspended for two days. he came back and called us "listeners." someone needs to stop him !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

the school's instagram page is managed by someone in admin who clearly wants to go viral. like every post is captioned like a divorcee's pinterest board. "excellence in bloom 🌸" and "dream. believe. dissect." please. we're dissecting frogs. be serious.

one time they posted a photo of me in debate club and tagged the wrong name

coryo got in trouble last month for making a school-wide google calendar event titled "the downfall of democracy." it was actually just the student council elections. but still. people freaked. one girl wrote a whole speech about freedom of speech and the sanctity of digital infrastructure. he didn't even campaign. he still won. i'm going to scream. i love my man so much

there's a set of twin boys in year 10 who only speak in riddles and run the audio booth for assemblies. they carry a clipboard. no one's ever seen what's on it. they nod at you like you've passed a test. one time they offered me a sticker and said "you've been deemed stable." i was not. but i took it

also. once a month, the school sends out a newsletter called the lazarus ledger. it is. deranged. it includes things like "student of the fortnight" and "fungus updates." one time there was a pie chart showing "classroom window status" and 67% were labelled "cracked but alive." what does that mean. why are we tracking this. who is behind the data. why are we funding this.

we have a girl who runs a podcast. it's called elevate your mind. she records it from the wellness centre and talks about breathwork and magnesium and her "unique journey with burnout." she got suspended last semester for plagiarising an episode from andrew huberman

she came back with crystals and a vengeance. i don't trust her

the vending machine next to the music hallway once gave me three kit kats. no explanation. no refund. i didn't report it. it felt too personal. like a message

[asoftsighh]

Hey! Could I request some fluff with Sirius please?

I was thinking of something a bit too specific like, Sirius not admitting he likes an oblivious! Reader, but still getting jealous of people around them?

Bonus points if the other boys keep pestering Sirius saying things like " thank the heavens you don't have a crush, huh?"

Thank you!

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ sirius black x reader ₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

sirius isn’t jealous, he swears

1k words

a/n: thank you for requesting angel!!

The third time Glenn Pots touches your arm, not that Sirius is counting, Sirius’ nails have almost drawn blood. He squeezes his fists tightly, grateful that he was no longer holding a glass cup, as it would’ve surely broken. 

Sirius leans back in the arm chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table, the picture of casualness. Around him, people danced and cheered and retold the Quidditch game that had ended less than an hour ago, the Gryffindors leaving victorious. Normally, he’d be in the mood for this; he might’ve sung along with the music with James or bothered Remus. More importantly, he might’ve gotten to talk to you. 

The thought makes him glance back over at you, sitting on the loveseat in the corner, Glenn Pots leaning into your side. You’re smiling at him, a small one, but still. Before he can fret any more, someone places themselves on the arm of Sirius’ chair, fully blocking the view. This particular person, one with wild hair and crooked glasses, looks like he’s up to no good.

“You alright, Pads?” James asks, his eyes saying that he already knows what’s wrong. “Looking particularly sulky tonight.”

Sirius waves a hand, trying to subtly position himself so he can still see you around James’ body. “Fine. Headache, is all.”

James’ smile grows impossible wider, glasses slipping down the slope of his nose as he looks down at him. “Hm. Is it, perhaps, one in the shape of a Mr. Pots?”

Sirius turns his glare up to James, squinting at his best friend. Whenever James knows that Sirius is one of his moods, all of his smiles look satisfying enough to punch. If they weren’t friends, and at a party, he might’ve done just that. Instead, he shoves James’ legs off of his lap.

He laughs and catches himself before he could fall to the floor. “You know,” he continues, positioning himself back on the arm, “you could just talk to her. Crazy idea, I know.”

“And why would I do that?” It’s hard to keep the bite out of his voice, but he doesn’t worry about hurting James’ feelings. He knows that Sirius isn’t mad at him; mad at the universe and Pots, yes. Never James, though.

“Sirius, you’re staring.”

From James’ new seat, he can just see Pots. Even from across the room, the way he is looking at you makes him uncomfortable and angry all at once. Like you are something shiny behind a glass case and he has to have you.

“I’m not jealous, James,” Sirius says, far too defensively for that to be true. “I just think that he has a weird laugh. Not like she seems very happy with him anyway.”

James glances over his shoulder at you, pushing his hair back with a rough hand. When he turns back, he wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe you can go save her. The whole knight-in-shining armor thing. Girls love that, I’ve heard.”

“Oh yeah?” Sirius asks, half listening. He watches as Pots leans closer to tell you something. “And how’s that working out for you?”

When James doesn’t immediately respond, Sirius looks up at him in surprise. “Sorry,” he amends quickly. “Fuck, sorry. I’m a dick.”

James’ smile doesn’t waver, and he dismisses him with a hand as he stands from the chair. “It’s fine, Pads. I know you are just a grumpy bastard in love.”

Sirius groans, leaning his head back against the chair cushion. “I am not in love.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see James rolling his eyes, already turning toward the drink table. “Go talk to her, mate.” His voice is stern, like he’s giving an order. He’s gone before Sirius can say anything else, swallowed in the sea of bodies.

Sirius sighs softly, tucking the longer strands of his dark hair behind his ears. Taking a peek at you, he sees that you’re still there. You look exceptionally beautiful tonight, in his (and Pot’s, but he ignores this) opinion. You’ve done something different with your hair that eases the pain of anger in Sirius’ chest, bit by bit.

Without another doubt, he stands, making his way toward you, dodging dancing and cheering bodies. He’s about halfway there when you glance up, meeting his eyes. Jesus, he’s never met someone who makes him feel this nervous. 

“Can I steal you?” he asks once in talking distance. You’re standing before he can even finish asking, forgoing the drink you were cradling in your hands on the nearest table. Saying a quick goodbye to Pots, you come up to his side with already-flushed cheeks. Sirius pretends to not notice the daggers being shot in the back of his head as he steers you away, one hand between your shoulder blades. 

He feels more like himself with every step away from that loser. “Hello, gorgeous. Are you having fun?”

You look up at him with a smile that makes Sirius forget how to breathe. “I am now,” you say. Your voice is quieter than the music, but he hears you just fine. He guides you to an unoccupied couch, your thighs brushing against his as you sit. You’re so close that Sirius can smell your perfume and the way your lashes flutter as you look over at him.

He clears his throat, resting a forearm on the back of the couch, upper body angled toward you. “So… Glenn seemed chatty.”

You let out a giggle before saying, “He was. Mostly about himself.”

Sirius doesn’t bother stopping his eye roll. “What a tosser. Should’ve found someone else to talk to, love.”

You meet his eyes. “I wanted to, but he was with someone else.”

A coil of dread unravels somewhere within Sirius. His voice is low when he asks, “Who?”

Your smile widens, like you know something he doesn’t. “You, you idiot.”

He is stunned into silence for a moment, rare for him. Heat rushes up the side of his neck to the tips of his ears. “Me?”

You let out another soft laugh as you shift, mirroring his sitting position. “Yeah, you. I thought you were avoiding me.”

He shakes his head, collecting himself as tendrils of hair slip out of place. “Not at all. Too busy being an idiot, apparently.”

Your smile grows, as does his uncharacteristic nervousness. It’s hard not to tease him, just a little. “Aw, you’re too pretty to be an idiot.”

His laugh hits your ears, even louder than the music. Prettier too. 

criticism is welcome as long as it’s kind ✮⋆˙

i’m very new to writing ✮⋆˙

[lsunstreakerl]

Making my way through your o!dark bull tag and was just wondering about that ai if Charles didn’t mate Max at his first heat? Just how insane would he go trying to find that finishing school and getting Max as his omega even then 😭

I got a couple requests for o!darkbull, so even though this was sent slightly outside of the kink prompt window, I'll be using your ask for the ficlet! 4.6k words, charles POV, explicit, dead dove. (slightly.)

parings: charles leclerc/max verstappen

relevant heads up: tags below the cut, and also it's darkbull. if you're new to darkbull, don't start here <3

dead dove: omegaverse, omegas as subhuman (bought/sold) w little/no rights, no discussion of consent, dubcon/noncon due to charles ignoring max asking to wait, drugging.

Charles never stops looking.

From the first race that Max misses, with no word and no way to contact him, Charles knows something is wrong. The other kids say that maybe he's sick, but Charles knows better.

Max would never miss a race.

Charles checks every category, wobbles his way through shaky conversations in languages he doesn't speak, spends weeks trying to figure out where else Max possibly could have gone.

Pierre calls him obsessed, but that's not quite it— Max is Charles' rival. How are they supposed to be rivals if he's gone?

Lorenzo eventually pulls him aside, plopping him in the chair in Papa's office, leaning against the desk. Papa is looking at him gently, squeezing his fingers.

"Do you want us to find him?"

Obviously. If Max has quit racing, Charles will just fly out there himself and drag him back onto the track. He can't imagine Max in the normal world— the other boy belongs in fireproofs and a helmet, talking at Charles about track temp. Anything else is just wrong.

------

Lorenzo pulls him aside a week later, while Charles is kicking Arthur's ass in a video game. He brings them back into the office, although Papa is out on business.

Charles doesn't understand at first. Max isn't—

He's the furthest from omega that Charles has ever met, but that's what Lorenzo is trying to tell him, that Max had presented, that he'd been sold off to a finishing school.

The words aren't making sense. Charles understands the concept of a finishing school, of course— freshly presented omegas learn how to be ideal mates— but he can't imagine any of that applying to Max. Rough, aggressive on track Max, who's always taken advantage of every bit of space he's given.

He'd thought for sure Max was going to be an alpha. The thought of him as an omega, and what the presentation must have been like...

Charles has seen Jos. There's no possible way that Max had a nest, or anyone checking on him— and if he's been sold to a finishing school, it means he hadn't gotten any help for his heat either. They're strict about that kind of thing.

If it's true, then it means Max will never touch a kart again. He won't race, he won't be Charles' rival, he won't see him again. Charles needs to forget about him.

------

He tries.

------

Charles destroys his room on his next rut. His bed is a mess, rips down the sheets and holes in the pillows from his teeth. It's worse than his presentation rut had been, which is... not what's supposed to happen.

Papa calls in their home doctor, someone he knows from work, and the older alpha pokes and prods at Charles. He takes blood and saliva, tests his reflexes, and asks if he remembers anything from his rut.

Charles almost says no— but it's not true. He has flashes of blonde, snippets of a lisp and pale skin, remembers the freckle on his lip.

He tells the doctor he was thinking about a boy from karting that he hadn't spoken to in months. A boy he didn't even see after he presented as an omega.

The doctor makes considering noises, poking at him a few more times before leaving. Lorenzo is concerned, Arthur is laughing that he's broken, Papa is annoyed about the destruction, and Maman is more than happy to still let Charles rest his head in her lap.

------

Charles has attachment syndrome. It's not anything terrible, or even really that bad— it just complicates things. His body has decided that he has an omega already, they're just not mated yet, and his rut addled brain just wants to fix that.

Papa and Lorenzo have a few hushed talks before they sit Charles back down. They tell him he can have Max when he's done with finishing school, as long as Charles does well karting and stays on top of his studies. He'll be expected to help manage the family business when he's a bit older, so having a solid educational background is more important than he'd like it to be.

They also tell him they'll try and get some of Max's things from the finishing school before Charles' ruts, and that the school will be informed. He doesn't entirely understand, because he wasn't aware you could preorder a mate, but that's what it feels like.

------

Two weeks later, he spots a fancy letter on the table. The postage is from Switzerland, and he's only confused for a moment before he realizes that it must be the finishing school. He's too excited to remember the house rules, running with it up to the office, bursting through the door—

Papa has a gun pointed at another man.

------

Apparently, Charles is in the mafia.

------

He starts the family business early. Between karting and studying, his thoughts about Max are less frequent than they had been, but they're still a constant in his life. He'll be eating breakfast and wondering what Max is having, he'll pass the stores when he's out with Papa and Maman and wonder if Max likes the new omega styles.

He gets his first tattoos inked into his skin, learns how to tell when people are counting cards, and chops off someone's hand.

His rut catches him slightly by surprise, and poor Arthur gets the brunt of his short temper before he's sent up to his room, but Lorenzo brings him a vacuum sealed package, leaning against the doorframe.

"Just so you know, Max is earmarked for you, but you're still going to have to bid on him. Papa and I decided to let you have control over one of the clubs for the next few months, and however much you make from it is the bidding money you get."

Charles swallows, nodding. He can make enough money from one of the clubs, that's easy— as long as there's nobody else with deep pockets that wants his omega. Lorenzo tosses him the package.

"Courtesy of the school, for your 'medical needs'."

He leaves before Charles can say thank you, and he tears in the package with his nails. The scent that hits him sends his head reeling, and he's pulling the clothes out, burying his nose in them and letting the scent fill his room. Max has low, rich notes to his scent, but there's a tinge of sweetness lingering at the edges.

He's hard already, the haze of the rut creeping across him, but it doesn't feel as violent as before— just a desperate need to get off.

------

He doesn't remember much from this rut either. It breaks while he's knotted into a cocksleeve, teeth sunk into black fabric that smells sweeter than the other items. Closer inspection reveals it's a skirt, which has him rutting his hips into the bed, wishing more than anything that Max would be here, where Charles can get his hands on him.

He picks his way through the rest of the clothes. The school had sent him a soft cream sweater, saturated with Max's scent, particularly strong at the collar of it and the wrists, right where Max's scent glands are. He has a dress top, made of navy silk, and it takes him a few minutes to figure out how it would even be worn— there's too many holes and loose ends for it to make sense. They'd sent him a pillowcase as well, and Charles switches it with his own.

Being able to lay his head down and inhale Max's scent has him relaxed, allowing his mind to finally settle for what feels like the first time in years.

The idea that this will be constant for him soon— it makes him excited. He's started looking at places in Monaco, somewhere for Max to have a pretty nest for him to come home too, and lots of space for the eventual trophy wall he's going to need.

Just a few more months.

------

Charles runs the club like his life depends on it. When he's not karting, he's in the back. He more than doubles profits, brings in new customers, and makes it very clear how important it is to him that things run smoothly. The digits in his bank account steadily increase, and so does his reputation. He has three new tattoos and a contract with Sauber by the time he's twenty.

Max graduates in four weeks, and Charles bites his nails down to the quick waiting for his invitation to the auction. He's got the keys to their new flat, and he'd paid a service to deliver plenty of nest building materials. He's been nervous shopping, buying pretty things off the rack that he thinks Max will look good in, and the jewelry drawer at the new flat is worryingly full already.

He has four different collars ready, unsure which will look best on his omega, but he wants to be prepared for anything. Arthur has relentlessly been making fun of him, and Lorenzo had taken him out to buy a new suit for the auction.

Charles knows nobody else is going to get Max, but the anxiety still gnaws at him, grating against his nerves for weeks.

------

The finishing school is beautiful. It's up in the mountains, and the large glass windows sparkle in the late evening. Everything about it reminds him of elegance and grace, and the entire campus feels distinctly omega. It's a space designed for training them, so he's not entirely surprised, but it's still awe inspiring to see in person.

The chauffeur lets him step out in front of the reception hall, and he feels his nerves sink away. He has more money than he knows what to do with readily available, his rings are cool against his fingers, and Max is somewhere on the other side of the doors. All Charles needs to do is bid, and then he and Max will be able to head home back to Monaco.

He's got plans.

------

There's a few alphas here Charles knows— high profile people he's met at events and galas, and several alphas closer to his age that he strikes up casual conversation with. It's supposed to be a blind auction, where nobody knows who the omegas are, but Charles knows.

Max is one of the last three, top of his class, and projected to be extremely expensive. Charles isn't too worried— if you have the winning bid, you're not allowed to bid on any others, but everyone knows the best of the group are towards the end.

That doesn't stop the first few omegas from having bidding wars over them. Charles doesn't pay them much mind, because they're not who he wants, but he admires their grace, the perfect posture and pink cheeks. He's done his own research over the last few months, found that this school is one of the best in the world, and the money being laid down tonight reflects that.

He sips on his drink as he waits. The younger alphas he'd been chatting with all secure winning bids, and he sees a few of the older alphas he's familiar with bid closer to the middle as well.

He sits up straighter when they call Max's name. He swears that he can pick up his scent, even from the across the room, and his heart is beating in his chest as the first bids go in. He waits, letting the numbers climb higher and higher, looking closely at Max. His walk is steady across the stage, and he settles easily on the stool, one ankle lightly crossing in front of the other.

His chin is lifted, and he's slightly different from the others so far— Charles realizes a moment later it's because he's holding eye contact. There's something unyielding about him even now, and he faintly registers the bids starting to slow down before he finally lifts his own, adding his name to the ring.

The numbers climb to a dizzying height, but seeing Max in person, years after he'd lost him... it's better than any drug. There's a brief bidding war between Charles and an older alpha, but he comes out ahead, and when the gavel strikes he feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

Max is his now, the way he's supposed to be. For good.

------

Charles is given the keys to a private holding room where they've set up Max and his things, should Charles want him to keep them. He's also given instructions to call the chauffeur whenever he's ready to leave— which will be sooner, rather than later.

There's a private jet waiting at the nearest airport, ready to take them back to Nice as soon as possible.

He straightens the sleeves of his suit before stepping into the room. Max is waiting, kneeling on the middle of the floor. His hands are folded neatly behind his back, head tipped down to expose the back of his neck, and—

It feels wrong. It's not Max, not the way Charles knew him, not the way Charles wants him. He can smell him, no trace of the softer notes of his scent, but he's doing a good job masking whatever his actual feelings are.

His scent is perfectly mild. Submissive.

Charles brushes his fingers lightly against his hair before he lowers himself close to the ground, resting on one knee. Max blinks, but otherwise doesn't have a reaction, eyes downcast.

"Max."

He still won't look at him.

"Alpha."

His voice barely has any trace of his lisp, and he'd spoken softly, pitching his voice quieter than Charles. If he didn't know better, he'd think it isn't Max at all, but he'd seen him on stage, staring back at them defiantly. There's a freckle just above his lip, exactly where Charles remembers it.

"Max, it's me. We're going home tonight, back to Monaco."

There's the slightest shift in Max's scent— so brief Charles isn't sure if he's imagined it or not.

"Yes, alpha."

Charles clenches his jaw. He needs to get them out of the unfamiliar environment, back onto his jet and then into their flat. Somewhere where Max knows it's just them.

He stands, taking a step back. Max doesn't have many things, just a singular duffel and a small suitcase near the door. They'll take it home with them.

"Follow me, please."

Max doesn't respond, but he stands smoothly, even though he'd been kneeling on unforgiving hardwood. He stays close to Charles, at his right and exactly a step behind him the entire time.

Charles' steps stutter at a split in the hallway, unable to remember which direction he'd come from, and he hears Max's voice soft behind him.

"The chauffeur pick up is to the left, alpha. Kitchens are on the right."

Charles goes left. Max doesn't offer any further help.

------

There's a nesting space in the back of the jet, a recent addition that Charles had almost forgotten about. He waits for their private section to be sealed off before he pulls off his suit jacket, and he's about to toss it off onto one of the chair when it's lifted lightly from his hand instead, and Max hangs it up in the small closet with practiced motions.

He blinks.

"You don't have to do that, Max."

To his surprise, Max lifts his head, meeting his eyes with a frown.

"Would you rather it be somewhere else?"

"I just mean that I can handle my own jackets. You don't need to clean up after me."

Max's frown stays put, and there's a tiny flare of unease in his scent as he shifts on his feet before sinking to his knees in front of him.

"I'm here for whatever you need, alpha."

The ugly feeling in Charles gut curdles again. He doesn't want a picture perfect omega— if he did, he would've bid on one. He wants Max.

"Stay here."

"Yes alpha."

Charles makes his way to front of the cabin, promising extra wages and a paid vacation for the pilot if he can land them somewhere else short notice. It takes a few minutes of phone calls, but they make it work, and he navigates back to the private section.

Max is exactly where he'd left him, but there's an unhappy note in his scent, faint enough that if Charles hadn't spent the last six months with his nose buried in his things, he wouldn't have noticed.

"We're landing a bit early, sorry, I rerouted us to a different airport. There's a nest behind you, if you'd like to arrange it for the flight."

Max swallows.

"What would you prefer?"

Charles is frowning now, tapping out a text message on his phone. He wants more independence from Max, but he's getting the feeling that won't be as easy to coax back out as he'd hoped.

"The nest."

At least in a nest Max will be more comfortable than his knees.

------

Max won't sleep. There's hours left on their flight still, and while he's made an admittedly beautiful nest, he's simply watching Charles attentively, waiting for a command. It makes him uneasy, and he's not sure how long Max was awake before the auction, and for what they're doing—

He'd rather him be well rested.

It's easy enough to leave the private section again, opening the med kit and poking around before he finds what he's looking for. It's a liquid sleep aid, near impossible to taste, and he's going to put it in a sparkling water anyways.

He walks it back to the nest, passing the glass to Max.

"You hungry at all?"

Max takes the glass from him, and Charles notes that his nails are neat and blunt, well manicured.

"No, alpha."

They're going to need to break the alpha habit. Charles doesn't like how it makes him feel, and it's different than when people back home call him 'sir', because he's earned that title. The only thing he's earned over Max is that he presented differently.

He makes his way back to his seat, checking his emails as he watches Max out of the corner of his eye. It's a fast acting drug— Max is only halfway through the glass before his eyelids are dropping, and it's only a few minutes longer before he's curled in the nest, passed out.

Charles rumbles low in his chest, pleased.

Max's chest moves with steady breaths, scent mellowing out as he rests, and Charles watches him a moment longer before getting into his own bag, tugging out a collar. It's the lightweight version, still equipped with a tracking chip and identification, but it'll be more flexible around Max's neck. For what they're doing tonight, that's what he wants— and he'll put him in a heavier duty leather collar after he bites him.

Max is deadweight as Charles tilts his head up, getting the collar fastened. His neck would be thicker if he still raced, but he can't, and he feels precariously fragile under Charles' hands as he checks how tight it is.

Snug, but not too tight. The deep maroon looks good on him, and Charles is already thinking of the clothes he has back home and how they'll look on Max.

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers scratching into his scalp as he leans his head back against the wall, dozing off.

------

He's woken up as they start the descent, and it takes him a few minutes to get Max awake and aware— and even then, he's still slightly groggy. Charles makes a mental note that he's a lightweight. His blue eyes squint as he fights the lingers effects of the drug, and Charles helps him to his feet. There's a car waiting for them once they get out of the airport, and then they're headed to the track.

Max wakes up further during the car ride, folding his hands in his lap. He deliberately doesn't look at Charles or out the window, instead lowering his gaze, staring quietly at nothing.

Charles is not a fan of the complete submission— he's hoping this helps fix it, if only by dragging up Max's core, the things that make him Max, the things Charles know can't be erased, only buried.

Max must be watching out the window at least halfheartedly, because his scent spikes when they get onto track grounds, a soft hint of sweetness creeping through, and Charles has to hide his grin.

There's fireproofs laid out and waiting for them, race boots and gloves and helmets. The karts are at the entrance to the garage, prepped and ready for them both, and Charles leads Max into the shadowed corner of the garage.

Not that it particularly matters— he's had the cameras cut for the entire garage anyways.

Max is looking up at him confused, and Charles tugs gently at his shirt.

"Go on then, get changed. We only have a few hours."

This is also a lie, but Charles has plans for when they're done, and running illegal operations has taught him to be timely. Max nods, tugging his shirt off with a practiced motion, and Charles watches his waist, the curves of his chest.

He's lean, but he's filled out while he was in the school, and his chest almost makes Charles want to call the whole thing off, pin him to the floor and grope at his pretty tits forever.

He has plenty of time for that later. For now, he strips his own clothes, pulling the fireproofs on. It's nothing like his Ferrari set, but they do the job, and the bonus is that they look great on Max. There's a sweet scent starting to slowly permeate the air, and Charles is beginning to pick out the notes of tentative excitement.

He steps forward to help Max secure his helmet, and he feels deeply possessive as he secures the velcro across Max's neck, right above the maroon of his collar.

His omega.

"15 laps, everything is allowed, and there are no convenient puddles tonight."

Max's eyes scrunch briefly.

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything."

------

Charles isn't even sure he gets run off the road this much in sim racing— Max races exactly as hard as he remembers, and it's almost embarrassing that he's losing to an omega who hasn't been in a kart in years, until he remembers it's Max.

He loses. It's not by much, but it's enough that once he's pulled himself up out of the cart, he's already unstopping his helmet, herding Max back into the garage as he claws at the velcro of his fireproofs.

"You cheated, how did you even—"

Max's back hits the table, knees buckling slightly at whatever scent Charles is giving off. His scent is sweet and rich, filled with genuine joy, and his lisp is stronger when he speaks.

"It's not cheating, you are just bad—"

Their rental helmets get tossed aside, and Charles lifts Max to sit on the counter, mouthing at his neck just behind his jaw. He pushes his legs apart, pressing them together before gripping at his waist.

"Yes, of course, whatever you say,"

He licks a hot stripe across Max's skin, immediately obsessed with the way he shivers under his hands.

"As long as you are saying something."

Max whines, thighs squeezing at Charles' hips. There's a slight sour note to his scent as he tilts his head back further, exposing his neck.

"'M not supposed to, Charlie—"

Charles nips at him lightly, rolling his hips against him. Max's ankles hook behind his back, and the sweet notes to his scent are back, the ones that Charles had smelled on his skirt, the ones he can smell now.

"I don't care what they taught you there, chéri. If I could've gotten you out sooner, before you even went in—"

He snarls lowly, pulling Max closer to him.

"—then I absolutely would have."

Max shivers again, and Charles can smell slick under the race suit. He can't help the way it makes his lip curl into a smug grin, and he presses his lips into the curve of Max's neck, fingers pulling away the collar and tossing it aside.

Max moans.

"Oh— Are we doing this here?"

Charles gets his mouth across his scent gland, scraping his teeth across it as Max jerks, scent spiking. It's almost cloyingly sweet, sticking to his mouth and his hands and his hips, and he wouldn't want anything else.

"Mhm."

He hums the affirmative into Max's neck, one hand starting to tug his fireproofs all the way off as he gently pushes him onto his back. Max is beautiful under his hands, better than any fantasy he'd ever come up with during rut, and he's not going to waste any time when it comes to claiming him.

He's waited long enough.

He gets his fingers down between his legs, brushing against damp fabric, and he's pleased with the way Max spreads his legs further, every inch the perfect omega.

Charles slides one hand up his side and across his chest, groping his tits as he leans down, lips pressed to the dip of his collarbones.

"Forget the fucking school, Max. If I have to take you to a track every time, fine. But I don't want a pretty little high society omega, I bought you."

Max whines, hands finally coming up to grip at Charles' side, fingers digging into his skin.

"Charlie, please—"

"Good boy."

He slides two fingers into Max, scissoring a few times to make sure there's enough space. He could add a third finger, but Max is dripping wet, and Charles still wants him to feel it.

It's short work to shove his own fireproofs down, running his fingers through Max's slick before wrapping them around his cock. He leans forward, one thumb hooking Max open as he presses in, and Max's fingers scrabble at him wildly as his scent spikes.

"Alpha, alpha I have never—"

Oh. Charles had almost managed to forget about that. He runs a hand across Max's thigh, trying to even out his scent to something reassuring.

"It'll feel good, chéri, you just have to relax and take it."

He hitches Max's thigh slightly higher, and fucks all the way into him in one movement, hissing slightly as Max's nails dig harshly into his sides, the sharp sting of blood when his omega tenses underneath him.

"Ah— too much, Charlie, I need,"

He whines softly, tight and hot around Charles' cock, scent anxious.

"I need a minute."

Charles rumbles lowly, thumb brushing across Max's thigh.

"You'll adjust faster if I keep moving, chéri. It'll feel good, you just need to—"

He leans forward, sliding one hand around the back of his neck and gripping tight, getting him into a scruff.

"—Take it."

He puts a Command behind the words, and Max goes limp, open and relaxed as his eyes glaze over. Charles rolls his hips, enjoying how Max feels around him, before he sets a hard pace, chasing his own pleasure.

Max will come when he bites— most omegas do, as a result of the endorphins it releases— so he's not worried about him in the meantime. Omegas are built to receive, to feel fulfilled when their alphas are happy.

Charles feels plenty happy just like this, fucking Max, finally together.

Max groans softly underneath him as Charles' knot starts to swell, and he tugs him just a bit closer, mind swirling with thoughts of Max back at home, or in the garage, or bent over his drivers room couch before a race—

He gets his teeth around Max's neck as he comes, biting down hard. This is his omega, and he's going to leave a claiming mark so deep no one else could ever say otherwise.

Max jerks underneath him, squeezing tight at his cock as he comes, heels pressing into Charles' spine as his legs shake. Charles laps at the blood in his mouth, surrounded by the scent of Max.

He belongs to him now.

For good.

[missust3l3vision]

Staring Again

Description: Will can't help but stare at his girlfriend in the middle of Tesco.

It was hard for Will to explain it. No words came to mind and no sentences did it any justice. It was driving him mad that he couldn't convey to you how hot you looked right now.

Currently you were wearing a cute t shirt and even cuter shorts with your hair looking perfect. There was almost nothing different about this outfit than all your rest except one thing.

Your tattoos were showing.

The two of you both walked to tesco from eachothers places and were going to pick up something to make back at your flat together.

You still hadn't noticed him yet as you stood looking at the produce. Ha hadn't bothered to let you know he was there yet and so you stayed in your respective spots.

Picking up a bell pepper only to put it back as the music in your headphones blared on. You were oblivious to your own boyfriend being awestruck by the ink on your body.

He had seen them a hundred times. But there was something different about right now. Seeing you so at ease as you picked up the peppers, your outfit being cute, and your tattoos being down right sexy.

Someone else must of thought the same, as he was watching you a man came up and tried to chat you up.

Wills body tensed looking at the man. His blood boiled with every step closer he took. Making his way over he heard the man begin.

"Looking good sweetheart." He said a little too loudly earning a frown from Will. You however don't react at all. Just simply taking the perfect pepper and walking away.

The man tried to follow you but then saw a different woman elsewhere who looked more eager for the attention. You had now grabbed your phone texting Will

💬 Where are you?

Instead of responding he walked over and put his arms around you. You jumped before realising it was him and learning into his touch.

"You look good," he mumbled into your hair as you took off your headphones, "Your tats always have me drooling." He confessed.

"I saw you staring." He turned bright pink as she continued on.

"I was thinking about getting another one," You say turning to him. He has a cheeky grin as he asks you to elaborate "Well, since we've started dating I haven't gotten any and I feel like I need one more."

Will nods along as you walk down a different aisle hand in hand. He tried to think of a new idea when she stopped and looked up at him

"I wouldn't mind getting a matching tattoo with you," she suggested "Only if you're willing. Maybe one that says 'For Wills eyes only'."

Will short circuited.

"YEA-" He cleared his throat, turning pink with how excited he got "Yes, I would like that." She gave him a soft smile.

He didn't want to creep her out but he had been hoping she'd ask for awhile. Especially after witnessing the man who was hitting on you he wanted there to be a physical deterrent for all men on the prowl.

"Do you have any ideas?" He asked as they continued down the store. With every suggestion his eyes sparkled more and he decided there on the spot that not only were you the one, but that you always have been.

You were his and he was yours.

[rekino2114]

May I make a request? How about Makima with a Male Reader where they we’re finishing up a mission together, and just as their about to leave together Y/n suddenly just sweeps her off her feet and carries her bridal style to their vehicle. And next time, just to play with her boyfriend/husband, (you can decide weather they are married at this point or not) just as he’s about to sweep her off her feet again, she decides to turn his tables on him and easily carries him bridal style to their escort with her devil strength!

You and makima carrying each other bridal style

Pairing:makima x male reader

You sighed and wiped the dust off of your suit adjusting your tie in the meanwhile

"Is your suit dirty?"

You looked towards makima and saw she was doing the same

"A little bit, it's mostly blood though"

"Oh I'm sorry for that darling, I'll clean it once we get home"

"Oh don't worry about it, I'll just use one of the spare ones"

"It's alright, mine is dirty too so I have to do laundry anyway"

"Fine, tell me if you need help. Are we all done here?"

You saw makima looking around and sniff the air around her

"I can't smell any other devils around so I think so"

"Really? Just one? Usually we pair up when there are giant hordes attacking cities"

"Well that one was really strong though"

"Yeah I guess, well I'm not complaining, it's more time I get to spend with you"

"My thoughts exactly"

"Well, let's go back to headquarters"

"I was thinking of going back home actually"

"Hm? But don't we have to file the reports for the missions?"

"I'll just ask someone else, you don't think I'm letting you work more after you've fought so hard right? you must be so tired, the only things waiting for you after this mission are dinner, a movie and a whole lot of cuddles"

"Hehe, all this special privilege is making me feel bad for the others"

"Well, you are one of the strongest devil hunters I have, I need to reward my best workers well, you know?"

"You're acting like you're not the reason why I'm that strong"

"Then consider it a privilege of being the man i love, one of the many you get"

You sighed but smiled back at her. You couldn't say getting spoiled by makima wasn't something you were always looking forward to even with how often it happened

"Alright, let's go back. I know arguing with you is useless anyway"

She smiled back and kissed your cheek before holding your hand and starting to walk with you

"Good boy, start choosing which movie you want to see in the meantime if you want"

After walking for a few minutes hand in hand with makima you saw her car in the distance, then you looked back at makima and got an idea

"Hey makima can I ask you something?"

"Of course, what is it darl-"

Before she could finish her sentence you literally sweeped her off her feet and started carrying her bridal style while smiling. She blinked a few times before she started giggling herself

"Oh my, this sure is unexpected"

"You were fighting hard too, I just want to be sure your legs aren't sore"

"Oh don't worry I can walk perfectly fine"

"Yeah I know but you spoil and pamper me so much, I just thought this was the least I could do"

"Alright then, if that makes you happy, plus I can't say this isn't nice and comfortable"

"I'm glad you're comfy, we'll be in the car in no time with me carrying you"

You continued carrying makima until you reached your car. At that point you let her down and she kissed you

"Thanks for the ride darling"

"Don't mention it, I loved it too"

[Timeskip brought to you by chibi y/n sleeping on chibi makima's lap]

A few days later makima "coincidentally" happened to have to accompany you to another mission. You were a bit confused by that as this was the second mission basically in a row you two were going to spend together but you weren't complaining as it was more time you got to be with your love

"OK so we're done, you really went all out there, I'm surprised, the devil wasn't even that strong"

"I just wanted to go back home quickly"

"So I assume there's gonna be no paperwork for today either"

"Nope"

"Alright, I can't say I don't enjoy more free time with you"

Just like the other day, you and makima started making your way to the car with your hands intertwined. When you got closer to it, you smirked and got the same idea you had before, so you started moving your hands towards makima's back and legs only to be caught off guard and getting swept off your feet ending up getting carried bridal style by her

"..................."

You blushed a bit but looked up at makima who was smirking at you

"Is something wrong darling?"

".......sometimes I forget how strong you are"

"Come on y/n, I think a bit of revenge is fair on my part, besides to be honest, I much prefer being the one doing the carrying"

".........and I can't deny I also really like being the one who gets carried"

"See? So it's win-win for both of us"

"....yeah, you're right, but don't think you're getting away with this that easily, I'll get you when you least expect it"

"The same goes for me, the bet is on"

You giggled a bit and smiled at each other as makima continued carrying you to your car

[loserlvrss]

𝐃𝐎N'T N𝗘𝗘D TO 𝙎AY IT ───── weak hero class ꒰ y. sieun xreader # ). was i just a little too late?

newton’s third law: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction 𓂃. sieun hadn’t forgiven himself for what happened to suho. you could tell, eyes don't lie.

★ slight spoilers for season one , , angst / hurt-comfort ⓘmentions of fighting blood & cuts 🛞 3kish

It’s said that the eyes are the window to the soul—the way you see everything beautiful in the world. But then the opposite would have to reign true too, wouldn’t it? They can be cold or full of warmth and love. They tell you so much about a person. 

A gift given and so easily taken. 

Horrified was an understatement. “What the fuck… did you do?” Disturbed by the sight in front of you; Your best friend, half-dead in a sterilized room, you couldn’t believe your eyes. 

Immediately, the man at the patient's side got to his feet, spinning around to face you in the doorway. He had a sickly look, worse than one from just a stomach ache. His mouth opened and closed, clearly not sure what to say—what would be right to say. His eyes were teary, obviously distraught. But you couldn’t see past the blue-hot rage rushing through you. There was a knife in your hand, and you didn’t care who it was pointed at. 

Just that it hit someone. 

That it made them feel pain like you did—like you couldn’t stand. Call it selfish, but if you were going to feel destroyed, then you’d do the same to everyone else. 

“It’s not fair!” Your voice raised, and so did some walls; ones you thought were lowered enough for the man in front of you to create an understanding strong enough to outweigh the tragedy. To trauma-bond. But, nothing compared to the feeling of losing someone you never thought you would, “I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t see you sit here everyday. I hate this—them. You. I can’t stand to see you, Si-eun, get out of my face!” 

But it was the guilt. The agony. Maybe you should’ve been the one in the hospital bed, you bargained, you should be the one who dies, not him. 

…It wasn’t always like that though. 

You used to be a normal friend group. You used to laugh. You used to joke. You used to hang out at random snack stands. You used to deny your feelings for Si-eun, back when Suho was the only one who knew (you barely even knew). Feel comfortable. You used to call Beom-Seok someone you trusted, someone you liked. You used to be able to look in the mirror and not hate who was staring back at you. You used to be dedicated to studying, focused on the future. But now all you felt was comatose, regretful of a past you felt you hadn’t appreciated enough. A closeness between people you held and let vanish. A gaping hole that you now only had a shovel in. 

“Yeon Si-eun,” Your friend motioned to the shorter boy next to him who was clutching the straps of his backpack, “I saved him, I’m sure you heard.” 

“Actually, I heard you stopped him.” You contradicted, eyeing over the man who was expressionless, even after you imposed his violence, “I heard he would’ve killed those boys.” 

Ice-cold. That’s what Suho described Si-eun as a day ago when he was sitting on your bed, and you could see it. But it seemed like he only disguised himself with that to survive, to not draw attention, to mask a pain that was deep-rooted. 

Or maybe it just took one to know one. 

“It’s nice to meet you… Yeon Si-eun.” You held out your hand to him, “Yn, Suho’s best friend—not girlfriend, he’s definitely not my type.” 

Suho threw his head back, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, whatever, fuck you. I’m everyone’s type, right Si-eun?” 

The familiar beat of a popular song started playing, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed a spoon and an empty Soju bottle from off the table, putting them together as a makeshift microphone for the time being. 

Suho’s eyebrows rose as you joined Beom-Seok in the middle of the small room, iconically singing Mingyu’s opening to HOT by SEVENTEEN. 

Then, he burst out laughing, dragging Si-eun’s body back and forth as he practically spasmed in his seat. But Si-eun had a smile on his face too, arms crossed over his chest—though, not because he was uncomfortable, it was natural looking. Something you could get used to seeing more often. 

He didn’t want to, but he was opening up to your friend, in turn, you and Beom-Seok as well.

“Here,” You glanced up from the mock exam you were bent over at a familiar voice, sights meeting a very calm Si-eun. He had a bruise on his cheekbone that he tried to hide by turning his head, but you saw it. You knew he knew you did too. “Suho got you a snack.” 

“And he didn’t give it to me?” You quizzed, going back to the paper, although setting the pen down, “I thought he was a delivery boy.” 

Si-eun let out a huffed-laugh, and your eyes widened in surprise, hidden by your downturned gaze. He knew how to do that when Suho wasn’t around? 

“Are you two dating?” Suho laughed out, resting further back into the couch cushion behind him, “Because you look good together.” 

“You know he doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you,” 

Suho scoffed, your eyes rolling in return. But you could tell your best friend caught the way you glanced in Si-eun’s direction after, “Besides, I’m too busy to date anyone—especially, one of you guys who keep fighting like a bunch of… well, men. I have standards, you know. And, I’m so close to leaving the country to study abroad. I hate long distance, I don’t think I could do it.”

Si-eun remained silent, looking curiously between you two. He was a man of few words, however, you often could tell his emotion now; through body language, through slight variations in his expressions. Call it intuition. 

Perhaps the opposite reigned true as well though. 

Definitely not a crush. 

“Did you seriously fail again?” You gawked in Suho’s direction, “I gave you the answers this time!” 

Then your hand was flying out to lightly smack the man next to you on the arm. He flinched, grabbing at where you made contact—though you know he’s been hit harder. You’ve even seen it. And, as much as it was terrifying, you had to hand it to him, he had determination. 

“Si-eun! What happened to getting him to pass?” 

His eyes were wide, innocently so, “We were working all night.” 

Beom-Seok, who was next to Suho in the restaurant booth, let out a chuckle, just listening. He knew you’d spare no offense in mocking your friend's lack of educational-dedication. But, you knew Suho had other priorities, you just wished he’d listen to your pleas a little more than he actually did. 

Though, it didn’t stop you from joking, knowing you’d stay up ‘till dawn to help him memorize the periodic table, and algebraic formulas again and again if you had to. “Working… hardly at all, I see.” 

“That’s not funny, yn, I tried my best!” 

“You fell asleep halfway through, the only circles you were drawing was from the drool coming out of your mouth!” 

Laughter sounded in the small space, and you realized that maybe a simple life was better than all the exotic future plans; the adventures you wanted to go on with Suho, the better life you thought you could give Si-eun, the childlike love you had for the three of them. 

Maybe you didn’t want to leave after highschool. Maybe you wanted to stay and grow with them instead—there were plenty of good schools here that could offer you piloting classes. 

“Can I ask you something, Si-eun?” You stumbled into him, grabbing at his arm to steady yourself. You could feel his body tense, but then relax. “Did Suho actually get me that during exam season?” 

Eventually, you came to a stop outside a snack shop, one that sold Tteokbokki and fish cakes, and you squealed—shifting through your purse for some loose cash. In your intoxicated state, you thought that sounded like the most delicious thing you could eat. 

As you were shifting through your bag clumsily, Si-eun had already bought you a platter by the time you looked up with a bill clutched between your fingers. 

He wordlessly handed you a toothpick to stab the rice cakes with, while he held a cup with skewed fish cakes and broth for you later. 

You didn’t know why he offered to walk you home, you lived in the opposite direction of him, but you were glad it was him by your side. You were glad he caught you when you stumbled. You were just glad it was Yeon Si-eun: someone you thought you’d only see from a far. 

Your lip jutted out at the gesture, “Really?” 

He slightly shrugged, “You looked excited.” 

You took a bite, the spiciness hitting the spot. You loved it, it was one of your favorite ways to eat food. 

“I, uh—like you.” You slurred through a mouthful, giggling and then slapping your lips with a gasp, “Wait! Did I just say that? I’m sorry. It’s true but, I mean I didn’t—wasn’t going to say anything—” 

“Yn... I like you too.” 

But then everything came crashing down. Every plan you had crumbled. Every scooter ride with Suho where you would scold him for going too fast or taking a turn too sharp suddenly seemed like a luxury you’d never get back. Every stolen glance between you and Si-eun, every light brush of the hand, every word that went unsaid seemed like it would now remain as a stain on your heart. Every rainbow was monotone, void of color in a world that used to be so vibrant. Every smile and joke, and I trust you and I love you’s were in the past, long-lost to a violent and pain-filled future. 

One you never in a million years would have planned for. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Si-eun never said much, and when he did it was blunt and to the point. Some might say he was rude, cold, but truthfully, you think he just felt like nobody ever listened if it wasn’t short-winded and sharp enough to cut. “I don’t need your pity.” 

He’d gotten into another fight, God knows when, and somehow ended up at your doorstep. A cold night, maybe reflective of the sorrow in the air. The weight on his shoulders. The crushing guilt. 

He swore he’d stop. 

But It was always a fight. It was always punches and kicks that ruined everything. And eventually, it hit hard enough to break your heart in a million pieces. 

You weren’t exactly close anymore, after what happened to your best friend Ahn Suho last year, but you couldn’t resist opening the door wide enough for the man to make his way in. 

Afterall, you used to be friends, and something in between. You used to know him. 

And there was something alluring about Si-eun. He’s always had it—the way his eyes portray every emotion on his otherwise monotone face. The way he walks around like an aimless vessel. You hadn’t seen him in a while, but it seemed like something had broken inside him since that time, something darker by nature. But something sadder, too, lived simultaneously. 

You reached to the side, grabbing a tube branded by some antibacterial ointment off of the sinks porcelain. 

“I don’t pity you, Si-eun.” You replied, squeezing a glob onto the end of a cotton swab, “Not after what happened.” 

He slumped over a little more at your words, avoiding your gaze by looking at the ground instead, where you stood in front of him. He was sitting on the toilet, after you’d caught a glimpse of the bruises and cuts his skin had, ushering him into the bathroom to play doctor. 

Truthfully, you don’t know why you did it—why you opened the door. Maybe it was the moonlight that glistened over his features, the ones you used to admire all those months back. Maybe it was the clear sense of longing that overtook your body when you’d finally heard a word from him—a broken plea, your name, from his cut up lips. Maybe it was the familiarity of a past life you missed. 

Maybe it was because he was the only thing you had left of Suho… The only memory you could stand to remember. 

Si-eun sighed, hands coming together in his lap. He shifted, almost like he was uncomfortable—but, you can’t remember the last time you’d actually seen him be comfortable; Maybe it was before your shared friend went into a coma, or maybe he never has been. 

However, somewhere deep down you could see the smile on his face that used to brighten up any room. One that would only come out when Suho, Beom-Seok, you and him would hang out. Back before everything ripe turned rotten. Back when it was the four of you against the world. Before the bloodied knuckles and bruised eye sockets. 

Before you told Si-eun you couldn’t stand to see him anymore, that one stupidly contrasting day; sunny and boiling hot, to your harsh and cold tongue. 

You couldn’t will yourself to remember, but you’d never actually forget what everyone at your school seemingly has; the boy in the back of the class who slept so soundly despite the noise, the straight A student who broke and moved schools, and the man who suddenly went missing before the dew on the spring leaves even began to dry.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered out under a breath, “I’m really sorry, yn.” 

And suddenly all you could see behind your eyes was the disheartened look of a man who sat outside your shared lifelines hospital room. Shoulders hunched as he typed messages he feared would never be read. As he held back tears and swallowed down the crushing guilt. 

He’d seen you once, but there was a lifeless look behind his eyes. One that you couldn’t recognize, like he didn’t recognize. A vague sense of displacement, hopelessly devoted, like he couldn’t stand to see himself reflected off of you. 

And that’s when you realized, he never stopped blaming himself. He bent only so far before he broke. You heard about it; Smashing widows and cracking bones. You heard the desperation in his cries. Your heart shattered with him and for him: Everything Si-eun used to be. Everything Si-eun could’ve been. It all came crashing down, and he was still trying to climb out of the rubble. 

And that’s why you distanced yourself from his name. Because it hurt too much to see the what-if’s that never happened… But could’ve. Everything Si-eun should’ve been to you. It hurt too much when people would ask you how Suho was doing (for the first couple of weeks), if he’s progressed or had taken a turn for the worse, so you stopped going to school.

What Si-eun was doing now, so you erased him from your memory, pretending you’d never met. How you were holding up losing everything you had ever wanted, so you tried anything to protect your heart.

You hated them. You despised them. They took everything from you. The choice you never got to make. A version of yourself you were still mourning. The happiness your friends brought you. Suho, Beom-seok… Si-eun. 

“For what?” You laid your palm against his cheek, lifting his head enough to apply the ointment over a rather deep cut. You didn’t think that was the thing pestering him though. Still, he avoided your gaze. And you were going to ignore it until you felt a tear brush past your hand. 

You put the cotton swab down, taking the other side of his face. He unconsciously leaned into the touch. The warmth on his cold skin. The comfort that you would always bring. Suho always said you were the sunlight on a cloudy day, but you’ve never felt more overcast than you do now. 

But then, finally, your eyes met, tears falling slowly over your thumbs as you brushed them away. 

And, for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw it. The scars that were constantly ripped open. The inner-turmoil that was debilitating: Not eating and not sleeping. You saw it. The love he harbored and pushed aside, respecting your wishes to never see his face again. You saw it. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

And maybe the beliefs had gotten it wrong, all the stories that said the eyes were the window to the soul, because all you could see was a reflection of the person looking back at you. All you could see in Si-eun’s eyes was you. 

“It’s not your fault, Si-eun.” 

The air was coated in a mutual understanding; It lingered. The pain lingered… He lingered. The memory has seemingly dug its claws deeply into your heart and wouldn’t let up. He knew it, you knew it. There was something so devastatingly romantic about it all—how evil life could be. It took and it gave, and it was never fair. Inflicted wounds that only got infected, but gave you someone who was hurting the same way. Someone who related to the way you couldn’t close your eyes without being haunted. The torment your heart felt. 

But the price tag on codependency was high, and you didn’t seem to have the funds back then—the will to stay. 

You should’ve stayed. You should’ve been his comfort, his friend and something in between. You shouldn’t have been scared to keep him close, afraid you’d lose him as you lost your safety-net. 

“I-I—“ He started, “I haven’t been able to sleep since. I haven’t been able to close my eyes without seeing him. I-I—it’s my fault, yn, he shouldn’t have gotten involved. None of you should’ve. I’m sorry,” 

Suho had never let you get involved in his hobby to learn self-defense skills, and then Si-eun came along and suddenly it was all fists and glory. Guardian-angel this, guardian-angel that. 

Nonetheless, maybe the eyes were insightful. Because you saw it. A play-by-play of every interaction: When Suho introduced you to his new friend who he described as ‘cold as ice’, to two-weeks later when you sang karaoke, and three-months in when you got drunk and confessed your undying love for Si-eun. Then Beom-seok selling you all out because of jealousy, and fight after stupid fucking fight. Crumbling, crushing, shattering. And then nothing. Everyone was suddenly gone, and sometimes that felt longer than them actually being in your life. 

And you blamed him only because you needed someone to blame. But your guilt ate at you. 

As he did too. 

“I forgave you, Si-eun.” You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hesitated before you felt the embrace you longed for—the embrace he longed for. “Forgive yourself.” 

reblogs appreciated ! loserlrvss 2025 rights reserved. @kstrucknet @slytherinshua @gyuwrites @sknyuz

[colonelarr0w]

back to me

pairing - bucky barnes x !hydra experiment! reader

sypnosis - the void isn't a very easy thing to pry yourself from.

warning(s) - spoilers for thunderbolts*, mature themes, foul language, canon marvel violence, mention of human experimentation, trauma, reader is lowkey bucky but in a diff font

author note - the only specific thing about the reader is that she's an ex hydra experiment who was called 'grim wolf'.

playlist - we hug now : sydney rose fake plastic tears : radiohead take aim : sleep token

also please give me bucky requests, the obsession from 13 is coming back and i need to be normal.

word count - 0.7k

what the hell was this?

one minute you had been following yelena to get bob back, half-listening to bucky and alexei yelling over your shoulder, and the next, you were back in that godawful room.

the one with sterile lights and a low hum that you still heard in your nightmares.

you exhale quietly, walking into the room, ignoring the churning in your gut and the way that your stomach whispered, "i have a bad feeling about this."

the doctors surrounding your body muttered things in russian to one another, some of them looking you over with interest while a select few licked their lips and not-so-secretly palmed at themselves. a grimace contorts your face as you watch - an audience member to your own traumas.

you hesitantly step closer, seeing now the version of you that you had spent so many nights trying to forget; the one who acted on someone else's thoughts, the one who was an uncaged animal, the one who killed without thinking of who it was first.

the one who had almost killed the people that would eventually become family.

teeth sink down into your bottom lip, drawing a thin line of blood that manages to keep you grounded. the first needle goes in, past you screams.

you wince, brows pinching as you watch the younger you thrash and beg - stringing together words that are barely cohearent over the rushed talking of the doctors. you watch as the younger you begs and pleads and cries, but how no one listens.

your heart pounds against your ribcage, thundering beneath your skin and reveberating against the shell of your ears. your hands curl inward, fists turning white from the pressure that you apply to yourself.

"let me go, please!" younger you begs, voice cracking and body trembling as realization begins to sink in. the doctors don't listen, and as the second needle goes in, you turn away.

-- --

it's not until later that night that bucky notices someting off about you; your shoulders are slumped, your voice sounds tired, and your eyes aren't entirely focused on any one thing in particular.

you weren't really there ... for lack of a better way to put it.

only after the others went to bed did bucky approach you, catching you in the kitchen with a shot of whiskey in front of you. you hadn't drank since the final battle against thanos.

he watches you for a minute, just taking you in. the slump to your body, the unshed tears in your eyes, the pain and hurt that radiated off of you.

"you're staring," you say, placing down your glass with a clink. bucky chuckles, entering the kitchen and sitting down at the kitchen island beside you. "hi."

"hey, doll," bucky responds, taking the glass as you offer it to him and taking a sip from it. you smile softly at him, taking the glass back and placing it down. "you okay?"

"fine." you don't mean to sound as harsh as you do, but being asked if you were okay was honestly the last thing that you wanted. but you didn't know what okay meant, you never did, and you honestly never would.

bucky pauses, tilting his head at you and exhaling softly. one hand cradles your face, tilting it upward so that softened blue could meet (e/c). his eyes roam over your face, taking in everything down to the crease between your eyebrows.

"doll -"

"bucky."

he stops again, glancing at you ... no, looking at you.

the tears in your eyes, the part of your lips, the wrinkle to your forehead, the slight quiver to your chin. you were breaking at the seams, now he could see that.

so he does something about it.

one warm arm and one cool one wraps around you, pulling you forward slightly so that he could properly hold you. you don't protest, sliding into his arms and pressing your forehead against his shoulder. vibranium rubs comfortingly against your back, bucky's cheek coming to rest on the side of your head.

"i've got you."

you close your eyes, whimpering silently but letting yourself be held. bucky doesn't say anything, doesn't try to reassure you with words that wouldn't do anything. he holds you, cradles you.

and maybe you wouldn't ever know what it meant to be okay. but right now, in his arms ...

... you did feel okay.

[sha-brytols]

there's this phenomenon i like to talk about in regards to da2 and how i feel like it might shed light on how the game is handled through the writers.

there's banter between bethany and merrill where bethany offhandedly mentions how her father died during the blight.

this banter is talked about a Lot because the clear discrepancy between this line and what we know of malcolm hawke. every other piece of information about him has shown that he died of a mysterious illness before the start of the blight, 3 years before the prologue of dragon age 2. clearly this is a huge oversight from the writers, but How does something that glaringly obvious and wrong even make it to the game? even if we assume that it was just an accident, how do you possibly even write something like that by accident? did the writer behind this line just make up a death for malcolm hawke? why would they do that? and how would this line possibly slip by anyone else who would know that it's wrong and change it?

well. here's what we know about malcolm that is Actually consistent with all the sources:

he came down with a mysterious disease that seemingly came out of nowhere that killed him

no one names or describes this disease

20-30 years prior to this happening, malcolm was involved with the grey wardens, who sent him to the deep roads to help deal with a darkspawn problem

this same darkspawn problem was able to be resolved through the use of malcolm's blood magic.

what i think mostly likely happened is this:

malcolm hawke's "illness" was actually blight sickness that he contracted while helping the grey wardens, and he was able to survive it for the better part of 20 years through the use of blood magic. we know this is possible because of avernus. we also know that malcolm hawke's usage of blood magic Haunted him and he lived with such profound guilt for using it that he beat it over his childrens heads to never ever resort to it under any circumstance.

i bring this up because with this knowledge in mind, that random line that's seemingly out of place suddenly makes a little more sense. suddenly, it's actually a lot more possible to assume that the writer behind this particular banter accidentally mixed up "the blight" with "blight sickness" and everyone who saw it in the writing room or whatever didn't notice because it was still close enough that it didn't register as an inconsistency.

and this lines up with a lot of rumors regarding how lore in dragon age is handled. take this with a grain of salt because i've never seen a source for this, but i've seen it said Lots Of Times in the fandom space everywhere that the lore behind dragon age was never actually written down in one single document (ie that "black codex" that's talked about a lot by the writers is only figurative and not an actual tangible doc LOL), but rather, david gaider just kept it all in his head and was there to consult on lore stuff whenever it came up in the writing process. so this lends to my theory that in the proverbial writers room or whatever, someone said "malcolm hawke died from the blight" which got telephoned to "malcolm hawke died During The Fifth Blight" and slipped by unnoticed.

why am i bringing this up. because i see a Lot of people point to random tiny weird lines from veilguard that don't fit in the larger dragon age canon. like how datv implies humans came first before the other races, or the magic behind the crossroads between elves and everyone else is completely incompatible with how it was presented in trespasser, or how the presentation of harding is very inconsistent from what we've seen from other titan-touched dwarves in previous installments. i think that largely, veilguard is very consistent with dragon age's canon. but because of the way the lore was handled in development combined with how bioware basically nuked half of their writers, the team basically only had their memories of dragon age's lore and the games to draw upon for the creation of veilguard.

as such, a Lot of weird little lore things in veilguard can be chalked up to this, imo, and i can see it from both ways: the player who knows dragon age lore like the back of their hand can look at the little things in veilguard that are weirdly off and it's easy to assume this is another clear symptom of the writers no longer caring about dragon age or its characters. but then you can also look at the weird off lines in veilguard and realize they all make sense when you realize the writers were probably working with only their memory to inform the writing of veilguard, in the same way that a random banter in dragon age 2 can imply a major inconsistency with a character's life, Until you just change a couple words in it.

cus idk as i'm replaying the games again with this new lens of veilguard i suddenly have this thought that, like. a Lot of the stuff veilguard introduces or brings back from the older games has been there all along in one form or another. top of my head: bring alistair with you to the temple in the brecilian forest, and he makes a comment on how it looks oddly dwarven in architecture, despite being clearly an elven ruin. this is an odd detail that never really gets elaborated on or explained, but IMMEDIATELY clicks after playing veilguard and learning about the connection between the first elves and the dwarves. we had that knowledge this whole time, it was just never fully connected until now.

sydney why are you talking about this what the hell does this have to do with anything. i'm glad you asked. absolutely fucking fuckall. i just keep thinking about this as i play through origins and idk maybe someone will read this and we'll all feel a little better about how dragon age ended. who knows.

[treedaddypuff]

save me, john wick. cw: angst, blood, gore, nsfw, medical discussion. don't read this if you wanna be happy. this fandom has saved my life, and it started with one movie. no matter what happens or where l go, I'll always remember all of you. This is my sort of ode to that sentiment.

Neon strings attach to your heart, pull you inside the warm embrace of light and color. Back to the stage where you're most comfortable, where you settle in like an autumn leaf shimmying along its fallen brethren.

The raw looks of men and woman from all walks of life, the lingering stares and glazed, distant eyes-this carved space of thrumming, sultry rock and shiny, erect polls—the unique smell of alcohol and burnt hash and sex heavy in the air.

It's a fucked up place to call home, but you belong here. Even if you don't know how to dance and don't know how to have enough plastic surgery to make yourself half as pretty as your friends.

But you're good at this. Good here. Mingling, small talk, little drops of kindness and humanity in the midst of all this sin and debauchery.

That's who you are: a warm, fuzzy ray of light floating about.

"Do you need a drink of water?" "Do you need a towel?" "Do you need me to walk your girlfriend to the bathroom because she can barely stand on her own?" "Do you need me to hype you up and tell you how pretty and handsome and amazing you are?" I'm your girl.

It's always the loners that need your assistance the most, even if they don't want to admit it.

The gentleman soloing at the bar is handsome, but that doesn't bother you or make you nervous. It would have, long ago. But now, you sidle up to him—maybe a little bit too close—plop down hard in the seat to make yourself known.

"Hey Maggie, can I have a beer?" You ask, throwing a twenty on the table for the blonde, sparkly bartender, who looks from you to the lone stranger, then gives you the eyes that say 'l already tried it, but good luck.’

"I'm not interested," he tells you, and it would sting a little coming from someone else, but his demulcent voice softens the punch into a caress.

You purse your lips. "Ouch."

He looks at you, eyes black enough to swallow every rainbow of light in this room and then probably the sun, too. But his face smooths and softens, curl of his lip flattening, when he sees that beaten dog look in your eyes.

When someone rejects you, it's this act that makes them regret it; here I am coming to dig you out of an avalanche, and you're calling me a bad dog? How could you?

"Anyways, I'm a better wingman," you say, slurping your icy Corona. "If you're interested." You nod back at the dance floor, to the slim bodies wrapped in little but spandex and sweat.

He stares at you, takes a little sip of his caramel drink. "I understand, but no thank you."

Hard to get. It's never stopped you before. Coercion's your style. It's a losing game on his part.

"Is she pretty?" You ask, motioning to the golden band on his finger.

"Yeah," he tells you.

"What's her name?"

"Helen." Curious, how his voice drops at the last syllable, like he's suddenly lost the letters in her name. Lost her...

"Trouble in paradise?" You ask, thumbing condensation off your bottle neck.

"She passed away," he says. The only indication of his pain is the softening of his pupils and the scratch of his voice. It's something that most people don't recognize, but this is your job.

And your job sometimes involves feeling things you don't want to feel. Like the cavernous sadness emanating off of this man and infecting your own heart.

You mean it when you say, "I'm sorry."

He hums, comfortable with his silence in a way that most people can't dream of being. You have a feeling you could lock him in a dark room, devoid of furniture and food and water and connection for a solid week, and he'd come out fine—refreshed, even.

You realize fondly that you've been played at your own beaten dog game. That's what he reminds you of, after all: a big, sad dog. Brilliant.

"You want me to leave you alone, don't you?" You're willing to let this one slide, despite the trouble you'll get in later for it. Maybe a few bruises or burns, another broken wrist—nothing you can't handle.

"You can't now."

“I can."

"Your boss is expecting you to deliver."

You wonder how he knows all this, how he can be casual about it. Why he cares.

"Look at me." You grin, unbothered, only a little frightened of consequences and repercussions but never stupid enough to show it. "You think I'm not used to losing?"

He does look at you, really, and it makes you shudder. Underneath all that grief is slaughter. Bodies piled and burning. Your mouth runs dry and the grin falls. "What are you here for?"

He wipes alcohol from his bottom lip. "Your boss."

Goose flesh prickles every inch of your skin. "Please." He betrays no sympathy, so you try again. "Please don't. I need to protect them."

"Den mother?" He asks.

You look over your shoulder to the oblivious family you've grown to love. The people you take care of. Men and women dealt heinous hands and just trying to live in this fucked up world.

"Yeah," you nod, taking a huge drink of alcohol to numb the future.

It doesn't help.

He puts his hand on your arm, steadying the shakes. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

You find yourself laughing despite the gravity of the situation. "You're one man. He'll have you killed, and we'll get caught in the crossfire."

He tips down the last of his drink. "Get them out."

"And then he'll come looking for me," you hiss, leaning on the table with your head in your hands.

He says, without a crumb of doubt: "no he won't."

You don't believe him, but you have little sense of self preservation. And what other choice do you really have? You jump off the bar stool, make your way to the dance floor. It's futile, but you have to try.

"Gotta get out." "Gunfight." "Go to the back room." "Make it look inconspicuous."

The trust in their eyes, the faith they have in you, it makes you hate yourself. Because you're all going to die, along with the customers and sweet Maggie behind the bar. And you wish you could do something instead of just laying belly up and pretending like it's all gonna be hunky dory.

Frank notices the thinning of employees—of course he does. He notices that you're the last one to talk to each of them before they excuse themselves and leave the hungry customers wanting and waiting.

You knew it wouldn't be long before a grip, meaty and mean, circles your upper arm and pulls you close. The smell of stale whiskey on his breath makes your nose pucker and burn.

"I'm not gonna kill you for this, y/n," he says in a tone that mocks the heavenly father's forgiveness and makes you quake. "I'm gonna do much, much worse."

He takes you by your hair, dragging your feet across the floor until you stumble and fall and he rips you back up, lugs you toward the private room where the girls go to change.

You barely register the gun fight starting behind, the hellfire that the stranger at the bar begins reigning down on your life—the dirty diamond glass floor pooling with blood and bodies and liquor.

That massacre is the last you ever see of your home, before your boss slams you through the door, your head hitting solid wood, pain splintering behind your temple like fired glass, vision fracturing in thirds.

You fall, land on your ass, palms slipping on the slimy tile floor. Someone screams, high and tight.

You wish you could see something, filter out that terrible ringing in your ears, make your brain stop spasming. A hand closes around the front of your throat, picks you up and cracks your lower back into a duvet. The material gives under your weight, and you grab Frank's wrists to steady yourself, screaming and crying as paralyzing pain stabs into your hips and spreads through your body like fire in a boutique vineyard.

Every other sensation is so intense, you barely register the blade shoved through your breast until you hear the crack of your ribs, feel the pulpy pop of some probably very important membrane that protects your heart.

"Fat. Fucking. Bitch," he spits, letting your throat go so that he can use that free sledgehammer (fist, is the proper term) to punch you in the mouth. You collide back, into more glass—what’s left of the mirror—tipping it over, landing face down on the sharp thing inside you, pushing it deeper.

And you just know that whatever it hit that time is key to the end of your existence.

You try crawling through the imbedding, stabbing shards to get away from him. But your limbs are weak, and the blood beneath you is too slippery for purchase. Frank grabs your ankle, twists it unnaturally, cracks it under the pressure, pulls you back.

You barely feel the pain anymore. You barely feel anything; not your hands or feet, not the metal in your chest.

"I'm not fucking done with yo-" his voices cuts out. Radio static. Everything so sharp and bright and it fucking hurts. It hurts. You sob, gripping at your skull. Black turns red as blood burns your eyes, soaks your palms.

A hand stills your arm, big enough to be Frank's, but too soft—too nice. Despite this, you flinch away, curling up into a ball, pulsing deeper into the dark of your subconscious—like the strobe lights of the dance floor. Like a black hole swallowing you into numbness.

Maybe you could fight the hungry void, but it's painless here, and you're very, very tired.

You're dying, you know, and it's not as bad as people make it out to be. It's actually quite easy, like falling asleep or going under anesthesia or laying down in cool.... wet

grass.

Water, dripping, calling to your parched, burning throat like a siren. You try to open your eyes, can't, fall back into some type of stasis where you're just thirsty. So thirsty. You dream of cool glasses, filled to the brim with ice and water. A clear spring from your childhood home.

Someone touches your wrist, you think, maybe, before familiar black swallows you up in its belly again.

The gasp wakes you up, wild and wide-eyed, looking around the dark room to see who's in here with you—who made that sound. It takes you a good couple scans to realize it was you.

Bleak light hits you before the sound of the door, pushing you back into the cushion like a physical force. Your head spins on a tilted axis, and you cover your eyes, groaning in agony.

"Sorry," says an unfamiliar voice, as he presses something frigid to your temple.

Water. He has water. You fight through the pounding pain behind your eyes to grab the glass and drink, quench, restore life into your thickened plasma.

It soaks your chin, your neck, your chest, your shirt. Your shirt?

You look down. Not your shirt. Sterile blue gown.

Sterile blue everything. This scene is clinical. Medics and cots and tubes of fluid running into unconscious strangers. You're alive, but you've been out for weeks, fed by an IV in your arm and only just taken off the ventilator yesterday. A ward of the state, the nurses say, which means no one was here to pull the plug when the doctors made their executive decision that you wouldn't come back. So, they had to keep you breathing. And it's a miracle you're alive.

The nurses ask, while giggling amongst themselves and assisting you with your very first after-coma, lukewarm bed bath (you have two broken wrists, a shattered ankle, 7 broken ribs and breathing feels like inhaling glass and moving feels like reaching through jungle mud) who the handsome dark stranger was that came to sit with your unanimated body every Friday.

You gibe, at first, that he was probably the grim reaper, and have no idea how ironic that joke is.

Your friends are okay, too. And sweet bartender Maggie. None of them are worse than you, which you're insanely thankful for. He saved them all, and each has a tale corresponding to his badassery or his heroism or both when they come to visit.

And then they tell you what he did to Frank, how he curb stomped that motherfucker out of existence, bludgeoned his face into mince meat pie, then picked you up and carried you out, bundled up in his arms like a little child.

You can't lie; all these stories of the infamous Baba Yaga do earn him a special place in your heart, and while your bones and lungs and the gaping, ugly hole in your chest heal, you find yourself yearning to see him again if only to thank him for keeping his word and saving your friends and yourself.

A couple days later, he comes with fresh flowers, that beaten dog look in full swing; he just...does it so effortlessly that you might have to ask him for tips.

He sees that you're awake, and smiles. You have a feeling he doesn't do that very often, or hasn't done it in a while.

John Wick sets the bouquet of sprite white lilies at your bedside, and you reach out to touch the cool condensation on one of the silky petals despite the effort it takes to do so.

"They said your immunity was better," he tells you. "So fresh flowers are allowed now."

"Your name is John?" You ask him, fighting for coherence through the raging fever that has come over you tonight.

He nods.

"Thank you, John." You reach for his hand, and expect hesitation. Instead, he eagerly takes your fingers in his own, and you think, yeah, no wonder Frank's face caved inward when these hit him, and then start giggling despite the oh-so-serious look on his face.

He squeezes your hand. "I'm so sorry."

Oof, and no wonder every tendon in your chest tore when he gave you CPR.

You look at him, baffled. "For what, John?"

"For not saving you, for breaking my promise."

You wonder, vaguely, if you noticed the first time you met him, how hard it was to keep those dark, fathomless eyes.

Despite the challenge, you look directly into them, and don't back down, even if you feel a little like every piece of you is on display in some cosmic trial. What is that saying? Gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back into you or some shit like that.

Your giggles amp up, rattling the glass in your chest hard enough to make you wince, and he stares at you like you have a second head. "You did save me, John Wick."

He thinks on this, looking you over, making your skin bristle with goosebumps under that omnipotent stare. "I didn't do a very good job."

—////—

John comes to visit every week. He gets to know your nurses and your doctors and your friends from the club, and they all love him. There's teasings, of course, about how much he'd like to climb into the hospital bed with you, and about how much you'd like it if he did, but it's not exactly...like that. As handsome as he is, and as much as he makes your heart flutter, John is here because he wants to ensure you recover from what he believes is his fuck-up.

Despite trying to convince him otherwise, he believes he still owes you a debt. You can’t say you hate his guilt entirely, because it does mean you get to spend time with him…

But John doesn't want you in any other way than platonic, and you're fine with that. Yeah. Totally...completely...fine...

He's very easy to talk to, and he tells you about Helen and Daisy and how many men he's massacred in their honor (God, he's beautiful) and how he likes his coffee. You both grew up orphans on very different paths of life. He, a weapon. You, a curio. Despite this, you've had similar traumatic experiences, and it's nice to talk to someone who doesn't flinch when you tell them about young you getting whipped at the post for not satisfying the demanding customers.

Months go by, and he starts coming twice a week...then three times. He reads you Russian fairytales, he laughs at your stupid corny jokes. He helps you hobble down the hallway without your crutches the first time they say you can put pressure on your shattered ankle. John is safe, John is good, John is home. He's your best friend. You're in love with him, and it's okay if he doesn't feel the same.

One night, against medical advice, he brings you a couple of beers. You haven't drank in months, and you guzzle one and a half of the icy bottles down before he tells you to slow your roll, then pours you a glass of sweet wine instead. He hands it to you with a cheeky little smile that does something hot and achy to your insides, and you can almost actually see your inhibitions packing their bags and walking out of the room.

You ask him how long it's been, since he's had sex, and he tells you he hasn't even touched himself since Helen died, but not for lack of trying. His mind is blocked by grief, and he's not sure it will ever allow him carnal pleasures again.

And oh, well, you have been looking for a way to repay him...

It surprisingly doesn't take much convincing, for him to let you suck his dick. Platonically. As a friend.

You excel in the art of fellatio, because in the trade of skin it's a commodity among homely people—because you had to learn it (and learn it right) to stay alive. What you lack in look, you make up for in mouth, and you are very excited to prove it—to make this stoic man lose himself.

Usually, it's just a chore, a duty, but you know with John it will be different—maybe even better for you than for him—judging by the growing slippery mess between your thighs.

It takes some awkward pivoting and positioning, because you are still healing and he's careful about not wanting to hurt you, but finally the bulge in his slacks is just where you need it, and when you gently free his cock and balls from their confines, you are tickled to find him already hard, precum beading at his tip which you eagerly slurp off.

"I knew this would be big," you say, palming his thickening shaft, covertly rolling your nipple tight with your other hand.

You kiss the head of that pretty leaking cock, in part because you need to stall—need time to develop a strategy to get it all down your throat. His Helen, she was either very lucky or very not depending on how he fucks and if he knows how to use this beautiful beast.

"Little ball tickling?" You ask, waving your fingers in the air for sampling.

You can't help but smile, because John nods innocently, timidly, with those big dark eyes all for you, and you'd be lying if you said having a dangerous man's cock twitch for you while you tease his heavy balls doesn't do something for your ego.

You make him cum—empty him of everything he has with your mouth stretched around the base and your eyes rolled back in your head. You brim with pride, afterward, wiping a little stray dribble off the side of your mouth and swallowing that, too.

He insists upon returning the favor, and initially you resist. That was your gift to him, and you won't have him feeling more indebted than he already does. However, John is very good at wearing down your defenses.

It's a few weeks later, when he shoos your busy nurse away and insists upon getting you back into bed himself, that he finally convinces you.

He's helping you get your compression stockings off, and somehow his lips end up pressed to the inside of your knee. You are so fucking embarrassed, about giggling and jerking away and seeing the aftermath of him grinning like a dark god of pure fucking sex between your legs.

"I'm not used to—I didn't. I don't usually—people don't want that from me and I—"

He hushes you, rubbing soothing tight circles into the muscle of your tender calf. Your whole body shudder horrifies you—horrifies you that he can pull that vulnerable reaction from you so easily.

"Oh God," you breathe.

"How many times, солнышко?" He asks, teeth just shy of the tender fat on your thigh.

You swallow sandpaper, push younger fingers through his hair. "None that I liked."

He tsks, and the sound might as well be a physical caress between your legs. "Let me fix it."

"Okay."

You cum embarrassingly fast on his tongue, and after reasoning that he got a longer turn with your mouth than you did with his (how in the world is he so good at this?), he convinces you to let him make you do it again. Then, third time's the charm.

Something changes between you, after that. Conversations turn more intimate, and you find yourselves pressed together in very non-platonic ways; joining hands in the dining room, leaning on his chest in the hallways while he holds you steady during dizzy spells.

You almost kiss a dozen times; out in the gazebo under the setting sun, in the empty elevator, in front of a very apologetic group of students in the lobby. The air has decidedly shifted, but every time your mouth vies for his own to solidify the bond, he pulls away at the last second.

One night, he does lean down to your cot to kiss you. After the initial shock, you are humming with delight, fingers threaded through that thick velvet vineyard of his hair, and despite the hiss of pain in your wrist that the doctor's say may never recover fully, you keep his mouth, pushing past his lips, hungry for his big, slippery tongue.

"I'm sorry," he says when you pull away to catch your breath.

You blink at him. "For what?"

"That I have to go."

Your delight quickly turns to dread.

"Why, John?" You ask, pushing his hair behind his ear, letting him lay his cheek in your open palm.

“You deserve a good life. A life of freedom."

You are in shock at first, completely blindsided, mentally kicking yourself for not seeing this coming.

"So do you," you whisper, memorizing the feel of his strong, balmy skin, clutching at his beard as if to keep him here with you.

He smiles solemnly down at you, and your heart breaks for him all over again, just like it did the first night at the bar. He thinks that he can’t have that good, free life—that he can’t give you that good, free life. He thinks he’s too far gone to be saved, and, despite his mind already being made up for who knows how long, you spend hours trying to convince him otherwise.

The only thing more infuriating than deaf ears, are stubborn ones. And John has a mean pair of these.

“Get some sleep.” The point is moot, as his lips press to your fingers in a final goodbye masquerading as a kiss. He stands, readying himself to disappear like a ghost in stark white daylight.

Your heart is a flock of wild stallions, galloping toward John Wick, pulling you along helplessly behind. He can't leave you. Not now. You won't ever kiss him again, won't ever even bring anything like this up if it means just...keeping him by your side. Knowing him.

Your adrenaline pushes your torso out of the bed, and you grab his hand, barely registering the agony that roars through your broken body.

"Stay?" You ask, instead of wrestling him down on top of you. Because it's all just a bad dream. Because you're going to wake up any minute now and realize another sneaky fever sent you into one of those awful pesky nightmares.

“I can’t.”

"Will you come back?" You ask him.

"Y/n," he tells you, and you want to scream—stop the farewell before it begins. You want to pounce on him, climb up his body, cling and claw and devour, drown him inside you.

You feel the feather of tears on your cheeks, hear your heart shatter inside your chest—it’s more pain than a cold blade to the sternum could ever hope to give you. And for this first time ever, you can’t look at him—can’t keep his eyes—because you don’t want him to see the sorrow that eats you alive.

"You're free," he tells you. "Live your life. Get married, buy your house, travel the world, have your babies."

All things you told him you wanted during your little midnight talks—all things that are completely irrelevant because all that you want now—have wanted—for as long as you can remember—is him.

"I'll never forget you," he says, gently freeing your hand and burning an imprint into your palm with a kiss before setting it back onto your lap.

"I'll never forget you," you mime, instead of crying and begging and bargaining. "Thank you…for saving me."

John Wick gives you one of those novel, dazzling smiles. Then he turns, and he walks away.

[missmadella]

Cigarettes and Bullets (Hanma x Reader)

Summary: A game at a gang party spins out of control when someone dares you and Hanma to play Russian Roulette with truth-or-dare questions between rounds. It becomes a twisted challenge of confessions and boundaries—both physical and emotional.

Words: 5848

The music in the warehouse was too loud, the drinks too cheap, and the company far too reckless. You weren't supposed to be here—not really. This was Bonten’s territory, and you? You still wore your old crew’s colors underneath your jacket like a second skin, even if you hadn’t answered to them in a while.

The invitation had come with no name. Just a burner message: “Big names. Big stakes. Don't flake.” It reeked of a trap.

You came anyway.

Now you leaned against a cracked concrete pillar near the back of the building, a half-empty glass of something probably illegal sweating in your hand. Neon lights flickered above, half-hearted strobe effects spinning like dizzy ghosts. You scanned the room. A parade of idiots—laughing too loud, pretending this was a party and not a pressure cooker.

And then, of course, he made an entrance.

Hanma Shuji strolled into the room like he owned it—or better, like he’d already burned it down and was here to enjoy the ashes. Loose black button-down, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes already scanning for trouble. He had that damn grin on, the one you knew too well. The one that meant: I’m bored. I want to make someone bleed.

Unfortunately, tonight, he spotted you.

You took a sip of your drink and turned your eyes away, pretending not to notice. Too late. You could feel him approaching before he even said a word.

“Didn’t expect you here,” he drawled behind you. His voice was smoke and teeth. “I thought your crew had better things to do than slum it with us degenerates.”

“We do,” you said coolly, not turning around. “I just came to see how low Bonten’s standards have gotten.”

He laughed, sharp and amused. It curled in your gut like a match hitting gasoline.

“Still got that mouth on you, huh?” He stepped closer, just enough for you to smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. “Wonder what else it’s good for.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. Your eyes locked, and there it was—that static buzz between you. Hatred and heat, hate dressed up as banter, attraction hiding under bloodstains.

“You know, Hanma,” you said, voice low, “every time you speak, I wonder how many brain cells are still rattling around in that skull of yours.”

“Enough to know when someone’s dying to play with me,” he said, grinning wider. “You look like you’re bored, sweetheart. You want to be entertained?”

“By you?” You scoffed. “I’d rather shoot myself.”

“Perfect,” he said, eyes gleaming. “We’ve got just the game for that.”

Before you could respond, someone from the center of the room shouted over the bass-thick music:

“Russian Roulette! Who’s in?!”

The crowd shifted like sharks smelling blood. A chair scraped. A revolver glinted under the cheap lighting as it was placed reverently on a table.

“Well,” Hanma said, leaning closer to murmur against your ear, “speak of the devil.”

You didn’t move.

“You serious?” you said. “That’s not a game.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why it’s fun.” Then, softer: “Unless you’re scared.”

Your gaze snapped to his. There it was. That look. The one that always set your teeth on edge—and set your pulse racing, whether you wanted it to or not.

You shouldn’t have said yes. You shouldn’t have followed him to the table. You shouldn’t have sat across from him, felt that weight in your chest as he lazily spun the chamber.

But you did.

And now it was just the two of you, a steel barrel, and one bullet between what you were, and what you might become.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” Hanma said, eyes gleaming like a knife's edge. “Click or kiss. Dare or die. Your move, baby.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The revolver sat heavy in the middle of the cracked table like a sleeping animal—cold metal, full of teeth. The cylinder gleamed under the flickering club lights, one bullet tucked into its chamber like a secret waiting to be whispered.

There were still a few people crowded around, watching. Laughing nervously. You didn’t know their names. Didn’t care.

Your eyes were on him.

Hanma lounged across from you, long legs spread, elbows slung over the back of his chair like he was on vacation. That damn grin hadn't slipped even once.

“Six chambers,” he said lightly, spinning the gun in a lazy circle. “One bullet. Click, you live. Bang, well—” He gestured loosely upward. “Hope your insurance’s paid up.”

“What’s the point?” you asked, voice flat.

“Winner calls the dare,” he said. “Or truth, if you’re feeling soft. Either way, you pass the round, you get to pull someone’s strings.”

“And if you lose?”

He tilted his head.

“Depends where you’re aiming.”

He stopped the spin and pushed the gun toward you.

“Ladies first.”

You stared down at it. The metal glinted. It didn’t feel like a game. It felt like him. Chaotic. Reckless. Always one twitch away from blowing everything wide open.

“Afraid I’ll show you up on the first go?” you said coolly, reaching for the weapon.

“Afraid you won’t,” he replied, and you hated how soft he said it. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You picked it up. The grip was cold and familiar—you’d held worse in worse situations. The click of the hammer sliding back was louder than the bass shaking the floor.

You lifted the barrel. Pressed it under your chin. Hanma’s grin twitched. Just slightly.

“Y/N,” someone muttered nearby, not laughing anymore.

“Shut up,” you said.

You closed your eyes.

Pulled the trigger.

Click.

Silence.

When you opened your eyes, Hanma was still watching you—but something behind the grin had changed. Something in the stillness of his body, the tilt of his head, the narrowed focus in his eyes.

“Well,” you said, placing the gun back down between you, “guess I win.”

You leaned forward on your elbows, your voice turning sharper.

“Truth. Why do you smile every time someone tries to kill you?”

Hanma didn’t answer at first. He reached forward, slow and calm, and slid the gun back toward himself like it was a piece of fine china.

Then he smiled wider.

“Because in that moment,” he said, tone velvet-smooth, “I know exactly who I am.”

He locked eyes with you.

“And who they’re not.”

A beat passed. One of the onlookers muttered something and slunk away, but neither of you noticed.

You raised a brow.

“You think that’s deep?”

“Nah.” He chuckled. “I think it turns you on.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. But he saw the flicker in your eyes. That heat you tried to smother under the ice.

“Your turn next,” you said, voice like a blade.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Hanma purred, spinning the revolver again, “I’ve been waiting all night.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Hanma held the revolver like it was a lover—fingers brushing over the chamber, thumb resting idle on the hammer. He didn’t look at it though. His eyes were on you.

Still grinning.

Still reading you like a book he planned to tear the last page from.

“You nervous yet?” he asked, tipping his head.

“That you’ll chicken out?” you smirked. “Yeah. Terrified.”

He gave a low laugh and lifted the gun.

Didn’t hesitate.

He spun the cylinder fast, the click-click-click echoing louder than it should’ve. You could see his finger twitch on the trigger. You watched him raise it—no drama, no pause—just brought it up to his own temple like it was a glass of water.

He pulled it.

Click.

He exhaled through his grin.

“Guess luck likes me better.”

You didn’t respond. You were too focused on the subtle shift in the air. That something he was about to say. You could feel it before he even spoke.

“Dare,” he said, eyes burning. “Sit in my lap for the next round.”

The words hit like a slap—but not from surprise.

From expectation.

He’d been circling toward this since the first line. Since the first smirk. He was always going to try and close the distance between you. The only question was whether you’d let him.

You blinked slowly. Gave a cool tilt of your head.

“Is that your best shot?”

“Baby,” he said, leaning forward like a shark cutting through dark water, “if I wanted to see you on your knees, I’d wait ‘til round three.”

Your blood throbbed in your ears.

The heat crawling up your spine wasn’t anger anymore. Or if it was, it had tangled itself in something else—something that made your hands ache and your skin tighten.

You didn’t speak. You just stood.

Moved around the table.

The moment stretched.

Hanma spread his legs slightly, lazy and inviting, and tilted his head back to look up at you.

“Clock’s ticking.”

You sat down.

Slowly. Controlled. Like it didn’t matter. Like you couldn’t feel the way his thigh muscles shifted beneath you, or the faint exhale he gave the second you settled your weight.

One of his hands drifted to your hip.

He didn’t grab. He just rested it there, warm and firm.

“See?” he murmured. “Doesn’t it feel better when you stop pretending you hate me?”

You leaned back slightly against his chest, spine rigid, heart hammering despite yourself.

“I don’t pretend,” you said. “I do hate you.”

“Sure.” His voice was low, brushing your ear. “But your hands aren’t shaking because of hate.”

You wanted to hit him.

You wanted to kiss him.

You did neither.

Instead, you stared at the table. At the gun. At the empty glass beside it and the heat bleeding into your skin where his fingers pressed—just enough to remind you he was there. That you were choosing to stay in his lap, even if your pride screamed at you to run.

“Next round,” you said, voice tight.

“Yeah,” he said, already curling his fingers just a little tighter around your waist, “let’s.”

__________________________________________________________________________

His breath was warm against your neck. Too close. Too calm.

Your spine stayed straight, tense, but you couldn’t ignore the weight of his hand at your hip — fingers flexing just enough to remind you: he could hold you there if he wanted to.

But he wasn’t.

He was letting you stay.

Letting you choose.

You reached for the revolver again.

Hanma didn't flinch as you leaned forward, shifting slightly in his lap to get a better grip. His hand dragged along your waist as you moved, slow and unapologetic, like he wanted to remind you exactly where you were.

You held the gun up.

Spin. Click. Click. Click.

The metal whispered across your palm, smooth and indifferent.

You pulled the hammer back. The click of it locking in place was louder than your heartbeat — barely.

You didn’t aim it at yourself this time.

You aimed it at him.

Right under his jaw. One-handed. Casual.

Hanma’s grin sharpened. He didn’t move. Not a single goddamn muscle.

You raised a brow.

“Still smiling?”

“Always.” His voice was low. “Especially when you’re straddling me with a loaded gun.”

You leaned in, mouth near his ear, letting your words melt into his skin.

“You’re too calm.”

“I like living dangerously,” he said. “Especially when it’s pressed up against me.”

“Then tell me something real,” you said, cocking your head slightly. “Truth. Right now. Or I pull the trigger.”

His tongue slid over his lower lip, slow and deliberate. He looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“What do you wanna know, pretty girl?”

You leaned closer. The gun was still resting under his jaw, but now your faces were inches apart. His legs beneath you tensed. You could feel it — the shift from playful to alert.

“What would you do,” you asked softly, “if I pulled the trigger and it wasn’t empty?”

There was a pause.

Not fear. Not hesitation. Something else.

Then he smiled again — but it was different now. Slower. More dangerous. There was a flicker of sincerity in it, buried deep under the madness.

“Depends,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you shot me in the heart—I'd thank you for the mercy.”

“And if I aimed for the mouth?”

Hanma chuckled, low and gravel-rough.

“Then I’d haunt you every time someone else tried to kiss you.”

Your pulse kicked hard.

You didn’t know if it was the gun between you or the words or the weight of his hand now inching up the curve of your waist. You didn’t know why your grip tightened on the revolver — from threat, or from the need to ground yourself.

You met his gaze.

“You think that line’s gonna win you the round?”

“I don’t care about winning,” Hanma said, voice curling like smoke. “I just wanna see how far you’ll go.”

The silence between you buzzed.

And then you pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

Again.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Told you,” he said, licking his teeth, “you like it too much to shoot.”

“Or maybe,” you whispered, shifting your weight just enough to make his breath catch, “I’m just saving the bullet.”

The tension now wasn’t just in the air — it was under your skin, under his. A slow burn, tightening, winding, just waiting for the next spark.

And that spark?

Was coming.

___________________________________________________________________________

The air felt heavy now.

Not with fear. Not with adrenaline.

With something far more dangerous.

Expectation.

Your finger slid off the trigger, but you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

His thigh shifted beneath you — a subtle adjustment, but deliberate. He was letting you feel him there, fully. Heat through denim. Solid. Unrelenting.

Hanma’s hand drifted higher, slow and careful. It landed just below your ribs, spreading his palm flat against your side like he was trying to memorize the shape of you without shattering the moment.

“That’s two for two,” he murmured. “Feeling lucky?”

You glanced down at the revolver still warm in your palm. Then back at him.

“Feeling bored,” you said, lips twitching. “Your move, Hanma. Or are you all bark?”

He grinned, but his eyes were dark now. Focused.

“Dare,” he said, without blinking. “Kiss me.”

You didn’t answer.

The dare hung between you like smoke — thick, impossible to ignore. The onlookers were gone now, long since wandered off to find easier games. It was just you and him, sitting in a storm of tension neither of you wanted to name out loud.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, coaxing. “Scared to find out it’s not hate after all?”

“Maybe I just don’t like losing,” you said.

“Then don’t do it like it’s a loss,” he murmured.

His hand slid around to the small of your back. Not possessive. Not forceful. Just there — anchoring. Steadying.

You swallowed hard.

There was a choice now. And you hated that he was giving it to you.

But you hated more how much you wanted it.

So you moved.

Slowly.

You leaned in — not all at once. Just enough to let the tension build. Just enough to feel his breath catch, his grin flicker.

“No hands,” you whispered. “If you touch me, it doesn’t count.”

His eyes flashed, but he didn’t protest.

You kissed him.

Not soft.

Not sweet.

You kissed him like a dare. Like you were proving a point and punishing him for it all at once. Your fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, your mouth claiming his like you were trying to silence that grin for good.

And Hanma?

He let you.

He didn’t chase. Didn’t deepen it. He stayed exactly where he was — letting you lead. Letting you press forward, demanding, angry, heated.

When you pulled back, breath shallow, he looked at you like he’d just watched a building collapse in slow motion.

Then he smiled.

A little softer this time.

“That the best you got?”

“Don’t test me,” you muttered.

“Why not?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “You look so good when you’re trying to win.”

The revolver sat between you again.

But the real game?

Had already changed.

___________________________________________________________________________

The revolver felt heavy in your hand as you picked it up again. The metal cool against your palm, but your heart was anything but.

Hanma’s grin was cocky as ever, his dark eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to make a move.

“Back for more, huh?” he teased, voice low and rough. “You sure you want to keep playing with fire?”

You cocked an eyebrow, raising the gun slowly—aiming it straight at his temple.

“Only if you’re ready to get burned.”

Hanma’s grin widened, and instead of flinching, his hand shot out—gripping your wrist with a firm but teasing strength.

Before you could react, he pulled you forward with surprising force, spinning you around to settle directly on his lap, facing him.

His other hand slipped the revolver from your sleeve, sliding it away like a prized possession he was claiming.

“I think I’m the one who’s got the fire now,” he said, voice low, eyes dark with challenge.

Your breath hitched as his fingers curled around your waist, pulling you impossibly close.

“So,” he whispered, “why don’t you show me what you’re really made of?”

You swallowed, heart pounding in your ears, and then he leaned in—his lips brushing yours with the faintest touch.

You responded instantly, lips crashing against his in a kiss that was fierce and hungry, like a wildfire racing out of control.

His hands tangled in your hair, holding you tight as the heat between you exploded.

The revolver lay forgotten somewhere behind you, the game long over.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Hanma’s grin softened—less cocky, more satisfied.

“Guess neither of us’s winning or losing,” he said with a slow smile. “Just burning.”

You laughed softly, heart still racing.

“Then let’s not put out the flames.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The revolver lay on its side on the couch, just a few inches away, the cold metal catching a sliver of light — forgotten but not gone.

You were in his lap still, twisted to face him, knees bracketing his thighs. Hanma shifted beneath you, and you went with it — riding the movement as he turned, reclining halfway back against the right side of the couch, dragging you down with him.

Your legs followed instinct, straddling him. His hands? Everywhere. Greedy and sure. One on your back, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like he already owned the skin underneath.

You kissed him again, slower this time, deeper — not to win, but because it felt like losing would taste like this.

“You’re lucky I didn’t pull that trigger,” you breathed against his mouth.

Hanma’s hand slid to your jaw, fingers rough under your chin as he tilted your head, lazy and smug.

“Please,” he muttered, lips brushing your throat now. “You wouldn’t risk damaging the merchandise.”

You scoffed and bit back a moan as his mouth found that spot just under your jaw.

“You talk so much for someone who begged for a kiss two rounds ago.”

He laughed, hot against your neck, and then sank his teeth in just enough to make you gasp.

“I didn’t beg,” he said, voice gravel low. “I dared you. Big difference.”

“Right,” you muttered, breath hitching as his hand trailed down your side, gripping your thigh hard enough to anchor you to him. “Because all your dares just happen to end with your mouth on mine.”

He smirked up at you, tongue flicking against his lip like he was thinking about what to do next.

“If I’d known kissing you shut you up this well, I would’ve lost the first round on purpose.”

You leaned down, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, mouth ghosting over his like a threat.

“You say that now,” you whispered, “but you couldn’t shut up if your life depended on it.”

Hanma’s hands gripped your hips, rolling you against him with maddening slowness. His voice dropped.

“Try me.”

You kissed him again, harder this time — open-mouthed, hungry, full of the frustration and thrill you’d both been dragging behind you for too long.

His fingers dug in, pulling you closer, deeper. One hand tangled in your hair, the other still exploring, shameless and urgent. The couch creaked under your weight, but neither of you noticed.

Somewhere nearby, the revolver gleamed from its place on the cushion — but it wasn’t the threat anymore.

You were.

And so was he.

___________________________________________________________________________

The party blurred behind them, forgotten the second Hanma took your hand and pulled you outside.

No words. No goodbyes. Just the heat between your bodies trailing behind like smoke.

His car was sleek and black, purring like something alive as he unlocked it with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Get in,” he said, like it was a dare and a promise.

You slid in, still high from the kiss, still burning from the weight of his hands on your skin.

But the second he sat behind the wheel, you shifted. Deliberate. Confident.

You straddled his lap sideways, legs stretched across the console, your thigh brushing against the gearshift, lips ghosting just near his ear.

“You gonna drive,” you murmured, fingers trailing down his chest, “or are we gonna sit here pretending not to want the same thing?”

He didn’t answer. Just started the engine with one hand and curled the other around your waist.

“Keep distracting me like that,” he said, voice low and thick, “and we’re gonna crash straight into something.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing since the first round?” you quipped.

Hanma grinned — but it was laced with hunger now.

As he pulled onto the road, you kissed him. Not gently. Not safely. You leaned in and claimed his mouth like the night wasn’t done with you yet.

He swore under his breath, hand tightening on your thigh, his other steady on the wheel.

“You’re gonna get us killed,” he muttered into your mouth.

“Then drive faster.”

He did.

The city streaked past in a blur of lights and shadow. Inside the car, time didn’t exist. Your hands were in his hair, your mouth at his jaw, your teeth grazing his skin like a brand.

He kissed you at red lights. Bit your bottom lip when you teased him too hard. And every time you pulled away, he pulled you back in like he couldn’t stand the space between.

And when he finally pulled into the underground garage of his penthouse building, he didn’t wait.

The second the engine shut off, Hanma’s hands found your hips again.

“Come here,” he growled — voice low, rough, desperate — and you did, climbing fully into his lap now, straddling him with no seatbelt, no barriers.

He kissed you like he wanted to leave marks. And you kissed back like you already had.

When he finally opened the car door, you slid off him with a cocky smirk, breathless, hair a mess.

“Hope your neighbors are quiet,” you murmured, “’cause I’m not.”

He chuckled darkly, slamming the door and scooping you up into his arms like it cost him nothing.

“We’re on the top floor,” he said, walking toward the elevator. “No one above us to hear.”

“But below?”

“Let them.”

The elevator ride was a blur — more kisses, more hands, your legs around his waist, your laugh caught between sighs and curses.

And then the doors opened.

The penthouse was dark, sleek, towering over the city in glass and marble — but neither of you looked at it.

Hanma didn’t even pause.

He carried you through the threshold like you were something he’d won.

Still kissing you.

Still lost in you.

And you let him — not because you were his, but because in that moment, nothing had ever felt more like mutual destruction.

And you both wanted the explosion.

___________________________________________________________________________

The door shut behind you with a quiet click, sealing the night outside. The air inside was still, dim, and warm — but it couldn’t compete with the heat already pulsing between you.

You barely made it five steps inside before Hanma was kissing you again. No hesitation. No games. Just mouths crashing together like magnets pulled too tight, too long.

You pressed into him, fingers curled in his shirt like anchors. His coat hit the floor. Your back met the nearest wall. His hands didn’t stop moving.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your skin, voice raw. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you whispered.

He growled low in his throat, and something snapped — the way tension breaks only after it’s been wound for too many rounds.

He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like every smirk, every dare, every bullet that didn’t fire was just foreplay to this.

“You’re mine tonight, doll,” he murmured at your neck, voice dark silk and flame. “Not running. Not fighting.”

You should’ve hated that word. Doll. But when it came from his mouth — low, hot, possessive — it curled in your stomach like lightning.

“You always talk this much?” you gasped, nails scraping his shoulders.

“Only when I’m about to ruin something good,” he said, grinning against your collarbone.

His touch was everywhere.

Hot. Fierce. Sure.

Not rushed — just hungry, like his hands had been waiting to map your skin forever and finally had permission to claim every inch.

And you let him.

Because this wasn’t surrender.

This was what happened when two people too proud to admit they wanted each other finally stopped pretending.

His lips, his hands, the way your bodies locked together like they knew the rhythm already — it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was inevitable.

You pulled him down with you onto the bed, breathless, aching, your mouth still on his even as you gasped for air.

You didn’t speak. Not because there wasn’t anything to say — but because it would’ve shattered the moment. The illusion. The thrill of pretending it was just heat and not something else catching fire beneath it.

When he finally slowed — when his mouth hovered just above yours, breathing ragged, chest rising fast — he looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself before.

“Should’ve done this the first time you pulled that gun on me,” he muttered.

You smirked, tracing your fingers along his jaw.

“I still might.”

“God, I like you dangerous.”

And then he kissed you again.

And this time, it didn’t feel like losing. It felt like coming home through fire.

__________________________________________________________________________

The first light of morning spilled through the tall glass windows — soft and golden, stretching across the polished floors like the night hadn’t just set the world on fire.

You stirred in the bed, skin warm against silk sheets, the scent of him still clinging to every inch of you. Your limbs ached — not from discomfort, but from the kind of night that rewrote things. That crossed lines without asking permission.

You blinked, turning your head slowly — and there he was.

Hanma.

Still here.

Propped on one elbow, bare chest rising and falling, dark hair a mess against the pillow. His eyes found you the second you moved.

But he didn’t speak. Not right away.

He just looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize the way you looked tangled in his bed. Like he hadn’t planned for this but couldn’t stop coming back to it.

“You’re staring,” you muttered, voice husky from sleep and something deeper.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease.

Instead, his hand moved — slow and sure — brushing hair from your face, then down, tracing your bare shoulder like he had every right.

“Can you blame me, doll?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Look at you.”

You rolled your eyes, a smirk twitching at the edge of your lips.

“You already had me. More than once, if I remember right.”

That earned a faint, crooked smile — but it didn’t have his usual bite. It was quieter. And that silence hung in the air — thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

He leaned in slowly, lips brushing your neck, your jaw, your collarbone — all over again like the night hadn’t ended. Like he couldn’t help it.

His hand slid over your waist, pulling you in close until you were against him again, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“Still not done with you,” he breathed.

And it wasn’t just lust. It was need.

He kissed you like you were a question he didn’t want answered. Like keeping his mouth on yours would stop the truth from slipping out — the truth that whatever this was, it wasn’t just about the game anymore.

You kissed him back just as hard. Just as wordless.

Because maybe neither of you could say it yet.

But it was there.

In the way he touched you like he owned the morning. In the way your name left his mouth like a secret he wanted to keep. In the way he pulled you back under the sheets with him, kissing you like you’d disappear if he let go.

The revolver was still on the dresser. But no one reached for it.

There were no more dares.

Just the slow, burning realization that whatever this was between you — it was no longer something either of you could walk away from.

___________________________________________________________________________

The sheets were tangled around your legs, skin flushed, his breath warm where it brushed your collarbone.

Hanma lay beside you, half on his side, hand resting on your stomach — possessive in a way he hadn’t put words to, but you felt it all the same.

He hadn’t gotten up. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t reached for a cigarette or thrown on his shirt to pretend nothing happened.

He was still here.

And it was starting to feel like that mattered.

You stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch between you, full of everything neither of you knew how to say. His fingers drew lazy circles against your skin, like he was calming himself — or you. You didn’t ask.

He finally spoke, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“You always this quiet in the morning, doll?”

You turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable — too calm, too careful. But his hand never stopped moving. Still tracing you like you were something delicate, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“You always this clingy after throwing someone around?” you shot back, your tone playful but your voice not as steady as you wanted it to be.

He smirked — barely — but didn’t answer.

Instead, his hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face toward him, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You didn’t run,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Neither did you,” you replied.

That hung there.

Loaded.

You held his gaze. The air between you changed — thicker, more fragile. Like if one of you spoke too loud it would break.

You could’ve said it.

You could’ve whispered, “Why does this feel like more?” You could’ve asked, “Would you still kiss me like that if there wasn’t a game between us?”

But your lips parted and nothing came out. Just breath. Just heat.

Hanma leaned in again, kissing you slow this time — not claiming, not rough — just... real. One of those rare, terrifying moments where even he couldn’t hide in the tease.

And when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours like he felt it too. Like he knew you were both standing on the edge of something neither of you had the language for.

“You’re trouble,” he said finally, voice low and full of something heavier than lust.

“You like trouble,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he breathed, fingers still on your skin. “But I didn’t think I’d want to keep it.”

And there it was.

Too close. Too real.

You looked at him, heart thudding. One beat. Two.

But instead of answering — instead of letting it fall apart — you kissed him again.

Because neither of you were ready to say it. Not yet. But you were both feeling it.

And that was more dangerous than any bullet ever could be.

___________________________________________________________________________

The room was high-rise glass and shadow — the kind of expensive that whispered rather than screamed. Hanma stood near the window, backlit by the dying light of the city. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie loose like it had been tugged at one too many times.

Which was fitting.

His client — some uptight exec with more money than manners — was still rambling, pouring another drink like the meeting wasn’t long past its expiration.

Hanma’s patience thinned by the minute, but he hadn’t moved. Just leaned into the window, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp, wearing that smirk that made men nervous.

The door clicked open behind them.

You stepped in — slow, deliberate. Dressed to kill, smile lazy and just this side of dangerous.

The click of your heels on the marble made the man glance up. But Hanma didn’t turn.

Not until you were right behind him.

You slid a hand around his tie, tugged — hard enough to snap his attention to you. He looked down at you, mouth quirking up like he already knew he was in trouble.

“You done playing nice?” you murmured, voice sweet with an edge. “Or do I need to put a bullet in you so we’re not late again, baby?”

The client froze. Eyes wide. Stammering something about giving space. Something about rescheduling. He didn’t even wait for a reply — just gathered his files and practically sprinted out of the room.

The door shut.

Silence.

Hanma’s grin spread wide.

“Not the first time you’ve threatened me with a gun, doll,” he said, voice low and full of amusement.

You pulled him closer by his tie until your lips brushed his.

“Didn’t think you’d still like it after all this time,” you said.

“Are you kidding?” he murmured, tilting his head so his nose grazed yours. “That night was the best game I ever lost.”

Your hand flattened against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under his shirt — the shirt you bought him, the tie you’d pulled off him a hundred times.

And then, soft enough for only him:

“You keep making me wait like that, and I’ll start carrying again.”

He chuckled, leaning in to kiss you slow — not rushed, not rough — the kind of kiss that said this is mine, and I know you know it.

His hand slid to your hip. The light caught on the simple band around your finger. A matching one on his hand.

Still not mentioned. Still unspoken. But there it was.

“Dinner, huh?” he said against your mouth.

“Reservation’s in fifteen,” you whispered.

“We’ve got ten to spare.”

You rolled your eyes — but you didn’t pull away.

Because he was yours. And you were his. Still wild. Still dangerous.

Just with rings now.

[annamlynska]

About the meaning of flowers

Dylan and Kieran.

In fact, the two characters never come close to each other in the entire story, let alone know each other or have any kind of relationship…but. But there are those little details and hints. Kieran could certainly have learned about the meaning of purple hyacinths from somewhere other than the gardener's son, but I highly doubt that during his early years at the Phantom's Scythe he would have met too many people who would have talked to him about the language of flowers, or that he would have had access to the relevant literature.

However, there are two (connected) events that I found even more interesting. The first is Kieran's reaction to Lauren's question about the kidnapped children. He says they are dead and his reflection, along with that answer, disappears from the surface of the river. He doesn't continue the conversation, he doesn't even say goodbye to Lauren, he just leaves her standing on that bridge. This is unusual, Kieran is usually polite to Lauren, if sometimes in a slightly cocky way, but he definitely cares about her a lot.

It's very clear from his reaction here that the story of the kidnapped children has a strong personal meaning to him. It doesn't matter if he was one of those children, or if he was the one who killed them, or both. (The child that Kieran was no longer exists either way. Buried, beaten and crushed under too much pain and blood and sharp blades and hot irons and impossible decisions).

When Kieran later remembers that conversation on the bridge, he looks at a painting in his study. The same painting that triggered his memories of escaping slavery. We know that his companion on that escape was another boy. a little smaller and younger (say two years?). It could easily be Dylan.

Of course, the face in the painting could be anyone else, someone we don't know yet. But at this stage of the story, there's not much room for new characters, especially if their role is supposed to be important.

And the person in the painting is extremely important. It's someone Kieran is avenging, literally the person he decided to commit slow suicide for by trying to destroy the Scythe. I believe that Kieran not only knew Dylan, but that he was very close to him, and that Dylan is no longer alive.

It's one of my favorite theories and I'm really looking forward to seeing how Soph and Eph develop this part of the story.

[ryuzakemo128]

Murder

Pairing: Poly141 x Beta! Combat Medic! Female Reader

Content Warnings: Swearing, Beta! Combat Medic Female reader's callsign is Magpie, disabilities, Depression is explored, and bisexuality erasure is explored too. Female masturbation.

Note: I will be depicting the female reader as at least bisexual. If you don't like that. I suggest that you leave now and find something else to read. No. I won't change my mind on that bisexual part.

To live is to be ready and willing to die. To collapse inside yourself like a wilful song. Ready to leave into the soil neath your feet and to fixate on what you might leave behind. For better or for worse. People examine the good parts of people and only the good parts of them are ever seen by a large amount of people.

People assume things based on what they see, what they hear and what they learn. You should know this by now that lost souls drift away forevermore. You didn’t take the warnings seriously. You never did and you never will.

“If you knew what was out there, you wouldn’t have been so smug about that comment.” You remarked glaring at him. “Another foolish mistake like that? Well, I’ll make sure you redo all of basic training one painful step at a time.”

“Do me a favour, get up off your fucking arse and leave me alone.” You growled into his ear. You didn’t think it would have affected him in any ‘meaningful’ manner. You were just tired of all his bullshit excuses.

You pushed him away, but he didn’t let you go afterwards. Did you really think you could get away with growling in his ear like that? Really love? What on earth were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?

“I heard worse from men who pretend to be alphas. Your insults and actions prove more about you than it does about me. So, do us both this one delightful favour, turn around, step out that door, and leave me the fuck alone, or I will make sure you learn the real meaning of pain.” You continued to speak, your hand is clenched, and your knuckles are turning a different shade from the stress.

“You can’t take what’s not actually there to begin with. You really think someone would date a beta? The fuck you on?” you didn’t believe a word he said. None of it.

If you were to die alone. Then so be it. You’d die alone inside your shark covered nest in goose feathers. Unwanted by everyone around you. People always leave you. Why hold onto them if they only deem you as temporary?

Price knew of the rough break-up, he didn’t think you’d be changed by it, by you were, a cheating partner does that to someone, especially to someone like yourself. A beta. Loyal. Honest. All to a fault. To your marrow. Down deep buried within your soul.

The conversation over the phone to your ex-boyfriend took the last parts, the last licks of energy you had for the day. Much to the dismay of someone like Soap. Who decided to worm his way to your office, he heard, “You are lucky we didn’t bring a fucking child into this relationship. I would have made sure you wouldn’t see them. Ever!” you growled through the phone. The landline cord wrapped around your knuckles like a priest’s rosary during a prayer.

The clenched fist tightened further, borderline on the verge of letting your own sharp nails dig through your own flesh. To allow the blood to drip down slowly down your tense forearm.

You didn't know what he thought he could get by trying to get under your skin like that. It pissed you off easier than anything Soap or Ghost has ever done. Nothing could come close to what he did to you or the phone calls he makes straight to your office. Always managed to get your new office number.

You were fucking yourself relentlessly that night afterwards, Price interrupted when dildo had slid easily inside you. He ultimately decided the best thing for you is the real thing. It explained the discreet packages he saw the last fortnight.

You didn’t think he would take any notice to them whatsoever. You didn’t think he’d even find out either. That’s thing about you. You tend to clean up before anyone notices anything had gone awry in the first place.

Things would have to be skewed enough for you to leave a large enough mess behind. Rare in its occurrence. You would sooner drown than ever ask for help.

Price pulled the dildo from deep inside your cunt with a loud, wet pop. The sudden emptiness made you gasp and your legs quiver. Your naked body glistened with a thin layer of sweat. Your hands were a surgeon’s.

Soft, smooth, silky, precise, meticulous, and the remnants of saline solution you never been able to wash off. No matter how many times you did. This is what your touch felt like. It’s what it smelt like most of the time. Saved more lives than he would be able to count on both hands. Feet included if he wanted to be extra pedantic about it.

You saw more gunfire, combat zones, wounded, and bloodshed than necessary. Far more, more or less according to anyone with enough common sense. Started at sixteen, Price met you two years after you enlisted at sixteen too. Though you had more of a waiting period than he did. 16 months minimum to be more exact.

He hasn’t forgotten how you saved his arse the first time, restarted his heart by more or less punching him in the chest, yelling, “Who the fuck do you think you are? What the fuck do you think you’re doing dying like that?”

Nikolai hasn’t stopped thinking about it either. A young woman, barely in her twenties with enough anger to kickstart a heartbeat again? The kind of anger that would have or should have gotten her killed. But you weren’t. Your skills were more than a little ‘useful’ to say the least.

He approached you afterwards, after things were all said and done. “He owed me 20 pounds. Didn’t want him to think he could get out of paying me back by dying.” You stated.

Nikolai looked at Price’s facial expression, which is a mix of dumfounded amusement, shock and a little turned on by you. Not that he would ever admit that you did that to him at the time. It would be more or less like pulling teeth from a reluctant patient.

Now here he stands in your nest forty minutes after your intense conversation with your ex-boyfriend. Someone, Soap hated by the look of things, especially whenever he wedged himself between him and you.

Now that he is no longer in the picture? Price knew exactly what you needed, what you wanted, and most of the time you didn’t need to say a thing. You didn’t have to look up to see his smug grin on his face. You knew it was there. There wasn’t any point in pointing it out now was there?

He had the audacity to lean against your nest’s door frame, you didn’t know what he was going to say to you now. You weren’t going to lie, you were a little nervous to hear what he might say. Not from embarrassment. No. You never got embarrassed. That was never a prime ‘feature’ of yours.

Soap lingered around the door, pretending not to be aroused by how you masturbated in frustration only moments ago. It always fascinated him that you went straight to that instead of punching something. He makes a mental note to join you later.

Because in Soap's mind. 'What's yours is mine and what's mine is yours'. Who knows...maybe he'll even drag Simon and Kyle to make sure you're too fucked out of your mind to even remember that you even had that bitch of an ex to begin with.

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune

[sillygoofyqueer]

Today I had the wild thought of "you know, I could just queue my mad scientist AU posts" but one, that would require far more work in one day than I can be arsed for and two, that would mean you guys don't get my personal notes every day. Like, for instance, I've been reading Faraway Wanderers! Exquisite series. The moment Wei Wuxian and Wen Qionglin are discovered missing, there's a meeting immediately called for the Big Shots to attend. Yu Ziyuan, despite all attempts to keep her out of such meetings, of course is there and has opinions - namely, that Wei Wuxian and Wen Qionglin have gone back to spill all of their secrets to the enemy. She, personally, believes that this has been going on for ages, and that Wen Qing is just covering up for her didis so that they can get away with such things. Of course, it's the first time Lan Xichen has had to physically grab his didi to stop him from climbing over the war table to start a brawl. Wen Qing is about to tell her exactly what she thinks about that take on things, but a calm voice comes out of the left corner - JIN ZIXUAN sliding in with the "Wei Wuxian has messenger crows that could do such things for him." As much as Yu Ziyuan wants to beat the shit out of this boy, this is her sworn sister's son and so all she can do is glare at him from the corner.

Nie Mingjue quickly takes control of the meeting from there, fielding different suggestions on how to proceed - should they send someone after the boys? Should they wait for them to return? Should they...I mean there isn't much else they could do about this, so it is just those two options. Lan Wangji, who is obviously worried about the two, is desperate to go after them so he can make sure they're alright, but there's no way that's happening - they've already lost possibly their wild card and best archer in one swift move, they're not losing another one of their best fighters. Wen Qing volunteers to go, but she's literally like the head medic, they need her, so that's a no-go as well. Plus, they have no idea what the Wen would do if they they found their troops crawling around anywhere near Dafan if nothing has happened to the inhabitants there - it's too much of a risk.

They're just coming to this decision, albeit reluctantly, when there's a loud commotion outside. They all rush outside, because of course they do, and they find Wen Qionglin and Wei Wuxian stumbling their way back into camp. They don't look injured, but there's blood smeared on their robes and Wen Qionglin looks like a mess, tear streaks clear on his face and hands clutched around himself as they approach camp. Wei Wuxian looks only a little better, tears instead replaced by an empty expression on his face and a haunted look in his eyes, with a bundle of blankets clutched firmly against his chest. Wen Qionglin's eyes are fixed on the ground, and Wei Wuxian isn't responding to calls of any of his names, just staring ahead silently. Wen Qing sprints over to ask what's wrong, what's happened, is their family okay- all questions are answered with a single shake of the head from Wen Ning, before he bursts into tears once again, uncaring who's watching him as he buries his face into Wen Qing's shoulder.

Wei Wuxian has stopped beside them, watching the scene listlessly as his grasp tightens on the bundle of blankets, a soft sound escaping the bundle with the movement. His unblinking eyes snap down to it, adjusting his grasp so he can gently brush at what is obviously a child's head, lips moving with indecipherable murmurs and body swaying back and forth the slightest bit. He is holding a baby. When everyone realises this, one of the other onlookers makes the mistake of reaching out to try and take the baby away from him - saying something about relieving him of a burden. He fully jolts away, a wild snarl escaping him and a sudden oppressive sensation appearing in the area as resentful energy curls around his body completely of its own accord. "Don't you fucking touch him!" Is the animalistic response the unfortunate onlooker receives.

Everyone has gone still, sensing the volatile, dangerous state Wei Wuxian is in a little bit too late. It's like something has cracked within him; he won't even let Wen Qing close in his distress, baring his teeth at anyone who tries to approach him. The baby in his arms has a single little hand gripped into the fabric of his bloodstained robes, thankfully remaining rather undisturbed despite the tense situation they're involved in. Lan Wangji desperately wants to help, wants to hold Wei Ying close and comfort him in the midst of what can only be a tragedy that has befallen the Dafan Wen, but he doesn't know if Wei Ying would react any differently to him compared to his literal family. He can only stand there, wishing he could reach out and soothe the distress marring the other boy's features but unable to move his mouth to do more than murmur Wei Ying's name.

Another, more hesitant voice rings out from the crowd, a "gege?" coming from Xue Yang as he takes a casual forwards - he has seen Wei-gege in a state similar to this before, when the resentful energy overwhelmed him in an experiment gone wrong back in the Wen stronghold. He knows that he can be useful, that he is the only one knows how to handle his gege, to push him away from the edge of his sanity. Everyone's holding their breath as this child walks closer as though he isn't quite possibly courting death with this move, forgoing touching the child to instead rest an arm on the teenager's shoulder. "Gege, Xue-di needs reminding how to circulate his qi!" In Wei Ying's mind, all he's seeing is another child that he needs to protect from the danger all around them, another child who he could fail with one stupid move. He carefully adjusts his hold on the baby to free up one of his hands, tugging a willing Xue Yang in close to his side as well, avoiding eye contact with everyone. If his didi needed help with such a thing, he was going to put all of his focus into it.

It's like the oppressive air is lifted from around them as he mumbles about circulating his qi, almost naturally doing it in demonstration, leaving the more volatile resentful energy to either clear from his system or retreat in its broiling state to avoid the qi rolling through his body. Everyone can only breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that a literal bomb has just been defused right in front of their eyes. Wen Qing, who has been doing a very good job of not breaking down in tears at the implications of this whole situation, takes a deep breath and starts whispering softly to Wei Ying to draw his attention to her, all while Wen Ning is still clinging to her and sobbing softly into her arms. "A-Ying, we need to check on A-Yuan to make sure he's alright." She murmurs, watching as Wei Ying's grasp tightens a little on the baby, who has been snuggling into his arms with no care for the dangerous position he's been in.

The teenager nods a little, but still seems reluctant to move from this position - he can see everyone right now, he knows where all of the potential threats are and can deal with them in the blink of an eye if necessary. Thinking on her feet, Wen Qing is like "Lan Wangji can watch your back while we move to the medbay" because of course he looks up at the mention of Lan Zhan, even in this state, those haunted grey eyes latching onto the other teenager. Of course he can trust Lan Zhan to watch his back, he can trust Lan Zhan with all of his darkest secrets, he knows that Lan Zhan will look after him if he turns his back on him. It's for this reason that he nods a little, watching the boy immediately move to be at his back when the little group begins shuffling to the medbay. Everyone else who has watched this situation unfold is both thanking their lucky stars and is like "what the fuck just happened" - Yu Ziyuan had the Lan Silencing charm cast on her so she couldn't burst out with horrific shit, and she is so fucking pissed off at Lan Xichen for that movement.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Grinding through clothes and having to be quiet with Arthur for your little writing sprint? 🤲 (gn?)

OOOOhh yes anon, I have such a kink for this and I will definitely do it justice! Got a little carried away!

(I'm going to publish a few last mini prompts answer this weekend!! Don't worry if your ask isn't answered yet, it's coming soon! 🫶🏼)

The way Arthur handles you tonight is almost too much for you.

Just at the edge of camp, while everyone was busy celebrating Jack's reunion with the gang, Arthur had been quick to steal you away from the festivities and pin you against one of Shady Belle's old walls, barely hidden from everyone. The way he holds you up against it is almost ridiculously easy for him, as if lifting up a bunch of feathers; his hips settled between your legs, arms strongly holding them up and open, you're trapped between this eager furnace of a man and the coldness of the shabby wood against your back.

"H-how many did you had, Arthur?"

"Not that much... Just enough to give me the balls to man up and have my way with ya." He smiles at himself, pathetic bastard. "Not enough to make me forget about all this tomorrow morning, though..." He assures, voice a rough whisper, his lips crashing against yours in a deep and direct kiss, humming when he feels their soft plumpness.

He can't help it, you're just so pretty, so perfect, and tonight, after feeling the sting of saving the son of someone else to reunite a family that wasn't his, to be forced to only observe the love and fulfillment only a blood link could bring, never able to feel it anymore, he couldn't hold himself; craving. Craving for some kind of attention, any kind, from you.

He's already hard in his jeans, he has been for a long moment to be honest, since he saw that grin of yours he loved so dear, since you had whispered those filthy, teasing things into his ears right by the campfire, knowing damn well what you were doing. You should have seen it coming. His hips starts to press against your core, and with your thighs open and your dress pulled up, you can feel the hard line of his shaft grind aaall against your pussy in a long, deliberate movement.

"Oh!" You can't help but moan at it, your hands locking on his shoulders, trying to hold on to something, anything, to keep yourself grounded on Earth.

"Tut-tut, girl, you gotta keep quiet," He reminds you, a smug smirk on his lips, so fucking pleased with himself. He instantly rocks hismelf against you again, his clothed cock rubbing right where you need it against your pulsing clit, the tightness of his jeans emphasizing the hardness and pression of it against the fabric of your undergarments.

You can't stop yourself. You try to muffle it, but another sigh of pleasure is quickly turning into a whine, and he grunts, more quietly than you, barely a pleased exhale.

"What did I jus' say, hm? You want one of these fools come walkin' on us, uh? S'at what you want?"

"It's not that easy!" You protest, voice low but indignated. Wanting to prove your point, you suddenly aim for his neck, lips attacking his flesh, tongue and mouth suckling at his scarred skin, and this time, you're the one grinding your wet core against him.

And feeling you doing it to him, oh Lord, it's a whole other thing. Arthur is losing all sense of decency. He moans like he's been hit by a bullet, sinful hands sliding to your ass, grabbing each cheek with one hand, pressing you even more against him, encouraging your movement.

"S-see? Who's making noise, now?" You tease him with a triumphant smile, still whispering.

"Shut up," He growls, unable to resist anything anymore and hating himself for being that weak. He looks at you, angry stare mixed with so much desperation and lust that the whole world's limits are blurred. Without any more warning, he bends his head to yours and searches for another kiss, tongue sliding against yours, both of your tastes blending, the borders between you and him collapsing even further.

Accompanying the kiss, your body naturally rubs against his in a sensual, demanding move, and he responds instantly. It's a long moment of your two sexs grinding against the other, muffled moans mixed with a few loud pants and groans, Arthur wincing at the pain the frabic is causing him on his cockhead but not stopping for the wolrd, you moaning more and more as his large cock presses and grinds and rubs hardly against your clit. It's almost a competition now, seeing who would pull out the biggest sound from the other.

"Oh, for God's sake, Arthur you have an actual room for this now! Use the damn thing, goddamn it!" Hosea's paternal voice cuts through the air and stops your unholy throes of passion.

The outlaw in question grumbles as all answer, slipping his arms under your legs and lifting you up from the wall in a quick jump, marching as fast as he can inside the sheltering mansion.

There, at least, he would be able to take all the time he needs to treat you like you deserved, and make you pay for those cheeky moves of yours.

[sha-brytols]

worldstate fact #7

esther's warden contact in inquisition is actually trisha ❤️ they also play a larger role in skyhold leading up to HLTA as temporary companions. i like the spin on this questline as like. a demonstration of the lived reality vs the romanticised fantasy of a living legend. esther is bitter, jaded, cynical and just like. downright depressing to be around LOL. nothing like her stories. meanwhile trisha is bright-eyed and optimistic and likes to rally the inquisitor with inspirational speeches. between the two of them, trisha just Seems like the real deal while esther is just a big disappointment and the inquisitor feels embarrassed and a little irritated that she ever looked up to someone so Mean and Nihilistic as her. it's like going to the mall and finding the santa employee out back on his smoke break.

but there obviously comes a time where the veil lifts, and trisha's true colors come out. during adamant, esther Never hesitated to sacrifice herself for the team. she jumps in the way when a demon lunges, fights tooth and nail for every second they can hold the fortress, and when they confront clarel, she calls her out because she believes clarel Knows what she's doing is wrong, but she chooses to delude herself with this easy lie because she doesn't want to believe she's leading all these people who trust her to their deaths.

trisha at this point was starting to grate on the party. she defends what the wardens are doing and says with absolute confidence that the inquisition would do the Same thing if the stakes were high enough, and it's hard to tell whether or not she genuinely believes that. when the inquisitor confronts those wardens who had second thoughts, trisha advocates for killing them just because it's in a demon's nature to deceive while esther's like. :tailsgetstrolled: DON'T? when confronting clarel, she tells her she understands. and if this was a blight she would be on her side. she's a True Warden through and through. anything and everything that can be used to stop a blight should be on the table, and if a blood magic ritual to bind an army of demons and make them tear apart an archdemon is the best plan then she'd be ready and willing to do it.

it gets to a head in the fade. things are mostly the same as they go in the game. hawke and the warden argue over what to do and how they feel about the situation with the wardens. esther says people will always lie to themselves to make themselves feel righteous and trisha says righteousness and justice arent always intertwined. sometimes the Right Thing is ugly and brutal. you should know this didnt your rebellion begin with the massacre of countless innocent civilians in the chantry? this argument does not make esther very happy. how dare you bring him up after what you did to h— oh god oh fuck more spiders. we will never revisit this conversation.

and then at the final confrontation with the nightmare demon, there is no choice. esther runs ahead without hesitation, telling the inquisitor to get to the rift while she holds the nightmare demon off. and elnora tries to stop her, because hey hang on we can fight our way out of this just like everything else weve been doing so far. but just as she's about to run for hawke, trisha grabs her arm, and silently drags the inquisitor towards the rift. because think about it. hawke is just. the perfect candidate. she doesn't have a role to fill, or a job to finish. she doesn't have a world-saving destiny to fulfil, or anything she still needs to do. she's expendable, but trisha and elnora are not. the Inquisitor still has corypheus and the rifts to contend with, and trisha still has her quest to cure the calling. soooo lets go! ^_^

i kind of go back and forth on this portrayal because like. ultimately my point isn't Haha Esther Is Good and Trisha Is Evil. it's moreso like. an exploration of what happens to heroes once their legends have been built and their stories told, which is a big theme in inquisition already right. what's gonna happen to the inquisitor when the story is told and all people know about you is the symbols in which you represent? will it be accurate and told fairly like it was with the hero of ferelden? or will it be embellished to the point where you barely recognize yourself as the champion of kirkwall did? and what about how you'll keep growing and changing after the legend is solidified? will you keep upholding your values to the best of your ability at the cost of your own happiness? or will you have to make sacrifices and compromise your beliefs in the name of results?

trisha and esther are foils in that way. they both love Deeply. they both suffer as a result of a life led without compromise. and they're also both incredibly selfish, and they make decisions that ultimately leave people hurt, even if they were in service of the greater good.

esther represents the emotional, intimate side of this. she cares only about the people closest to her. she'll sacrifice her life for them without a second thought. even if this sacrifice is pointless and serves no purpose and ultimately just leaves the people who need her the most alone to mourn her. she values her relationships more than anything else, even if they will always end up broken.

trisha represents the grand scale. her love is broad, but distant. it is the love of an ideal, it's love itself. she grew up detached from the world in the circle and was taught to see these things in their purely clinical sense. and when she's free and realizes theres more to the world than that, she chooses to continue living that way. it's less frightening. if i just think of them as the Inquisition and the wardens, then they're much easier to understand. i can think about them with utilitarian clarity and decide whats best for everyone in the big picture without having to confront the individual suffering.

thank you very much for putting up with my inane longwinded brainrot. odie the spaniel from doggy daycare.