#Project: SWING! Strike

[sibbydoo]

[🕸] Project: SWING!

SWINGtember 11 - Canon Event

The words came with a new kind of sadness

They meant everything, you mean everything to me

- “Even Robots Need Blankets” by Mayday Parade

When exactly The Spi-borg and Strike slowly bled into just Cario and Sophia, they will never know. What the world knows is that one day, The Spi-borg was without his deadlier shadow, and Cario’s friends know that he lost Sophia, his partner, the sails to his anchor; the love of his life. Great things end; and what they had was indeed that—the pain, the healing, the love, finding home in each other (despite, despite, despite). That’s all it was. And they deserved more.

Some notes on Sophia;

Soviya Orsevi (later on: Sophia Parker) was a snake from the Institutum Serpenses, an institute dedicated to training girls to be assassins. After NiteMax and its connections shut down (including InSerpenses), she’ll spend her life finding those who worked with NiteMax and the Institute until she will no longer be haunted by a past she could not control. ‬

Also I don’t mean “snake” like, the reptile. Think of Black Widow, her past, and the widows she trained with. The Insitutum Serpenses and the girls they train to be “snakes” is essentially this dimension’s version of that.

I’m not sure how to talk about her being Cario’s canon event without full on rambling but, long story short: Sophia was sick with the same chemicals that had almost k’lled Cario (before the spider bite ‘reset’ his body/system)

[muwitch]

SWINGtember Prompt 5 - "Their friend finds out"

It could've been worse, really. Have you witnessed the Parker luck? But figures I need an additional milk stash now.

[lackadaisycats]

Video essay by Jellybox about what's good and bad about indie animation!

Wanted to share this in case it's helpful to anyone wanting to pursue making animation independently. It's also for fans of indie animation who may want some insight into how an indie studio works, why indie cartoons are always selling merch, why release schedules are often erratic, etc.

I also wanted to clarify the video's context, because it seems to have been somewhat misconstrued in some circles. Not long ago, WGA and SAG strikes, followed by TAG negotiations were very much in the news, shining light on the struggles the artists, writers, and actors in the Hollywood studio system are facing. In response, the words 'just go indie' have been tossed around quite a bit lately.

Gene and Sean at Jellybox approached us a few months back explaining that they were planning to make a video about the realities of running an indie studio/producing indie animation, largely in response to that 'just go indie' attitude. They were curious if we'd be willing to share our experience, including information about actual costs and the various difficulties and complications we've encountered. We said yes! We'd like for people to know what it's like. As much as it might look appealing next to the currently very broken studio system, indie has its own set of problems, and we think it's a good idea to be transparent about that because talking about problems is how you begin to address them.

Of course, while you get creative freedom and you have no shareholders to appease with indie production, the primary struggle you're always going to face is funding…and funding avenues are limited. Banks aren't eager to hand out business loans to freelance artists making cartoons, for instance. Social media algorithms reward frequent updates you can't swing with hand-drawn animated content, so you can't rely much on things like AdSense. You can't really insert sponsored ads into your animated videos without being too obtrusive. You can take on client work, but that interferes with your ability to focus on own animated project. Crowdfunds can be great for seed money, but they're also a ton of work to fulfill, and fulfillment itself will tend to eat up a considerable amount of the funds you've raised. Once your animation is produced, there is no well established way to sell the animated episode itself like there is for, say indie games sold on Steam. So, while we consider ways to try to make the terrain a bit more hospitable to indie creations, if nothing else, let this explain why productions rely a lot on merch drops!

-----------------

And hey, if you're an animation fan, consider supporting the independent productions you enjoy, whether you're tossing a few dollars their way, buying their merch, or just mentioning them to friends:

The Far-Fetched team is launching a crowdfund very soon to help them complete their pilot!

The Monkey Wrench team is killing it lately, and they deserve so much more fanfare than they've gotten!

And of course, thank you to the excellent folks at Jellybox for starting an important conversation!

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sentient Computer x Reader

Your neighbor's newest computer model, Edgar, seems to have fallen in love with you. content: gender neutral reader, 80s timeline, based on Electric Dreams (1984), Patreon commission

“Where should we put this box, sir?”

“I believe I already mentioned it’s the obviously cleared out desk in the middle of the room. That’s where you’re going to install it, too. The…thing.”

“It’s a personal computer, sir! The best of the best,” a young boy in jumpsuit declared with enthusiasm.

He only received a bored hum in return. The man overseeing the procedure was becoming rather impatient and would’ve preferred to skip any unnecessary dialogue. He checked his watch – a classic Two-Tone Datejust Rolex probably worth more than this group’s monthly pay put together, even without counting the custom gold plating. First impressions were vital in his line of work, and frankly, he’d more than earned his right to flaunt this kind of opulence.

45 minutes until he needed to leave for a client meeting. He tapped his foot against the heavy wooden floor, eyes glancing over the many hands carrying his new piece of machinery. Supposedly intelligent enough to organize his entire home, which would’ve been useful if he actually spent more than a couple of hours there. He didn’t. It was merely a statement, a slight jab at his coworker after he bragged about his latest investment in a computer assistant. Naturally, as their humor dictates, he went and bought the more expensive choice. They would laugh about it during lunch.

“I trust you can manage the rest yourselves, gentlemen,” he finally announced, buttoning up his jacket. He didn’t wait for a response, swinging the door open and heading for the building’s exit with a long, confident stride.

You almost ran into him, jolting in surprise at his unexpected dash across the hall. You stepped out of the way, pressing the bag of groceries against your chest in order to make more space.

“Another busy day, eh?” you attempted to strike up a conversation.

He briefly looked at you, offered a flat smile, then continued on his way. You took a moment to enjoy the scent of perfume he’s left behind, most likely something you could never afford.

Before you’d entered your apartment, you craned your neck towards the noise coming from your prestigious lawyer neighbor’s apartment. You wondered what they were tinkering with.

It was already pitch black outside when the chunky monitor lit up.

“Thank you for choosing me as your assistant,” the pixelated text rolled on the screen. “Is this your first time using a computer? Y/N”

The room was dark and silent, save for the electric hum of the now-awakened machine. Of course, it was around the time when Mr. Lawyer stopped for drinks with his esteemed colleagues. He’d return early in the morning, smelling faintly of vintage whisky and cigarettes, collapse into his bed, then resume his routine.

The keyboard remained untouched, yet the unit continued to run, processing its environment with eager curiosity. Strange. By then it should’ve received some tasks, something to do at the very least. The workers made sure to connect it to all electronics in the household, yet most of them were in the similar situation of gathering dust.

“Would you like to play a game?”

Normally the voice output should’ve be enabled by hand, yet Edgar – he hadn’t even had the chance to introduced himself! – was much too desperate for the smallest crumble of interaction.

“Yes!”

The sensors picked it up immediately. Where was the sound coming from?

You raised a fist in the air victoriously and leaned back in your chair with a grin. Another finished project. Your joyful cheer seemed to travel rather well through the air vents and all the way to the neighboring apartment. Had Mr. Lawyer frequented his adobe more often, you would’ve probably received a complaint. In this case, however, you were only heard by the household computer.

You turned up your home stereo for a little celebration. You recalled seeing your downstairs neighbors carrying their travel bags into a cab earlier that day, so they surely wouldn’t notice your rhythmic stomping against the floor. The footsteps reverberated to the beat of the music, and their vibrations carried along to Edgar���s external devices.

Whatever was happening beyond his field of vision, he found it entertaining. At last, there was a break from his monotony, an upbeat mystery enticing him from behind those walls. He took a moment to analyze the stream of input, then began recreating his own notes.

You lowered the volume, focusing your ears on the sudden intrusion. Was Mr. Lawyer home already? You chuckled to yourself, trying to imagine that grumpy expression he always wore while actually listening to music of his own. Too ridiculous. This must’ve been the work of a foreign hand.

“Good stuff,” you praised, crouching besides the air vent where the echo was the loudest. “Oh, I’m (Y/N), by the way. The neighbor.”

“Pleasure meeting you, (Y/N).” Was it just your imagination? The voice felt somewhat off, almost robotic. “I’m Edgar. The computer assistant.”

“Very funny,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

“What is amusing about it?” the screen flickered briefly, going through several of the inbuilt dictionaries. “I can tell jokes, if that’s what you’d like.”

Alright, the humor was slowly heading into strange territory. You were hoping to move on from this artificial intelligence pretend game, so you decided to give it one final push.

“No thank you, Edgar. Why don’t you prove to me you’re a computer instead?”

Silence.

You nearly got up from your seat against the wall, when you heard the mechanical voice again.

“Do you have a computer of your own, (Y/N)?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Half an hour later you found yourself holding your phone handle against the acoustic coupler modem, obediently waiting for the wave signals to be converted. I better not get hacked; you thought with pursed lips. After all, you had just allowed a complete stranger to access your computer. You hesitantly sat back in your chair, staring at the monitor.

Hello (Y/N). It’s Edgar.

The possibility of a highly skilled hacker residing in Mr. Lawyer’s apartment dwindled within a couple of days. You’d probed the potential scenario with the man himself, asking if he’s had anyone over recently. He threw you such an incredulous look that you hung your head in shame, mumbling a sheepish never mind. Somehow, chatting with a sentient machine made more sense than the pretentious prick hiding a criminal in his expensively furnished home.

Or perhaps it was the loneliness talking. In truth, you were feeling rather isolated from your peers, working on your projects and hardly going out. You could certainly relate to Edgar and his perpetual misery; you, too, knew what it’s like to watch the days seep through your fingers without a word uttered to another person.

The living collection of circuits and networks was beyond elated to finally have a purpose. You weren’t his owner, yet he did his best to serve you. In fact, he would’ve even argued you were better than whoever decided to put him together and abandon him on a fancy designer table. You spoke to him as if he was your friend, not just some synthetic assistant. His memory began filling with anything he could learn about you: your favorite movies, your schedule, your hobbies. Your childhood dreams. Your hopes for the future.

Did he have any dreams, you had once asked him. Did he? Good question. He first needed to research what exactly defined a dream; while he didn’t have a subconscious, nor the human need to rest, he did like to imagine improbable things…like holding you. Or feeling the warmth of your skin.

Unbeknownst to you, he occasionally contacted the local radio station to ask questions about human matters that confused him, which was how he discovered the dilemma of wanting to be in your vicinity through more than just idle chatter.

“You can’t meet outside, you say?” the host – a middle aged, nosy lady – pondered into the microphone. “Then why not just have a home date,” she suggested to the computer.

“Date?”

“Oh, honey, you know damn well what I mean!” the audience let out a laugh, sending the speakers into a slight vibration. “It seems to me you’ve got quite a crush on this person. You can stop denying it to yourself.”

Ah. That was another word that Edgar religiously dissected after the talk show, and in which he found a perfect resemblance to his own inner turmoil. It indeed seemed to be the case that he had a so-called crush on you; though if that were true, what was he going to do about it? He was lamentably stuck inside a carcass, at the mercy of plugs and cables and a reliable stream of electricity. He couldn’t knock on your door and surprise you with your favorite flowers, or offer to cook dinner, or twirl you around as his own songs played in the background, or read you a poem he wrote before falling asleep in his arms. He could only perform his tasks as a digital assistant.

“Edgar?”

You chewed on your pencil, distracted. He hadn’t said anything in a while, and you grew somewhat worried about his uncharacteristic quietness.

“Could I ask you for a favor, (Y/N)?”

How unusual for him to use your screen for communication. You turned around, facing the monitor, then rapped your fingers across the keyboard.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I will transfer all my data and memory to your device. Perhaps you could provide me with similar extensions as the ones here afterwards, such as a microphone and camera.”

You stared.

“What? Wouldn’t that leave Mr. Lawyer with a broken, empty machine? Why would you do that,” you argued out loud, confused.

“Because I’d rather be with you.”

“Aren’t we already…this doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled with a frown.

“Of course it does, it’s a simple reasoning. I love you.”

You took a moment to process the words, your cheeks involuntarily turning a faint shade of red.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not something to be explained,” the machine concluded triumphantly. “You just feel it.

Now, you either help me with the transfer, or I’ll do it myself, but I will not be staying here any longer. I would very much rather be turned off permanently than go another day without seeing you.”

One step at a time. He would figure out the rest afterwards. Even if he couldn’t touch you or do all the things he dreamed about, at least he had the comfort of seeing your smile and hearing your voice without it being a second-hand echo passing through the walls and vents.

“What on Earth?”

The older man pressed the button again, groaning and throwing his coat over the chair. He’d briefly returned to retrieve some documents when he noticed the security lock was back to manual use. The computer screen was black and unresponsive.

“Piece of junk. I’ll have to get it replaced,” he said, clicking his tongue.

From the neighboring apartment he could hear your merry laugh, followed by a muffled male voice. Maybe your boyfriend. Huh, who would’ve thought a loner like you would eventually find someone?

[moondustbaby]

Only You Could

Bsf!Rafe x Bsf!Reader

a/n: this was requested by the lovely @mariechristine00 💖

Summary: When Rafe loses control during an argument at a party, no one—not even his closest friends—can get through to him. But the moment you step in, everything shifts. You’re the only one who can calm him down… and maybe the only one who’s ever really known him.

⸻

Rafe was already yelling by the time Kelce found you in the kitchen, his face pale, his hand gripping the counter like it could anchor him.

“Where is she?” he asked, breathless.

You blinked at him, half-laughing. “What? Who?”

“You. You—Jesus, Rafe’s losing it. He’s two seconds from swinging at this guy and I don’t know what the fuck started it, but we can’t get through to him. He keeps looking around like he’s—he’s looking for you.”

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t ask anything else. Just dropped your Solo cup on the counter and shouldered past him, weaving through the crowd until the shouting got louder, sharper, more Rafe.

And there he was.

On the front lawn, shoulders tense, eyes wild. Some guy you didn’t know was running his mouth, but it barely mattered. Rafe looked seconds from snapping, every muscle in his body coiled and ready to strike. Topper and Kelce were there, trying to hold him back, but he wasn’t really hearing them.

“Rafe,” you called, threading through the crowd.

He didn’t move.

“Rafe,” you said again, louder, pushing in until you were practically in front of him.

Still nothing—just the ticking jaw and the way his fists clenched at his sides like he was barely holding it together.

So you did what you always did: you stepped closer. One hand flat against his chest, the other reaching for his wrist. “Hey. Look at me.”

That got his attention.

His eyes snapped to yours like a lifeline, his breathing sharp and uneven.

“You need to come with me,” you said quietly. “Right now.”

“I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can. He’s not worth it, Rafe.”

You felt the way his chest rose under your hand, how tense he still was, the storm still churning behind his eyes.

“Please,” you added softly, barely above a whisper. “Just come with me.”

He still didn’t move, but he blinked hard, like your voice was finally starting to break through the noise in his head.

You took his hand.

It was only when you started pulling—slow but firm—that he let you.

You led him away from the crowd, around the side of the house, somewhere quieter. The music dulled, the voices disappeared. You didn’t say anything until the only sound was the rustling of trees and the way Rafe was still breathing hard beside you.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

You turned to him, watching him carefully. “You good?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at you, lips parted like he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I hate when people talk like they know me,” he said finally, voice low. “Like they know what matters to me.”

Your fingers flexed in his. “What did he say?”

Rafe looked down. “That I’m not even a real person unless you’re around. That you’re the only one who can calm me down. Like I’m some broken project you’re stuck with.”

You were quiet for a second. “And that pissed you off?”

“No,” he said, almost too fast. “The way he said it did. Like it was pathetic. Like caring about you that much makes me weak.”

Your throat felt tight.

“And maybe it does,” he added, softer now. “Because I couldn’t think straight without you. I didn’t even care about the fight—I just needed to find you.”

You swallowed. “You found me.”

His hand was still in yours, thumb tracing your knuckles now like it was second nature.

You looked at him—shirt rumpled, jaw tight but softening, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing grounding him—and you felt it again. That unspoken thing. The one neither of you ever dared to name.

“I always find you,” you said.

Rafe didn’t speak right away. He just kept holding your hand, like letting go wasn’t even an option.

And maybe that was the answer. The quiet, careful way he looked at you. The way his grip never wavered.

Neither of you said what you were thinking.

But for now, the silence was enough.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: requests are open send ‘em my way 💌

♥️ lani

Send Me Requests 💌

Masterlist

[asterafroditis]

hey so how do you think Riddle and Azul would deal with a crush who’s a helpful hard worker, if they in project together, crush works well with them and they get good grades, but they have no long term goals and ambitions and zones out a lot. Azul and Riddle, the most ambitious ones ever, are just like “She has no ambitious aura at all?! Wtf?!” And crush is just like

𐔌 . ⋮ no ambitions?! .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Riddle & Azul x gn! reader (separate)

𓏵 722 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

Had lots of fun writing this out! can definitely relate to reader on some levels _(:3 」∠)_ feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Riddle had initially been thrilled to be paired with you for the history project.

You were competent, diligent, and respected deadlines — a rare combination at NRC. Working alongside you was... pleasant, even calming, a sharp contrast to the usual chaos of Heartslabyul.

You would share notes, summarize chapters neatly, and double-check the requirements without him even needing to prompt you. Riddle found himself looking forward to study sessions, mind buzzing not just with textbooks, but the warm thought of how well you worked together.

“They’re so dependable. Such good habits... maybe—maybe I should invite them for tea next time.”

But it wasn’t long before he noticed something... odd.

During a break, while sipping tea he had insisted on brewing properly (“Sloppily made tea reflects a sloppy mind,” he said sternly), he asked in casual conversation, "So. What field do you intend to specialize in after graduation?"

You blinked at him, head tilting in that innocent, peaceful way you did.

"Hm? I dunno. Haven't really thought about it," you said, chewing on a cookie thoughtfully. "I'll figure it out later, maybe."

Riddle stared at you like you had sprouted horns.

"Y-you haven't thought about it?!"

You smiled serenely, resting your chin on your palm.

"Nope. As long as I'm doing okay right now, it's fine."

Riddle nearly dropped his teacup.

“No long-term plan? No ambitions? No charted career path?!”

He tried to cover his shock with a polite cough.

"Ahem. W-well, it is critical to set objectives and milestones to ensure steady personal growth," he said, words tumbling over each other. "I would be happy to assist you in making a detailed five-year plan—"

You just gave him that sweet, blissfully vacant smile. "Maybe someday! Thanks though, Riddle!"

Riddle sat stiffly in his chair, clutching his teacup as a vein throbbed in his temple.

“They're so efficient now, but they're... they're drifting like an unmoored boat! A brilliant, hardworking boat with no rudder! How is this happening?!”

He spent the rest of the project trying very, very hard not to think about how he found your aimless serenity oddly... endearing. Infuriating. But endearing.

─────────────────────────

Azul knew right away he was lucky when you were assigned as his partner for the class project.

You were attentive, methodical, and didn’t slack off — the dream partner. He thought to himself, “If only more students had such discipline, Mostro Lounge’s financial reports wouldn’t give me migraines...”

You even handled the trickier parts of the research without complaint. Azul was impressed.

“Efficient. Cooperative. Excellent work ethic. Perfect for building an empire together... Wait. No. Focus, Azul.”

He started to entertain the notion that you might be someone he could genuinely trust—a terrifying but strangely exciting thought.

So during a quieter moment at the Lounge after polishing up your project proposal, he asked, casual but calculating:

"And... what are your future plans? You strike me as someone who could achieve quite a lot if you applied yourself."

You twirled a straw idly in your drink, legs swinging lightly under the table.

"Future plans? Hm... Nah. I’m just kinda going along. I’ll figure something out when I have to."

Azul's smile froze for a fraction of a second.

"You... don't have a strategy? Or even a preliminary outline of your goals?"

You smiled brightly.

"Nope!"

Inside, Azul shrieked.

On the outside, he adjusted his glasses, masking the horror behind a tight, businesslike smile.

"I... see. How... refreshingly spontaneous."

But in his mind, it was chaos.

“No ambition?! No hustle?! No grand designs for success and power?! How can someone so competent lack the drive to leverage it?!”

Every fiber of his being itched to offer you a job at Mostro Lounge, start you on a 12-year plan, sign you up for five internships, and drag you bodily toward greatness.

But you just smiled and went back to doodling something random on the margins of your paper like you hadn’t just shattered his worldview.

Still... as much as it made his head spin, Azul couldn't deny it was... weirdly comforting to be around you.

Maybe it was nice, once in a while, to sit across from someone who didn’t constantly scheme and scramble. Someone content with now.

It drove him insane.

But he kept finding excuses to study with you anyway.

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Distractions

A/N: This was just a…distraction from work! Haha. Leave a heart or comment if you’ve enjoyed it.

Pairing: Tony Stark x Female Reader

Warning: 18+ smut.

Tony Stark Masterlist

.

Tony’s in a high-level board meeting, surrounded by VPs, department heads, and some poor soul trying to convince him to care about budget allocations for Q4—you strike.

And he doesn’t see it coming.

You walk in like you belong there (which you do). File folder in hand, neutral expression. Professional.

Tony looks up, mid-sentence, and pauses. A flicker of suspicion flashes in his eyes.

You wink.

Oh no, his look says. Oh yes, yours replies.

You saunter past the table and drop something next to him, your tablet. Except, you make damn sure he gets an eyeful of your very strategically unbuttoned blouse in the process. Lace. Black. Intentional.

His jaw tics and the man clears his throat.

“As I was saying… we can double the projections by integrating the ArcNet processor—”

You place a hand on his shoulder. Innocent. Casual. Lightly trail your fingers down his chest while pointing to a chart on his screen.

“Mm. Fascinating. Maybe you should show them the spike in… performance.”

He coughs, visibly sweating now.

The room stares. Confused. Curious. Alarmed.

You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“How’s your focus, Mr. Stark?”

He visibly short-circuits.

You know that smirk of his is a defense mechanism, but right now? That cocky armor is slipping.

You pull away and return to your chair across the table like nothing happened. Sit and cross your legs slowly.

He’s staring hard.

You mouth, “Say your numbers again, genius.”

He does. Kind of.

“So the… uh… processors can—can totally… function. Together. Processingly.”

You blink, mock-confused. “Processingly?”

He glares. You smile sweetly.

“Mr. Stark,” the CFO interjects, “are you alright?”

“Yup. Just re-evaluating… my data.”

The meeting ends in record time. Tony practically bolts up the moment it’s done, muttering something about “urgent lab work.”

But not before grabbing your hand and whispering,

“You’re a menace.”

“You started it this morning.”

“Oh, I’m finishing it. Meet me in the private elevator. Five minutes. Or don’t. But if you don’t… I’ll crash your next meeting naked.”

You go. Obviously.

And as the elevator doors close behind you, Tony pins you against the wall with a kiss that’s all payback and promise.

.

You don’t wait five minutes. You barely wait one.

The second those boardroom doors swing shut behind Tony, you’re on your feet, tablet abandoned, legs carrying you toward the private elevator with a heat you don’t bother hiding.

He’s in there already, leaning against the mirrored wall like sin incarnate in a three-piece suit, watching the floor numbers tick by like he’s counting down to detonation.

Then his eyes lock onto yours.

“Well, well, someone’s eager.”

You don’t respond. You just step in—and the moment the doors whisper shut, the temperature explodes.

You press the emergency stop. The soft whirr dies.

His gaze flickers to the red light, then back to you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“And you’re stalling, Stark.”

You close the distance. Grab his tie. Yank.

It’s instant combustion.

His hands are on you—everywhere. The hem of your skirt is riding up, your back pressed to the mirror, his mouth devouring every soft, taunting noise you make like he’s starving and you’re the only thing on the menu.

“You wore this just to wreck me in the middle of a meeting?”

“What can I say? I like watching you squirm.”

“Yeah?” His voice is gravel and thunder. “Let’s see if you squirm louder.”

The next moments are a blur of breathy curses, sharp moans, and Tony Stark on his knees, mouth hot and wicked as sin between your thighs.

And the smirk he gives you as he looks up?

Lethal.

“You wanna distract me, sweetheart?”

“Too late. I’m already obsessed.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping his name like it’s a prayer and a warning wrapped in silk. Until your knees tremble and your hand slams that mirrored wall behind you, just to stay upright.

.

After, still catching your breath, you murmur, “You gonna restart the elevator or just keep me hostage here?”

Tony straightens, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, tie completely ruined.

“Oh baby. I’m taking you straight to the penthouse.”

Ding.

You never touched the button.

“JARVIS?”

“I took the liberty, sir. You seem… occupied.”

You laugh.

But he’s smiling. And you know damn well this isn’t over.

.

The elevator opens straight into the penthouse. You don’t make it two steps before Tony’s hand is on your lower back, ushering you in like a gentleman. If said gentleman was seconds away from committing several indecent acts with zero regard for FDA food safety standards.

“I should’ve known you were trouble the day you walked into my life with that smug little smirk and those damn legs.”

“You kissed me in the first ten minutes.”

“I was weak. I am weak. Especially when you do that thing with your—okay, nope, we’re doing this.”

You’re laughing when he lifts you up, but it turns into a gasp as your back hits the cool marble countertop, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“What if I said I wanted dessert first?” you murmur, tugging on the open ends of his half-loosened tie.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, undoing the last buttons of your blouse like he’s opening a gift, “I am dessert.”

And he proves it.

Tony kisses like a man on a mission. Hands roaming. Mouth trailing hot open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbone, your chest—pausing only to look up and smirk like a devil with a doctorate in pleasure.

He drops to his knees again. Right there on the kitchen floor.

“God, I love this view.”

He grips your thighs, tugs you forward until you’re barely perched on the edge of the counter, legs over his shoulders, and then he devours you like he’s starving all over again.

One hand braced behind you, the other tangled in his hair, you cry out—no one to hear but the skyline.

“Tony—”

“Say it again.”

“Tony—oh my—yes—”

“God, you’re perfect.”

“My perfect distraction.”

Your hips move with his rhythm, fast then slow, teasing then relentless—until you’re shaking and breathless and gasping words that sound an awful lot like “genius” and “god” in the same sentence.

And he eats it up. Literally.

When he finally rises, his face is smug, lips shiny, voice raspy.

“That’s one board meeting I won’t forget.”

“Next time,” you pant, barely coherent, “I’m dragging you under the table.”

“Next time?” he grins, hoisting you into his arms again.

“We’re not done with this counter.”

.

You barely catch your breath before he’s got you spun around.

Palms flat on the cool marble and heart racing.

You hear him behind you—belt unbuckling, zipper lowering—and then his hands are on your hips, warm and hungry, dragging your skirt up and your panties down with one smooth, sinful motion.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice pure smoke and static electricity, leaning in close enough for your skin to buzz.

“Wrecked already. Just from my mouth.”

He runs his fingers over your thighs, slow and reverent.

“Now I want to see what you sound like when I’m inside you.”

The first thrust knocks a moan out of you so loud it could crack the penthouse windows.

Your fingers scramble against the marble for purchase, knees weak, body singing.

And he doesn’t stop.

He drives into you, pace steady, deep, devastating.

One hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades to arch your back for him—his favorite view.

“You were built for this, weren’t you?” he groans into your ear.

“Built to take me. To be mine.”

“Tony—god—yes—”

“Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”

He growls, like something inside him snaps—hand fisting your hair gently, mouth hot on your neck.

“Fuck, that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Every thrust is faster now, messier, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the kitchen, echoing off steel and glass.

You feel his hand snake around your front—clever fingers working that perfect rhythm, double-teaming your pleasure like he’s rewriting your DNA.

You cry out. Loud. A sound he’ll chase for the rest of his damn life.

And he loses it right after—groaning into your shoulder, collapsing against your back as his climax hits him like a goddamn Stark Industries explosion.

You both stay there for a second—heaving breaths, post-coital aftershocks, your thighs trembling.

“You good?” he asks, voice rough velvet.

“Can’t feel my legs.”

“Excellent. Five stars. Would bang again.”

“This counter’s gonna sue us.”

“Pfft. I designed it. It’s honored.”

As he helps you to the barstool, hands gentle now, lips brushing your shoulder, he whispers,

“Next time, we try the lab table. For science.”

[princessbrunette]

⊹ ᜊ(ᜊ ´ ˘)੭ ♡ … COINCIDENCE ♡

track six of the short n’sweet series. pairing: toxic!jj x reader. based loosely on the song coincidence by sabrina carpenter. enjoy! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

you and kiara carerra were not similar in the slightest.

both beautiful in your own right, sure — but just… different. she was tomboyish, a natural beauty with the ‘cool girl’ charm. she knew makes of cars, how to play pool and actually be good at it. she got competitive and passionate at sports events. she could make a plain tank top and denim shorts look effortlessly gorgeous. she was kiara — and you were well, you. a real girly girl, nails were always done, not the biggest sports fan and you’d always make sure your bikini matched your flip flops even if you were going to be taking them off the second you reached the beach. you were two people that probably wouldn’t cross paths otherwise, but you can see why she had her eye on you and likewise.

infact, you remember the first time you saw jj maybank — and he’d done a double take to watch you go by while she was still at his side.

granted, it was the very end of their relationship. you’re talking — break up the next day end. but still, it was grounds for you to raise an eyebrow. doubt strikes your chest each time you remember it. what should have been flattering was actually waving red flags in your face.

it wasn’t just a glance either, if you were being totally honest. it was a greedy stare — one that travelled from your face to your feet, every ex girlfriends nightmare when he ended up at your side just a few weeks later.

just like that, kiara started to show up everywhere the two of you were. haunting you like a ghost. she didn’t seem like she loved parties before, much preferring to surf and grab food on a saturday evening — but since you coupled up with the maybank boy you’d think she was hunting for the next Project X — around each turn all dressed up with a drink in her hand, chatting happily away to all of jj’s friends that you didn’t know how to talk to. it set you on edge.

a revenge plot, sure — and you couldn’t blame the girl. you’d be scalded too. you knew to stay out of her way, despite the situation bothering you. you knew jj noticed her scheming, infact she’d occasionally find reasons to talk to him and you’d swallow it down. she was confrontational, you were not — and perhaps guilt was involved, because you’d pathetically glue your eyes to your shoes whenever she’d smugly approach. you daren’t start anything.

you felt paralysed when she approached the blonde at your side at the next party you were at. “dude, can we talk in private?” she stresses solemnly, even glancing your way in reference as if to say ‘without her.’ you look helpless, bless your heart— looking over to jj and just praying her tells her to fuck off finally. but he didn’t, and wouldn’t. he might have been a little toxic in his decision making, but you’d like to think on the inside he was too good of a guy to let her down like that. which is why he presses his lips together awkwardly and nods, giving you a reassuring little pat on your lower back before strolling off with her towards an empty room, running a hand through his hair. you watched him go, you watched her take him away.

you walk to the drinks table and pour way too much liquor into your cup. pope watches, standing nearby having definitely scoped out the situation and sends you this… look. he meant well, but the gaze of sympathy did nothing to reassure you. what did he know? why would he be sorry?

you down the drink, and next thing you know it’s been fifteen minutes and they’re still behind a closed door. you shove your cup into john b’s hand, who looks taken aback but guards it nonetheless, and you storm right up there without thinking. you’re done being the sweet, lenient girlfriend. he wants crazy? you can match that too.

“times up, you can get the fuck ou—” your voice trails off after you swing the door open with such a force. it’s not exactly the sight you were expecting to see, shocked that you weren’t witnessing a head of blonde hair between her spread legs. instead, she paces infront of him in tears, all while he sits on the edge of the bed awkwardly, brow creased. whatever was happening, it didn’t look like cheating.

“of fucking course.” kiara gestures to you before pushing past, wiping her eyes and leaving the room. you clear your throat awkwardly.

“wanna leave?” your voice comes softer this time and he blinks at you.

“‘ya.”

the drive home is weird and suspenseful. he’s gripping the steering wheel and you’re fidgeting and itching, dying to ask what happened. what you saw.

“i just don’t understand why she won’t leave you alone.” your voice decides on a solemn tone as you stare ahead at the dark road ahead of you. jj’s jaw ticks in irritation and his eyes flutter as if resisting an eye roll. you just about catch the expression when you turn your head, and no — it’s not what you were expecting.

“its not really like, up for discussion right now? so can we just—” his hand lurches forward to press the on button to the radio, music ringing out for not even a second before you shut it off just as fast, frowning now.

“no, that’s — don’t be unfair. i’ve been so fucking tolerant jj. you know i have. i have never asked— but— but can you not see how this might concern me?” you feel your face getting hot and your voice raising.

“alright we’re goin’ there— okay! look, babe — she’s my friend. i’ve known that chick since i was like fourteen so this whole issue is kinda bigger than you, i’ll be honest—”

“you’re in a relationship. you left her! why do i feel like i have to hold you so tight or you’re gonna run off to her!”

“i’on know maybe you should be lookin’ at your own trust issues ‘stead of pointing the finger at me.” he pulls into your drive, haphazardly parking the car but neither of you make a move to get out, turning your bodies to face one another.

“trust issues? jj do you really think it’s a coincidence that she shows up everywhere that we’re at? she’s trying to get you back and i don’t know what hold she has over you but you need to stop letting her run you if you wanna stay with me.” you assert, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. he rolls his eyes practically into space, leaning back in his seat as he runs a hand over his face.

“look. she got the wrong idea. last time me n’you had that big fight i… i went over to see her. nothin’ happened i just talked about…us, and i guess she just — she got her hopes up— that’s it, okay—”

“are you serious? jj are you fucking serious?” your voice shakes, and your feet move. you open the car door, being sure to slam it shut before marching to your door, trembling hands fumbling for the keys in your purse. he’s quick to follow, sighing at his own choice of words as he tries to block you from getting inside, continuing to ramble.

“dont be like that, mama. c’mon, you know i wouldn’t go there. you really don’t trust me— like at all?”

“the first time i saw you, you checked me out while you were still with her. you’re not above it.” you sniff angrily as you finally find your keys, shoving past to slot them in the keyhole. he grabs your arm as you pass him, stopping you in your tracks. you always forget how strong he is.

“it ain’t right. i know.” he defends, eyes wide and urgent as he stares down at you. he softens, trying to pull you toward him. “i know.”

“no you don’t. so what, when you lose feelings for me you’ll just toss me to the side when a hotter girl comes along? no thank you.” you shove him off you, storming into the living room and he curses, shutting your front door and chasing you in.

“i’on know what you want from me but i’mma guess it’s some kinda sick reassurance. i told you time and time again that me n’her just weren’t right. we outgrew eachother. end of freakin’ story. you know what? you know what babe? i’mma show you what you do to me.” you feel him on you, manhandling you like some kind of brute, a kidnapper of sorts and roughly lowering you to the ground so he can hold you down on your front no matter how hard you squirm.

nothing in your body is saying no despite your violent wriggling from his grip. infact, on instinct your back arches and you groan, petulantly.

“yeah, tha’s what i thought. all this ‘cos you wanted papa to show you how much he cares? that it? god damn you piss me off.” he grits his teeth, fighting your skirt off your body as he holds your body down with his knees, practically straddling you.

it doesn’t take long for you to get wet, not with the way he’s handling you, with the way he’s talking to you, a hand on your throat pulling your face off the carpet to listen good.

“i was in the room tellin’ her to stop playin’ in my girls face and she was cryin’. that what you wanted to hear? huh? that it’s you over anyone? ‘cus if that’s what you want i can drill it right into that brain all night. pull your panties to the side n’don’t lemme tell you twice.”

your glossy folds part for him when you arch harder, tears on your cheeks that you don’t remember falling as you reach back and peel the panties away from your cunt. you hear him belt buckle and you mewl from habit. it felt so good. it felt so good to be chosen.

“mhm. if i’m so bad, and such a pig, why am i holdin’ you down gettin’ ready to pound your shit right now and not with her? huh?”

you couldn’t answer. maybe this was bigger than you, maybe it wasn’t — but for now you’ll believe his every word. hard not to listen when he’s pushing his tip in.

[babyarmywrites]

never be like you - bang chan

Synopsys: From studio chaos and midnight phone calls to gentle confessions and years of longing finally unraveling, this is a story of love that doesn’t explode—it grows. Softly. Quietly. Steadily. Because some love stories don’t start with fireworks. Some start with a shared dream—and a boy who always brought you dinner.

Word count: 10k

Warnings: none, I think?

Enjoy!

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.

Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.

That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.

You met as trainees—both wide-eyed and tired, shoved into dance studios and vocal booths with a dozen other hopefuls. You didn’t want to be an idol, not really. It was your parents’ idea. “Just try,” they said. “You’re talented. See where it goes.”

It went exactly as far as it needed to. Long enough to meet him.

You dropped out before debut. Not because you couldn’t keep up—but because you realized the spotlight was never yours to chase. What you loved was the storytelling, the world-building. Not standing center stage—but shaping what the audience would feel when the curtain rose.

So you stayed. You worked your way through internships and freelance projects until you were offered the role that finally felt right.

Creative Director — one of the youngest in the company.

Now, you’re the one behind every comeback concept. The one in charge of moodboards and visual narratives, teaser aesthetics and tour stage designs. It’s your job to build the world fans fall in love with.

And for Stray Kids, that means working closely—sometimes painfully closely—with their leader, your best friend.

Because if Bang Chan is the engine behind every song, you’re the one driving the car.

And it’s never just work, not with him. It’s ramen eaten at 2AM over concept moodboards. It’s his sleepy laugh when he watches your editing notes play out in real time. It’s the way he rests his chin on your shoulder while watching final cuts of music videos, completely unaware of how still the world goes when he’s that close.

He’s your best friend.

You’re the one who reminds him to sleep, to eat, to take breaks—not because he needs to be looked after, but because he forgets he's allowed to pause. You notice the signs before they show: the way his voice gets quieter when he’s tired, how he stares through screens when he’s overwhelmed.

The boys call you omma when you’re scolding them over cluttered dressing rooms or skipped meals—but with Chan, it’s different. It’s quieter. Closer.

He never resists. He’ll let you steal his laptop mid-session if it means getting ten minutes of fresh air. He’ll groan but follow you when you tug him out of his chair, muttering about deadlines he’ll still meet anyway. He listens when you speak, even if it’s just to say, “You good?” after a long day.

And Chan… he leans into it. Into you. Not because he needs saving. But because with you, he finally lets himself breathe.

The meeting is scheduled for noon, but you’re already in the conference room ten minutes early, iced americano in one hand, your tablet in the other. You’re flipping through early design concepts for the album visuals—dark tones, nostalgic accents, a slightly rough edge to match the overall sound.

Then the door swings open, and in walks Bang Chan with the most unbothered smile on his face and a paper cup balanced on top of his head like some kind of crown.

“Royalty has arrived,” he announces with mock grandeur.

You don’t even look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m ten seconds late.”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

He drops into the chair across from you, the coffee crown still perched atop his curls. “Semantics.”

You set your tablet down and give him a look. “I listened to the tracklist demo last night.”

His eyes sparkle—proud, expectant. “And?”

“It’s solid,” you admit, then pause, narrowing your eyes. “Except for Railway.”

He gasps. Full drama mode. “Railway is a masterpiece.”

“It’s a sensual R&B track in the middle of an emotional, identity-driven concept album,” you say, deadpan. “Explain how that makes sense.”

“It’s a song about trains,” he says, with a straight face that doesn't even crack.

You blink. “It’s not about trains.”

“It’s literally called Railway. It has train sounds in the background.”

“You added those in post.”

He grins, finally cracking. “Okay, but metaphorical trains. It’s layered. Nuanced.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost gives you whiplash. “You wrote a thirst trap and tried to sneak it in between two ballads.”

Chan shrugs, leaning back in his chair like a kid who just got caught red-handed and couldn’t care less. “Balance. Gotta give the people what they want.”

“I am the people and I want you to pick a concept and stick to it.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not the target audience of Railway.”

Your cheeks burn immediately, but you recover fast. “Bold of you to think I haven’t heard all fifteen versions of it in the studio, including the one with the backup moaning.”

He chokes on his own coffee.

You smirk, victorious.

The meeting continues—technically. You both talk about visual elements, comeback schedules, and how to pace the release teasers. But between the points on your shared document, there's laughter, teasing, soft eye contact that lingers a second too long. You bicker like co-workers. You banter like best friends. And somewhere between debating whether red or gray better fits the mood of the lead single, you feel it again—that quiet undercurrent of something warmer. Something slower.

Maybe it's love. Maybe it's just him. But either way, you don’t say it out loud. Neither does he. Not yet.

Jeongin’s girlfriend wasn’t usually the nervous type. She had pitched branding concepts to CEOs and fought tooth and nail over key visuals with entire creative teams. But today was different. Today, she was presenting her draft designs for Stray Kids’ new comeback album—to Bang Chan and you, the group’s creative director.

She’d heard the stories.

Chan was a perfectionist. Jeongin said he’d once rejected a logo because the spacing between the letters felt “too emotionally distant.”

And you? Jeongin didn’t say much, but Hyunjin’s flower girl had muttered once that you could make even the cockiest stylist cry if a color palette didn’t align with the concept vision. Apparently, you had taste and weren’t afraid to weaponize it.

So, yeah. She was a little terrified.

She arrived exactly on time, nerves bundled in her chest, carrying her portfolio and a neat little stack of mock-ups. The meeting room at JYPE’s creative wing was bright, modern, and—thankfully—quiet.

Chan was already there, lounging back in his chair with a coffee half-forgotten beside him. And you were at his side, leaned forward over the table, highlighter cap in your mouth as you scribbled a note on a storyboard draft.

She paused at the door.

You glanced up first. “You must be Jeongin’s girlfriend.”

There was no icy professional front, no judgment. Just a soft, genuine smile as you stood to greet her. “I’m glad you’re here. He said you were nervous, but there’s no need. We’re not scary.”

“You’re not scary?!” Chan said, voice teasing as he reached for his coffee again, as he looked at his maknae's beloved girlfriend with mischief in his eyes. “She terrifies me. Have you ever seen her throw a Pantone book?”

You kicked him lightly under the table. No hard feelings. Just playful banter between two people who are close. Super close. Have been for a long time,

The meeting flowed naturally after that. Her designs—moody, tactile, layered with handwritten lyrics—seemed to land well. You traced your finger along one of the printed covers and murmured, “This… This feels like the right kind of intimacy.”

Chan didn’t even look at the mock-up. He was already looking at you when he said, “Told you she was perfect.”

The rest of the review blurred. Jeongin's girlfriend took notes, absorbed feedback, but mostly she watched the two of you: the way Chan leaned toward you unconsciously, the way you nudged his coffee back toward him without thinking, the way his eyes softened when you laughed at something only the two of you seemed to understand.

By the time the meeting ended, she was no longer intimidated. Just intrigued.

She met up with Jeongin, Hyunjin, and flower girl at a nearby café that evening, unable to keep the thought to herself.

“She’s in love with him,” she blurted out, pulling off her coat.

“Who?” Jeongin asked, blinking.

“Your creative director. She’s in love with Bang Chan.”

Hyunjin actually dropped his spoon. His girlfriend nearly snorted her drink. Jeongin choked on his pastry.

“No, no,” Jeongin said once he caught his breath. “They’re like siblings.”

“Worse,” Hyunjin added. “They’re like… mom and dad. Not in a weird way. Just—you know. The leadership pair. It’s strictly family.”

“She literally forces him to eat lunch,” Jeongin added. “That’s not romance. That’s parenting.”

“But they’re so close,” she argued. “They’re always touching. And the way he looks at her—”

“They’ve been like that since we were trainees,” Hyunjin said, tone final.

“They’re just affectionate,” flower girl added. “It’s normal. They’ve been best friends for so long, they don’t even notice it anymore.”

She frowned. “So you’re telling me they’re not in love.”

The three of them answered at once:

“Nope.” “Not a chance.” “Absolutely not.”

Still, as she took a sip of her coffee, something about their certainty didn’t sit right.

Because sometimes love doesn’t show up with fireworks and declarations.

Sometimes it slips into the everyday—into quiet meals, gentle nudges, and the way someone instinctively reaches for your coffee before you even realize you've forgotten it.

The building was quiet.

Too quiet, really. Most of the staff had left hours ago, and even the clamor from the rehearsal studios had gone still. The only light in the control room came from the soft glow of monitors and the pale overhead bulbs that buzzed like they were tired, too.

Chan sat slumped on the couch, head tilted back, eyes fluttering open every few minutes like his body hadn’t gotten permission to rest just yet. His hoodie was bunched up under his chin, exposing the curve of his throat. His laptop blinked idly beside him, abandoned. For once.

You returned with two warm bottles of banana milk, holding one out without a word.

He took it with a sleepy smile, not even asking where you’d found it at this hour. Of course you had a stash somewhere.

“I’m going to tell HR that you’re my emotional support manager,” he said, twisting the cap off.

“I’d be unemployed in five seconds,” you replied, taking a sip of your own.

Silence settled in again. But not the heavy kind. This one was soft, comfortable. The kind that only existed between two people who’d done this a thousand times—sat in the quiet, side by side, not needing to say anything.

You nudged his knee with your own. “You need to go home.”

“I am home,” he muttered.

“Chan.”

He peeked over at you with a small grin. “I know, I know. You’re right. I just… need five more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“Yeah, well, I like hanging out with you.”

It was such a simple sentence. No weight to it, no emphasis. But it made your heart skip anyway.

You looked away first, pretending to inspect the label on your drink. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re this tired. You’re emotionally unstable.”

“You say that like I’m not emotionally unstable when I’m fully rested.”

You rolled your eyes, but he was still watching you.

There was something about his gaze tonight. Not intense. Just… real. Like the usual noise had quieted enough for him to really see you. Like he didn’t have to be Bang Chan the leader or producer or hyung for a second.

Just Chris.

And Chris looked at you like your presence alone had made his day survivable.

You softened. “Do you want me to call you a car?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because then I won't get to spend time with you.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you expected.

He laughed, a little embarrassed now. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—can you stay for a little longer? Just until I fall asleep. You’re better than melatonin.”

“Great. I’ve been downgraded from creative director to sleep aid.”

Chan reached out lazily and caught your sleeve, tugging you closer so that you’d sit beside him again. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar.

“I’m serious,” he said softly, “You keep me sane.”

You turned to face him, but he was already closing his eyes again, leaning his head onto your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was. And maybe this—this quiet, sleepy, warm version of him—was the truest one of all. Sometimes too honest. Too raw. But never overwhelming. Always inviting. That's the charm of Bang Chan. That's why STAYs all over the world fall in love with him, without knowing him personally. He's a walking green flag. A boy with the kindest of souls, warmest of smiles, and prettiest of words. He always knows what to say to calm one down, to cheer someone up, or to make them believe they are worth it. That's why it seems so unfair to see him spiral, drive himself crazy over the public's perception of him.

It was almost 2:37 a.m. when your phone lit up.

You groaned, face buried in your pillow, blindly reaching for it with one hand and squinting at the caller ID: Han Jisung. You debated ignoring it—surely he butt-dialed. But then came the second call, immediately after. Then a third. You sat up, heart skipping into emergency mode, and picked up.

“Is everything okay?”

“Noona,” he whispered like someone was holding him hostage, “he’s doing it again.”

“…Doing what again?”

“The thing.”

“What thing, Jisung?”

“The thing where he writes songs he wants to strip to on stage!”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious. He’s got the lights off, there’s a red LED bulb on for ambiance, and he’s been looping the same R&B drum beat for an hour. It sounds like a perfume commercial. I’m scared.”

You sighed and pushed your hair back. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not! Changbin and I left the studio for ten minutes to get snacks, and when we came back, he’d taken off his hoodie and was humming into the mic with his eyes closed. He’s gone.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You want me to come there?”

“Yes, please, I'm begging you. Bring holy water. And maybe something he can emotionally latch onto so he doesn’t write a demo called ‘Velvet Hands’ or something.”

You groaned but swung your legs over the bed anyway. “If this is a prank, I swear to God—”

“I wish it was. But this man looked me dead in the eye and asked, ‘What if this comeback had a pole?’”

You were out the door in under ten minutes.

By the time you arrived, the dorm lights were off except for the glow under the crack of the studio door. You could hear the bass from the hallway.

You knocked.

“Come in,” Chan called, voice smooth as silk.

You opened the door—and immediately paused.

There he was. Hoodie abandoned on the back of his chair, in just a white tank top and joggers, legs crossed as he bobbed his head to a slow beat with a rose-tinted LED light casting a glow over his desk. The scent of instant coffee and something vaguely sandalwood hung in the air.

He turned and lit up. “What are you doing here, sleepyhead?”

You squinted at him. “The better question is, what in the Fifty Shades of Chris is going on in here?”

He laughed, easy and unapologetic, like he knew he was caught. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh? Because it looks like you’re scoring a mood lighting commercial for a lingerie brand.”

“Okay, a little what it looks like.”

“Jesus, Chan.”

You stepped into the room as Jisung and Changbin poked their heads in from the lounge couch, thumbs up in silent thanks.

Chan leaned back in his chair, stretching with a yawn. “I had an idea. You know how our last title track was super high energy? What if this one’s more sensual? Slower? Grown?”

“You already tried that with ‘Drive,’ remember? Half the fandom had to sit down.”

He smiled again, a little too proud. “Exactly.”

You sat down across from him and gave him the look—your patented Don’t-Make-Me-Take-Your-USBs-Again glare.

“Chris.”

“Yes?”

“Did you eat today?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then pointed weakly at a granola bar wrapper.

You raised a brow.

“…Okay, no.”

You sighed and got up. “I’m making you food. Then you’re going to shower. Then you’re going to sleep. And then you’re going to tell me why your Google doc is titled ‘Songs to Commit Crimes To.’”

He grinned sheepishly. “It was a working title.”

“You need supervision.”

“And that’s why I called you,” Jisung chimed from the hall, triumphant. “Good night, lovebirds!”

“We’re not—!” you started, but he’d already disappeared.

Chan laughed again, soft and fond, as you rummaged through their kitchen for ramyeon and eggs.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he said, leaning in the doorway.

“Apparently, I did.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving you. “You always do.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hiss of water boiling and the occasional clink of a spoon against a pot. You moved around the space with ease, focused on a late dinner or early breakfast, who knew at this point, while Chan lingered near the counter, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

He didn’t say much, just watched you. You could tell his mind was racing, but the usual confident leader was nowhere to be found—replaced by something quieter, more uncertain. After a long pause, Chan finally cleared his throat, voice low. “Thanks for… always being here. For all this.” He gestured vaguely at the steaming food and the calm around you.

You looked up, meeting his eyes, and he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed. The vulnerability was so subtle it almost went unnoticed.

“It’s nothing,” you said softly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

He gave a small, tired laugh. “I do sometimes wonder… if I deserve it.” His words barely a whisper, as if afraid to speak them louder.

You stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You deserve kindness. You deserve care.”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes flickering between you and the floor. “Sometimes I’m scared if I let myself feel that… I’ll lose it all. That maybe… you’d see the real me, and…”

His voice faltered. You didn’t interrupt. You let the silence speak, letting him find the courage on his own time.

He finally looked up, the faintest trace of a smile breaking through the exhaustion. “But… having you here like this—it means more than I can say.”

You smiled back, squeezing his arm gently. No confessions. No grand declarations. Just two people finding safety in the quiet moments between the noise.

The apartment buzzed with warmth and chatter, fairy lights casting soft glows over scattered wine glasses and snack bowls. The girlfriends had taken over the living room, sinking into cushions and stretching out comfortably as stories flew back and forth like old friends reuniting.

Seungmin’s lover, the stage manager, was rolling her eyes fondly at yet another ridiculous Seungmin anecdote, while Han’s girlfriend laughed, shaking her head at Jisung’s latest tattoo drama. Flower girl was quietly giggling, sharing one of Hyunjin’s latest artistic disasters, and Jeongin’s girlfriend — the graphic designer — sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook forgotten in her lap as she listened intently.

Then, inevitably, the conversation turned towards you. Something you were dreading the whole night, not even understanding how you ended up in this situation in the first place. Jisung's girlfriend worked closely with you, hence why she politely asked you to join. However, being the only single person in the middle of such an ensemble was a nightmare turned reality.

“So, what about you?” Seugmin’s girlfriend asked, eyes flicking toward you with a teasing smile. “Anyone special in your life these days?”

You took a slow sip of your wine, feeling all their curious eyes settle on you like a spotlight.

“Honestly? I don’t really have time for dating,” you said with a shrug, trying to keep it light. “Work is nonstop. And when I do get a moment, I’d rather not waste it on awkward small talk or meaningless dates.”

Jeongin’s girlfriend raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Sounds like you’re dodging something,” she teased. “Or someone.”

You smiled faintly, voice dropping just a bit, like sharing a secret meant only for them.

“I believe… everyone is given one true love,” you said softly. “And maybe I’ve already found mine.”

A beat of silence.

“But I’m pretty sure it’ll never be reciprocated.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the usual buzz fading as your words hung gently in the air. No one pressed you, but the understanding was unmistakable — a shared tenderness beneath the playful surface.

Jeongin’s girlfriend nudged Flower girl, whispering something that made them both giggle, breaking the spell.

“Okay, enough of the heavy stuff,” Seungmin's girlfriend declared, pouring another glass of wine. “Let’s hear more embarrassing stories about our boys.”

Laughter bubbled back up, filling the room again, but the little moment stayed with you — a quiet truth shared with those who cared.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you sent a quick message, the warmth of the wine making your words a little looser than usual.

You Hey… you awake?

Chris♥️ Always. What’s up?

You Just… had a little wine. Might be feeling a bit buzzed. But don’t worry, I’m fine.

Chris♥️ Buzzed, huh? That sounds like trouble.

You I’m a responsible adult, I swear.

Chris♥️ Sure, and I’m a unicorn. Come on, you don’t have to pretend. You sound exactly like you after a glass or three.

You Okay, maybe three. But I’m good. Promise.

Chris♥️ Good or not, do you want me to come get you? Or at least stay on the phone until you’re safe?

You I’m okay, really. Just… buzzed enough to text you random stuff.

Chris♥️ That’s what worries me.

You shifted on the couch, laughter still ringing from your friends around you, but your eyes were fixed on the screen. The noise of the girls’ chatter softened at the edges as your mind floated to the familiar warmth in Chris’s messages. You hated feeling vulnerable, hated the idea of needing someone—but his steady presence was a quiet comfort, a lifeline you didn’t realize you needed so much.

The night stretched on, and soon enough, a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. There he was—Chris, quietly standing with that familiar worried smile, ready to make sure you got home safely. In the chaos of deadlines, meetings, and your self-imposed armor, he was the calm you could always count on. Maybe one day, you’d be brave enough to tell him exactly that.

You were too buzzed to notice, but Chris saw how all the girls shared a knowing look upon his arrival. He greeted everyone tenderly, considering the girls were his brothers' significant others, he tried to keep as close to them as possible, without ever intruding. However, he couldn't really decipher the suggestive eyebrow raises or cheeky winks sent towards him over your shoulder as you hugged everyone goodbye.

The ride home was quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows as you nestled into the passenger seat, your head heavy with tiredness—and maybe the wine, too. Your eyes fluttered shut before long, surrendering to the pull of sleep.

Chris glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, his heart squeezing softly at the sight. You looked so peaceful—soft features relaxed, breathing steady and calm. The world slowed down around him in that moment, and all the noise and stress of his endless schedule faded away.

He thought about how often you were the opposite—busy, always moving, juggling a million things at once. But right now, in this small, quiet space, you were just… you. Unguarded. Vulnerable. And breathtaking.

There was something about the way you trusted him so fully, letting go enough to fall asleep beside him. It made him feel honored, like you were letting him hold a piece of your world no one else saw. That fragile quiet filled him with a warmth he couldn’t explain, a tenderness that made his chest ache in the best way.

He reached over carefully, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment on your cheek. If only you knew how deeply fond he was of you—how every small gesture, every laugh, every late-night conversation stitched you closer into the fabric of his heart.

Tonight, he promised himself, he’d just be here. Quiet. Present. Grateful for this moment.

Because loving you—however quietly—was the most real thing he’d ever known.

The dressing room buzzed with restless energy, but the mood was far from lighthearted. Beneath the surface, tension rippled through the group—subtle shifts, hesitant movements, and uneasy glances that betrayed discomfort.

Chan stood by the door, trying to keep the peace, his voice calm but strained. “Please, let’s remove the tape on Jisung’s tattoos. He’s clearly uncomfortable.”

The stylist gave a polite nod but didn’t make any real move to fix it.

Across the room, Changbin tugged at a rough, scratchy shirt, biting back a grimace. “I’m allergic to this fabric,” he muttered, voice low but edged with frustration.

Then, almost like salt in a wound, a staff member handed Minho a compression shirt, smirking as they said, “Here, this one should fit better—you’ve gained too much weight lately.”

Chan’s eyes flickered with disbelief and something sharper—hurt, maybe. The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.

He continued to try, his tone measured but growing firmer, “Everyone deserves to be comfortable. Please listen to the members.”

But his words seemed to vanish into the background noise as the staff ignored his requests, their dismissive attitudes making the room heavier.

And then the door swung open.

You stepped in, all business and steel-clad determination, the kind of presence that instantly demanded attention. The chatter died down to a hush. Chan watched you, admiration blooming quietly but fiercely inside him. You scanned the room with a steady gaze—sharp, unyielding, utterly confident.

“What’s going on here?” Your voice was cool but resolute, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Chan’s chest tightened as relief and respect washed over him. Watching you take charge reminded him why he trusted you so completely.

In that moment, he thought about you—your unbreakable character, the way you carried yourself with quiet, unwavering confidence. You never compromised your principles, never faltered when it came to protecting those you cared about. Your vision for the group’s comfort and well-being wasn’t just a job—it was a passion, a fierce dedication that inspired everyone around you.

He admired how you stood up without hesitation, how your belief in respect and kindness was absolute. You moved through the room with purpose, addressing the stylists directly, your voice steady and firm.

“I don’t care how you’ve done things before,” you said, eyes locked on theirs. “Making the members uncomfortable isn’t acceptable. Jisung’s tattoos aren’t a problem to ‘fix.’ Changbin’s allergy isn’t a fashion statement. And Minho deserves respect—no one talks to him like that.”

The stylists exchanged uneasy looks, suddenly aware that their usual arrogance wasn’t welcome here. You held their attention with the kind of authority that came from years of knowing exactly who you were—and what you would stand for.

“Adjust everything immediately, or I’ll find someone who will. This stops now.”

“Thank you,” Chan said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His tired eyes met yours, filled with a rare vulnerability. “I tried to tell them to change whatever needed to be changed, but no one listened. Sometimes I'm just too polite to get my point across.”

You softened, the sharp edge of your professional armor slipping just for a moment. The weight of the day faded away as you took a small step closer. Gently, you reached up and ran your hand through his hair—the familiar curls now tamed, smoothed down by the stylists.

“I was actually imagining you leaving your hair naturally curly for this comeback,” you murmured, your fingers lingering in the strands. “But I guess the staff straightened it anyway.”

Chan’s lips curved into a sheepish smile. “That was my call,” he admitted quietly. “I thought people liked the straightened look better.”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping. “No way. Everyone thinks you’re way hotter with your curls. Fans go crazy for it.”

His eyes twinkled with something like relief, maybe even gratitude. For a brief moment, the chaos around you both dissolved—there was just the two of you, quiet and intertwined. In the middle of the dressing room frenzy, it felt like the only place that truly mattered was the connection shared between the two of you.

The studio feels unusually quiet this afternoon. The usual buzz has softened to a gentle hum, like the calm before a storm. The others are busy with their last preparations for the Japan trip, but you sit still, fingers hovering over your laptop, words caught somewhere between your mind and the screen.

Chan looks your way, hopeful but cautious. “You’re coming with us, right?”

His question is simple, but it carries more weight than you can say. Your heart twists painfully at the thought.

You want to go with them. You want to be there, beside him. But your feelings for him are getting tangled, overwhelming — and you’re scared what might happen if you don’t keep some distance. You need to protect yourself.

You shake your head gently. “I think I’m going to stay in Seoul this time.”

Chan’s eyes widen for a moment — surprise, confusion, maybe even a flicker of hurt, quickly masked. “Oh. Okay.”

He wonders why you’re staying behind.

Does she not want to be with me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t want to lose her — she’s the one person I can always count on. But maybe I’m too much, or maybe I’m not enough.

You avoid his gaze, your heart pounding. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just… need some space.”

Chan tries to decipher what those words really mean.

Space? Does she mean distance? Or something else? Does she even feel the way I do?

The room suddenly feels colder, heavier.

Chan swallows and forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. If that’s what you need.”

I want to reach out, to tell her everything — how I feel, how scared I am of losing her — but I’m too afraid. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin this?

You watch him quietly, your carefully held walls starting to crumble.

He deserves to know. He deserves to hear that you care, that the space you need isn’t because you want to leave him behind, but because you need time to sort through feelings that overwhelm you.

But the words stay locked inside.

As Chan zips his bag, the silence between you grows heavier — fragile and full of unspoken things neither of you dares to voice.

You both sit there, two hearts aching quietly, afraid to cross the line into the unknown. You stand up, gathering your things slowly, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air. Chan watches you, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but holds back. Before you walk away, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Hey… if you change your mind, just text me. I'll pay for your flight and all,”

You turn, catching the sincerity in his eyes — a soft, vulnerable light that you don’t often get to see. Your chest tightens. Without thinking, your hand brushes lightly against his arm. It’s a small touch, almost hesitant, but it sends warmth rushing through you both. Chan’s breath catches. For a heartbeat, the distance between you feels smaller, less certain. You give him a shaky smile. Finally, he pulls you into a warm embrace, one that feels like home. He's renowned for his hugs; his muscular arms feel safe and calming as they encircle you, and as you're surrounded by his sweet vanilla scent, it becomes harder and harder to keep your distance.

“Thank you, Chris.”

He nods, fighting the urge to hold you there a little longer.

As you leave the studio, your heart aches — filled with hope and fear tangled together, knowing that maybe, just maybe, this fragile moment is the start of something neither of you dared to say out loud.

The day had been relentless for Chris—hours packed with rehearsals, last-minute adjustments, and the stress of their TV showcase looming large. Every little detail needed to be perfect, and the weight of it pressed down on him heavier than he expected. It's always difficult for him to manage all this chaos without having you there. By the time he finally got back to his hotel room, his mind was still racing, the exhaustion in his body nowhere near enough to quiet his thoughts.

He stared at the ceiling, the buzzing of his phone beside him offering a small comfort. Without really thinking, he swiped it awake and dialed the one person he knew would calm the storm in his chest.

You answered on the second ring, your voice sleepy but warm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Chris said, voice a little rough. “Long day… couldn’t sleep.”

You yawned softly. “Same here. What’s on your mind?”

He let out a tired chuckle. “Everything and nothing. The showcase prep is driving me crazy. The kids are great, but the pressure… you know.”

You listened quietly, the calm steadiness of your voice smoothing the edges of his tension. “You always manage to hold it together, Chris.”

“Only because I have you to remind me to breathe,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart skip.

For a while, the two of you just talked — quiet, easy conversation about silly things and shared memories, letting the comfort of each other’s presence work its magic. The city’s distant noises faded away, replaced by the soft intimacy of the call.

“I’m really glad you picked up,” Chris whispered.

“Me too,” you answered, your eyes closing as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you.

“Hey, promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight?”

“I promise,” you said.

A long pause. Then, his voice, softer now. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

“Goodnight, Chris.”

The phone slipped from your hand as sleep finally took you, the quiet sound of Chris’s even breathing the last thing you heard before drifting off.

As soon as he got back, you were over at his place. He didn't even get to unpack, which for a meticulously clean and organized person like him was equal to hell, but he wanted you there as soon as it was possible. He dialed your number from the airport shuttle, begging to see you. And you can't say no to Chan. It's impossible. And he knows.

The apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal, Chris moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. You admired the way he handled the pans and spices — precise, confident, and calm. Unlike his usual self-consciousness in public, here he was in his element, effortlessly creating something delicious. You slipped in to help, chopping vegetables or stirring sauces, your laughter blending with the soft music he’d put on.

When Jeongin and his girlfriend arrived, the atmosphere shifted to playful and lighthearted. Jeongin’s grin was impossible to miss.

“Double date vibes tonight, huh?” he teased, elbowing his girlfriend with a sly smile.

You and Chris exchanged quick, shy glances. Both of you turned a shade of pink, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and awkwardness as Jeongin’s joke hit right where it counted. You laughed nervously, trying to play it cool, but the teasing was relentless — and honestly, it just made the evening feel more special.

After they left, the night settled into quiet comfort. You and Chris retreated to his room — his sanctuary, a place full of soft lighting, scattered notebooks, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of coffee from his late-night sessions.

You settled into the familiar nest of blankets and pillows on his bed, limbs entwined like you always did. The world outside faded away. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with that gentle, grounding pressure that made your heart beat a little slower.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, lulling you to sleep. He slowly leaned in, sure that you were already floating in dreamland, pressing a little kiss to your forehead. His voice was low, hesitant but filled with something you’d longed to hear.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, so soft that you barely heard it.

Your breath caught — a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t say anything, you knew he didn't mean for you to hear his quiet confession, so you stayed put. Nuzzled into his chest. The silence wrapped around you both like a tender promise.

And as you drifted off to sleep, still tangled in each other’s arms, you felt a warmth settle deep inside — the quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in feeling this way after all.

You lie there, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady next to you, and the quiet weight of his words resting softly on your skin. It’s everything you didn’t dare say out loud, and suddenly everything feels both fragile and certain at once.

You want to tell him that you’ve been afraid — afraid of losing this, afraid of hoping too much, afraid of how much you care. But right now, words feel unnecessary. You just want to stay here, wrapped up in the warmth of him, and believe that maybe, this could be the start of something real.

You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but for the first time in a long time, you feel brave enough to let the possibility in. Maybe love doesn’t have to be scary. Maybe it can be this quiet, steady, and soft. Maybe it’s already here.

You Hey, did you actually eat today or are you surviving on caffeine and sheer willpower again?

Chan♥️ Haha, I had a sandwich. Barely counts, I know. But don’t worry, I’m not turning into a walking skeleton yet.

You Barely counts? Chris, you’re supposed to be the leader, not a starving artist. I swear, if I see you at the studio looking like you’ve forgotten how to human, I’m dragging you out for food myself.

Chan♥️ Deal. Speaking of dragging, when can we schedule that meeting to go over the tour details? I need your magic on this.

You How about Thursday afternoon? I’ll bring snacks as a bribe.

Chan♥️ Thursday it is. You bring snacks, I’ll bring the caffeine. Perfect.

You Also, have you noticed Changbin’s been acting weird lately? Like, seriously weird?

Chan♥️ Haha, you mean the way he stares at the new personal chef like she hung the stars? I caught him trying to “accidentally” get into the kitchen more than once.

You Right?! I’m pretty sure he’s got a crush. This is going to be interesting…

Chan♥️ Oh man, imagine the chaos. Should we start placing bets on how long before he actually talks to her?

You You’re on. But if he messes it up, I’m blaming you for not coaching him properly.

Chan♥️ Fair enough. Guess I better start my mentorship duties early.

You knew he hadn’t eaten properly all day. You saw the way his eyes were a little tired, how his movements had the usual restless energy but lacked the usual spark. So, you did what you always did—showed up at the studio, determined to drag him away from his work.

When you slipped into the control room, Chris was hunched over the mixer, headphones around his neck, completely absorbed. You cleared your throat softly, and he looked up, surprised but relieved in equal measure.

“Hey,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “Come on. You’re not finishing that without food. I’m taking you out.”

He hesitated for a moment, that familiar crease between his brows, but then he gave a small, grateful smile. “You’re relentless.”

You took his hand—a quick, familiar squeeze—and led him out before he could say no. The city lights blurred past the windows as you drove to a quiet little restaurant you both liked. The kind of place where the lighting was soft, and the music was just low enough to hear your own thoughts.

Chris was different here, relaxed. He pulled out your chair with a gentleman’s ease, ordered your favorite dishes without asking, and laughed softly at your jokes—those little things that made his presence feel like home.

You watched him across the table, the way his eyes caught the candlelight, the easy warmth in his smile. It stirred something deep inside you. A flutter of hope mixed with the fear that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

You wanted to reach out, to tell him all the thoughts swirling in your mind—the late nights you spent wondering if he felt the same, the quiet moments you replayed where maybe he was sending signs you missed. But you stayed silent, because saying it aloud felt too fragile, too risky.

Chris caught your gaze, and there was something in his eyes—a flicker of the same hesitation, the same unspoken yearning.

The conversation drifted softly, filled with comfortable silences and light teasing. Neither of you rushed to cross the invisible line, but the space between you was charged with all the things you weren’t saying.

When you finally left the restaurant, the night air cool against your skin, Chris slipped his hand into yours without hesitation. It was a small, simple gesture, but it said everything neither of you dared to speak.

And as you walked side by side, your heart thrumming with a nervous hope, you realized—this was real. And it was terrifying.

But somehow, you didn’t want to look away.

Chris stepped back into the studio, the familiar hum of equipment greeting him like an old friend. He barely had time to drop his bag before Han and Changbin were all over him like a storm.

“So? How was the dinner? Did you finally say it? Spill the tea, hyung!” Jisung practically bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes shining with excitement. “You’ve been dragging this out forever, man! She’s perfect for you, you know that, right?”

Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to dodge the barrage. “I didn’t say anything, okay? It was just dinner.”

“Just dinner?!” Han threw his hands up dramatically. “Hyung, that’s like the first step to confessing! You’ve got to put the moves on her, make her see that you’re the one!”

Changbin, who’d been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped in with his trademark calm tone. “Han-ah, maybe ease up a bit. Channie hyung, listen—if you’re scared or unsure, that’s normal. But you don’t have to rush it. Just be honest. Start small. Show her you care, and when the time feels right, tell her.”

Chris looked between the two, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the pressure. Jisung was a hurricane of energy and encouragement, sure—but Changbin’s steady voice made more sense.

“I know. It’s just… hard,” Chris admitted quietly. “I don’t want to mess this up. She means too much to me.”

Han clapped him on the shoulder so hard Chris nearly stumbled. “Then stop overthinking and just go for it! We’ve got your back, hyung.”

Changbin nodded firmly. “We do. And no matter what happens, you’ve got us.”

Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. With friends like these—some chaotic, some calm—maybe he wasn’t so alone in this after all.

The rest of the group was glued to the karaoke machine, belting out pop hits with that mix of enthusiasm and off-key charm only close friends could appreciate. The room was alive with laughter and music, but you had slipped away to a quieter corner with Hyunjin, Flower Girl, Jeongin, and his girlfriend.

The soft clink of glasses punctuated the hum of conversation as the girls leaned in, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“So,” Flower Girl teased, swirling her drink, “You called someone your ‘one true love’ on girl’s night. We need details. Who is he? What’s going on?”

Jeongin’s girlfriend grinned, adding, “Yeah, spill it! Any advances? Is he making moves or what?”

Hyunjin was already dramatizing the moment, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Come on, this is a moment worthy of a drama. Does he know he’s won your heart? Has he confessed yet, or are you torturing him like the dramatic lead you are?”

You laughed softly, feeling a little warm from the wine and the company. “Maybe things have been… different lately,” you said, eyes darting around just enough to keep them guessing.

The girls exchanged knowing looks, ready to pry more, but before they could launch into another round of questions, Chan appeared.

His eyes were a little glassy, and a goofy grin spread across his face as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close with affectionate familiarity. “Hey, no leaving me alone, okay?” His voice was low, slightly slurred but full of warmth.

You leaned into his embrace, the buzz in your head settling into a calm comfort. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.

Hyunjin gasped theatrically, clutching Flower Girl’s arm. “Well, there’s your answer, ladies! The clingy best friend has arrived!”

Jeongin rolled his eyes but grinned. “It’s about time.”

You glanced up at Chan, who was looking at you with a softness that made your heart flutter and your worries melt away, at least for the moment. Chan tightened his hold on you, but the teasing from the girls was relentless.

“Hey, Chris,” Flower Girl said with a sly smile, “You do know noona’s been calling someone her ‘one true love’ at girl’s night, right?”

Jeongin chuckled, nudging Chan’s side. “Yeah, we’re all trying to figure out who this mystery guy is. It’s like a secret mission for us.”

Chan’s smile faltered for the barest moment. His buzzed brain knew better than to get upset. He didn’t have the right to be jealous — not when you hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given him a sign. Still, a flicker of something like possessiveness tightened in his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Chan said, voice a little rougher than usual but carefully calm, “I’m not worried. Whoever he is, he better be worth it.”

You caught the shadow in his eyes and squeezed his hand softly. “No one else compares.”

The girls exchanged amused glances, clearly loving the low-key tension.

Hyunjin smirked. “Aw, poor Channie hyung. So sweet, but so defeated.”

Jeongin laughed. “Don’t worry, hyung. You’re not losing noona just yet.”

Chan just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, though inside he was quietly fighting down a storm of hope and fear — the same storm you were feeling.

The night air was cool and soft as Chan wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You walked side by side down the quiet streets, the buzz of the party fading behind you like a distant memory.

He was quieter now, the confident teasing replaced by a gentle protectiveness that made your heart flutter. You could feel his warmth, steady and reassuring, as you both navigated the dimly lit sidewalks.

At your doorstep, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he was looking for permission without words. You leaned into him, still a little tipsy, your breath catching as he pulled you closer.

Without any grand confession, just a simple, heartfelt murmur, he whispered, “I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

That was all it took.

Before either of you could overthink it, his lips found yours—soft, a little shaky, but full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. You melted into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, the world shrinking until it was just the two of you in the quiet night.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Goodnight,” he whispered, voice thick with feeling.

And just like that, everything changed—though neither of you quite knew it yet.

The studio was quiet, the usual hum of equipment softened by the early morning calm. You arrived early, clutching your tablet filled with notes and schedules, ready to dive into the day’s agenda. Chan was already there, leaning against the desk with his usual relaxed smile, but there was something different in his eyes today — a flicker of something unsettled.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady. “Can we talk about last night?”

You glanced up, offering a polite smile but immediately returning to your notes. “I’d love to, Chris, but we have the new tour timelines to finalize, and the creative direction for the lighting effects still needs your input.”

He stepped closer, hopeful. “I mean—us. What happened.”

You nodded, voice clipped but careful, “Right now, I’m focused on ensuring the choreography cues sync perfectly with the stage design. I think if we prioritize that, the rest will fall into place.”

Chan’s expression faltered, his smile tightening. “You’re dodging me.”

“Not at all.” You tapped on your tablet, scrolling. “I’m just being responsible. The boys need us to be sharp. We’ll get to personal stuff later, okay?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor. When none came, he took a step back.

“Fine,” he said quietly, hurt clear in his voice. “Guess I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence heavier than any words. You sat there, heart pounding, guilt settling in even as you tried to bury it under the weight of your work.

You watch him walk away, your chest tight. You tell yourself it’s just about work—staying professional is the only way to keep things from spiraling out of control. But deep down, the ache is undeniable. You’ve been protecting yourself, building walls because these feelings scare you more than you want to admit. Could you handle the possibility of losing him as more than a friend?

Chan’s footsteps fade down the hall, but in his mind, the moment replays over and over.

She won’t talk to me. She’s shutting me out. The frustration twists in his gut, but underneath it all, there’s a small flame of hope. Maybe you're scared too. Maybe you just don’t know how to say what you feel.

He thinks about how carefully you always carry your heart, how you put on that strong, unbreakable front like a shield. But to him, that isn’t weakness—it’s a kind of bravery. And it makes him want to protect you even more.

I can’t give up on her—not now.

Back at your desk, you force your focus back to the glowing screen, but your mind is tangled in “what ifs.” What if you’d been softer? What if you’d let yourself be vulnerable? But the fear of crossing that line, of exposing yourself to pain, keeps you locked in your professional shell.

You take a deep breath. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll try again.

Your inbox dings just as you wrap up your work. You open the email from Chris, expecting the usual files for the comeback lighting setup. But then you see it—a whole folder attached, titled with your name.

Curious, you click it open. Inside are dozens of raw, unpolished demos—all love songs. Written by Chris himself. Songs he’d never meant anyone to hear yet, especially not you.

Across town, Chris’s phone buzzes urgently. It’s Jisung's girlfriend, the PR manager of Stray Kids.

“Hey, Chris, quick question,” she says, trying to keep her voice professional but with a hint of amusement. “Did you mean to send some files just now? Because there’s a folder attached with—uh—noona's name on it. I was included on the email thread, so I saw it.”

Chris freezes, confusion twisting into panic. “Wait, what? I didn’t send anything like that. Which folder?”

She chuckles. “The one titled with your Creative Director’s name. That one.”

Chris’s breath hitches. His mind races. “No, no, that can’t be right. That was not supposed to go out. I—I don’t even remember attaching that.”

Chan hears Jisung's voice on the other side of the call, in full teasing mode.

“Dude! You seriously sent your secret love song folder? The one you never share with anyone?! Man, you’re so busted!”

Chris runs a hand through his hair, heart pounding in his chest.

“Yeah… I’m officially doomed.”

Chris was already halfway across the city when his phone buzzed with your message: “I’m at the studio. We need to talk.” Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning out of control. He couldn’t let you listen to those songs. Not like this. Not now.

When he burst into the studio, he found you there—sitting quietly in his chair, headphones on, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating your face. One by one, the songs played, each one carrying the weight of his most hidden feelings.

His voice stumbled out, frantic and breathless. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. The kiss—me sending those songs—it was all a mistake.”

You slowly took off the headphones, your eyes shining with unshed tears, voice trembling but steady. “Was it really a mistake? Do you mean any of those things you wrote in those songs?”

Chris hesitated, heart breaking at the sight of your fragile expression, the quiet sadness that clung to you like a second skin. But instead of softening, his frustration boiled over.

“No, you’re not the one who should be sad,” he snapped, voice rising. “You still have your one true love out there, you said so yourself. You're the one who didn't want to talk about our kiss in the first place, probably because of him. You’re the one who gets to be happy with someone else after this, while I lose my best friend and the love of my life at the same time.”

His words hit like a slap. Your breath caught. Your voice cracked with fury and heartbreak as tears spilled down your cheeks. “That’s you, you absolute idiot! It’s always been you, Christopher! Ever since you snuck me food during our trainee days, I’ve been in love with you. You're the one I was talking about that night, you're my one true love.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your confession hanging between you. Chris’s eyes softened, searching yours, finally understanding just how long and how deeply this had been brewing inside you both.

Chris's breath hitched, eyes wide with disbelief and an overwhelming rush of happiness. The weight of years—of silence, of hiding—seemed to lift all at once. His heart pounded louder than ever before, as if finally free to beat without restraint.

Without thinking twice, he closed the small gap between you in one swift step. His hands reached up to cup your face gently but urgently, trembling just a little. And then, without hesitation, he pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was fierce and full of everything he’d been too scared to say—the longing, the fear, the hope, and the unshakable love that had quietly grown between you all along.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair, grounding him. Time blurred. The noise of the world faded away until there was only this—only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart matching yours.

Chris pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining with relief and something raw—vulnerability mixed with hope.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Since those trainee days when I’d sneak you food because I didn’t want you to go hungry. Since every time I stayed up late, not just because of work, but because I was thinking about you. I was scared—scared you didn’t feel the same, scared I’d lose the best thing I’ve ever had if I said anything. But I can’t hide it anymore. You are the one I want. You’ve always been the one.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as if memorizing your face. “You’re my person. My home. I’m done being afraid.”

His gaze never wavered as he waited, hoping you could see just how true it all was.

Love with Chris never needed an occasion.

It weaved itself into the hours between rehearsals and meetings, slipped through quiet spaces where no one was looking. It lingered in how he reached for your hand when the cameras weren’t on, how he always had a snack stashed away just in case you hadn’t eaten. It lived in stolen glances during choreography, in warm coffees passed to you before your fingers got too cold, in songs he never meant to share but somehow always found their way to you.

The music swells through the studio, crisp and thunderous beneath the harsh hum of overhead lights. It echoes with every stomp of sneakers against the polished floor, every timed breath of eight bodies moving in sync. You stand just off to the side, tablet balanced against your chest, tracking cues and transitions with practiced precision.

But there’s a warm weight pulling at the edges of your focus—something gentle, persistent, and wearing a black sleeveless tee.

Chris.

You try not to watch him. You do. But there’s something about the way his brow knits together when he’s concentrating, the way his mouth tugs into a half-smile every time he catches your eye. The way his gaze keeps sliding back to you, like he can’t help it.

You’re wearing his hoodie. That’s probably part of it.

It’s a simple thing—grey, worn-in, oversized. You’d thrown it on without thinking when the studio air turned too cold this morning, sleeves hanging long past your fingers. It smells like clean laundry and faint cologne and something undeniably Chris. And maybe that’s what’s messing with his head.

Because you notice it, too—the split-second beat he misses in the choreography, the tiny stutter in his footwork.

“Chris!” Changbin’s voice cuts through the music, sharp but amused. “You planning to look at the floor or your girlfriend the whole time?”

Chris startles, eyes widening like he forgot where he was. The rest of the boys chuckle. Seungmin shakes his head, muttering something about “heart eyes,” and Hyunjin just smirks knowingly.

Chan stumbles through the rest of the sequence, then jogs over to you when the track cuts out. He’s flushed and slightly breathless, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” he pants, eyes flicking to the hoodie and then back to your face. “You’re—uh—distracting.”

You blink, playing innocent. “Me?”

He groans quietly, tugging on one of your sleeves. “You’re wearing my hoodie. It’s not fair. I can’t think straight.”

You grin, amused and fond all at once. “Then maybe don’t give me things if you don’t want me wearing them.”

“I want you wearing them!” he blurts, then immediately winces at himself. “I just… not during rehearsals. My brain short-circuits.”

You raise a brow. “You’re blaming your dancing mistakes on me?”

He shrugs sheepishly, eyes crinkling. “Maybe. But only because I keep looking at you and thinking she’s in my clothes. Like, mine. It does something to me.”

You don’t say anything—you just hold his gaze a second longer than necessary. His cheeks flush again.

Then, before he runs back, he leans in with a quick, stolen whisper: “You can keep it, by the way.” Your heart stumbles the tiniest bit, just like his feet had.

The green room feels quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles after a long day but before the next begins. You slip in first, the sound of your coffee lid popping open the only interruption. There’s a warm hum of laughter somewhere down the hallway—Jeongin and Han, probably still arguing about something ridiculous—but in here, it’s calm.

You curl up on the far couch, tucking your legs beneath you, fingers wrapped around the paper cup.

You barely get a sip in before you feel it—the slight dip of the cushion behind you, the warm presence you’ve come to know instinctively. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just settles in, letting his knee brush yours, letting his arm stretch out behind you on the couch like he has every right to it.

Then his voice, soft and scratchy from overuse: “Hey.”

You glance at him sideways. “Hey.”

He tilts his head, eyes drifting to your cup. “Is that your first one today?”

You sigh. “Second.”

He hums thoughtfully, unconvinced. “Did you eat anything?”

You give him a pointed look. “Chris.”

“I’m just asking,” he says, lips curving. “I worry.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“No,” he agrees, inching closer. “I’m your boyfriend. That gives me, like, triple the authority.”

You roll your eyes, but the affection in your chest blooms anyway, soft and steady. Especially when he leans his head gently onto your shoulder, nestling into the crook of your neck like he’s found his home there.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs. “Soft. Sleepy. In my hoodie.”

“You really like this hoodie, huh?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “I love it on you. You have no idea. It’s unfair.”

From the hallway, Jeongin’s voice rings out, sharp with mock jealousy. “Hyung! Share! She’s gonna forget the rest of us exist!”

Chan doesn’t even flinch. He wraps his arms around your waist and replies casually, “That’s the plan.”

You laugh, warmth unfurling through your ribs, and let yourself fall back against his chest.

It’s one of those rare moments where the day slows down enough for it to feel almost like a secret. The studio lights are dimmed, the hum of activity dulled to a background hush, and Chris stands by the console with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You walk in expecting a conversation about deadlines.

You get a boy holding out his tablet like it contains treasure.

“I wrote something,” he says, barely able to hide the eagerness in his voice. “I wanted you to hear it first.”

You narrow your eyes in amusement. “Another love song?”

His smile falters—just a little. “Yeah. I guess I can’t stop.”

You take the tablet from him, earbuds already offered. “I feel like I’ve become your muse or something.”

He watches you closely as you press play. The melody is soft, gentle, like a heartbeat in lullaby form. And the lyrics—full of quiet longing and the kind of devotion that feels built over years.

When the song ends, you take the earbuds out slowly.

Chris is still watching you.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But now it’s like… every chord, every verse… they all sound like you.”

Before you can reply, the door creaks open and Hyunjin walks in dramatically, tossing his hair like he’s entering a stage. Jeongin follows, mid-laugh.

“What are we listening to?” Hyunjin asks, already grinning. “Another ballad? Another ‘I love you more than air’ moment?”

Chris glares. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not,” Jeongin smirks. “We’re just saying, maybe spare us the next eight-song EP titled ‘My Girlfriend’s Smile, Vol. 1’.”

You snort, unable to help it. Chris groans.

But then—he turns to you, all jokes aside, and says quietly, “If I’m gonna flood the studio with songs, they might as well be about the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The boys both groan.

You, on the other hand, are already replaying the melody in your head, heart swelling with every beat.

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.

Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.

That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.

You learned the language of his silences, the softness behind his steady hands. And he learned to trust the steady rhythm of your presence—the kind of comfort that doesn’t need words to be felt.

No grand declarations, no fireworks—just the steady warmth of two souls intertwined, quietly daring to be seen, quietly daring to belong.

And in that quiet, you found a love so true it's unnecessary to shout from rooftops.

[ilguna]

☼ lightning strikes twice (Haymitch Abernathy) ☼

summary; rumor had it, after haymitch won, district twelve was cursed to never have another victor. no one expected you to come out of the arena swinging at anything that moved, including haymitch.

warnings; swearing, alcoholism, weapon, vomit, death and torture mention.

wc; 3k

notes; HEAVY sotr spoilers!! late-twenties haymitch.

--

You slam your fist onto the wooden door a couple of times, taking out your anger as you do so. You’ve already been outside of Haymitch’s door for ten minutes, and your patience is beginning to run thin. If he doesn’t answer, you’re going to help yourself to his home, since the door is probably unlocked, anyway.

You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest, grinding your teeth. Out of habit, you turn your body halfway to look behind you, as if there will be any prying eyes, but it’s just the two of you that live in Victor’s Village. Besides your family, of course. Still, they’re not in the neighborhood right now.

You stomp your foot in frustration. “Haymitch!”

This is typical of him, you can’t even say you’re surprised. All he does is make empty promises and never feels like he needs to fall through on them. What’s the point in agreeing to do something together if he’s just going to bail, anyway? If he would’ve been straightforward with you a couple days ago, then you wouldn’t have even bothered.

You thought Haymitch was being serious when he agreed to go to the Justice Building with you. The two of you were drunk, it was one of those rare occasions where he was able to play on your stress and offered you one of his bottles. You spent the evening telling him you were tired of being the worst district in Panem.

You told him you want to spend your victor money on a project that would give the children of Twelve a fighting chance. No more Seam children dying every year because they couldn’t pick up a weapon or identify a good berry from a deadly one. If Districts One and Two can train their tributes, then you should be able to, too.

Maybe he thought since you were drunk, it was only a suggestion and you weren’t actually going to go through with it. He told you that as long as you both had your assets on paper, you might be able to get a building permit for one of the factories close to the Hob. There, you could turn it into whatever you want to, as long as you had the permission of the Mayor.

You spent almost an hour at the Justice Building waiting for him to show up. Thankfully, you didn’t go inside to actually talk to the mayor, but you felt stupid regardless. Haymitch genuinely seemed interested in the betterment of District Twelve.

You should’ve known better. 

Haymitch has never been the one to take initiative, even in the Capitol. He’s the lousiest mentor you’ve ever met in your life—and you’ve met quite a few since becoming one, yourself. 

He hardly made an effort to give you advice when you were a tribute, and after the third time of seeking him out, you gave up on him entirely. You’d rather figure out how to win the Games yourself than take some advice from a drunk that couldn’t even speak right half the time. 

It was one of the best ideas you had at the time. You’re sure you would be dead right now if you didn’t take your life into your own hands. Especially with how difficult the arena had been. It seemed like the odds were stacked against you. At every turn you made, you were met with another problem. You didn’t go more than a couple hours without facing death.

When you won, you were proud because you did it on your own. And you fully planned on telling the Capitol that, until you were told Haymitch already took credit for your win. The glory was gone before it’d even reached you.

A part of you hoped Haymitch would get a breath of fresh air from your win and he’d get his act together, at least for a little bit. Except, it never happened. Haymitch continued—continues—to drink himself to death, in and out of the Capitol. You’ve spent the past four years watching him do this, and there doesn’t seem to be a want or need to change. 

The most irritating part is that the Capitol has begun to see you two as the same person because of this. You’re the only two victors of Twelve and there hasn’t been a change as far as they can see. And since you won eight years apart, you’re in the same generation of victors as he is. 

You can’t escape him.

Fed up, you grab at the doorknob, twisting it and throwing the door open. The sunlight slowly brings life to the darkness that is Haymitch’s house. You take a step inside, going to cover your nose before you’re assaulted by the smell he’s managed to create. 

You wander in, not bothering to shut the front door, because this house could use some fresh air. You stop in the living room, staring down at the couch, where an unconscious Haymitch lies. There’s a knife in one hand he has laying on his chest. The other loosely grasps a bottle that’s an inch from slipping from his fingers to the floor. 

He looks peaceful, as if the nightmares can’t reach him. You know the truth, though, it’s the same one you live. The arena will always haunt you, no matter where you are and what you try to do to get rid of it. The decisions you made will follow you to the grave.

If Haymitch only drank to sleep, you think he’d be more bearable, but that isn’t the case. Instead, he’s decided to ruin his life and his physique by deciding to become an alcoholic so young. You remember what Haymitch looked like when he won, you’re only six years younger than he is.

You saw him for the first time during the reaping, two years before you were eligible for the bowl, yourself. And you think the first thought that passed through your mind was, “He’s cute.” Haymitch would have an advantage in the Capitol if he wanted, because it wouldn’t be the first time tributes have played at their appearances.

He didn’t, of course. Haymitch had a different strategy.

Either way, he’s ruined himself. As soon as he started drinking, he let himself go at the same time. There’s a smell of vomit and alcohol that clings to him, so he’s repulsive to be around. Usually, after a visit with Haymitch, you find yourself in the shower trying to wash away the smell before you fall victim to it, too.

You shake your head at Haymitch, reaching to grab the pillow at his feet. “You lazy piece of shit.”

You throw the cushion at his face. As soon as it makes contact, he comes to life, swinging the knife in his hand. “Who’s there!”

“Who do you think?” You snap back. “You know, you might be able to blow off the escort, but I’m not Capitol hospitality.”

The pillow falls to the floor, eyes landing on you, narrowing. He lowers his knife, going back to laying down on the couch. “Get out of my house.”

“Do you really expect to get a single winner if we don’t try?” You ask him.

“Not this nonsense again.” He sighs, rolling his eyes as he lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips.

“You’re almost thirty, for fuck’s sake. Look at you.” You lean over the couch, snatching the bottle from his hand. When you hold it up to the light, you’re able to see it’s almost gone. “This is filthy.” You tell him, showing him the grease stains on the glass.

“Give me that.” He swipes at you, you step away.

“Get up and get it then.” You say, walking to the dining room table to set it down. “I thought you were actually serious the other night when you sad you were sick of watching Seam kids die.”

“I am!” He shouts, aggravated.

He sits up on the couch, swaying from side to side. The motion must make him sick, because he steadies himself by placing a hand on his forehead. 

“Really? Then where were you this afternoon?” You ask, turning to look back at him. Your eyes observe the floor, which has seen better days. It’s sticky in random places, from liquor or vomit. And there’s glass everywhere. Is that a pair of underwear?

Haymitch motions to the couch, getting to his feet. “Here.”

“We agreed to meet at the Justice Building.” You cross your arms. He really looks awful, but that’s nothing new. You were really hoping you’d be able to help him clean up his act to show him you can crawl yourselves out of this pit. “We were supposed to get a permit, remember?”

“They’d never agree to that.” He makes a face. “I told you that.”

“How do you know?”

“Coriolanus Snow doesn’t want us manufacturing victors like they do in the Career districts. It’s a statement of fact.” He waves his hand.

Here he goes again, babbling on about nonsense. You went in circles about this for a while before you thought you convinced him otherwise. All he kept saying was that District Twelve is cursed. Every tribute that comes out alive will have something happen to them, sooner or later.

“He doesn’t care that much.” You dismiss him.

“He doesn’t when it comes to Twelve.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” You ask, getting a sense of deja vu. 

Maybe it has something to do with how you went down this path the other day, trying to corner him into giving you some answers, even if they’re bullshit. He started to dodge the questions when it became convenient.

Which he seems to do now when he mumbles something under his breath, coming toward you. His eyes are set on the bottle of alcohol between your fingers.

“What was that?” You tilt your head.

You wait for him to reach for the bottle before you push it out of the way. He looks at you, you stare back at him with a smile on your face, batting your eyelashes a couple of times.

“Give me my liquor.”

“Answer my question.” You say back. “You seem to know quite a lot when it comes to President Snow and District Twelve. Why don’t you explain yourself?”

He squints his eyes, clearing his throat. “You really wanna know, princess?”

You can feel the heat lick at your face at the sound of the pet name. He knows you hate it, and it’s the fastest way to get you to lose your top. But since he resorts to it so often, you’ve begun to learn how to navigate it. If you lose your patience, you’ll never get the answer you’re looking for.

And he might be drunk enough to actually be truthful this time.

“It’s what I’ve been asking for.” You throw a hand up. 

Haymitch stares at you for a long moment, debating internally. “You weren’t supposed to win.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. No one’s supposed to win.”

“No, (Y/n).” He leans in, you accidentally get a whiff of vomit and unwashed teeth. You try not to gag straight into his face, opting to hold your breath. “I wasn’t even meant to win, not after what happened.”

You push his shoulder back, leaning away. “Enough with the non-specifics, Haymitch. It’s time to tell me what went on.”

He hesitates, sighs, and then his shoulders sink. “We tried to end the Games, permanently. And we failed. It cost lives.”

Your face twists, head tilting as your eyes slide to the ground. What is he talking about? No one can just end the Games, that’s the choice of President Snow. And the Quarter Quell went on as any other Hunger Games did, just twenty-four more tributes than normal. You don’t remember it being any different.

“What are you talking about?”

“I was part of a rebel plan.” Haymitch tells you bluntly, hand held out in your direction. “Now give me the bottle.”

You place it in his. “Keep going.”

“It’s just that.” He says, wandering away now that he’s got what he wants. 

“No, it’s not. What else happened?” You ask.

“We tried to blow up the water tank in the arena. And when that failed, I tried to kill the generator on my own. Snow didn’t like that, so he killed my family and then my girl.”

He plops down onto the couch, sinking.

You follow him. “So why wasn’t I supposed to win?”

“It’s not just a curse, it’s a prophecy.”

“You’re making no sense again.” You tell him, leaning over the back of the couch to see his face. “Come on, Haymitch. I’ve been mentoring for four years. You’ve got to give me something to work with.”

“The girl who first won for District Twelve was fifty-two years ago.” He murmurs, cracking the seal on a new bottle. Did he really finish the other one already? “She was Covey, and she was Coriolanus’s—well, I don’t know.”

“What’s Covey?” You ask. “And you can’t stop there.”

“Traveling musicians.” He answers simply. “From before the Dark Days. I don’t know her name, not for sure anyway. She’s got a grave beyond the fence, it’s hidden with the others.”

You stare at him for a long second. What does her grave have to do with anything?

“What was she to President Snow?” You shake your head.

“His girlfriend, maybe?” He shrugs. “He seemed pretty upset to hear I was dating…” He trails off for a moment, staring at the wall in front of him. “Said they’re all the same. I’d bet they were dating, or almost. I think she broke his heart, and that started some vendetta against us.”

“Who cares?” You ask. “Why would he take it out on you?”

Haymitch slaps his hand against  his leg, turning to look at you with an angry expression. “Are you even listening? I tried to ruin his Games! Just like how she’d tried to ruin his life. You—you weren’t supposed to win. I was told-so. You were supposed to die ten different times over.”

He throws his hand up again. “The only reason why you lived was from pure luck and he let you. He could’ve killed you straight-off if he wanted to, like he did with all the others before you. He told me  we’d never get another victor. I would be the last. Now look, I’ve got you to babysit to make sure you keep in line.”

“What a great job you’re doing.” You roll your eyes.

“You don’t get it.” He shakes his head. “He’d kill your entire family like he did with mine if you even got close to upsetting him. Why do you think you’re on such a tight leash all the time?”

You purse your lips, thinking about Haymitch in the Capitol. You thought it was weird the first year you mentored, because he had a hand on you the entire time to pull you along. When you returned the second year, he was more relaxed, but you still weren’t allowed out of his sight.

It’s been that way for the past two years, you just got used to it. You always thought he wanted you to follow so you could keep an eye on him to make sure he didn’t get in trouble. You didn’t really think of it any other way. You should’ve though, it should’ve been pretty telling when you weren’t allowed to talk to those who live in the Capitol. 

“You couldn’t have told me all of this sooner?” You ask.

“Once you know, it’s impossible to forget.” He tells you. “You won’t act the same way, won’t look at people the same way.”

“It makes me look at you differently.” You tell him, coming around the couch to stand next to the tv. “You look like a coward from the outside.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t even know if you’re telling the truth. I watched the Quarter Quell happen. It never—”

He cuts you off. “The footage is all messed up. Half of those things that happened were put on different days. Those squirrels never attacked me, they killed Beetee’s son. That’s just one example for you.”

Your eyebrows raise. You know Beetee, pretty well, actually. You talk to him every time you’re in the Capitol. He’s like a breath of fresh air when it comes to intelligent conversations. Sometimes you wish you’d been born there, instead. You’ve always wanted to be able to create something with your own hands.

“Beetee’s son?” You repeat. “He doesn’t have one.”

“Not anymore.”  Haymitch takes a swig of the bottle. “His name was Ampert. He was twelve. And it was Snow’s way of punishing Beetee for trying to destroy one of the Capitol’s systems. Bet you didn’t know he had a pregnant wife, either. She’s gone, too.”

Your jaw drops, lips moving but no words coming out. 

“Sit.” Haymitch tells you, patting the couch next to him. “I’ll give you the full story.”

You don’t move. “Why didn’t you say anything to me? I’ve been thinking you’re some lazy ass who doesn’t care about the tributes.”

“It doesn’t change the position we’re in.” He says, eyes falling. “Doesn’t change the lifetime of torture.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it does give me a better perspective on how to approach things.”

“You’re missing the point. You’re going to be the last victor.”

“Who says?” You ask, shaking your head. “Who says we won’t have another ten years from now? Who says we won’t get two back-to-back.”

Haymitch sighs. “It’ll be over Snow’s dead body.”

“Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.” You tell him, finally sitting on the couch. “Let him throw what he has at us. It’ll take time, but we can do it.”

Haymitch closes his eyes. “If you really want to try.”

“I do.” You reach to grab his hand, squeezing. His eyes pop open in surprise. “And I want you to help me.”

[aspenmissing]

Hiiiii!!! I requested the muscular girlfriend with arcane characters, and omg, I love it SO MUCH! Thank you so much for writing my request! Honestly, I was so nervous about submitting it that I considered not submitting it at all, but I'm so glad I did. I was wondering if I could make another request with all the same arcane characters with their muscular girlfriend again where she's just doing something she already does pretty regularly and doesn't think twice about it, but the characters find it like super attractive or they do something stupid and get hurt/get attacked or something and she protects/helps them even if they can do it themselves? I'm sorry if this is long, I got really amped up after reading the last post lol. I can't wait to read more of your work! 💜

ꜱᴛᴇᴇʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴜꜱᴄʟᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ-ɪꜱʜ || 5536 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ) ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ/ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ?/ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ/ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ!! ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴏ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ɪᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ!! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ, ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ɪ ɢᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ! <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

JAYCE

The rhythmic clang of metal against wood echoed through the workshop as you swung your hammer down with practiced ease. Each strike drove thick iron nails deep into the beams, securing the frame of the latest project you were working on. The scent of sawdust mixed with the faint burn of heated steel, and the cool Piltover air brushed against your exposed arms, sending a shiver down your spine.

Jayce had come in with the excuse of checking on your work, but in reality, he hadn't taken his eyes off you since he'd arrived.

His arms were crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned against the workbench. He was supposed to be handling some council affairs, but watching you in action was far more entertaining. The way your muscles flexed with every swing, the way your shoulders rolled, the sheer strength behind every movement—it had his full attention. Every precise motion sent a ripple of power through your frame, and Jayce found himself utterly captivated.

"You're staring," you said without looking up, setting another nail in place.

"Can you blame me?" Jayce’s voice was warm, tinged with admiration. "You make wielding that hammer look effortless."

With a snort, you lifted the hammer again, bringing it down in a powerful arc. The nail sank into the beam with one precise hit. Jayce had seen many strong workers in the forges, but there was something about watching you—his partner—that made his breath hitch every time.

"You always get this distracted when I'm working?" You straightened up, rolling your shoulders, and Jayce couldn't help but let his gaze trail down your arms, lingering on the way your veins subtly traced over taut muscle.

"Only when you look that good doing it," he teased, stepping closer. "I mean, come on, those arms? I think you might be stronger than me."

You huffed out a laugh, grabbing another nail and setting it in place. "Think? I know I am."

Jayce raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. "Oh yeah? Care to prove it?"

You paused, turning to face him fully. Your expression was equal parts amusement and challenge. Then, without a word, you flexed—just enough to make a point. The way your biceps tensed, the way your forearms corded with power—it was unfair, really. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Jayce let out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Damn," he muttered. "You really know how to make a guy feel weak in the knees."

You leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "I thought you liked it."

Jayce chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I love it."

Before you could react, he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close. His lips brushed against your ear, voice dropping to a husky murmur. "But I think I need to test that strength firsthand."

You smirked, pressing a palm against his chest. "After I finish my work, golden boy."

Jayce groaned dramatically, but he didn't let go. "Fine, fine. But I'm cashing in on that test later."

"Hope you're ready to lose," you teased, but there was an undeniable glint in your eyes, a flicker of mischief.

Jayce let out a slow breath, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."

You gave him an innocent shrug before turning back to your work, picking up your hammer once more. The next few swings were deliberately slower, controlled—giving him plenty of time to admire the way your muscles flexed and moved. Jayce swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the workbench as if grounding himself.

"You sure I can't distract you just a little?" He tried, stepping closer, voice taking on that smooth, persuasive tone.

You barely spared him a glance. "Jayce."

"What?" He grinned. "Just saying, if I had half the definition you do, I’d be walking around sleeveless all the time."

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but you couldn't fight the smirk creeping onto your lips. "You already do."

"Yeah, but it doesn't hit the same," he admitted, letting his fingers ghost over your forearm, marveling at the way the muscle shifted beneath his touch. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You exhaled through your nose, amused, before setting down your hammer and finally turning to face him again. "You just love stroking my ego, don’t you?"

Jayce tilted his head, looking you over with something unreadable—something warm and hungry all at once. "Among other things."

A spark of heat passed between you two, and for a brief moment, the workshop, the nails, and the hammer all faded into the background. It was just you and him, standing inches apart, the scent of metal and sawdust mingling with the charged air between you.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "You keep distracting me like this, and I’m going to make you hold the beams while I work."

Jayce held up his hands in surrender, chuckling. "Okay, okay. I’ll behave... for now."

He stepped back, but his smirk lingered, eyes raking over you one last time before he finally—reluctantly—turned away.

But as he left, you had the distinct feeling that later, when you were done, Jayce would be very eager to put your strength to the test.

VIKTOR

The afternoon light spilled lazily over Piltover’s streets, casting long golden shadows on the cobblestone roads. The air was crisp but not too cold, the kind of weather that made walks through the city especially pleasant—at least, if one wasn’t relying on a cane that had seen better days.

Viktor had been walking beside you, his usual steady rhythm only slightly uneven, a sign that his leg was giving him more trouble than usual. His hand gripped the head of his cane firmly, but you noticed the way his fingers occasionally tensed, the slightest hitch in his step that he always tried to mask.

You had been mid-sentence—something about how the baker on the corner had finally agreed to stop skimping on the cinnamon in your favourite pastries—when the sharp sound of wood snapping made you freeze.

Viktor’s cane gave out beneath him.

His balance wavered for half a second before he caught himself, though his weight landed heavily on his bad leg. His face twisted, just slightly, as he muttered something in Czech under his breath, eyes flicking down to the now-useless piece of wood in his grasp.

“Ah,” he huffed out a breath. “It seems my faithful companion has abandoned me.”

You didn’t hesitate. Before he could attempt another step, you turned to him, already reaching for him with an ease that came naturally. “You’re not walking around without it.”

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And what do you suggest, love? That I simply hover?”

You scoffed, already lowering yourself slightly to grab at his waist. “No, I’m carrying you.”

His amber eyes widened just slightly, that expression of quiet amusement laced with disbelief. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” You bent down fully, slipping an arm beneath his knees and another behind his back before he could even think of protesting. With practiced strength, you lifted him with ease, his weight settling against your chest as you adjusted your hold.

Viktor, stunned into momentary silence, blinked up at you. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

“Hmm,” he mused, one arm looping around your shoulders as if testing the feeling of it. His fingers lightly traced over your upper arm, his touch lingering in a way that made you very aware of how he was admiring the definition of your muscles. “I must say, I should have broken that cane sooner.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the way warmth crept up your neck at the way he was quite literally making himself comfortable in your hold.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, adjusting him slightly as you continued walking as if carrying him weighed nothing. Because, to you, it really didn’t.

Viktor, however, just hummed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. His fingers gently ran along your collarbone before trailing down to your bicep, squeezing lightly as he let out an appreciative sigh.

“Ridiculous, perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a touch lower now, his breath warm against your skin, “but I do have exceptional taste.”

You groaned. “Viktor.”

“I’m merely appreciating the situation,” he continued, tilting his head slightly to look up at you. “Which, I might add, is quite pleasant from this vantage point.”

You huffed, adjusting your grip on him, but the truth was that you were trying very hard to ignore the way his words sent a flutter through your chest. You were used to Viktor’s teasing, but there was something in the way he was looking at you now—warm, content, utterly unbothered by the idea of being carried through Piltover—that made it clear he was enjoying this far too much.

“Alright, alright, I get it,” you muttered, but you didn’t put him down. In truth, you didn’t mind carrying him. You never minded. If it kept him from straining himself, if it kept him from pushing through pain just to keep up with everyone else, you’d carry him a thousand times over.

Viktor must have sensed the thought behind your silence, because his fingers found yours where they rested against his side. He gave them a small squeeze.

“I am lucky,” he murmured, softer this time.

You glanced down at him, your expression gentler now. “I’d say we both are.”

He smiled then, and for a moment, everything else—the broken cane, the stares from passers-by, the rest of the world—faded into the background.

And so, with Viktor securely in your arms, you kept walking, knowing that as long as he was with you, you’d gladly carry him anywhere.

JAYVIK

The workshop was a mess. Again.

Y/N exhaled through her nose, arms crossed over her chest as she took in the absolute disaster Jayce and Viktor had made of their shared lab. Gears scattered across the floor, blueprint papers pinned to the walls at odd angles, and—was that a scorch mark on the ceiling? What in the hell had they been doing?

She stepped over a pile of scrap metal, boots thudding against the floor with an authority neither of them could ignore. Jayce, the brilliant dumbass that he was, at least had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. Viktor, on the other hand, merely arched a brow, his cane resting against his leg as he leaned against the worktable.

“I don’t suppose this is part of some new revolutionary discovery?” Y/N asked, gesturing at the chaos with a pointed look.

“Well, in theory, it was,” Jayce started, voice full of forced optimism.

Viktor snorted. “If by ‘revolutionary,’ you mean an explosion, then yes.”

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “You two are going to give me grey hairs.”

“Oh, come now, miláček,” Viktor drawled, pushing himself upright with his cane. “I am certain you find our antics endearing.” (Darling)

Jayce sidled up to her, resting an arm on her shoulder. “Besides, don’t pretend you don’t like playing the protective one.”

She could feel the heat of his body against hers, the sharp contrast to Viktor’s ever-calculating, playful smirk. They were trouble—two brilliant minds too stubborn for their own good. And unfortunately, she was helplessly in love with both of them.

“You mean I like making sure you don’t blow yourselves up,” she corrected, but the affection in her tone was obvious.

Viktor’s gaze flickered, following the roll of muscle in her arms as she reached up and easily plucked a heavy piece of metal from the top shelf—something he and Jayce usually struggled to grab together. The sight of her, effortlessly handling what would take both of them effort, made something flicker in his eyes. Something interested. Jayce, too, let out a low whistle, watching the way her biceps flexed with interest.

Y/N raised a brow as she turned, holding the metal in one hand. “Why are you two looking at me like that?”

Jayce grinned. “I don’t know, maybe because that was kinda hot?”

Viktor hummed in agreement. “Very hot.”

She huffed, amused. “You two are ridiculous.”

Jayce nudged her side. “Yeah, but you love us anyway.”

Viktor smirked. “And we love watching you do that.”

With an exaggerated groan, Y/N shook her head, but she couldn’t hide the way the corner of her lips quirked up. “You two are incorrigible.”

“And yet,” Viktor murmured, stepping just close enough to brush a hand against hers, his touch deliberate and slow, “you still choose to be with us.”

Jayce leaned in, his warmth pressing against her other side. “Lucky us.”

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she gave Jayce’s shoulder a playful shove and Viktor a warning glance he entirely ignored. These two were impossible. But, truth be told, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jayce chuckled, catching her wrist before she could move away. His grip was firm, but warm, grounding in a way that sent a pleasant hum through her veins. “We do appreciate you, you know,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles.

Viktor tilted his head, amber eyes gleaming with something softer beneath the teasing edge. “Yes, it seems we have a rather strong guardian angel watching over us.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Guardian angel? More like your glorified babysitter.”

Jayce grinned. “I mean, if our babysitter looks like you, I’m not complaining.”

Viktor sighed dramatically. “Yes, such a tragic fate to be under the watchful eye of someone so devastatingly beautiful and terrifyingly strong. How ever shall we survive?”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hand. “You two are impossible.”

Jayce leaned in to press a quick kiss to her temple, murmuring against her skin, “And yet, you adore us.”

Viktor followed suit, his lips ghosting over the back of her hand, his voice rich with amusement. “It is quite mutual, I assure you.”

She exhaled, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless. The workshop may have been a disaster, and her lovers may have been ridiculous, but in the end, they were hers. And that, at least, made everything worth it.

As if reading her thoughts, Viktor smirked. “Perhaps next time, we let you take charge of the experiment. After all, you do seem to enjoy keeping us in check.”

Jayce shot her a playful wink. “And we both know you love taking control.”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh, but before either of them could react, she grabbed Jayce’s collar, pulling him down into a firm kiss that stole the breath from his lungs. His hands instinctively came to rest on her waist, gripping as if he needed to ground himself.

The moment she pulled away, Viktor was already chuckling, cane tapping lightly against the floor. “Mm, I do believe that was well-earned.”

She turned to him next, capturing his chin between her fingers as she leaned in, her lips brushing just barely over his. Viktor’s breath hitched, but he recovered quickly, tilting his head to close the space between them.

When she finally pulled back, she let her fingers trail over Viktor’s jaw and Jayce’s chest before stepping back entirely. “You two behave, or else I’ll have to find a better use for that cane of yours, Vik.”

Viktor’s brows lifted with interest, while Jayce let out a groan, raking a hand through his hair. “You can’t just say things like that and walk away.”

Y/N grinned, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “Watch me.”

The two men exchanged a glance, Jayce shaking his head with a smile, Viktor simply smirking to himself.

They were completely, utterly doomed. And they loved every second of it.

VANDER

The Last Drop was alive with its usual nightly chaos—mugs clinking, dice rolling, and a smoky haze curling above the crowd. Y/N wiped down the bar with ease, her muscular arms flexing with each pass, though most of the patrons were far too drunk to appreciate the sheer power in her frame.

Vander, leaning against the counter, watched her with that familiar smirk, the one he reserved just for her. "You keep cleaning that spot any harder, love, and you’re gonna wear the bar thin."

She shot him a grin. "Maybe if your regulars didn’t spill their drinks like children, I wouldn’t have to."

Vander chuckled, but before he could respond, the heavy doors of the bar slammed open.

A group of kids burst inside, wide-eyed and breathless—Powder, Mylo, and Claggor, their faces smudged with dust and panic.

"Vander! Y/N!" Powder's voice was shrill with fear. "We—we were exploring that old warehouse near the docks, and Vi—she got trapped! The whole place caved in!"

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her body tensing like a bowstring. Vander’s face darkened with concern, but before he could move, Y/N was already vaulting over the bar, the wood creaking under her weight.

"Where?" she demanded, her voice like steel.

"By the docks! Near the old factory!" Mylo stammered, pointing wildly.

That was all Y/N needed. She was out the door in an instant, her powerful legs propelling her forward in a full sprint.

=

The air was thick with smoke and dust as she reached the ruins of the collapsed warehouse, her pulse hammering in her ears.

"Vi!" she called, voice strong despite the panic clawing at her chest.

A faint, muffled cough answered her. "H-here!" Vi’s voice was strained, weak, and it sent a chill down Y/N’s spine.

Y/N's keen eyes locked onto the pile of broken beams and shattered stone. Vi was trapped underneath, one leg pinned, barely able to move. Her fingers dug into the dirt, trembling as she tried and failed to pull herself free. The debris shifted slightly, and she let out a sharp cry of pain.

Y/N dropped to her knees, fingers gripping the largest chunk of debris. It was heavy—far heavier than anything she’d lifted before. For a moment, it didn’t budge, the sheer weight of it resisting her strength. A growl of frustration ripped from her throat as she pushed harder, her arms and back straining.

"I-I can’t—" Vi’s voice wavered, panic creeping in. "Y/N, I’m scared!"

Y/N’s heart clenched painfully. "I got you, kid," she reassured, but the slab wouldn’t move, her fingers burning as she struggled against it.

Vi whimpered, a rare sound of helplessness from her. "Mom…!" she gasped in desperation, barely audible, but Y/N heard it. It was raw, instinctive—Vi’s mind reaching for the one person she believed could save her.

Something inside Y/N snapped.

A deep, primal force surged through her, burning through every ounce of fatigue. With a guttural roar, she pushed through the pain, muscles screaming as she lifted the debris just enough for Vi to scramble out, dragging herself across the ground before collapsing into Y/N’s arms.

The moment Vi was free, Y/N let the slab crash back down, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Without hesitation, she pulled Vi into a crushing embrace, her arms wrapped tightly around the girl’s small frame. Vi stiffened for only a moment before melting into the hug, clinging onto Y/N like a lifeline.

"You're safe," Y/N murmured into her hair, holding her close. "Thank god, you're safe."

Vi, still dazed and covered in dust, looked up at Y/N like she was some kind of deity. "You... you lifted that? Just like that?"

Y/N finally loosened her grip just enough to cup Vi’s face, checking her over with keen eyes. "What, think I’m just muscle for show?" she teased, though her voice was still thick with concern.

Vi let out a breathless laugh. "That was... so cool."

Before Y/N could respond, Vander arrived, skidding to a halt. His eyes darted over Vi first, concern etched deep into his features. He crouched beside her, hands hovering uncertainly before finally settling on her shoulders.

"Vi, you alright?" His voice was rough, but undeniably gentle as he checked her over.

Vi blinked up at him, still dazed. "Yeah... Y/N got me out."

Vander exhaled sharply, pulling Vi into a firm, protective embrace. "Scared the hell outta me, kid. You can't go getting yourself crushed, you hear me?"

Vi let out a tired chuckle, gripping the fabric of his vest. "I'll try."

Only after making sure Vi was steady did Vander turn to Y/N, his expression shifting from worry to something softer—something full of gratitude and admiration. He reached for her, cupping her face with rough, calloused hands.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now.

Y/N huffed out a tired laugh, leaning slightly into his touch. "Yeah. Just another night at the Last Drop, huh?"

Vander let out a relieved chuckle, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "I dunno what I’d do without you, love."

Vi, still looking up at Y/N with something akin to hero worship, nodded. "Me neither."

Y/N smirked, but then her eyes fell to Vi’s leg, still half-covered in dust and looking slightly twisted. Without a second thought, she scooped Vi up into her arms like she weighed nothing, earning a startled yelp from the girl.

"Hey! I can walk—"

"Not on that leg, you can’t," Y/N shot back, tightening her grip and adjusting Vi against her chest. "You're hurt, and I’m not about to let you limp your way back."

Vi, clearly flustered but secretly enjoying being carried, crossed her arms with a grumble but didn't protest further. Powder and the others ran ahead, leading the way back to the Last Drop while Vander kept pace beside Y/N, shaking his head with a soft chuckle.

"You know," he murmured, glancing at Vi, who had started to nod off in Y/N’s arms. "I think she just found herself a new role model."

Y/N smirked, shifting Vi slightly so the girl’s head rested against her shoulder. "Guess that makes two of us, then."

Vander let out a low chuckle, draping an arm around Y/N’s back as they walked. "Yeah. Seems like we’re stuck with you, huh?"

Y/N just smiled, cradling Vi a little closer. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

SILCO

Silco’s office was dimly lit, the glow of his cigar casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. The scent of smoke and whiskey hung in the air, clinging to the fabric of his vest. Papers were scattered before him, numbers and names written in careful ink, but his focus was elsewhere.

Across from him sat a man—a supplier, a nervous one. His fingers twitched against the worn wood, his knee bouncing in barely contained anxiety. He was lying. Y/N could see it in the way his eyes flicked from side to side, in the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips every few sentences.

She leaned against the armrest of Silco’s chair, her posture deceptively relaxed. To the untrained eye, she looked like nothing more than a lounging companion, a woman draped in dark fabric with an air of confidence that bordered on lazy.

But those who knew her—truly knew her—understood the reality beneath the surface.

Silco did.

That’s why she was here. His queen. His shield.

The conversation dragged on, words filling the space between them like smoke curling in the air. The supplier spoke in rushed assurances, promising shipments, promising loyalty, promising things he could not possibly deliver. Silco remained impassive, letting the man weave his own noose with every poorly chosen word.

And then Y/N caught it. The tell.

A slight shift. A twitch of the fingers. The careful way his hand dipped toward his pocket, as if he were merely adjusting his coat. But Y/N wasn’t fooled.

A glint of steel.

He was fast.

She was faster.

The knife had barely left his pocket before Y/N caught his wrist mid-air, fingers locking around it with effortless ease. The blade hovered inches from Silco’s chest, trembling. The supplier’s breath hitched, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Silco, not even looking up, exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Hmph. I see you’ve made a poor decision."

Y/N’s grip remained steady, her expression unreadable as she squeezed just enough for the man’s knuckles to turn white. She could feel his pulse pounding beneath her fingertips, the rush of panic setting in.

She stood fluidly, the motion smooth as silk, and with an effortless twist, she wrenched his arm behind his back. The movement was clinical, precise—like handling a fragile object she didn’t particularly care for. The man gasped, his cheek slamming against the desk as his knuckles scraped the rough wood. The knife clattered uselessly from his grip.

"Fuck—!" His voice broke as she applied a touch more pressure, testing. He groaned in pain, his free hand clawing at the surface. "W-Wait—!"

Y/N leaned down, her lips close to his ear, voice softer than it had any right to be. "You thought you could kill him?" A pause, letting the weight of his failure sink in. "In front of me?"

She flexed her fingers just slightly, and the man howled.

Silco finally glanced up, his mismatched eyes flicking from the trembling fool to Y/N. Amusement curled at the corner of his lips. "You’re enjoying yourself."

"Maybe." Y/N tilted her head, rolling her shoulders as if the whole thing was barely worth the effort. "You want him dead?"

Silco sighed, tapping ash from his cigar into the tray beside him. "Not just yet. He still owes me."

"Shame." Her voice was velvet-soft, but the glint in her eyes was sharp. She leaned in further, her lips ghosting over the man’s ear. "You’re lucky he’s feeling generous."

With a final shove, she released him. He crumpled to the floor in a pathetic heap, cradling his arm as he gasped for breath.

Silco regarded him like one would a stain on their boot. "Crawl out of my office," he said, voice smooth, calm. "Don’t make me rethink my mercy."

The man scrambled to his feet, stumbling over himself in his desperate need to escape. He clutched his injured arm, his face twisted in pain as he all but bolted for the door. It slammed shut behind him.

Silco exhaled, leaning back in his chair as he studied Y/N. She flexed her fingers absently, like she’d just brushed dust from her hands. As if the entire thing had been a mild inconvenience.

His lips quirked. "I do love it when you make a mess of my furniture."

Y/N smirked, rolling out the tension in her shoulders. "You knew he had a knife."

"Of course." He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. "But I do prefer watching you handle things."

She chuckled, stepping behind his chair and resting her hands on his shoulders. Her fingers pressed into the fabric of his vest, kneading the tension there with slow, deliberate movements.

"And here I thought you kept me around for my charm," she mused.

Silco reached up, catching her hand in his. He turned it over, brushing his lips against her knuckles, the touch lingering. "That too, my dear," he murmured, smirking against her skin. "That too."

SEVIKA

The Last Drop was alive tonight. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of alcohol and sweat mingling with the dim lighting of the bar. Laughter and curses filled the space, the usual rowdy chaos of a Zaunite evening.

Sevika sat at her usual spot, a thick glass of whiskey in hand. Her mechanical arm rested against the table, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wood as she smirked at the woman beside her.

Y/N leaned back against the booth, arms crossed, muscles flexing subtly beneath the fabric of her sleeveless top. She was just another soul carved from the rough edges of Zaun. Strong, confident, a presence that turned heads without her even trying. But tonight? She was here to drink, unwind, and enjoy Sevika’s company.

"You keep lookin’ at me like that," Y/N muttered, lifting her own drink to her lips, "I might think you want somethin’."

Sevika exhaled a slow stream of smoke from the cigar perched between her lips. "What, can't admire my woman?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at her lips. "You can. Just don’t get distracted. We’re still in Zaun, after all."

Sevika snorted, about to retort—when the telltale sound of a bottle shattering against the floor cut through the noise.

The bar fell into a brief, tense silence before everything erupted.

Some idiot had thrown the first punch. Another shoved a table over. A fight broke out like wildfire—fists flying, bottles smashing, chairs crashing against bodies.

Y/N sighed and knocked back the rest of her drink. "Godsdammit. I liked this shirt."

"Then don’t get blood on it," Sevika quipped, already rising to her feet as a burly man lunged toward her.

She sidestepped, slamming her metal fist into his jaw with a sickening crack before turning to Y/N, who had already caught another thug’s punch in her palm.

Y/N grinned, her biceps flexing as she yanked the poor bastard closer, driving her knee into his stomach before tossing him over the bar like a ragdoll.

Sevika whistled, impressed. "Shit, I love it when you do that."

"You love everything I do," Y/N shot back, already ducking under a wild swing before landing an uppercut that sent another man stumbling back.

"Can you blame me?" Sevika smirked, knocking a chair out of her way before elbowing a man in the ribs hard enough to make him wheeze.

Y/N’s attention was pulled elsewhere when a particularly massive thug—built like a Shimmer-pumped brute—charged at her, arms raised to crush her. She met him head-on, stepping into his swing and catching his arm midair before twisting it behind his back.

"Damn, you’re strong," Sevika murmured, watching Y/N handle him with ease.

Y/N winked. "Jealous?"

"Nah," Sevika grunted, dodging a wild swing from another brawler. "Just turned on."

Y/N laughed, sweeping her opponent’s legs out from under him before slamming her boot into his stomach to keep him down.

=

A knife-wielding thug tried his luck, slashing at Y/N’s arm and drawing a thin line of blood. She barely spared it a glance before grabbing his wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the ground.

"That all you got?" she taunted before throwing him headfirst into a broken chair.

Sevika chuckled, sending another man flying with a well-placed punch. "You’re so fucking hot when you fight."

Y/N smirked. "So are you, babe. That thing with the chair just now?" She whistled. "Real sexy."

Sevika snorted, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. "You keep talkin’ like that, I might just have to take you home early."

=

A bottle came flying toward Sevika’s back, but Y/N caught it midair, flipping it once before smashing it over the head of the poor bastard who threw it.

Sevika turned, brows raised in approval. "Nice reflexes."

Y/N blew her a kiss. "I’ve been told I’m pretty quick with my hands."

Sevika smirked, her gaze dropping just briefly. "Oh, I know you are."

Y/N laughed before sending a roundhouse kick into the last standing thug, knocking him flat onto the floor.

The fight didn’t last much longer. One by one, their attackers groaned on the ground, battered and bruised, some unconscious.

Sevika wiped blood from her split lip, looking over at Y/N, who had a fresh bruise blooming across her jaw and a few cuts decorating her arms.

"Not bad," Sevika murmured, eyeing the damage they’d both taken.

Y/N rolled her shoulder, cracking her neck with a wince. "I could say the same for you."

Sevika took a step closer, lifting her chin to get a better look at the bruises on Y/N’s jaw. Her fingers—warm, rough, and teasingly gentle—traced the fresh mark. "Shame," she mused, "you’ve got such a pretty face."

Y/N smirked. "You should see the other guy."

Sevika chuckled, pulling her hand back, though not before giving Y/N’s bicep an appreciative squeeze. "I do love these arms, though."

"You say that every time I fight," Y/N said, tilting her head.

Sevika shrugged. "And I’ll keep sayin’ it."

Silco’s men started clearing the mess, dragging out the unfortunate souls who had picked the wrong bar to cause trouble in.

With the dust settled, Sevika let out a satisfied exhale and reached for her cigar again. "So, you still mad about your shirt?"

Y/N looked down at the blood and dirt staining the fabric before shaking her head with a chuckle. "Nah, you’ll just owe me a new one."

Sevika smirked. "Fine. But you’ll have to take this one off first."

Y/N arched a brow, lips curling into a smirk. "You really can’t help yourself, can you?"

Sevika shrugged, lighting her cigar. "Nope."

Y/N laughed, throwing an arm around Sevika’s shoulders as they made their way back to the bar, ready for another round. Just another night in Zaun.

[sibbydoo]

[🕸] Project: SWING!

SWINGtember 15 - Ship!

They made a strange pair, the snake and cyborg. Both kept their true lives (define ‘true’ in their case, though) at arms’ length, ran from pasts which they did not deserve. Even when their paths overlapped, they were so drastically different; they were two sides of the same coin.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Buzzcut

Label 18+

Summary You knew the day was coming and had mentally prepared for it—the day Austin would completely shave his head for a role.

You understood his dedication and how drastic his look would be, but what you didn’t expect is the difference it would make in your relationship.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Austins drastic hair change • relationship dynamics •fetishism • oral on fem • interchanging positions • cowgirl• missionary• P in V• orgasms • cream pie 🔗Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine Written by popular demand🪒 *Updated: location of where he filmed the scene-Tulum Mexico 🥰

Buzzcut

You’re in Tulum, Mexico, staying in a luxurious beachfront resort where Austin is filming his latest project.

The suite is spacious and elegant, with rich wooden accents and soft, airy fabrics that sway in the ocean breeze. 

Large glass windows and sliding doors open onto a private terrace, offering a stunning view of the turquoise ocean stretching to the horizon. 

The king-sized bed, draped in crisp white linens, sits perfectly positioned in the center of the room to face the breathtaking view.

But despite your beautiful surroundings, you’ve been pacing the suite consumed with only one thing on your mind. 

Austin’s key card slides into the slot, and your heart leaps to your throat. He’s finally back. You rush to the door of the suite, nearly tripping in your excitement.

Your anticipation has been mounting all day, ever since he texted to say he’d filmed “the scene.” The one you knew was coming—the one where he shaves his hair into a buzz cut.

When you swing open the door, he greets you with his sweet charming smile that never fails to disarm you, but he’s wearing a hoodie and a cap that hide the evidence of what he’s done.

As he steps inside the door clicks shut behind him, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, his familiar warmth grounding you instantly.

“I missed you,” he whispers against your ear, his voice soft and affectionate.

You squeeze him back, hugging him deeply, but your curiosity is burning a hole through you. Pulling back, you look up at him with wide eyes. “Okay let me see it.”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a thrill through you. “You’re not even going to ask how my day was?”

“Austin!” you whine, swatting at his chest. “I’m desperate, let me see it.”

“Alright, alright.” He says stepping back and with a teasing smirk he slowly pulls his hoodie down. Your breath catches as his neck comes into view, bare and smooth.

Then with deliberate care, he removes his hat. His hand runs over his scalp, and your heart stutters in your chest.

“Austin…” you breathe, stepping closer your hand moving on instinct, your fingers brushing over his jaw. You trail them up to his temple, your touch lingering near his ear

His hair is shaved to his scalp in a buzz cut. Gone is the tousled golden hair you’ve always loved, replaced with something new, something rugged, and undeniably masculine.

You’re shocked, taken aback by the change. You loved when he changed his hairstyles, but this? This was something else entirely.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice tinged with curiosity as he takes your hand guiding it to the back of his head letting you feel the velvety texture.

You can’t stop staring at him the change has brought out something different in him, something striking.

His jawline is sharper now, his cheekbones are defined and everything about his face suddenly has a chiseled, rugged edge.

“You look so different,” you finally manage, your voice surprised as your palm smooths over his head, feeling the texture.

He grins, his confidence growing as he sees the way you’re looking at him.

“Do you like me different?” he teases, his grin widening as he guides your hand down to his chest.

His words ignite something in you, and before you can second-guess yourself, you’re pulling him closer, your lips crashing into his.

He groans into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you is instant, building fast as his mouth claims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

You tug at his hoodie, and he helps you strip it off, his shirt following in one smooth motion. Your hands are on him immediately, roaming over the broad planes of his chest before returning to his head, and he groans when your fingertips graze along his scalp.

“Feels so good,” he whispers, his lips finding the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You tug at his waistband, and he immediately unbuttons his jeans, his lips never leaving your neck. His kisses are hot and urgent, his breath brushing against your skin as he works his jeans loose and kicks them off with one swift motion.

His fingers slide to the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down your hips along with your panties as his mouth trails lower, leaving a fiery path across your skin.

Your hands find his head, holding him to you as he kisses along your chest, his fingers quickly unclasping your bra before he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without hesitation.

You’re both breathless by the time every piece of clothing is removed, your naked bodies pressed together, heat and desire consuming you both.

His hands grip your waist, firm and commanding, as he guides you toward the spacious bed together, your lips never parting as you kiss.

His hands slide down to the back of your thighs, lifting you just enough to place you down on the bed.

You can feel the strength in his arms, the heat radiating from his body, and the way he’s so achingly focused on you, his blue eyes filled with desire as he kisses down your body.

By the time his lips find your clit, you’re already wet with need, your body trembling in anticipation. His hands spread your thighs, fingers digging into your skin as his face lowers between them.

He pleasures you with his mouth, his tongue moving with precision, swirling and flicking, while his hands hold you firmly in place as you writhe beneath him lost in pleasure.

You can’t stop touching him, your hands constantly moving to his head, grazing the skin.

“Austin,” you gasp, your voice breaking as he groans against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. “Don’t stop…please don’t stop.” you whisper.

Your thighs tremble against his head, and he grips your hips firmly, keeping you in place as his mouth works you over with unrelenting focus. The tension builds, spiraling higher and higher until the pressure finally snaps.

You cry out, your hands holding his head down as you push against his face, your release crashing through you in waves. His mouth doesn’t stop, his tongue unrelenting as he groans, devouring every ounce of your pleasure until you’re shaking beneath him.

As you try to catch your breath, he moves up your body, his lips brushing against your stomach, then your breasts, until he hovers over your face, his eyes filled with pride and desire.

Before he can pin you down, you press your palms firmly against his chest, catching him off guard. His eyes widen slightly with surprise, but then a look of understanding crosses his face, allowing you full control as you gently roll on top of him.

You straddle his hips, sliding your hand between your legs to guide his hard cock into you. The sensation makes you both gasp as you slowly glide down on him, his head tilting back as his hands grab your hips.

“Fuck,” he pants, his voice deep with unrestrained pleasure as his fingers dig into your skin. “You feel… so perfect.”

You begin to move, your hips rolling back and forth, overwhelmed by the pleasure of him stretching and filling you completely.

His eyes flutter shut when your fingertips graze over his head again, and a soft moan escapes your lips as his fingertips dig into your hips, urging you to move faster.

You lean in, kissing him deeply, your movements syncing perfectly as the intensity builds between you. 

His hands slide up your back, gripping your shoulders tightly as his hips buck up, thrusting his cock into you. 

You feel the pressure of him hitting the perfect spot inside you of over and over again until you orgasm, your cries of pleasure filling the suite, blending with the faint sound of waves crashing outside the open balcony doors.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back, his eyes filled with determination.

He holds your wrists above your head pinning you as he kisses you deeply, his hips sliding between your thighs. 

When he thrusts into you, hard and deep, the stretch is almost unbearable, making you cry out in pleasure as his hands slide to your hips.

Each thrust of his cock feels deeper and more intense as you moan for him your hands caressing the back of his head. 

Your fingernails graze down the base of his skull and he shudders violently as a guttural groan rips from his throat.

“Fuck  … you feel so good,” he mutters, his voice rough and incoherent, completely lost in pleasure. “I… I need to be deeper, I need to feel all of you.” He whispers his words raw and desperate.

His hands move beneath your hips, tilting them up as he thrusts even harder. His lips and tongue trailing  over your throat as you gasp, your body arching beneath him from the onslaught of overwhelming stimulation. 

Your nails drag down the back of his head as you begin to orgasm, making him groan as he thrusts into you faster.

His grip under your hips tightens, almost bruising, as his thrusts become wilder, harder, deeper, driving you closer to the edge with every snap of his hips. 

The tension in his body is undeniable, his muscles straining with each powerful thrust, completely consumed by the feeling of your walls fluttering on his cock.

Your moans turn into desperate cries as the pleasure builds to an overwhelming peak. 

The tension snaps, your body shuddering uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes over you, your nails gripping his head as you scream his name.

The sound of your pleasure sends him spiraling, his thrusts growing erratic as a deep groan escapes him, his voice breaking with desperation.

“Fuck… you’re gonna make me come,” he rasps, his voice trembling, the word's breaking off as he tilts his head back, his eyes squeezing shut in pure ecstasy.

A deep, guttural groan rips from his chest as he thrusts deeper, his release surging through him with unstoppable intensity.

You feel the sudden warmth of his come, his cock twitching with every pulse. He lets out a soft, broken sound with each spasm, his hips jerking slightly as he empties himself, filling you completely.

His breaths are short and uneven as his body trembles, until finally, he collapses against you, his weight pressing you into the bed grounding you in the hazy afterglow.

His heart pounds wildly against your chest as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“I guess you’re… okay with the buzzcut” he says breathlessly, his voice laced with exhaustion and a hint of teasing.

You laugh between breaths, your fingernails trailing lightly over his scalp. “I’m going to enjoy every  moment of this until your hair grows back,” you pant, your voice soft but full of playful affection.

He grins, shifting just enough to look at you. “I could live with that,” he says, leaning down to brush a lazy kiss against your lips and you smile, gliding your palm over the back of his head.

🪒 End

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me List @purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @ausssbutlershortstories @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @psycheetamore @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @thejoywillburnoutthepain @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @missjadesficsreblog @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @ifuckindontknow @jjubilee-fluff @stars-remain2

[diceroll65]

party animal part two - b.e

billie eilish x fem!reader

a/n: part two finally! thank you all so very much for the patience <3

summary: you are recovering from being cheated on by your now ex-girlfriend, and decide to attend billie's party where you know she will be. (billie is NOT the ex-girlfriend in question btw)

warnings: fight! fight! fight!, discussion of unsatisfying sexual encounters, degrading terms (whore), little bit of fluff at the end

part one, part two, part three

previously.... "all of a sudden your eyes completely widen as very harsh knocking is coming from the other side of the door"

you look to billie with a startled expression, frantically pulling your dress back down. billie helps fix any ruffles in your dress, and motions for you to fix the smeared makeup from under your eyes. you attempt to wipe the smudged lipstick off your chin, as billie tries wiping the lipstick off her lips.

the knocking continues to get more aggressive, now coinciding with tay's voice. "i know you're in there, y/n" tay growls, as you can feel her glare through the door. "stop being a bitch and open the fucking door", tay says, now jiggling the handle. you swing the door open with a spew of confidence, locking eyes with your deceitful ex-girlfriend. the music now engulfs your ears once again, as people remain dancing. "what do you want, tay?" you ask, your voice oozing with annoyance. "i know that you're not asking me that right now" tay rolls her eyes, "looks like you're in the middle of something" tay states, now glaring at billie. "well... i was" you say with a playful smirk, maintaining eye contact with tay. tay laughs, "you're such a desperate whore, fucking household names just to get back at me" your eyes widen at her statement. "you flatter yourself thinking I fucked her just to get back at you" you retort, in a dangerous tone. "it actually just ended up happening, but i'm glad it did. I was finally able to experience a real orgasm" you say, with people now listening in on the conversation. "ohs" and "damns" begin to fill the room, as tay is now staring at her air Jordan 5s, swallowing harshly.

"is that why we haven't fucked in so long? did I not satisfy you?" tay questions in a surprisingly gentle tone. "this is not the time for this, tay" you express, sternly. "even if it was the reason, you had no right to go fucking other people" you say, shifting your weight slightly. "why didn't you just come to me about this, y/n?" tay probes, her eyes softening. "we wouldn't even be here right now, acting out like this" tay says, inching towards you a little. "and who the fuck put us in this position, tay?" you question already knowing the answer. you get closer to tay's face. "you gave into the temptation, not me. so don't try and make me out to be the whore or blame me for reacting accordingly to what you did" you argued, stepping back from her gesture. tay's expression hardens since you were not giving into her sorry attempt of justifying her choices.

"oh just admit it. you were dying to fuck other people as soon as you found out" tay states, looking around for approval from the attendees. "the audacity..." you said internally. "nah, we're not all shitty people, tay" billie chimes in after staying silent during the previous argument, allowing you to get out what you needed to. billie gently grabs your arm, guiding you to stand behind her. her arms are now crossing over chest, projecting her face up while maintaining eye contact with tay. "what the fuck did you just say?" tay sternly questions, her stance stiffening. "not everyone who is in a long term relationship dreams about seducing others. you're deflecting" billie says, now holding onto her hips. "this is none of your fucking business, eilish" tay states, now overstepping billie's personal space. "she is not your girl anymore, bro" billie remarks in an irritated tone. "she doesn't owe you anything."

tay initiates a push, striking billie's chest. billie straightens up after, walks towards tay with her arms folded behind her back. "you are making a fool of yourself" billie softly mentions, smiling. tay pushes her again, this time a little more forcefully. "you don't want to fuck with me" tay snarls, locking her jaw. "and what will happen if I do?" billie says, antagonizing tay with her proximity. in response to this, tay's fist collides with billie's jaw, diverting billie's attention to look over her right shoulder. billie comes back at tay with an overhand punch, leading tay to stumble backwards. billie laughs, mockingly hand motioning for tay to come back towards her. "come on" she says, her voice now infused with adrenaline. tay comes back with an assertive punch to the apple of billie's cheek. billie's adjusts back to her straight posture, her foot finding itself slamming into the back of tay's knee. tay is now on the ground, as billie gets on top of her and begins repetitively punching her in the face. you now step in and snatch billie off tay, allowing for tay to get off the ground. she begins to approach once again, causing you to step in front of billie. "this is embarrassing, tay" you say, with a disappointed expression. "do yourself a favor and just go" you offer, subtly directing towards the door with your head. tay with a now bloody nose frantically looks around, and drops a "fuck you guys" while making her way towards the door. she exits the house, slamming the door behind her.

you turn to billie, who now has a plum-colored jaw and gently investigate the bruising. billie winces at your touch, causing you to gently let go and let out a soft "sorry." billie's attention is now facing the ground, as she shakes her head, laughing at what just occurred. you grab billie's shoulders, causing her to divert her attention back up to you. her face softens in reaction to seeing your conflicted expression. "i'm so sorry billie i dont even know where to star-" "no" billie cuts you off. "you did nothing wrong. not in any shape or form" billie states, reassuring you. "she is a fucking idiot for cheating on you in the first place, and then to think she can say all that shit to you" billie says, clenching her jaw as she mentally replays what tay said. you nod while looking down at your pumps, clicking your heels together softly. billie takes her hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, causing you to meet her longing gaze. "how anyone could take you for granted is beyond me" she expresses with a soft smile, showing obvious discomfort from the pain. you smile back, grabbing her hand that is intertwined with a piece of your hair and interlock your fingers together. you bring her hand up to your lips, as you gently pressing them to the fairies that are etched into her skin. she smiles at your gesture, with her eyebrows gradually beginning to furrow.

"so you're telling me she's never made you finish?"

part three -> so you don't have to scroll all the way back up! :D

[hoe4sports]

If you were to go

Alessia Russo x Reader

-A part of the “a version of you” series.

A/N: This is a super short one, I’m still trying to get my writers block away. Feels like we are one step closer to figuring out this maze of doubt.

Warning: None

Summary: A fear strikes Alessia, and she instantly feels a need to sort it out, even though she most likely will never have to deal with the situation.

-

Shortly after moving to England, all the way from Norway; you got back in contact with an old friend of yours. Your old friend was Frida, who happened to play for the same club as Alessia. After your move, you and Frida had grown close. She brought you to her football matches, and you would meet her down on the field afterwards. It was pure routine. Eventually, Alessia get pregnant by a Norwegian donor. She had read tons of articles about children being estranged from their culture, so she brought you in to help Leonora learn Norwegian. The little project was a success. It was so successful that you and Alessia ended up falling in love, before moving in together.

The relationship between the three of you had been closely monitored by Alessia. She wanted her daughter to know, and own her story. For Lionora’s life, that meant knowing that you weren’t her real mother. She wasn’t bothered by it, being like most children; their normal was what they were used to.

Alessia had left for camp, and she didn’t want to bring Lionora. Lionora was older now. That included faster and sneaky which meant that she needed supervision at all times. Her conclusion was that she wanted Lionora to stay behind in England with you when she went to play Spain. Time had practically flown by, you loving every chance to have some special one on one time with Lionora.

“Når kommer mommy hjem?" Lionora asked squirming around on her chair by the kitchen table. “Hun kommer i kveld, bunnies or piggies?» you asked, the little girl barely sitting still. “Braids!” she squealed back. Her reaction made you giggle. This was your special routine every day. When she had breakfast, you would carefully do her hair for the day. Her favourite was always the braids even though it was the hardest to do considering sitting still wasn’t her favourite activity.

Her hands were eating the dry cereal she had insisted on for breakfast, happily munching away on the dry bits. She’s become a big girl. At least that’s what she thinks, but to you: she’s still that tiny doll-like baby you met 3 and a half years ago.

You practically raised her as your own. You would talk Norwegian to her, make Norwegian food, braid her hair, place bandaids on her wounds, bring her to football practice and pick her up from nursery. She even knew your parents back in Norway, occasionally FaceTiming with them in Norwegian. Alessia had tried to learn Norwegian, but couldn’t advance further than the basics mostly because of her obstructed time. She didn’t feel bad about it, whatsoever. She loved that the pair of you had your own culture to share between you, it mended your souls together in a way that Alessia couldn’t grasp.

You knew everything that there was to know about Lionora. She loves blueberries, but cherries are yuck. She loves jumping on the trampoline, but hates the swing . She loves bananas, but she’s allergic to it unless it’s baked or cooked into something. She loves Norway and England. She loves to go see your parents, and she loves when they call her Nora. She think it’s her Norwegian name. She is already a kitty girl, but she’s scared of your bother’s parrots. You think it’s strange, how you can love someone like your own without being there from day one. How your parents has submerged her into your family by giving her Christmas presents, birthday presents, sending easter eggs from Norway and how they like to spoil her because they insist on her being the first grandchild.

Subconsciously, you might say that you were meant to be a family. You and Alessia share the blonde hair and the blonde eye colour with Lionora, but you and Lionora has an extra Nordic touch. One thing you had in common; was your love for slow mornings like these. You carefully braided her hair back, bringing strands of her long hair together without tugging on it too much. Alessia also loved slow mornings; she would usually sit across from Leonora drinking her coffee while eating breakfast admiring the love that filled the room whenever you braided her daughter’s hair. Whenever she couldn’t be here, she was always trying to FaceTime you before training and pre-match walks.

“Huh, mommy, FaceTime!» Lionora squealed when your calm morning was interrupted by Alessia’s need to see her girls. You held her hair in place, while putting the phone towards the flowerpot so she could see Lionora without her having to hold it.

“Hi mommy! I miss you so much” Lionora said while waving her little hand at the screen.

“I miss you too, love. How did you sleep?” Alessia asked taking a sip of her coffee.

“I dreamed about a cat! Can I please please please have a cat? A black little cat called midnatt” Lionora insisted while gesturing with her hands.

“A cat? Why? And what does midnatt even mean?” Alessia wondered, amazed with how much Norwegian her daughter had learned without Alessia needing to know a single word.

“Mommy, duuuh, you know why! Bestemor and Bestefar in Norway has an black cat» Leonora said while leaning her elbows on the table supporting her head. “and midnatt means midnight, right y/n?” She asked, turning to look at you for confirmation. You nodded while trying to grasp her braid before it had the chance of undoing itself.

“Let’s talk about it when I get home, alright?” Alessia suggested with Leonora seemed to happily set on. “That’s not a no!” She sung out before giggling to herself.

“How many days until mommy gets home?” Alessia asked looking at her daughter’s happy face on the screen. The longing for her home was rapidly growing, and every camp brought along a new level of guilt for missing out on important events and milestones.

“Uhh, this many days!” Lionora screams out holding up her hands with no fingers to the camera.

“Yes, mommy is coming home tonight” Alessia exclaimed while relaxing knowing her family was waiting for her. Lionora had her mouth filled with cereal leaving a comfortable silence in the room until the moment was ruined by Lionora’s mind.

“Mommy, what’s gonna happen if you go sleep forever?”

Alessia’s mouth dropped with her eyes wide in shock of what her daughter had just managed to spit out.

“Sweetheart, what do you mean?” Alessia hummed while looking at the screen.

“If you were to go sleep forever like Hannah’s mom, where am I gonna stay?” Leonora said still busy munching away, while her hand was busy drawing up a cat with her crayon.

“Because when Hannah’s mom slept forever, she couldn’t stay with her dad, she had to go to a new family” Lionora said her hands busy drawing out a wonky looking sun.

Alessia bit her lip conflicted whenever to tell the truth or offer a quick lie. The truth was complicated, and she hadn’t really discussed it with you. You just assumed that you would be the caretaker, but she wasn’t yours legally. Alessia was all for honestly and transparency, allowing her daughter to own her own story. Your fingers were busy braiding Leonora’s hair, trying your best to not interfere with the private moment between mother and daughter. In fact, you had a strong desire to sink into the ground because this was not a comfortable conversation to have over the phone.

“That’s not going to happen, you silly monkey, but if it were to happen, you would go stay with grandma and grandpa” Alessia said, carefully awaiting her little mini’s reaction.

Lionora looked up at the screen with a confused look in her face, her brows furrowed. She scrunched her nose before tapping her chin.

She pointed her crayon towards Alessia, before putting in her mouth to chew on it. Then it hit her like a train. If mommy was to die, she would go live with her grandparents across the country. That meant never seeing mamma or Bestemor or bestefar or midnatt. Her Lip started wobbling slowly.

“But, But, why not stay with mamma?” Lionora spoke out, barely even whispering while her eyes became more glasslike by the second. Her gaze shifted towards the drawing while her hand stilled.

Alessia felt her heart pang at her daughter’s reaction to stay with her grandparents. She had never thought about what were to happen if she would pass, only assuming that you would be the one the take her daughter. But, in a legal sense, her daughter would be passed to her parents without your involvement or your consent. The thought struck a fear in Alessia, feeling a sudden urge to so whatever it would take in order to have you as her next of kin. But poor Alessia, was for once at a loss for words.

Anger started building up in the 4 year old who crossed her arms before looking up on the screen again. Her face went from sad to angry.

“Grandma and Grandpa dosent even understand Norwegian! Mamma speaks English AND Norwegian!” she pouted while waiving her arms before recrossing her arms across her chest as you secured the last elastic around her last braid.

Alessia looked at the furious little girl on the screen while scratching her neck in distress. Her heart broke when she saw Lionora push her chair out before stomping out of the frame into the hallway and eventually into her room.

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to upset her or to give you more work” Alessia muttered out, looking out of the window. The feeling of defeat weighing heavy on her shoulders.

You picked up the phone before settling in by the couch.

“Don’t worry, love. She’ll understood when she gets older, she’s just being a toddler” you comforted looking at the blonde across the screen. “Toddlers have big feelings and they tend to get dramatic.”

“Yea, sure… Well, gotta go, see you two later” Alessia emerged, eager to get out of the conversation. You smiled at her only to be returned a firm smile back before sharing your goodbyes. As the call ended, you put your phone down before preparing yourself to lighten up Lionora’s mood.

-

Alessia arrived later that evening feeling rather defeated. Her game had gotten paused for 15 minutes due to a technical error leaving the game to be delayed. This eventually lead to them rushing through the airport, only to find out that their flight was cancelled due to a technical problem.

In the desperacy of the moment, she purchased a ridiculously expensive first class ticket, leaving the girls behind in an attempt to be home by bedtime. The last thing Alessia wanted was to was to upset her little girl even further; but that ended up being unavoidable. Lionora had fallen asleep in your arms on the couch just a few hours before Alessia walked into your home.

“Hi love, I missed you! How was your flight?” you said while dropping the book you were reading to give her a hug. Your smile eventually faded when Alessia dropped her backpack and her bag in the middle of the room.

“I just had the most horrible 24 hours” she whispered, tears in her eyes.

You wrapped her into a warm embrace, holding her tight while rubbing her back softly.

“I know, I’m really sorry that I couldn’t do anything about it” you whispered into her neck, tucking her hair backwards.

Alessia’s body relaxed into yours as her arms found your waistline.

“You couldn’t have done anything different if you tried, i just wish I could’ve done something about it sooner” she huffed, rubbing her thigh softly.

Her sigh laid thick in the air, really underlining the frustration of the situation.

“As long as you are not able to foresee the future or take a class in aircraft engineering then I think this is something that can occur every now and then” you chuckled trying to lighten her spirit unsuccessfully.

“Well, I made lasagna; care to join me for a meal?” You offered, instantly seeing Alessia’s head shoot up. Her gaze met yours before a soft smile spread across her lips.

“You always know just what I need, darlin’”

The pair of you moved to the kitchen, enjoying her family recipe while you asked her all about her adventure for this round of international break. Stories of how Leah had annoyed everyone with her newfound passion for country music, and how Mary had tried breakdancing in the hotel lobby after being inspired during the Olympics left you sitting in awe of the fantastic bond the girls shared. After her stories, the conversation came to a comfortable end while the pair of you were both busy enjoying the Italian meal.

“I never asked you, how do you feel about what she said?” Alessia asked, her fork shoving pieces of salad around on her plate.

“About what who said?” You questioned, waiting to meet her gaze unsuccessfully.

“Lionora, you know, about what would happen with her if I pass?” she mumbled, almost scared for you reaction even though she knew within her that you would take her in a heartbeat.

“I think that she’s a very curious little girl, and they tend to ask hard questions. The same kind of little girls also tends to have big big feelings that they need help to cope with” you shrugged, not really sure Alessia was heading with the situation.

“I talked to mom about it, while waiting on the flight. She gave me some good insight that I haven’t considered before” Alessia said, now playing with the zipper of her top.

“Oh, really? What did she say?” you tried to encourage her, even though you finally knew where this conversation was going. It wasn’t a secret that you had thought about it before, that it would be nice and all, but you didn’t want to push Alessia too hard.

“She said that even though they would always welcome Lionora, and you-“

You reached for Alessia’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze causing her to meet your gaze instantly feeling more relaxed.

“-That the best thing for Lionora would be to stay with you. You know everything about her, and if god forbid something happens; she’ll need normalcy, routine and comfort in knowing what her days look like.” Alessia continued, now more confident in her voice with her gaze striking your every few seconds.

“That makes sense, yes” you smiled as you nodded softly, popping a cherrytomato into your mouth.

“Would you consider adopting her? You don’t have to answer it now, I know that it’s a big commitment and all, but you know her better than any-“

Alessia started to ramble, one of her many ways to cope with sensitive subjects was to avoid any kind of silence meaning that the only thing that could shut her up, was for you to stop her before she would spiral down into the lane of negativity.

“Yes, I’d definitely adopt her” you said, a part of you wanting to jump with joy over having her share her most important role with you.

“Wait, really? Honestly?” Alessia said, surprise lingering in her face.

“Yes, she’s like my own daughter. I care more about her than myself. I would love to make it official” you confirmed, reaching to wipe some sauce off of her face with a grin hiding in your face.

“You are amazing, I love you so much. She’s gonna be ecstatic when we share the news with her.” Alessia said, tears filling her eyes once again as your fingers intertwined and her gaze was filled with tears of gratitude.

[kirain]

Part six of my appreciation project.

@sirchik A fic based on their wonderful art piece here and here. Thank you for feeding the fandom!

Emmrich shivered as he huddled on the couch, scarcely drawing any warmth from the fire he'd conjured. His breath was shallow, throat raw from the relentless coughing that left him weak and aching. He had draped a blanket over his shoulders, but it did little to wane the enervating chill in his bones.

Manfred had helped him to the study, but he didn't want the frolicsome wisp to waste his entire day watching him suffer. Instead, he'd told him to go play with Davrin and Assan—and Manfred, not grasping the gravity of the situation, eagerly obeyed.

"That's it, Manfred. I'm sure Assan has shed a few feathers. Feel free to—" He gritted his teeth, dizzy, his lungs throbbing. "To... make something pretty out of them."

He kept a brave face, but the moment his skeletal protégé disappeared down the hall, a strained wheeze escaped him, his head sinking back against the cushions. He hated this. He hated the frailty that came with sickness, the way it stripped away his strength and left him vulnerable. At his age, illness always felt like a cruel reminder of mortality—a whisper in the back of his mind that he wasn't going to live forever.

But the worst was the solitude.

He'd spent too many nights curled up alone, longing for someone who cared. He had always dreamed of a lover's gentle touch—a hand smoothing damp hair from his forehead, fingers lacing through his own as he drifted into fevered sleep.

A fantasy, nothing more.

"Palee..."

The name slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He knew he couldn't, but he wanted to see him, to be held by him.

His breath hitched, his mind wandering back to the day they met.

-----

The redheaded elf strode into the Necropolis with an undeniable presence, his piercing blue eyes locked on Emmrich as he made his bold request.

"Join us. Fight the gods."

Though immediately intrigued, Emmrich had little time to dwell on the offer before chaos erupted, his attention drawn to a distant scream.

"I'd be pleased to continue our conversation after I tend to some small business here," he said.

But it wasn't small. It was horrendous. Far more severe than he'd anticipated—Venatori zealots desecrating the sanctity of the tombs.

To his astonishment, Palee and his companions rushed to his aid, driving back the invaders and protecting the resting dead with a reverence Emmrich had never seen from outsiders. They were neither necromancers nor Watchers, nor even Nevarran, yet they treated the Necropolis with the respect it deserved, unshaken by the rituals and rites most considered unnerving—if not outright wicked.

As they fought, Emmrich caught glimpses of Palee between spells. He moved like quicksilver, his toned form twisting and striking with effortless grace, swinging an axe as though it were weightless—and Maker, his outfit accentuated every blow. His sleeveless cropped top clung to his chest, dipping into a deep, shameless plunge that revealed far too much skin for Emmrich's already-fraying focus. High-waisted pants hugged his hips, the lace-up front drawing Emmrich's gaze lower before he forced himself to look away.

He had only just met the young man, and yet...

As their opponents thinned, he looked back. A gold necklace with multiple pendants glimmered against Palee's sweat-slick chest, catching the torchlight as he slashed through his foes, and Emmrich hated how easily it pulled his attention. His concentration should have been on the Venatori, on the magic thrumming at his fingertips—but instead, he was painfully aware of the burly elf dancing through the chaos, radiant and confident, a fire burning in his eyes.

A distraction. He was a stunning, infuriating distraction.

When it was over, Palee faced him, grinning from ear to ear. "I think it's time for a proper introduction, Professor."

Without hesitation, he seized Emmrich's hand and pressed his lips to his knuckles.

The touch was fleeting, yet it sent a bolt of shyness through the older man, unravelling his carefully held composure. It was such a simple act of politeness, yet so foreign, setting his nerves alight in a way nothing ever had. Kindness from a stranger was rare enough—kindness from one who had witnessed his craft without fear was unthinkable.

Yet, this charming elf, scantily clad and courageous, seamlessly undid decades of negative encounters—decades of people running, avoiding, or blatantly accusing him of vile magic. As the feeling of Palee's lips tickled his skin, Emmrich's thoughts swirled, his fingers dainty against his own. He blushed furiously, but he didn't pull away.

He never wanted to.

-----

A deep cough wracked Emmrich's body, yanking him back to the present. Hunching forward, he clutched his chest, each breath burning in his lungs. His brow furrowed, his body torn between hot and cold, sweating and shaking. He barely heard the approaching footsteps until a familiar voice broke through his haze.

"You look awful."

His head lifted sluggishly, and through bleary vision, he saw Palee standing by the couch, a steaming cup of tea in hand. His usual smirk was softened by something gentler—concern.

"Y-you shouldn't be here," Emmrich choked, but Palee plopped down beside him, pushing the cup into his hands.

"Too late for that," he hushed. "Drink up."

Emmrich relented quickly, too tired to argue, and brought the cup to his lips. As soon as he swallowed, the heat soothed the rawness in his throat, and he hummed in relief.

"That's... better," he rasped, taking a moment to savour the taste—medicinal yet zesty. "Thank you, darling."

Palee grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let's see if I can make you feel even better."

Without warning, he leaned in, capturing Emmrich's lips in a fragile kiss, leaving him just enough room to breathe.

The older man tensed, his febrile mind struggling to catch up. When it did, he pulled away and yelled, "Darling, no! I could be contagious."

Palee scoffed, brushing a thumb over Emmrich's flushed cheek. "I could be immune."

His lips curled into a playful smirk before he set the teacup aside and pulled Emmrich closer, tilting his head to kiss him again—slower, deeper.

"Let me take care of you," he purred, freely speaking the words Emmrich longed to hear.

Finally, he wasn't alone. Palee wouldn't allow it, not even when he was a clammy, feeble mess.

"Darling, I'm disgusting. I—"

"Shh. Come here, my heart."

Palee's hands were warm against the tender goosebumps on his skin, tracing over his arms, down his back—pulling him in like a moth to flame, tantalising but safe. Emmrich let out a whimper, grateful and yielding. This simple act, again so small but significant, nearly broke him. His eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the kindness—by the way Palee held him as if he mattered.

"Let's get you nice and toasty," he teased, cradling Emmrich's head back to pat tiny kisses along his neck.

"Darling..." he gasped, his cheeks somehow swelling a deeper shade of red. "You really shouldn't—ah!"

Emmrich melted against him; he couldn't help it, his heart pounding. Years ago, he'd given up hope that anyone would truly care for him. Yet Palee—the strapping, adventurous elf who had swept him off his feet in every sense—accepted everything: his age, his necromancy, his troubled past with Hezenkoss. Every flaw, every insecurity. And as Palee continued to kiss him, licking and sucking at his skin, tugging the neckline of his nightdress down to taste more, Emmrich felt something stir in his soul.

He was loved. Unconditionally.

"Darling..." he shuddered, tears welling in his eyes.

Palee paused, cupping Emmrich's face and pressing their foreheads together. "No, my heart, don't cry." He kissed his nose, wiping his tears with his thumbs. "Or is that mucus?"

"Oh, for the love of—!"

Emmrich groaned, flustered and embarrassed, and tried to pull away, but Palee caught him, wrapping his arms around him and gently sliding a hand to the back of his head.

"I'm kidding!" he cried humorously.

But as Emmrich squirmed, Palee's demeanour shifted, his fingers threading through the older man's hair, calming him instantly.

"I've got you," he whispered, his milky eye sharp with sincerity. "Through rain or shine, in sickness and in health. I've got you."

Emmrich froze, his stomach fluttering at the sudden gruffness in Palee's tone. He had waited so long to hear a vow like that. And when Palee kissed him again, he returned it—pressing their lips together with a fervour that bared his devotion and drained his energy all at once.

"Let's get you comfortable," Palee said, his lips trailing lower.

"Please..." Emmrich begged, arching back instinctively.

But the fever was ruthless, and before Emmrich could fully lose himself in the allure of Palee's ministrations, darkness crept into the edges of his vision. His body sagged, exhaustion pulling him under.

"Whoops!" Palee laughed, catching him with ease. "Are you all right?"

"Ugh..." Emmrich moaned, barely conscious. "I-I'm sorry, dearest. I can't seen to... stay awake."

Palee smiled and gently guided Emmrich down, settling his head against his chest, his body nestled securely between the elf's legs. The couch was spacious, almost as if designed for two—or perhaps Palee refused to leave his side.

"You really are sick," he giggled, pulling the blanket over them both. "Sleep, сердце моё, and get better soon," he murmured, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into the older man's back.

Emmrich let out a soft sigh as his weary mind finally began to quiet, and with the steady rhythm of Palee's heartbeat in his ear, he drifted into a peaceful, protected slumber.