#THIS SHOW DESERVED BETTER AND I WILL ALWAYS BE BITTER OVER IT!!!!!

[userlaylivia]

it's the year 2025 and I'm still not over bellarke and I'm still obsessed with them as if it's 2014 again I love them so much they will always be my #2 otp tied with stydia they used to be lower than number two but during s4 they reached #2 and have stayed there with stydia!! the development, the growth, the chemistry like we deserved them they were supposed to be endgame beliza said so and I'll always be bitter over them i will NEVER get over them and the show ended with the 613 hug for me s7 never existed it was ooc and made no sense and my babies deserved SO much better!! don't mind me I'm just going to go cry over them for the rest of my life!!! 😭😭😭😭

[userlaylivia]

@hydesjackiespuddinpop, @clubglee, @tudorgirl, @makeyouminemp3, @cuddlyreader

’cause all I think about is .. a skin in ..is ordinary things to my life don’t hold beside of me

[maskedbyghost]

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

[rmview]

you disappear after a fight, mafia!SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader  ( masterlist )

summary — an imagine of how the mafia stray kids boys react when they tell you to leave during an argument and you disappear!

contents — angst, hurtful words, disappearing, possible kidnapping, regret.

bang ♙ chan

the argument wasn’t supposed to spiral like this. it started over something small — a careless comment from one of his men, a territorial glance, your frustration over always being kept in the dark. you’d snapped, and for once, you didn’t back down when chan raised his voice. 

“i’m not your possession, chan! i’m a person, not one of your men you can order around!” 

he was tense, jaw clenched, pacing the floor of his private office while his fingers ran anxiously through his hair. the stress of rival families breathing down his neck, shady deals, and betrayals had worn him thin. but none of that was an excuse. he knew it the second the words left his mouth. 

“then get lost. go. if you can’t handle this life, if you can’t handle me, then get the fuck out.” 

the silence that followed was suffocating. 

you stared at him, stunned — not because you’d never fought before, but because you never thought he would throw you away like that. not when you’d stayed, despite the danger. despite everything. 

“fine,” you whispered. no tears. no pleading. just cold resignation. 

you turned and walked out before he could stop you. but hours passed. then a day. then two. and you didn’t come back. 

at first, chan was stubborn, convincing himself you needed space. he kept the others from looking for you, burying himself in work, pretending it was what he wanted. 

but then your phone went dead. your apartment was untouched. no signs of you at your usual spots. none of the safe houses you both used. his men couldn’t find a single trace. and suddenly, the crushing weight of those words came back to him like a tidal wave. 

“i didn’t mean it,” he whispered to no one in particular, sitting alone in his office with his head in his hands. 

felix was the first to call him out. 

“hyung, something’s wrong. she wouldn’t just disappear.” 

the guilt festered in chan’s chest, sharp and suffocating. what if someone got to you? his enemies weren’t the type to show mercy. and if they found out how much you meant to him — how much you still meant, even if he was too much of a coward to say it — 

“find her,” chan snapped, standing so quickly his chair toppled back. “turn over every street, every contact. i don’t care what it takes. bring her home.” 

but deep down, what terrified him more wasn’t the idea of you being kidnapped. it was the possibility you left because you finally realized you deserved better. 

he stared at the bracelet you’d left behind on his nightstand — a cheap little trinket you once said brought you luck. he hated how empty the apartment felt. how cold his bed was without you in it. 

if you were out there, alive and avoiding him, chan swore to himself he’d tear the world apart to find you and make things right. and if someone else had taken you? well — the city would burn. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” he whispered into the dark, clutching your bracelet. “i’ll fix this… i swear i will.” 

but the silence was unforgiving. and you were nowhere to be found. 

felix ♙

the warehouse was thick with tension, lit only by the flickering overhead lights. felix’s voice, usually calm and grounding, came sharp this time — edged with something unfamiliar, something bitter. 

“i told you to stay the hell out of it, y/n!” 

you flinched at the volume, heart hammering in your chest. you hadn’t meant to get involved. one of the lower-ranked men had made a mistake, and you stepped in to help, thinking it would ease the situation. but instead, it spiraled into this. another fight. another harsh accusation thrown your way. 

“i was just trying to help, lix,” you muttered, your throat tight. 

“help?” he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, his usually soft gaze hardened. “do you have any idea what could’ve happened if they found out how close you are to me? you think this is a game?” 

your stomach twisted. you’d heard this speech before. about how dangerous it was. how being involved with him painted a target on your back. and yet, you stayed. you always stayed. 

but today, something inside him cracked. maybe it was the stress. the way rival syndicates had started closing in. the threats. the backstabbing. and for a moment — he let the wrong words slip. 

“maybe it was a mistake letting you stay this long.” 

the world stopped. 

you stared at him, your breath caught, disbelief spreading like ice in your veins. felix froze too, the weight of his own words immediately crashing down. the expression on your face — one of betrayal, of heartbreak — made his stomach turn. 

“wait —” 

“no,” you whispered, holding up a hand. “i get it.” 

and before he could take it back, you walked away. 

felix stood frozen, heart pounding. his mouth opened to call you back, but his throat was dry. his pride, his fear, kept him silent. 

you didn’t show up that night. or the next. your apartment was empty. your phone went straight to voicemail. even his contacts couldn’t trace you. 

at first, felix tried to tell himself you needed time. that you’d cool off. come home. you always did. but days turned into a week. and with each passing hour, the knot in his chest tightened. 

his nights became restless. he’d sit in his room, clutching the small silver chain you’d once given him, the one with a tiny charm he never took off. he’d stare at it, running his thumb over the smooth surface, remembering how you laughed when you clasped it around his neck. 

“i’m your good luck charm now,” you had said. it felt like a lifetime ago. 

felix barely spoke to the others. his usual warmth dulled into something cold and distant. even bang chan noticed. 

“you’re spiraling, lix,” chan said quietly one evening. 

“i let her go,” felix admitted, his voice breaking for the first time. “i said something i didn’t mean and now — now she’s just… gone.” 

chan’s jaw tightened. “have you considered maybe someone took her?” 

that thought had haunted him every day since. if anyone knew what you meant to him — and in this world, secrets didn’t stay hidden for long — they’d use you against him. and he wouldn’t survive it. 

he clenched the chain tighter. “i’ll find her,” he swore under his breath. “even if it’s the last thing i do.” 

but in the quiet of his room, with nothing but shadows for company, felix was left with a single, unbearable question. what if she left because of me? 

and no amount of bloodshed would fix that. 

lee ♙ know 

the room was thick with cigarette smoke, the sharp scent of gun oil hanging in the air. minho paced the length of his office, jaw clenched, eyes dark and stormy. you stood your ground, though your heart pounded beneath your ribs. this wasn’t the first time tempers flared between you. but this was different. there was something in the air tonight. a pressure neither of you could escape. 

“i told you to stay out of this,” minho growled, slamming a hand down on the desk. papers fluttered, a glass tipped over. 

“and i told you i wasn’t going to stand by while you get yourself killed!” you shot back, voice trembling more with emotion than fear. “i love you, you stubborn bastard. do you even get that?” 

he froze for a fraction of a second, something soft flickering in his gaze before it hardened again. the world had taught lee know to keep his heart buried, to use sharp words as armor. and right now, his instincts screamed to push you away before you got hurt. 

“love me?” he scoffed bitterly. “if you really loved me, you’d know your place.” 

the words hung in the air like a slap. you felt them like a punch to the gut. minho saw it too — the way your expression crumbled, your eyes dimming, shoulders dropping. 

“i didn’t…” he swallowed hard, but pride — damn his pride — kept him from saying what he should have. 

“no, it’s fine,” you whispered, the fight draining out of you like water from a cracked glass. “i get it.” 

you turned, walking toward the door, your figure framed in the dim light. every step you took was another crack in his armor, but minho didn’t move. couldn’t. when the door closed behind you, the room felt suffocating. 

for the first hour, he told himself good riddance. that this was for the best. you’d be safer, far from this bloody world. you didn’t belong in the shadows anyway. 

by nightfall, regret began to gnaw at him. by morning, when you didn’t come home, it had twisted into raw panic. he called your phone. no answer. sent one of his men to your apartment. empty. no note. no sign. no explanation. 

minho wasn’t one to show weakness, but by the third day, even his men noticed the cracks. the way his temper flared, his orders sharp and reckless, how he didn’t sleep, barely ate, eyes flicking to the door every time someone entered as if half-expecting you to appear. 

when felix cautiously approached him with your bracelet — the one you never took off — found near the docks, something inside minho shattered. 

“you think…?” felix started carefully. 

minho snatched the bracelet, fingers curling tight around the delicate chain. 

“i’ll find her,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “whoever has her… or if she left on her own… i’ll find her.” 

but alone, with only the silence for company, minho replayed those final words over and over. if you really loved me, you’d know your place. 

he didn’t mean them. god, he didn’t mean them. it was meant to protect you, to scare you away from this life before it ate you alive. but now — he wasn’t sure if he’d destroyed the one thing worth protecting. and in the suffocating quiet of his office, lee know swore on his life: he’d find you. 

even if it killed him. 

hyun ♙ jin 

the city skyline glittered beyond the penthouse windows, a thousand pinpricks of light against the dark. but hyunjin wasn’t looking at any of it. he was staring you down, eyes wild, hair a tousled mess from running his hand through it a thousand times since this fight began. the tension between you crackled like an open wire, sharp enough to sting. 

“why can’t you just stay out of it?” he barked, voice frayed at the edges. 

you stood your ground, though your heart felt bruised. “because you keep bleeding for people who wouldn’t blink if it was your body lying cold in the street, jinnie. i won’t sit by while you get yourself killed.” 

hyunjin’s face twisted, a storm of fear and fury and frustration swirling behind those beautiful, dangerous eyes. god, you had no idea how much you meant to him. how terrified he was every second you were tangled up in his world. but like a fool, the only way he knew how to protect what he loved was to push it away. 

“you think you matter to me more than this family?” he spat, the words ugly, the venom in them making him flinch even as they left his mouth. “you’re a goddamn liability. if i knew you’d be like this… i wouldn’t have bothered.” 

you recoiled as though struck. 

hyunjin’s chest heaved. silence filled the space between you, broken only by the pounding of his heart against his ribs. your lips parted, as if to say something, but you just nodded. 

“okay,” you said softly. “okay, hyunjin.” 

and then you turned and walked out. he didn’t follow. he couldn’t. 

the door clicked shut with a finality that left the air thick, suffocating. hyunjin dropped into the leather chair behind his desk, head in his hands. what the fuck had he just done? 

for hours, he stared at the dark, empty doorway. told himself it was for your own good. that if you hated him, you’d leave and be safe. but the echo of your last words haunted him. 

okay, hyunjin. 

it was the absence of your scent in the apartment, the stillness of your side of the bed that night that broke him. and by morning, when seungmin showed up with a grim face and a message: 

“she’s gone.” 

“what do you mean, gone?” 

“no one’s seen her since last night. she’s not at her place, not at work. phone’s off.” 

a creeping dread crawled down hyunjin’s spine. at first, he convinced himself you were cooling off. needed space. a day, maybe two. but then a call came in from a contact at the docks — an earring, one of yours, found near an abandoned warehouse. hyunjin’s blood ran cold. 

a million scenarios tore through his mind — kidnappers, a rival gang making a move, or worse. he felt his heart rip open at the thought that you’d left because of what he said. and now you were gone, and he might never get the chance to say he didn’t mean it. that he was a coward. that he loved you so fucking much it terrified him. 

by the third day, hyunjin stopped going to meetings. stopped answering calls. he was a ghost in his own world, drinking too much, eyes bloodshot, replaying your last conversation on a loop. 

and every time he passed by the bedroom, he’d catch himself reaching for you. 

okay, hyunjin. 

the sound of it would echo in his skull. and now, with no leads, no trace, and a hollow ache eating him alive, hyunjin vowed to burn the city down to find you. because losing you wasn’t an option. 

not when he’d barely started to admit he needed you to breathe. 

jeong ♙ in 

the rain hammered down against the warehouse roof, slicking the world in silver. jeongin’s hand gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles blanched white, jaw clenched like a trap about to snap shut. you stood across from him, chest heaving, drenched from chasing him down, refusing to let this fight end the way it always did — with you being the one to back down. 

but this time, you were too late. something in jeongin’s expression had shifted — a volatile mix of fear, anger, and helplessness all masquerading as cruelty. 

“you don’t get it, do you?” his voice came out sharp, biting, desperate. “this isn’t your world, y/n. it never was. you’re a weakness i can’t afford to carry.” 

the words stung, but you stood your ground. “i didn’t ask to be protected, jeongin. i asked you to stop shutting me out like i don’t matter. like i haven’t been standing by you through everything.” 

he scoffed, but the way his throat bobbed betrayed him. “and you think that makes you safe?” he snapped. “it makes you a target. and if i knew you’d be so stubborn, so reckless — i wouldn’t have fucking let you in.” 

you flinched like he’d slapped you. the moment the words left his lips, regret hit him like a freight train. but it was too late. he saw your face crumble in real time, your eyes gloss over, the ache in your chest so visible it nearly shattered him on the spot. 

“i get it,” you whispered, voice cracking. “you win, jeongin.” 

and then you turned and walked out into the rain. 

jeongin didn’t move. couldn’t. he told himself not to — that it was better this way. that if you hated him, you’d stay away, and you’d live. but when the hours ticked by and your phone went to voicemail, when the safehouse you sometimes hid at was cold and empty, and no one in his crew had seen you, unease settled in his gut like a storm cloud ready to burst. 

the first night, he stared at his ceiling until dawn, fighting the urge to call, to apologize, to beg. the second day, felix showed up at the door, his expression tight. “she’s gone, hyung.” 

“what the fuck do you mean gone?” 

“no one’s seen her. she’s not answering anyone. and —” felix hesitated, swallowing. “there’s talk. a car was found by the docks. her phone was inside.” 

jeongin felt his knees nearly buckle. a cold sweat broke out across his skin. “who took her?” his voice dropped to something lethal, barely human. 

“we don’t know yet.” 

and just like that, the storm inside him broke. 

jeongin tore through the city like a man possessed. every contact, every rival crew, every informant — he interrogated them all. threatened, bribed, broke bones. no one got away untouched. every second without you felt like his chest was being hollowed out. because as cruel as he’d been, as sharp as his tongue could cut, he loved you in a way that terrified him. and now, you were gone. 

each night he went back to his apartment, it felt emptier, the silence so loud it drowned out his thoughts. the blood on his hands didn’t matter. the empire he’d built felt worthless. because you weren’t there to scold him for getting hurt, to steal his hoodies, to tease him about his dimples. 

and every time it rained, the sound would bring him back to that night — the look on your face, the pain in your voice. 

you win, jeongin. 

but he hadn’t won a damn thing. and now he swore, if it took tearing the city apart brick by brick, he’d find you. and when he did, god help anyone who’d laid a hand on you. because there was no fury like mafia jeongin scorned — and no force on earth would keep you from him again. 

han ♙

the argument had started like so many others between you and han — sharp words, too much emotion, both of you too stubborn to back down. the stakes in his world were high, and it made him reckless with his temper and cruel with his words when he felt cornered. and that night… he went too far. 

“you should’ve stayed the hell out of my life,” han spat, his voice louder than he intended, raw and frayed at the edges. “i warned you what being with me meant — you think this is some fairytale? that i’m some good guy under all this?” 

you’d tried to stay calm, biting back tears, knowing how he got when he was afraid. because that’s what this was — fear dressed up as fury. but it didn’t make the words cut any less. 

“i stayed because i love you, jisung. but you — you’re so busy pushing everyone away, you don’t realize you’re breaking the people who give a damn about you.” 

he laughed, bitter and humorless, shoving a hand through his hair. “good. then maybe you’ll finally get the hint and leave before someone uses you to hurt me.” 

you stared at him. “that what you want? for me to leave?” 

his eyes met yours for a heartbeat. too long. too much. and then the mask went back up. 

“yeah,” he forced out, voice cracking just enough for you to catch it before he turned away. “get lost. i don’t need you.” 

you left. you slammed the door so hard it rattled the frame, and he just stood there in the echo of the empty room, his chest heaving, hands trembling. the silence was deafening. 

he told himself it was better this way. that this was the only way to keep you safe in a world where people like him had blood on their hands and targets on their backs. he drank himself numb that night, hoping to forget the look in your eyes when you’d left. 

but forgetting you was impossible. and when he woke the next morning and found your phone still on the table, and your location not showing up, an eerie, gnawing dread settled in his gut. 

it got worse when you didn’t show up at your friend’s place. when no one had seen you at work. when your emergency contact hadn’t heard a thing. felix showed up mid-afternoon, pale and grim. 

“jisung… there’s a problem.” 

the words sent a chill down han’s spine. “what kind of problem?” he rasped, voice thick with hangover and panic. 

“there was a tip… someone matching y/n’s description was seen near the docks last night. with a couple of guys — from mingi’s old rival crew.” 

everything in him snapped. his heart felt like it stopped, then kickstarted into overdrive. the world blurred around him as rage and terror clawed through his chest. all his instincts, all his guilt, surged at once. “no,” he breathed. “no, no, no —” 

he was on his feet, barking orders before felix could even finish explaining. “i want every goddamn rat in this city hunted down. if someone took her — if they touched her—” his voice cracked, but his expression was pure murder. “they’re dead.” 

the thought of you out there, scared, alone, maybe hurt because of him… it wrecked him. because the truth was, han jisung loved you so much it terrified him. and in trying to protect you by pushing you away, he’d only made it worse. now you were gone, and he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance to say what he should’ve said that night. 

that he didn’t want you to leave. that he needed you. that he was scared. and he swore to himself — if he found you, if you were still alive — he’d make it right, even if it took the rest of his life. 

because losing you was the one thing he wasn’t built to survive. 

seung ♙ min 

the fight that night wasn’t like the others. it didn’t start with sharp sarcasm or low jabs meant to irritate. it started quiet — a look, a question you didn’t mean to land like a blow. 

“do you even care anymore, seungmin?” 

he stiffened where he stood, jaw clenching, dark eyes flicking to you across the room. the tension between you two had been unbearable for weeks. the danger he tried to keep at bay was closing in. rival families making moves, his men getting hurt, deals falling through. you were the only softness in his life… and he hated himself for needing it so badly. 

but seungmin wasn’t good at letting people close. he loved hard, quietly, and when the world turned volatile, his instinct was to cut ties before anyone else could rip them away. 

you knew that. you just didn’t expect to be the one he’d cut. 

“i asked you a question,” you said, voice tight, arms crossed though your hands trembled. 

he swallowed, tried to look away — couldn’t. and because fear felt like anger in his chest, because losing you felt too much like weakness, the words slipped out cold and lethal. “if you were smarter, you would’ve left a long time ago.” 

the silence after felt suffocating. your lips parted, like you’d say something, but no sound came. his own chest hurt, like the words he’d just thrown at you ricocheted back, sharper than he intended. 

you nodded slowly, eyes shining. “okay.” 

you didn’t scream, didn’t beg. you just turned, grabbed your bag, and walked out. not bothering to slam the door, not glancing back. seungmin stood there, a ghost of a man, staring at the door like he couldn’t comprehend what he’d done. 

the hours after blurred. he kept expecting his phone to buzz, a message to appear, a familiar knock at his office door. but the silence stretched on. his men came and went, reporting about shipments, skirmishes, meetings — none of it registered. 

when changbin finally showed up, looking grim, a bad feeling coiled in his gut. 

“what?” seungmin asked, voice hoarse. 

“she’s… gone.” 

his stomach dropped. “gone where?” 

“that’s the problem. no one knows. she’s not at her place. didn’t show at her job. her phone’s off.” 

a cold sweat broke out across his skin. his head pounded. “did someone take her?” 

changbin hesitated, and that pause said more than words ever could. “there’s a chance,” changbin admitted. “we’re trying to track down any leads.” 

seungmin’s heart, normally so guarded and steady even in the face of death threats and shootouts, lurched painfully in his chest. 

and all he could think about was your face the night before. how he’d thrown you away with words designed to keep you safe but only ended up leaving you vulnerable. he felt sick. 

“i want every contact on the streets. i don’t care if it’s some street rat or one of minho’s spies — find her,” seungmin ordered, voice steel and acid beneath the panic. “anyone touches her… they’re dead.” 

his men scattered. seungmin stayed behind, sinking into his chair, head in his hands. because the truth was, you were the only person who saw him as more than the cold strategist, the mafia boss with ice in his veins. you saw the boy who loved indie songs and late-night drives. the man who worried more than he’d admit. 

he’d told you to leave. told you he didn’t care. he didn’t deserve forgiveness. but that didn’t stop him from praying you’d survive long enough for him to try. and if someone else had taken you? god help them. because seungmin would burn the whole city to ash to bring you back. 

chang ♙ bin 

the fight started in a flash. it always did with changbin. he wasn’t the kind to simmer — he burned hot, sharp words and loud voices, his way of coping with the fear that one day you might leave him before he lost you to his world. 

but tonight… tonight hit different. 

“i’m sick of you keeping me in the dark!” you shouted, eyes wet, standing in the middle of his office while his phone buzzed with missed calls, his men waiting outside the door. 

you knew what he did — the deals, the bloodshed, the debts paid in bullets and silence. but you loved him anyway. and you were done pretending it didn’t eat you alive when he came home bruised and distant, when bodies dropped and he shut you out like you were some fragile thing he had to protect by destroying. 

“i don’t need your permission to handle my business,” changbin snapped, pacing the room, fists clenched. 

“i’m not asking for permission, bin. i’m asking for honesty. or am i just some convenient distraction you fuck when you need to feel like a person?” 

the words landed harder than you meant. changbin froze, a muscle twitching in his jaw. his face twisted — part hurt, part fury. 

“maybe you are.” 

the silence was instant. a shattering, deafening kind. the kind where you realize you crossed a line you can’t uncross — and so did he. you blinked at him, breath catching. “say that again.” 

his voice cracked, just barely. “if you’re gonna be this goddamn difficult, then get out. go. i don’t care.” 

it was a lie. but you heard it like gospel. and this time… you left. 

bag over your shoulder, keys in hand, you stormed out past his men who turned away, pretending not to notice the storm that had just rolled through. changbin didn’t chase you. didn’t call after you. his pride was too loud in his ears, drowning out the sound of his own heart breaking. the door slammed. 

he threw a glass against the wall. shattered it. then another. swearing under his breath, chest heaving, tears he’d never admit to stinging the back of his throat. 

“fuck.” 

time passed in a blur. an hour. then two. then three. 

at first, he thought you were cooling off. letting him stew in his guilt, like you always did when his temper got ahead of his heart. but when jisung showed up, pale and serious, changbin’s stomach dropped. 

“she’s gone,” jisung said softly. 

“what do you mean gone?” 

“no one’s seen her. her apartment’s empty. phone’s off. her car’s still there. no sign of where she went.” 

changbin’s blood went ice cold. he felt his chest cave in, a sharp ache he’d never felt even after getting shot or losing men in alleyway deals. nothing compared to this. his voice came low, deadly. “who did this?” 

“we don’t know,” jisung admitted. “could be one of bangchan’s enemies. or maybe… maybe she left for good.” 

that was worse. that was so much worse. 

changbin clenched his jaw, hands shaking as he grabbed his gun and jacket. “put the word out. i want eyes everywhere. if anyone so much as breathed near her, i want their head.” 

and in the quiet that followed, as his men scrambled, changbin sat back in his chair and let the weight of what he’d said crush him. he could handle betrayals. blood debts. rival families. he could even stomach the thought of dying in a back alley one night. but losing you? losing you because of his own reckless words? 

he’d burn down the world if it meant bringing you home. even if you never wanted to see him again. 

notes: that was a rollercoaster xD i got carried away writing after so long and ended up giving the anon’s request a mafia twist since i’ve been wanting to start my mafia series for months now but never got a chance :’) there’s not going to be a part 2 for this since anon wanted an angsty ending sooo i hope you guys enjoy this as it is xp thank you for reading ~

[gfguren]

was suddenly struck with such a vivid image of katsuki—a little older, a little softer around the edges, a little bit in love, maybe—and it shows. everyone can tell, really, can see the hearts in his eyes, clear as day over the dinner table. they're all a little tipsy, even katsuki who rarely indulges, especially not in cheap appetizers and even cheaper liquor.

it was supposed to be a boys' night—denki, and deku, and kirishima; a rare break in their busy schedules to catch up with one another. instead katsuki's nose is buried in his messenger, tuned out completely as if his friends aren't there at all.

and they know, without a shadow of doubt, that it's you. and that you're good for him. can see the way he's mellowed over time, sweetened like fruit that refused to grow ripe. thick skinned, and bitter—but you're patient with him, always, kind even when he doesn't always deserve it. more importantly, katsuki is really, truly head over heels in love with you, and his friends know that better than anyone; (maybe even katsuki himself). which is why they let him get away with not being a boys' boy just for the night.

he thinks he's so sneaky about it too, chin propped up on one, lazy hand, manspread in the dining chair with his phone resting at his thigh—the perfect illusion of nonchalance, until it isn't. there's a brief respite in his expression, sun peaking through the storm clouds and beaming straight across the table. his shoulders unwind, brow softens; there's a hushed 'ding!' and his strawberry eyes drip golden honey.

you haven't said much at all. nothing shocking, or particularly sweet. it's the same text you've sent him every night for months now. a simple goodnight, an honest i love you. but the corners of katsuki's lips flicker like warm candlelight until he breaks into a grin.

a snicker erupts from across the table, and when he (finally) looks up he finds kirishima there, hand slapped over his mouth and one of deku's elbows shoved between his ribs.

"hey bakugou," denki calls from the kitchen, breaks whatever boy code the three of them agreed upon behind katsuki's back. "tell y/n I said hi!~"

heat rushes to katsuki's face in an instant. like clockwork, he flips his phone face-down, a scoff on his tongue as he folds his arms across his chest. he wants to be mad, honestly, has half a mind to reach across the table and chuck the bowl of cheese puffs at his head,

—but he can't shake the smile that's taken residence in his cheeks. a laugh, deep and boyish, and happy catches in his throat.

"shut the hell up, dumbass."

[userlaylivia]

@emilyskinners, @chenfordswopez, @maya-matlin

The sweetness of a kiss is not in two lips touching each other; it is in the feelings that bring and keep them together.                           ― M.F. Moonzajer

[cherrylibby]

Chasing the Storms

The Oklahoma sky was bruised with the colors of an oncoming storm—deep violets and angry grays swirling above the horizon. Tyler barely noticed. His heart was pounding harder than it had on any chase as he stood on your front porch, waiting for you to slam the door in his face.

But you didn’t.

You stood there, eyes burning with something between fury and heartbreak, your arms crossed like a shield against him. The years hadn’t dulled your fire—if anything, they’d made it sharper. And damn, if that didn’t hurt just as much as it made him miss you.

"You got some nerve showing up here, Tyler," you said, voice tight.

He nodded once. "Yeah. I do."

A bitter smirk pulled at your lips, but there was no humor in it. "What do you want?"

Tyler exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking. "I need your help. There’s a storm system coming, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. We’ve got a solid team, the tech, but…" He hesitated. "No one tracks storms like you."

You scoffed, stepping back like he’d just insulted you. "Unbelievable. You disappear for years—no calls, no letters, not a damn word—and now you show up at my door because you need something? Do you even hear yourself?"

He flinched. He deserved that.

"It’s not just about the storm," he tried, but you weren’t having it.

"Oh, really? Then what is it about, Tyler?" Your voice cracked on his name, and that nearly broke him. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you only come back when it’s convenient for you."

His jaw tightened. "You told me you were done."

"You left!"

"You made me leave!" The words exploded out of him, sharp and desperate, cutting through the space between you. "You quit chasing, you shut down, and you looked at me like I was the worst thing that ever happened to you. I didn’t know how to fix that!"

You shook your head, eyes glistening, but you refused to let a tear fall. "You didn’t even try," you whispered.

Silence.

The wind picked up around you, rustling the old wind chimes hanging from the porch. The storm was rolling in fast now, but the one brewing between you and Tyler was worse.

"You think it was easy for me to walk away?" he asked, voice lower now, strained. "You think I wanted to leave you?" He took a step closer, and to his relief, you didn’t move away. "Every damn day, I thought about coming back. About calling you. But what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry for nearly getting you killed—wanna chase another storm?’" He let out a rough laugh, shaking his head. "I left because I thought you’d be better off without me."

You swallowed hard, arms tightening around yourself like you were holding yourself together. "That wasn’t your choice to make."

Tyler ran a hand over his face. "I know." He let out a breath, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. "I know."

A long pause.

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he’d ever sounded—he said, "I never stopped loving you."

Your breath caught.

For a second, you looked away, blinking fast, but then you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with that same defiance he’d always loved about you. "Then why did you leave me to love you alone?"

That shattered him.

His hand came up, hesitating just for a second before he cupped your cheek. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch, just the slightest bit, and that was all he needed.

Before you could say another word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful, wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate and raw, full of everything left unsaid over the years. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and when your fingers tangled in his hair, he groaned into the kiss.

You tasted like the past and everything he’d ever wanted in the future.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads resting together, he whispered, "Come with me."

You exhaled shakily. "Tyler—"

"Not just for the storms. For us." His grip on you tightened like he was terrified of letting go again. "I screwed up. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve fought harder. But I’m here now, and if you tell me to leave, I’ll go. But I swear to God, I don’t want to run anymore. I just want you."

You stared at him, torn between every scar he’d left on your heart and the undeniable truth that you still loved him.

Outside, thunder rumbled, shaking the sky.

You sighed. Then, finally, finally, you muttered, "Damn it, Tyler."

He grinned. "I’ll take that as a yes."

You rolled your eyes, but when you pulled him down for another kiss, he knew he was finally home.

[volt44ge]

he’s not even all that! (18+)

lando norris (F1) x PR liaison!reader

⋆˙⟡ When her situationship leaves her feeling second best, her garage ‘best-friend’ proves she should’ve been first all along.

word count: 531

warnings: smutttttty one-shot, mutual tension, cocky flirty lando, oral (f-receiving), lando and reader are best friends but one lustful glance changes it all

a/n: MINORS DNI, am not a papaya fan but mclaren girlies this ones for u <3 ALSO,,, this is author’s first attempt at writing smutttttt and this is super brief so enjoy!

The McLaren motorhome was quieter than usual. Late evening, lights dimmed, only the hum of tools and distant voices left behind. The two of you were just going through last-minute PR prep in his driver’s room, before tomorrow’s qualifying day.

You sat on the low workbench beside him, just rambling on and about.

“He had the nerve to act like I was crazy,” you muttered, tossing back the last sip of your coffee. “Turns out I am the other woman. And all this time, he’s been seeing this other girl.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned back against the wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Then, voice low and sharp:

“He’s not even all that.”

You blinked. “What?”

He turned to loook at you, jaw clenched. “You hear me. I mean you talk about him like he’s some kind of Greek God. The guy’s a walking ego with an emotional maturity of a damp sock. You deserve way better, Y/N.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, soft and bitter. “Yeah? Like who?”

That was when his eyes changed.

No smirk. No teasing.

Just pure undeniable tension hanging in the air. You felt it thrum between you, thick and electric. The way his gaze dropped to your lips. The slow shift of his body toward yours.

“Me,” he said.

Your heart stuttered.

“What if I coud make you forget him?”

You blinked. “You’re joking.”

His hand lifted–fingertips brushing on your knee, then up, higher. Slow. Teasing.

“Not joking,” he murmured. “Not when I’ve had to sit through every story. Every date. Every guy that didn’t treat you right. And I’ve been right here.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in closer, mouth near your ear.

“I’ve wanted you since the day you waltzed in with your media badge and told off my engineer.”

You didn’t stop him when he tugged you off the bench. You didn’t stop him when his lips crashed against yours, hard and hot and desperate.

And you definitely didn’t stop him when he laid you back on the little couch tucked in his private corner of the garage.

His hands were everywhere. Skimming up your thighs. Under your shirt. Over your chest, skin to skin.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your neck. “Let me show you how it should’ve been.”

Then he was down between your legs, kissing his way over every inch, murmuring praises into your skin as his tongue finally slid over you—slow, intentional, perfect.

You gasped, hips jolting.

“You taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groaned, holding your thighs apart like he wasn’t going anywhere. “He didn’t deserve a second of you.”

It wasn’t just sex. It was release. Weeks, months of built-up tension snapping. Moans filling the tight space. His name falling from your lips as he brought you over the edge with nothing but his mouth and all the things he’d never said.

And when you were shaking beneath him, trying to catch your breath, he kissed his way back up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and whispered:

“Next time you want to rant about some guy not knowing what he had—just remember I’ve always known.”

okaaaay lando norRIZZ

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 3/?)

The fire consumes everything it touches, turning what was into ashes. Curiously, Silco also leaves a trail of destruction in his wake.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 6K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, dirty talk, degradation, public sex, rough sex, angry sex, unprotected sex, creampie, blood and violence, biting, threat of death, choking, canon-typical Silco violence, death of secondary characters being referenced, possessive behavior, you work in the brothel, Silco POV (when to start smut). Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 1 Part 2

Pay attention to the tags. If you're uncomfortable with violent situations or explicitly intense acts, PLEASE DO NOT READ. Once again: this is NOT a fluffy romance. Our protagonist has her own issues, and to be clear, while there are violent themes, Silco would never harm his dove. You have been warned—proceed at your own risk.

"I heard that Silco seems to be sponsoring a prostitute."

The bottle on its way to your lips stopped midway. Kate's words echoed like thunder, even though they had been spoken in an almost murmured tone. Nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared you for a sentence like that, not even the most horrible, bitter drink Zaun had to offer.

Beside you, Kate seemed almost uncomfortable. There was no accusation in her voice, but something about her tone overflowed with sadness, perhaps even anguish. The kind of look that made it clear she already knew the answer even before making the statement. She still insisted on visiting you, despite the apparent control Silco had over the brothel.

The brothel, which until two months ago had been your refuge—a place where the outside world and all its horrors were muffled by artificial lights and drunken laughter—now felt more like a prison. A suffocating space filled with glances you didn't want to interpret. That's why, on the night Kate showed up, you suggested going somewhere else. Somewhere Silco's shadow didn't hang over you.

Vander's statue was a landmark. For many, it symbolized the resistance and hope that had long since vanished. A kind of silent guardian of Zaun, a reminder of better days. Some people even wished the metal structure would come to life, that Vander would return to protect his people. But to you, that monument meant something deeper. Vander had saved you once. You'd made a promise to him—a promise you had yet to fulfill.

"Yeah... I heard about it."

"It's you, isn't it?" Kate shot back immediately. Her voice was soft, almost delicate, like a confirmation rather than an accusation.

You couldn't look at her. The thought of being called Silco's prostitute made something inside you churn, heavy as lead. Dealing with him in the privacy of a room was one thing, but carrying that title... it made you feel dirty in a way no amount of long baths could wash away.

"How did you find out?"

Kate sighed, fiddling with the ballerina pendant on her necklace. She always did that as a way to calm herself, an almost involuntary motion. "I did my research."

"You should've been a cop, not a designer." you tried to joke, but the humor fell flat, hanging in the air with no response, no laughter. Kate didn't take the bait. She simply said your name, with a sweetness that hurt, like she was trying to soothe a wounded animal. Reluctantly, you finally looked at her. That's when you noticed the worry etched into her green eyes, a worry you didn't feel you deserved.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice hoarse, almost harsh. "It could be worse. Silco could've just kidnapped me."

"That doesn't change the fact that you're still in danger."

You let out a low grumble, almost childish, like a petulant kid trying to dodge a scolding. She was right, but you preferred to live in ignorance.

"If I figured out who the 'prostitute' was, others can too. And if the chemical barons realize Silco has any interest in you, they'll try to use you to get to him."

"I know how to protect myself, Kate."

"From pickpockets and creeps, maybe. Not from assassins."

"Alright, what do you want me to do?"

The words escaped your mouth with force, your voice laced with irritation, hitting a sharper tone than you'd usually use with her. You stood from where you'd been sitting at the foot of Vander's statue, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control. But, if you were honest with yourself, the idea that you still had control was a cruel joke. Overnight, your life had taken a turn you hadn't planned for—or asked for. To say you were angry would've been a massive understatement. And now Kate was pressing all the wrong buttons.

"Come with me to Piltover."

Her voice was firm, serious, but there was something more. A kind of unshakable hope glimmered in her green eyes as they locked onto yours, as if she could see something you couldn't. And there was something else... something that made your stomach twist. Affection. "Alright, so the place I'm staying in is the size of a shoebox," Kate continued, a small, awkward smile appearing on her lips, "But we can make it work together. Silco has no power in Piltover."

Those words. That tone. That damn hope. They doused your anger like a bucket of ice water. What remained was pure, raw shock as you stared into her emerald eyes. You saw it. The resolve. The conviction. And damn it, she was willing to risk everything... for you. Suddenly, it all made sense: why she kept coming back, even knowing the risk. Even indirectly challenging Silco. Because, in her mind, you were worth it.

Kate spoke your name again when she noticed your mind wandering for too long, her tone sweet as honey. "Please, come with me."

At some point, the lines had blurred for Kate, and considering Silco's actions, this practically put her neck on a silver platter. Bile rose in your throat, and you wanted to vomit.

"It's better if we don't see each other anymore." your voice came out dry, cutting. The tone was rehearsed, even if you hadn't prepared these words. You took a step back, putting space between the two of you. "Whatever you think we have, it's nothing more than professional."

Kate's eyes widened, shock written across her face as if you'd slapped her. The pain that followed nearly made you falter, but you pressed on. You had to, for her sake.

"I can't believe you're naive enough to think I feel something for you, let alone want to run away."

"What?" Kate whispered, her voice barely audible, but you saw it. You saw her eyes start to glisten with tears.

"I pity you." your voice was a venomous whisper. "Falling for a prostitute? Seriously? Kate, I expected better from you."

"Why are you acting like this?" her voice trembled, heavy with pain. "This isn't you."

"What do you know about me?" you shot back, your voice as sharp as shattered glass. "Oh, come on, sweetheart... it was all an act. Did you really think I cared? It was in my best interest to keep some naive girl paying my way. All I had to do was say a few sweet words."

She called your name again, her voice breaking, a final, desperate attempt to pull you back from the edge. A futile attempt.

"But now I don't need you anymore."

You saw it. The exact moment the first tear slipped from her eyes, just before Kate turned and ran. Without another word. Without looking back.

You stood there, motionless, like an extension of Vander's statue. Frozen. Empty. Guilt weighed on your shoulders like lead, but you didn't allow yourself to feel anything beyond the void. If Silco was horrible, you were a monster. Maybe that's what you deserved. Maybe, in the end, you and he were cut from the same cloth.

But your self-deprecating thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

"Breaking hearts, are we?" Silco's voice resonated in your ears, low and dripping with acidic humor. "And here I thought you were the merciful one."

The surprise lasted only a second when you heard his voice—low, laden with that familiar arrogance that made the air around you feel heavier. For a moment, you almost believed it was just in your head, a ghost of guilt or confusion tormenting you. But a single glance was enough to confirm it wasn't your imagination. Of course not. It was obvious Silco would know where to find you.

Especially since you'd abandoned the brothel in the middle of your shift. Someone had likely informed him that his latest acquisition had walked out unexpectedly.

The scent of burnt tobacco hit you before you fully saw him, and you closed your eyes briefly, trying to control the surge of emotions bubbling up inside you. Anger, frustration, maybe even a touch of resignation. You inhaled deeply, as if the tobacco in the air could numb whatever was consuming you. But it was futile.

The bottle was still in your hand—a bitter consolation. You lifted it to your lips, letting the liquid burn its way down your throat. The mediocre alcohol was doing its job but was nowhere near enough to drown out the chaos in your head.

"How long have you been spying on us?" your voice came out calmer than you'd expected, a stark contrast to how you felt inside.

It was impressive, even to yourself. You should've been furious; after all, everything in your life had started crumbling because of him. Because of his manipulations, the insidious control he wielded over everyone and everything around him. The last month had been hell, and Silco had been the chief architect of your downfall.

And yet, here you were. Talking to him. Not smashing the bottle over his head.

"Long enough to understand what you're trying to do." he finally said. His voice was calm, but it carried an undertone of subtle disdain, as if the situation were almost amusing to him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Silco move slowly, leaning against the base of Vander's statue. He crossed one ankle over the other, assuming a relaxed posture that seemed devoid of any threat. But you knew better. Beneath the casual façade, there was an almost palpable tension, like that of a snake ready to strike at any moment.

"Driving her away, keeping her safe... all so I have no reason to go after her." he continued, his eyes boring into your back, savoring each syllable in a way that sent a chill down your spine. "Such nobility on your part. A shame it's all for nothing."

The words hung in the air between you, as dense as the cigar smoke swirling around him. You wanted to retort, but your throat went dry, the words catching somewhere between pride and fear. He knew. He knew exactly what you were doing. And worse, he seemed to find it amusing.

Without warning, he pushed off the statue and took a step toward you, closing the already narrow gap between you. Your heart leapt in your chest, but you stayed rooted to the spot, your hands gripping the neck of the bottle, channeling your fury into the inanimate object.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed.

"Drinking won't make it go away." he said, his voice now almost gentle. Almost. The soft tone only made the harshness of his words cut deeper.

You barely had time to process the emotions boiling within you when Silco reached out and took the bottle from your grasp. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your fingers stretching out in a nearly desperate attempt to reclaim it. But he held it out of your reach with an ease that made your blood boil.

Your gaze locked onto his, and like a thread on the verge of snapping, you finally broke. It was as if everything you'd been holding back had been unleashed all at once, a storm of emotions sweeping away any control you had left. Before you could even think about the consequences, your body had already made the decision.

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the space, the liquid spilling onto the floor in a dense pool alongside the faint clatter of the cigar falling. A small fire ignited mere inches from your feet. It was that sound, along with the smell of smoke, that finally pulled you back to reality.

Your arm was raised, caught firmly in Silco's grasp. His fingers wrapped around your wrist with enough force to stop you but not to hurt. You realized just how close you were to his face—mere centimeters away from striking him.

And that's when you saw it: his face. For the first time, Silco looked genuinely surprised, frozen in place. His good eye was wide, as though he couldn't believe what had just happened. It was almost impossible to imagine a man like him with such an expression. But the moment didn't last. Like a mask falling and quickly being replaced, his expression shifted in an instant. The shock gave way to his familiar façade of coldness and absolute control.

You, however, didn't back down. There was no regret in your eyes, no hesitation in your movements. Your emotions were a haze, but you kept them locked behind a hardened, defiant expression.

"Leave her out of this, Silco!" you said, your voice low but carrying a weight that cut through the silence like a blade. The words were laden with something you couldn't quite name—anger, sorrow, perhaps something deeper. "I'm the one you want? Well, here I am, right in front of you."

The words hung in the air, echoing in the space between you. Silco didn't respond immediately, but his eyes didn't leave yours, as if he were analyzing every nuance of your expression. Searching for something—maybe doubt, maybe fear.

In a swift, precise movement, he pulled you forward, erasing the distance between you until your body was pressed against his. The heat radiating from you was palpable, even through the layers of clothing, and the subtle scent of alcohol mixed with your perfume filled his senses, igniting something you couldn't quite interpret.

His other hand moved just as firmly, gripping your chin with enough force that you had no choice but to meet his gaze. The touch was almost rough, a blend of control and anger that reverberated through you down to your bones. Silco's mismatched eyes burned with a fierce intensity, so piercing it seemed impossible to look away.

"Don't test me." he growled, his voice low and laced with latent danger. "My patience has its limits."

And then, with calculated abruptness, he let you go. The movement was so sudden that you almost stumbled backward. He stepped away, creating space between you as if he needed to regain composure, though his arrogant demeanor remained intact.

"What are you going to do?" your head tilted slightly to the side, your tone laden with challenge. "Kill me?"

You weren't naive. His threats weren't empty words. You knew Silco was holding himself back—why exactly, you weren't sure. Perhaps it was the mounting tension between you, an invisible thread that seemed to pull you closer to something as destructive as it was inevitable. Anyone else who dared to attack him would have already lost an arm, or worse.

And yet, you didn't back down.

"Or maybe with me, it's different." your voice dropped to a sharp whisper as you took another step forward, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. "Because you know, Silco, that no matter how much you threaten me, I doubt you have the guts to actually do anything to me."

Silco's eyes narrowed at your words.

"You think you know me, don't you?" he shot back, his voice laced with disdain. "You think you understand what I want, what I'm capable of."

"Then tell me if I'm wrong."

It was you who closed the distance between the two of you, ignoring the crunch of glass shards beneath your feet with each step or even the crackling fire nearby. The phantom of his grip still burned on your wrist, but you didn't rub it. You wouldn't show weakness—not now.

Every muscle in his body seemed tense, ready to strike, but he didn't move. He didn't raise a hand to push you away, nor did he take a step back. Instead, he let you approach, let you bridge the gap until you were so close you could feel his warm breath against your skin.

"You're right. With you, things are... different." he admitted, his voice now almost regretful, as though confessing something he hated to admit even to himself. "But don't be mistaken. I'm still the man who built an empire on blood and fear, and I wouldn't hesitate to remind you of that if necessary."

The shadows cast by the light made Silco's silhouette even more intimidating. His orange eye seemed to pierce into your very soul, devouring you, like staring into the abyss and having it stare back.

"Go home." his face was mere inches from yours, close enough for you to see every line, every scar etched into his marked skin. He was trying to maintain composure; that much was clear. "Before I do something we'll both regret."

You raised your chin, your body radiating a fierce pride that defied any implicit threat in Silco's words. Any sense of self-preservation had already been smothered by the chaotic mix of emotions boiling inside you: burning anger over Kate's situation, frustration with Silco's manipulations, and, above all, the overwhelming attraction clouding your judgment.

You knew you were tempting fate at this point, provoking the beast, pushing Silco to a dangerous edge. But honestly? You didn't care. Maybe, deep down, a part of you wanted to see how far he would go, how much he could tolerate your words before finally losing control.

"I didn't think a simple fuck would destabilize the great Eye of Zaun this much." your voice dripped with sweet venom, every word as sharp as a blade. You saw the muscle in Silco's jaw tighten, and it only fueled your audacity, like pouring gasoline on a fire. "A whore was enough to make you lose your grip... how pathetic."

The words came out drenched in scorn, and you savored every syllable as though you were exposing an open wound, pouring salt on it with relish.

You barely had time to react before you were slammed against the wall, the cold surface digging into your back with force. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and before you could even try to recover, Silco's hand was at your throat, squeezing just enough to send a wave of panic coursing through your entire body. Your mouth opened instinctively, searching for the little air you could manage to pull in, your chest rising and falling in short, desperate movements.

Your hands shot upward, but not to fight him—you knew that would be useless. Instead, you grasped his wrist, your fingers digging into his skin with force, your nails leaving small marks. The touch was deliberate, as if trying to remind him that you would still fight back, even if the odds weren't in your favor.

"You want to know what's pathetic?" he growled, his voice low and dripping with menace. "You." his thumb pressed firmly against the pulse point on your neck, feeling the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat beneath your skin. "I could snap your pretty neck and leave your body here for the rats to feast on."

The words were cold, cutting like steel against your skin, but there was something else beneath them. A suffocating heat seemed to hang between you, an almost palpable field of tension. It was dark, twisted—a desire that seemed to want to consume you both. Your breaths mingled in the closeness, a suffocating dance of anger and something more, something neither of you was willing to admit.

"Keep talking." he murmured, his voice dripping with dangerous, lascivious undertones. "I want to hear what insults that pretty mouth of yours will throw at me."

Your body betrayed you in the worst possible way. The initial fear that had tensed your muscles began to shift, the adrenaline coursing through you dulling the pain and heightening every sensation. Your heart pounded in your ears, each beat echoing like a warning of how precariously your life hung in his grip. But it wasn't just fear making your heart race—it was him.

Silco was close. Too close. His body practically covered yours in that position. His scent filled your senses, erasing any remnants of rational thought. His eyes burned into yours, that hypnotizing contrast—one eye filled with the intensity of anger, the other an empty abyss, equally devastating.

And then you saw it in those piercing mismatched irises. Hidden beneath the anger. An unmistakable flicker of desire. It was raw, overwhelming, and dangerously familiar. You recognized it because you felt the same. Your body seemed to plead against your will, the proximity igniting something dark and unspoken between you.

Your lips parted, and the words slipped out in a rough whisper before you could stop them.

"I hate you."

Your voice broke, but not from weakness. There was weight in it, a hatred so dense it seemed to poison the air around you—a hatred for everything he was and for everything he made you feel. A hatred for him, but perhaps an even deeper hatred for yourself, for wanting him despite knowing how wrong it was. You hated him. You wanted him. And in that moment, it was impossible to tell where one feeling ended and the other began.

Silco's fingers tightened around your throat just enough to send another wave of alarm through your body. His eyes—those mismatched irises that burned with something dark and ravenous—studied you intently. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips, revealing the jagged edges of his teeth, a threat and a twisted invitation all at once.

"I know you do, dove."

He leaned in closer, the distance between you shrinking until his nose brushed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the scarce space separating your lips. Silco's free hand moved upward, gripping your jaw firmly, though his thumb traced the delicate line of your cheekbone with an almost cruel gentleness. It was a stark contrast to the strength of his grip around your throat, and that duality sent heat coursing through your veins.

He pressed his body even closer against yours, pinning you completely against the cold wall, as if he wanted to crush you there, as if he wanted to make sure you had nowhere to escape—as if you belonged to him. Every inch of his presence was overwhelming, suffocating. You felt the weight of his thigh shift, sliding between your legs and applying an unrelenting pressure that stole any breath you had left in your lungs.

And then he claimed your lips.

It was a shock—a collision as overwhelming as the shove against the wall. His lips crashed into yours with a force that shattered any remnants of resistance you might have had. There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was raw, primal, a clash of teeth, tongue, and desire that had been restrained for far too long. He kissed you as if he wanted to devour you, as if every part of you needed to be consumed until there was nothing left but him.

You tried to regain control, but there was no space for it. He allowed no room for anything but his all-encompassing presence, the way he took everything you were, claiming the right to possess every piece of you. His fingers around your throat tightened—not enough to truly hurt, but enough to make you aware of his power, enough to make you feel it.

His touch was possessive, almost as if he were branding you, inscribing his presence onto you in a way that no one else could erase. And as he deepened the kiss, you realized, with a mix of anger and fascination, that he was getting exactly what he wanted.

Your hands, which had been gripping his wrists in a desperate gesture, slid downward to clutch at the rough fabric of his vest. You pulled him closer, ignoring the pain that radiated through your body. There was something strangely comforting in the brutality of his touch.

The kiss wasn't a gesture of affection; it was a collision of wills, a clash of searing fury and uncontrollable desire. It was a war with no victors, only the promise of mutual destruction. You matched his every advance with equal intensity, every bite and scratch an attempt to wound him, to leave your mark on him just as he was leaving his on you.

It was twisted, and you knew it. The hatred you felt for him was intoxicating, burning inside you like a wildfire consuming everything in its path. But what was worse—and you hated to admit it—was the fact that a part of you wanted this. You found a strange solace in the shared violence, as though, in some perverse way, it was the only truth between you. This contained violence was a language you both understood perfectly.

Your teeth sank into his lip with force, and the metallic taste of blood spread between you before he finally pulled back. "You don't own me." you whispered breathlessly, resting your forehead against his.

His hand slid down, gripping your thigh with bruising strength as he hitched it up to his waist. You gasped, feeling the hardness of him against you, a visceral reminder of how much he wanted you. Silco pressed his body even closer to yours, the cold wall at your back seeming to vanish against the searing heat of him in front of you.

"Not yet, dove. Not yet."

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco chuckled darkly at her feeble attempt to slap him again, his eyes glinting with humor as he once again grabbed her wrist. However, he released her grip without much resistance, watching curiously as her hands slid downward once they were free. He reveled in the way her hands shook as she fumbled with the clasps on his pants, anger and desperation rolling off her in waves and clouding her ability to complete a simple action that she could do even with her eyes closed.

He grabbed her hands, stilling their movements. With deliberate slowness, he guided them to the fastenings of his trousers, showing her how to undo the clasps and zippers. His hands covered hers, helping her slide the fabric down enough to free him, revealing the hard length of him, already straining towards her.

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he felt her fingers brush against him, the slightest touch sending sparks of pleasure racing up his spine. He was so hard it almost hurt, his cock throbbing with need. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to claim her in the most primal way possible.

But first, he had other plans. With a sudden movement, he grabbed her thighs, lifting her effortlessly until she was wrapped around his waist. He pinned her against the wall, the rough brick scraping against her back. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing her skirt out of the way, revealing the lacy edge of her stockings.

"Look at you," his mocking tone, as if he were not equally thirsty. "So desperate for it, so needy. You want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could see?"

He rocked his hips forward, grinding his hardness against her core dress. The friction made them both gasp, pleasure sparking through their veins. Silco's hands slid higher, cupping her ass, kneading the firm flesh.

"I should make you beg for it." the whisper left his lips, his breath hot against her ear. But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn't. He was too far gone, too consumed by the need to have her. Right there, at that exact second.

"Don't you dare." her voice tried to be threatening, Silco realized, but at that moment her threat sounded more like a plea than anything else. "Otherwise I..."

"Otherwise, what? You are not in a position to make demands."

Despite his words, she did what she always did. She ignored him. Her eyes rolled back with a boldness only she could muster as she brought her fingers to her lips, her tongue darting out to wet each one before returning them back down. She fingered him, spitting, with some difficulty due to the awkward angle. Silco's head fell forward, falling onto her shoulder as she continued to pump him. His hands returned to her thighs, adjusting his grip to keep them steady. Then when she adjusted him against her entrance, Silco couldn't help but hold his breath.

The sensation was almost too much to bear, the tight grip of her walls around him sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. He gritted his teeth, fighting back a groan as she sank down onto him, inch by torturous inch. For God's sake, how he missed that.

But even as his body reveled in the feel of her, his mind was racing with dark thoughts. This wasn't lovemaking, not by a long shot. This was a fuck, plain and simple, a coming together of two people driven by anger and lust and a desperate need to hurt each other. It was twisted and wrong and so fucking good that it terrified him.

His hands gripped her thighs hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled her down onto him, burying himself as deep as he could go. The angle was brutal, almost painful, but it only served to fuel the fire raging inside him.

He set a punishing pace, his hips snapping against hers with a force that made her cry out. Each thrust was a declaration of ownership, a physical manifestation of the dark hunger that consumed them both. He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside her that made her writhe, that had her clawing at his clothes and screaming his name.

"Mine." his voice murmured, more to himself than to her. It wasn't a statement of possession meant to irritate her, since she seemed so absorbed in her own pleasure that she didn't even notice the words leaving his lips.

His hands slid up her thighs, gripping her tightly as he thrust into her, his movements hard and fast. Silco could feel her body tensing above him, could hear the way her breath hitched in her throat as she neared her peak. The knowledge that he was the one pushing her to this point, that he was the one making her lose control, filled him with a sense of satisfaction. He wanted to break her, to shatter her in a way that only he could, so, remake her in his image.

But even as he thought it, he knew it would be an almost impossible task. She would never give in to him. Not easily. She was too wild, too defiant, too stubborn to be tamed. And God help him, but that was what attracted him. That fire, that passion, that refusal to submit even in the face of his worst brutality. It called to something deep within him, something he'd thought long dead.

That's why he wanted to try. Someone who had been a revolutionary was anything but someone who gave up easily.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, his mismatched eyes boring into hers with an intensity that bordered on frightening. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown with lust and something else, something darker that he couldn't quite name. It unsettled him, the way she looked at him, like he was her salvation and her damnation all rolled into one.

He leaned in closer, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her neck. He bit down hard, leaving a bruise in the shape of his teeth. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, mixing with the salt of her sweat. It was a heady combination, one that made his head spin and his cock throb with need.

And then she was coming, her walls clamping down around him like a vice. The sensation was almost too much to bear, the rhythmic squeezing of her muscles pushing him over the edge. He let out a guttural groan, his hips losing their rhythm as he spilled himself inside her, filling her with his seed.

For a moment, they were frozen in place, their bodies locked together in the aftermath of their release. Silco could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, could hear the ragged sound of her breathing as she tried to catch her breath. And for a fleeting second, he wondered what it would be like to hold her like this, to wake up next to her and see her sleep-tousled hair spread out on the pillow.

Well, if everything went the way he planned he would see this scene.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━ 

The post-climax sensation that always followed those moments left you vulnerable, as if every layer of yourself had been stripped away, leaving you exposed and defenseless. This time was no different, though the intensity was greater. It had been quick, physical—an explosion of mutual rage converted into something far more primal.

Your body ached, especially your back. The constant friction against the rough wall during the act had taken its toll. And yet, there was no regret. You had wanted it—the brutality, the intensity, the force. Silco's body also bore the signs of weariness; you could feel it in the way he leaned against the wall, seeking support for both himself and for you. His arms still held you, firm but no longer tense—just enough to keep you close.

His arms tightened around your waist for a moment, holding you firmly against him as if trying to prolong the contact, before slowly lowering you back to the ground. Even then, he kept one arm around your waist, his open hand pressed against the curve of your lower back, steadying you until the trembling in your legs subsided. No words were spoken.

After what felt like an eternity, you began adjusting your clothes. Each movement was mechanical, automatic, as though your mind had shut off, unable to process what had just happened. Across from you, Silco did the same.

Without the sexual intensity or the anger that had dominated the air minutes ago, the silence now felt even heavier. A kind of emptiness that made room for dangerous thoughts to take shape in your mind. But you didn't want to think. Not now. Thinking meant facing the consequences, and you simply didn't have the strength to deal with that yet.

You turned to face him. Silco, as always, seemed ready to say something. But before he could open his mouth, before he could release a single word or give you that smug smile that always made your blood boil, you struck him.

Your slap wasn't as strong as you wanted—it was all your exhausted body could muster—but it was enough. Silco froze for a moment, his eyes widening more from surprise than pain, but he said nothing. He didn't react. And somehow, that infuriated you even more.

Without waiting for a response or reaction, you turned and walked away.

[...]

The following days passed. The path to the brothel, the routine, the people you crossed paths with—it all seemed normal, yet strangely distant. Neither Kate nor Silco appeared, and you were grateful for that. Still, the peace was an illusion. Your mind offered no respite, replaying the memories of that night every time you closed your eyes. The touch, the anger, the desire, and, finally, the emptiness—it all returned like a silent torment.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed the movement around you. It was a physical jolt—a body colliding hard against yours—that finally pulled you from your trance. The impact was so abrupt that you nearly fell.

"Hey!" you snapped, irritated, but the person was already gone, running into the growing crowd around you. It was only then that you realized something was wrong. Urgent, desperate voices overlapped around you.

"A house is on fire!" someone shouted, the phrase ringing out like an alarm. "Hurry!"

Your body moved before your mind could catch up. Your legs began running, following the crowd heading in the same direction. As you turned the corner, the chaos came into full view.

The flames danced wildly, consuming the modest building like ravenous predators. Thick smoke filled the air, burning your nose and throat, making it difficult to breathe. People ran back and forth, some coughing, others carrying buckets of water in a frantic attempt to contain the fire. Children cried as adults tried to organize some form of aid. It was pure chaos—stifling and inescapable.

You stood there, frozen, your eyes locked on the fire that seemed to grow with every passing second. But then, another jolt brought you back—this time, more deliberate.

When you turned, you found a figure that seemed out of place amidst the surrounding chaos. She was tall and muscular, with an imposing presence. The red cloak she wore draped over her shoulders, concealing her left arm in an almost calculated way. She wasn't looking at the fire—she was looking at you.

"Silco sends his regards." before you could react, she dropped something to the ground.

Your breath hitched. The world spun. Pain bloomed in your chest, spreading like poison as realization set in. A necklace with a ballerina pendant. You knew that necklace.

And it was covered in blood. Part 4

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[ceruark]

please humor me as i share with you one of my recurring daydreams/ scenarios before bed: pop star! reader x pro player! kaiser

prior to your relationship, your reputation preceded you. though you're one of the biggest names on the world stage, you're by no means a "diva" in the traditional sense; you also grew up in a poor neighborhood with a family who didn't care about you until you made it big, and you elevated yourself through your own hard work and talent. despite your fame and wealth, your fans sing your praises about how genuine and down-to-earth you are, and other celebrities you've allowed into your inner circle talk about how kind and caring you are in interviews of their own.

so when michael kaiser of all people approaches you, your friends are understandably incredibly territorial and hostile toward him.

but you give him a chance anyways— he is quite the flatterer, and that face is virtually impossible to say no to.

you were only ever supposed to be yet another stepping stone to put kaiser further into the limelight, just another box to check on his path to being the greatest. except, you had insisted that you two keep your relationship private for as long as possible; you'd seen how your peers' relationships often imploded after going public, and your friends told you that asking him to keep things under wraps was a good way to test if he actually wanted the relationship, or if he was just interested in your name. he agreed, figuring that you'll ease up eventually.

it's not easy by any means; the mask comes off long before you two go public, and you quickly come to understand why so many of his own teammates tend to keep him at arm's length. his insecurity is a deep-rooted, festering thing, manifesting as cold derision and a push-pull attitude that leaves you reeling and always guessing as to how he'll react to your affection in the moment.

and yet, you stay.

you could have anyone in the world, but you stay with him. you've seen the broken, bitter man hiding behind the pretty face and still haven't walked away. your friends tell you that you could do better, that you deserve better, and they're right, he knows it— but you never agree with them, and you never leave, either.

it gets better with time, as he learns to trust you. allow you inside, in response to the way you've accepted him wholly into your heart, flaws and all. improving himself is a struggle, but he's trying, and that's enough for you.

you've been together for a bit over two and a half years when he finally brings it up again. it's a lazy night; your tour ended a week ago, and now you're in munich, cuddled up against him on the couch and scrolling through your phone while he picks apart his most recent match, which is playing on the TV.

"liebling," he says, hand pausing where it was combing through your hair. you look up, expression as painfully indulgent of his whims as always. "what do you think about going public?"

you put your phone down at that. you place a gentle hand on his knee, smiling slightly. "if that's what you want," you answer. "i've just been waiting for you."

in an interview a month later, you "accidentally" let it slip that you're in a relationship—and it's going on three years.

the internet blows up with speculations as to who your mysterious boyfriend could be. your friends drop hints and jokes here and there, but no one can quite guess who it is, even with the help. the closest anyone gets is guessing it's isagi yoichi, who you had seemed friendly with when attending a gala for a fashion outlet you both have contracts with. of course, they couldn't possibly know you were familiar with him because he's your boyfriend's teammate, but regardless, the tantrum that results from those speculations leaves you and the münchen lineup amused for days—at the unfortunate expense of one of the team's twin aces, who swiftly denies being involved with you like that.

the public finally gets their answer at the next big industry award show, conveniently being hosted in paris the same week bastard münchen has a game against pxg. at this point, your fanbase is certain you're with an athlete of some sort, courtesy of your friends' hints, but they still haven't been able to place who or what sport.

when you show up on the red carpet donning a simple gold chain necklace with a beautifully crafted blue rose charm hanging off of it, sitting between your collarbones, the internet blows up.

and when you post a mirror selfie to your instagram story later that night, smiling at your phone as the picture shows nothing more than an arm wrapped around your waist—one covered in extremely recognizable tattoos—the platform goes down for nearly twenty minutes. which somehow pales in comparison to your phone freezing and crashing from the sheer amount of notifications you're getting.

well, it's not like you'd be able to pay any attention to the public reaction, anyways—not when the cause of the commotion is already pulling you toward the bed by the waist, fully intending to indulge in what the world finally knows is his, as much as he is yours.

[icarus-lee]

so you really love me?

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･his endearing soft side, his innerchild °❀

charac. michael kaiser x gn! reader

author’s notes: i tried mirroring his backstory and to what i think he really is behind closed doors w sum1 he rlly loves. Please enjoy!

Michael Kaiser was better off a criminal.

He steals, that's his thing. Probably the only thing he's ever known to do.

He asked you once, "Is there still salvation in the future?" Of course Kaiser never hoped for anything in his past anymore.

Yet that question rings back to you as you see him on the big screen. 75 minutes into the match and you see him turn a desperate glance towards somewhere beyond the field. He was having an evident crisis, a mental struggle that was only known to him; and you. Perhaps it was his whole world crumbling right before your eyes and no one knew it was a crucial moment for him.

You could see the way he’d even plead his teammate Raichi for a pass. “Please” was never a word for your emperor. And that very same emperor that you were seeing right now, was stripping every bit of wealth that he’s desperately protected over the years. It takes you back to when he was only a nobody, not a somebody.

Power was important for Kaiser, truthfully that was his only way to feel human, to assure himself that he won’t go back there anymore. Yet Michael was only a kid, wearing a crown and robe just to earn what every child like him deserved, love. But now, earning love is not that simple right? For there were thorns that accompanied this talented striker. Coincidentally, you had a thing for treasure that surely bites.

“The name Michael means a gift from God. You’re a gift, Micha.” Slowly but reassuringly, you trace the delicate lines of his rose tattoo as he lays there with you, on the soft mattress of his king-sized bed

Michael hums, and shakes his head. He gains a grasp of your hand and plants it to his head, rubbing himself with your touch. You chuckle as he lets out a low groan.

“Watch that beautiful mouth; I might just kiss it.” You heard his harmless threat as he buried his head onto his pillow, your lap. His body wasn’t used to the soft envelopment of a mattress. To him, it was only cardboard before.

You chuckle, “You always do, everyday. Who knew Michael Kaiser wasn’t a grumpy cat to his Liebling? Instead he becomes a melting mess who’s touchy when no one’s looking?”

He abruptly gets up from his comfy little spot (aka your body) and looks at you with a gaze that tells you to keep talking. His gaze tells you that he longs for moments like these to last, for these seconds not to easily pass. Because somewhere in those sapphire eyes, remains an inner child whose soul has been wounded by the burdens of his past.

“You’re gonna have coffee with me right, Liebling? In the morning? ” He simply asked, as he reached for the back of his head, his hair messy as it always was.

It baffled you for a second as to why he would ask that. Yet it suddenly hit you; he didn’t want you to leave by the morning, let alone wake up without you in his arms with not even a simple goodbye. That’s just how he is, considering that right now, he wasn’t Kaiser. He was Michael.

“Who said I wouldn’t? I’ll always will.”

He scoffs, “You’re hard to read Y/N, as always.”

You show him a helpless pout that he can't help but smirk about as you lean closer to his face. “And what does that mean, Micha? ”

“When I expect stones, you give me feathers. When I expect thorns from roses, you give me flowers in a pot.” His expression was far from the familiar smirk he'd show on the field. He held an odd aura of sincerity behind his stern words.

“How could you love me? ”His question became a mumble under his breath but was audible enough for you to hear.

You simply smiled and stood on your knees to fully embrace his figure in bed. His bare back, making contact with your warm hands that could never land a sting on his skin. Your scent encapsulates him, suffocating the last bit of bitterness and wilt in his body. And most of all, he felt your words like an unspoken prayer to the same God he questioned for his existence.

“How? You shouldn’t ask how. You should ask, when have I ever not loved you?”

That’s when Michael learned:

That love has existed, even before the word ever came out of his mouth.

[devosin]

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! prologue : a series of unfortunate events . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Vil pov . .

Vil sighs, scrunching his eyes shut, which proved to be more difficult than it appeared with the mud mask that he applied over half an hour ago still on his face, currently drier than the gluten free bread he bought last week. He melted into his couch, feeling an overwhelming sense of boredom settle into his otherwise restless body. 

Before he knew it, he found himself mindlessly scrolling through Magicam, looking through the self proclaimed critique’s 30 to 60 second reviews on his new movie or the finale of some show he was in, for a hit of dopamine. Which clearly wasn’t working, as each video was the same thing washed over and over again repeated with new synonyms bundled together to sound authentic (Which it rarely was) and of course, there was those few criticisms here and there, nothing uncommon. 

Vil lays his head back, scrolling some more, “Influencer Tartaglia joins the new soon to debut boyband, D!CKZ—”, he shuts his phone and tosses it to the side carelessly . . Did he ever mention his distaste for influencers moving into the entertainment industry? . . It makes his blood boil, just a tiny bit, since most of the influencers tend to ruin it for a lot of genuinely talented and lesser known actors out there, not to mention they’re so-called talent is usually mediocre at best. 

And he could go on and list all the reasons why influencers do not deserve a spot in the spotlight with the elite, and they may all seem reasonable at first, but it’s a cover-up for the real reason.

He feels some weird sort of envy, towards those individuals who put in zero effort and somehow make it, and get all these big protagonist roles right away, and how they aren’t criticized for their faults or terrible acting skills, just because they have a huge built fanbase of delusional fangirls ready to defend them from the get-go. 

Or how they aren’t criticized when they look less than perfect on screen, although he appreciates that current age viewers can acknowledge that it’s only human to get acne or maybe a pimple here and there, he didn’t meet the same fate when he was younger . .  It just makes him feel bitter . . and he’d never speak those feelings into existence, but deep down he does feel a bit hurt by the shift, it sometimes makes him feel like all those previous breakdowns were for naught. 

Vil snaps out of his pity party for one, getting up and stretching, going into the bathroom to wash off the mask before it dries out his skin (It probably already has), burn-out has hit him hard, and as much as his love for acting runs-deep, he’d rather take a break before his audience starts noticing his shift in acting. 

Which is why he agreed to hosting the show in the first place, he wanted to switch up his career, for awhile at least, he’s taking a break from acting but doesn’t want to directly leave the industry, because it’s difficult to fit right back in place once you leave, as there's always someone who could come and steal your position, and maybe even do better . . that’s why this industry is so hard to survive in, and as pitiful as it sounds, he’s practically married to his work, he can’t exactly risk it, in peace. 

Vil dries his face with a towel and then moves to grab his moisturizer, when his work phone rings. 

“Hello, this is Amanda from Descendants. Inc. We talked before reguardinging ‘Late nights & Flashing lights’ . ” . . . “So, due to a multitude of reasons, we’re kind of in a time crunch to get the premiere launched, by the end of this month actually . . . but, we’ve received confirmation on who’ll be co-hosting with you, Y/n L/n!” 

“ . . . excuse me?” 

“This must be such a shock, but Y/n has actually been our top pick for this role, and the internet seems to really want to see the two of you on-screen together, considering your screen presence, I honestly think you two will be a perfect match for the show.”  

“I—”, Vil’s voice was hoarse as he tried to mentally wrap around all the information that was just dropped, “Ah—That’s time, we’re so excited to see you on set next week.” . . . “If you’d like, I could send you y/n’s number beforehand, so the two of you could talk things through?”, that seems to snap him back to reality, as the professionalism seeps right back into him, “That would be lovely, thank you.” 

The doorbell rings, informing Vil that his takeout that he ordered about two hours ago had finally arrived, but he didn’t feel like eating anymore.

Drinking is completely legal at 18-19 in my country, so I'm just putting that over here before someone tries fighting with me about it (This has happened before), also Vil is currently in his late 20's.

Don't expect everything to play off of Vil in-game, since this is placed like a decade into the future, so things will be changes and messed around with to fit the current age and setting more. <3

Profiles | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

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[writinginatree]

If He Were Better At This...

Relationship(s): Bodhi Durran & Xaden Riorson & Riorson!reader

Summary: Raising his little sister isn't easy for Xaden.

Warnings: Bittersweet angst, parentification, jealousy, mentions of apostasy trauma, Xaden low-key has anxiety. Set during Iron Flame.

@littleemissperfecttt requested: XADEN GETS JEALOUS OF Y/N AND BHODIS CLOSE RELATIONSHIP as y/n is more close to bhodi than she could ever be with xaden

(Sorry it took so long, I kinda struggled to come up with a scenario for this, but I hope you still like it!)

Landing in the valley above Aretia after a tiresome three-day mission, Xaden is greeted by the sight of you and Bodhi wrestling in the dirt. Your laughter is balm on his weary soul, but the feeling of peace it brings only lasts a second, quickly replaced by panicked irritation. You should not be up here — only riders and fliers are allowed to enter this valley, not civilians like you.

Sgaeyl gives an amused huff as she stalks off to find her mate. "We do not mind the little one's presence."

Well, that's good. At least he doesn't have to worry about his own damn dragon scorching you for trespassing.

But even if Sgaeyl thinks it's fine, the fact remains that you shouldn't be in the valley. If you keep getting away with ignoring all the rules just because Xaden is your brother, there will be trouble eventually. The fliers already feel underprivileged; if they get the idea Xaden is favoring his own people, the dissent will grow until the situation escalates completely.

Luckily, the group of first-years practicing lesser magics nearby doesn't seem to be paying the two of you any mind. Then again, maybe it's just that they already lost interest. You could have been here for hours already for all he knows — it's even possible that this isn't the first time Bodhi brought you into the valley. Xaden is all too aware that his cousin never has the heart to tell you off for following him around, even when he's going places you aren't supposed to go.

Xaden might wield shadows, but you practically are one, always trailing after Bodhi unless forcibly kept away. The trauma of the apostasy has left its marks on you, mentally as well as physically. Dad's execution, the long separation from Xaden and Bodhi that followed it, the lies drilled into you like brainwashing. It's really no wonder you don't want to be apart from Xaden and especially Bodhi now that you're finally reunited. And it's no surprise either that you cling to Bodhi more than him; he's been your favorite for as long as Xaden remembers, and, unlike Xaden, he's always here.

Xaden tries not to be bitter about it. He knows it doesn't mean you don't love him too, you're just closer with Bodhi.

But it's not fair. Xaden is your brother, not Bodhi. Yet he'll never be able to have as lighthearted a relationship with you as Bodhi does, because he's the one in charge. Not just of Aretia and, partly, the revolution, no, more importantly, he's in charge of you.

It's a walk on knife's edge, trying to balance between showing you the love you deserve and teaching you the strength and discipline you'll need to survive if the war isn't over by the time you're old enough to participate.

The thought nauseates Xaden every time it comes to his mind. He'll do anything so it never comes to that. They have to win, so you can grow up safe, without the fear and responsibility Xaden himself was burdened with when he was just a handful of years older than you are now. But there's no guarantee they can defeat the venin, no guarantee he'll be able to keep you safe, so, despise it as he might, he's doing his best to prepare you for the worst.

But gods, how he hates it.

You seem so young laughing there in the grass, and yet you've already been through so much — too much. He could watch you all day like that, innocent and carefree, the only indicators that you're not like other kids the rebellion relic crawling up your neck and the dark circles under your eyes. Xaden knows your nightmares are worse when you know he's away, but, as with so many things, the war leaves him no choice.

Walking over to where you're playing, still oblivious to Xaden's presence, he contemplates what to do. He doesn't want to spoil your moment of fun by getting mad about you being where you shouldn't. Even if the mere thought of you in the dragons' proximity sends cold fear through his body, you aren't in immediate danger. Maybe he can just convince you to walk down to the house with him, and give Bodhi an earful for bringing you into the valley later, when you won't have to hear. He can explain to you why it's not safe some other time.

But then your play fighting has you rolling much too close to Cuir for Xaden's liking, and instinct takes over. Your shadow springs to life, lifting you into the air by the back of your shirt.

"That's enough, now," Xaden says, aiming for a tone of mild authority like he remembers his father using. Xaden never quite gets it right. Much too frequently he speaks more harshly to you than intended, and other times, he overcorrects and loses all strictness. He can never seem to find the middle ground.

Sharp longing for his father bubbles up in his chest. Xaden shoves it away. Dad is gone, and can't help him. Raising you is on him and Bodhi now, unsuited to the task though they might be.

Xaden knows his cousin sees him as a role model, has always wanted to be like him, but it's times like this that Xaden wishes he were more like Bodhi. Softer. Kinder. Better at feelings. Of course there's no replacing the parents you lost, but if Xaden were better at this, maybe the hole they left in your life wouldn't still ache quite so badly. If he were better at this, maybe you and him could be closer. If he were better at this, maybe it would be him you go to when you have a nightmare, would be him you insist on sitting beside at meals.

Quickly, he shuts that train of thought down, too. It won't get him anywhere.

Despite his slightly too sharp tone, you don't even have the decency to look apologetic — no, you just beam at him. "Xaden! You're back!"

He nods, shadows setting you gently down on your feet.

It's hard to stay irritated when you're so obviously happy to see him, your smile a reminder that while you love Bodhi more, you do love Xaden too. Xaden has to remind himself to remain strict despite it.

He hates that he has to be the responsible one, ruining all your fun. That is exactly why you like Bodhi better.

Part of him would like nothing more than to join your roughhousing and forget about the war and all his problems for a little while, but the rest of him knows he can't afford to do that. What would that look like, the Duke of Aretia — even if only his fellow traitors view him as such — rolling around in the dirt? It's bad enough that Bodhi doesn't seem to care about his reputation, but Xaden can't afford not to care. And it's not just about appearances, either. It isn't safe for you to be this close to all these dragons and the practicing first-years with no proper control over their magic.

"Yeah, I'm back," he nods, accepting a brief hug before peering down at you with a raised brow. "What're you doing up here?"

"Bodhi was showing me some new moves. Do you wanna see?"

Regretfully, Xaden shakes his head. He would like to see what progress you've made with your combat training, but he doesn't have the time. The Assembly will want his report as soon as possible, but first, Xaden needs to talk to Bodhi and make sure he'll keep you out of the valley in the future.

"Maybe later. For now, I want you to go inside."

The words taste bitter on his tongue, the disappointment on your face cutting sharper than any blade he's ever felt. Belatedly, he realizes that sending you back to the house on your own when you know very well he's about to go inside too must make you feel like he doesn't want to be around you.

He fucking hates disappointing you, and yet, it seems to be all he ever does.

"Can't I—"

"No," he cuts your protests short, forcing himself to use what Violet calls the wingleader voice. He always feels bad when he uses it on you, but it's the only way to make you listen. "Get inside and wash up. Now. You know you're supposed to sit in on the Assembly meeting tonight, and you're not doing so with grass in your hair."

You grumble something unintelligible, but head for the path leading down to Riorson House, hopefully to do as he said.

Xaden knows you don't much like when he drags you along to meetings, bored by politics and strategy alike, but you need to learn. If anything happens to him, you might be in charge someday. You're Aretia's future, their insurance.

Once you've disappeared around the bend of the path, Xaden turns to glare at Bodhi, hissing, "What the fuck were you thinking bringing her up here?!"

His cousin, unflinching in the face of Xaden's temper, is quick to try and soothe him. "I know, I know. No civilians allowed. But Cuir said it's okay."

Xaden won't let himself be placated that easily, pointedly ignoring that Sgaeyl had said much the same thing. "Cuir doesn't speak for every dragon," he shoots back. "What if one of the others disagrees and attacks her?"

"Cuir would protect her. He hasn't let her out of his sight for a second, and neither have I."

"Oh? Aren't you supposed to be watching over the first-years?"

Xaden knows he's not being fair. Bodhi was just trying to brighten your day, to spend some quality time with you — something both of them don't get to do nearly enough. He would never consciously endanger you.

"I can do both." Bodhi sighs. "Look, I know she's supposed to stay in the fortress, but she's going crazy with boredom. This just seemed like a good opportunity to take her outside for a bit. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first, but I promise she wasn't in danger for even a second. You know I'd never let anything happen to her."

Xaden also sighs. "I know. I just— I don't like having her anywhere near the dragons."

He doesn't need to elaborate on why exactly the idea makes him so uneasy. Bodhi is just as aware as he is of what would have happened six years ago if Xaden hadn't made the deal that prevented all of them from sharing their parents' fate — execution by dragonfire, even for the youngest. A thought that will never stop haunting Xaden, no matter the scar on his back promising your safety.

"I know," Bodhi echos. "But we can trust our own dragons with her."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Alright. I guess she can come to the valley with you so long as she sticks to your side." Which he knows you will — you always do. "Just make sure she knows she's not allowed to enter it alone. Under no circumstances, ever."

Bodhi smiles. "Already told her that, but it probably won't hurt if you tell her again, too."

"I will," Xaden says, turning to follow you. Maybe he can catch up to you and walk the rest of the way to the house together.

[kxsagi]

"𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬"

rockstar! rin itoshi was just purely infatuated by you. 

and despite being only friends with benefits, he would never let you go. 

the bass still thumped through the venue walls, but the show was over. the crowd was gone. and yet, you could still feel the weight of his voice lingering in the air like smoke – thick, intoxicating, impossible to escape. 

you pushed through the crowded backstage hallway, barely registering the roadies and crew moving around you. you weren’t even sure why you were here. well, you knew, but you hated admitting it. 

you found him exactly where you expected, leaning against the doorframe of his dressing room, sweat still clinging to his skin, a makeup remover wipe smeared with eyeliner in his hand. rockstar! rin itoshi. the man with a smirk that could melt morals, a presence that turned arenas into altars, and a voice that had ruined you in more ways than one. 

“you’re late,” he drawled, pushing off the frame, eyes dark as they dragged over you. 

“i wasn’t planning to come.” 

“and yet…” he tilted his head, that infuriating smirk deepening. “here you are.” 

your fingers curled into fists. you should walk away. you should turn on your heel and leave before this ended the way it always did, with his hands on you, with you tangled in his sheets, with you feeling like you were slipping further into something you could never hold onto. 

you were already halfway gone when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist. 

“you shouldn’t keep doing this,” you whispered. 

he let out a humorless chuckle, the sound bitter. “me?” he stepped closer, and you hated how your body responded, heat curling in your stomach. “i’m not the one who keeps running back.” 

your chest tightened. “screw you.” 

his jaw clenched, and the teasing glint in his eyes vanished. “you already do.” 

you shoved him back. “you think this is funny?” your voice cracked. “that this, whatever the hell this is, means nothing?” 

“do you want it to mean something?” he shot back, his voice sharp enough to cut. 

you hated that you hesitated. 

his gaze hardened. “that’s what i thought.” 

you could hear your friends’ voices in your head, louder than the music had been all night. 

he’s a mess. 

you deserve better.

he’s not going to change. 

you wanted to believe them. you wanted to believe that you could walk away from him. but when he reached for you again, pulling you into him like you were the only thing keeping him standing, you shattered all over again. 

his lips brushed your ear. “tell me to stop.” 

you should. 

you didn’t. 

because love wasn’t supposed to feel like a war, but with him, it always did. 

and you were losing. 

𐙚

the two of you barely made it inside his car before you were on him. 

the door had barely clicked shut before rockstar! rin itoshi’s hands tangled in your hair, lips crashing into yours like he was starving. It was always like this – wild, reckless, desperate. the world blurred, reduced to the feverish slide of mouths and the press of bodies against leather seats. 

your back arched as he pulled you closer, his hands burning through the thin fabric of your shirt. the windows fogged up, the night outside forgotten. his mouth moved to your neck, tracing a line of fire down your skin. 

“you drive me insane,” he muttered against your throat, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. 

you let out a sharp breath, nails digging into his arms. “right back at you.” 

and then something snapped. 

not physically. but the moment shifted. the heat still crackled, but underneath it was something heavier. 

rockstar! rin itoshi exhaled, forehead resting against yours as he said your name. 

you tensed. he almost never said your full name. 

“what?” you whispered. 

his fingers ghosted over your cheek, his thumb barely brushing your lips. “why do you keep coming back?” 

your stomach twisted. 

“rin…” 

“is it just this?” his grip on you tightened, but not in a way that felt possessive, more like he was bracing himself for the answer. “is this all i am to you?” 

you swallowed hard, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. 

of course, he wasn’t just this. of course, he wasn’t just a hookup, just a mistake you kept repeating. but how were you supposed to tell him that when everything about you two was wrong? 

your friends hated him. he was a walking disaster, reckless and wild and always on the edge of self-destruction. and you had spent months telling yourself you didn’t need him. 

you had spent months lying. 

“i don’t know,” you whispered, because it was the safest truth you could give him. 

rockstar! rin itoshi’s jaw tightened, something flickering through his eyes before he pulled away. 

the loss of his warmth was instant. 

he shifted back into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel like he needed something to hold onto. he didn’t look at you. 

the air became thick and suffocating. 

you sat up, running a shaky hand through your hair. “rin –” 

“don’t,” he muttered. 

silence swallowed you whole. 

for the first time, the car felt small. too small. 

your chest ached. 

you should say something. you should tell him that it wasn’t just this, that you weren’t using him, that you cared more than you knew how to admit. 

but you didn’t. 

instead, you reached for the door handle. “i should go.” 

he didn’t stop you. 

you stepped out into the cold night air, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walked away. 

one step. 

then another. 

and then… you stopped. 

your pulse pounded in your ears. you could feel the sting of unshed tears, the weight of something heavier than you could carry pressing down on you. 

you don’t have to leave. 

the thought hit you so hard you almost stumbled. 

you turned back toward the car, your breath unsteady. through the fogged-up window, you could see him, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, shoulders tight, staring straight ahead like if he looked at you, he’d break. 

without giving yourself time to think, you yanked the door back open. 

rockstar! rin itoshi barely had time to turn before you were on him, kissing him like it wasn’t a mistake, like you weren’t going to run this time. 

he froze for a second, startled, then melted into you, his hands gripping you like he was afraid you’d disappear. 

your fingers curled into his shirt. “i don’t want to leave.” 

his breath hitched. “then don’t.” 

your lips trembled, but you nodded. “okay.” 

he exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. “you don’t have to leave me alone in bed the next morning. you don’t have to lie to everyone and yourself anymore. i’ll make you feel like staying was the right choice, i promise. and i'll show your friends that, too.” 

for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were losing. 

it felt like maybe, just maybe, you were finally choosing him for real this time. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

a/n: i saw chase atlantic live and let me tell you how heavenly the intro guitar to “friends” is, like it’s literally an eargasm that makes me ascend into another dimension

(header image credits go to rxdchill on ig / twt)

[sweetlyvibe]

✎ . . . their reaction to you cheering for someone else!?

- 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. 𝖠𝗍𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗎 𝖬𝗂𝗒𝖺 ⋆ 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖺 𝖱𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗎 ⋆ 𝖮𝗂𝗄𝖺𝗐𝖺 𝖳𝗈𝗈𝗋𝗎 ⋆ 𝖠𝗄𝖺𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂 𝖪𝖾𝗂𝗃𝗂

Rintarou knew Osamu was good—he always had been. But hearing your voice ringing out over the crowd, shouting Osamu’s name like it was the only thing that mattered, was a sucker punch he hadn’t prepared for.

He didn’t let it show, though. On the outside, he was the same composed, unbothered Rintarou, lazily blocking and spiking with precision. But every time you cheered, a knot twisted tighter in his chest.

After the game, he didn’t approach you right away. Instead, he lingered near the locker room, pretending to scroll through his phone. When you finally walked over, his tone was flat.

“You were really loud out there,” he said, his gaze not quite meeting yours. “For Osamu, I mean.”

You froze. “Oh… it’s not like that, Rintarou. I just—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Osamu deserves it. He’s a great player.”

But the slight quiver in his voice gave him away. He didn’t wait for you to respond, walking away before you could see the hurt in his eyes.

౨ৎ

Atsumu loved being the center of attention, especially when it came to you. But during the game, every time he looked up at the stands, your voice was there—only it wasn’t for him.

“Suna! You’re killing it out there!”

He gritted his teeth, his plays becoming more aggressive, as if he could physically claw back the focus you had taken from him. By the end of the game, he felt drained, not from exertion but from the way your cheers for Suna still echoed in his ears.

He found you outside, pacing slightly, his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found.

“You seemed really into Suna’s game tonight,” he said, his tone sharp but his eyes softer than he wanted them to be.

You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand. “Don’t bother explaining,” he muttered. “I get it. He’s a great player. Better than me, maybe.”

“That’s not true, Atsumu!” you protested, but he just shook his head, his voice quieter this time.

“Then why’d it feel like I didn’t even exist out there?”

౨ৎ

Keiji was used to Bokuto stealing the spotlight—he didn’t mind. But when your cheers grew louder and louder for Bokuto during the match, something inside him cracked.

“Bokuto! You’re amazing! That spike was perfect!”

Each shout felt like a blow, a reminder that no matter how much he quietly cared for you, Bokuto’s charisma was unmatched. He pushed through the game, his sets precise but lacking his usual spark.

Afterward, he found you near the court, still chatting animatedly with Bokuto about his performance. Keiji waited until Bokuto walked off before approaching you, his usual calm demeanor replaced with something heavier.

“You really enjoyed Bokuto’s game tonight,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

You nodded, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eyes. “He was incredible, right? Those spikes—”

“I know how good he is,” Keiji interrupted, his tone clipped. He looked away, his fists clenched. “But it would’ve been nice to hear you say something about me.”

Your smile faded, but he didn’t give you a chance to reply. “Forget it,” he muttered, walking away before you could see how much it hurt.

౨ৎ

Tooru always had a complicated relationship with Iwaizumi—best friends, rivals, opposites. But hearing your voice calling out for Iwaizumi during the match shattered something inside him.

“Let’s go, Iwaizumi! You’ve got this!”

Toruu still played well—he was too proud to falter—but there was a sharpness to his movements, a desperate edge as if he could win you back with every perfect serve.

After the game, he didn’t bother changing out of his jersey. He stormed out to find you, his smile brittle and his voice laced with bitterness.

“I didn’t know you were such a fan of Iwa-chan,” he said, the nickname cutting in a way it never had before.

“What? Tooru, it’s not—”

“Save it,” he snapped, his usual charm nowhere to be found. “You didn’t even cheer for me once, Y/n. Not even a little.”

You reached for him, but he stepped back, his hands clenched at his sides. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. Iwaizumi’s the reliable one, right? The one everyone cheers for.”

He laughed bitterly, turning away before you could see the tears threatening to fall.

[pucksandpower]

Silverstone Silver Linings

Charles Leclerc x Oscar Piastri x George Russell x Reader

Summary: the British Grand Prix was a difficult race for all three of your boys, luckily you have an idea to make it better

The hotel room door clicks open, revealing three dejected figures silhouetted in the hallway. Charles, Oscar, and George shuffle inside, their clothing rumpled and their expressions downcast.

You sit up on the bed, concern etching your features as you take in their defeated postures. “Oh, darlings,” you murmur, opening your arms. “Come here.”

The three drivers gravitate towards you, drawn by the comfort you offer. Charles flops face-first onto the bed with a muffled groan. Oscar perches on the edge, running a hand through his tousled hair. George paces restlessly, unable to settle.

“That was ... not ideal,” Oscar says, his voice strained.

You reach out to stroke his back soothingly. “I know, love. You all drove brilliantly, though. Sometimes things just don’t go to plan.”

George lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s putting it mildly. A bloody water system issue? After starting on pole? It’s like the universe was laughing at me.”

“At least you didn’t have to suffer through the whole race,” Charles mumbles into the duvet. “I felt like such an idiot out there.”

You frown, tugging gently at Charles’ shoulder until he rolls over to face you. “Hey now, none of that talk. You followed the call that seemed right at the time because you trusted your team. How were you supposed to know the rain would stop and Ferrari fed you wrong information?”

Charles sighs, his eyes meeting yours. “I know, I know. It’s just ... frustrating. I thought maybe this would be our weekend, you know?”

Oscar nods in agreement. “Tell me about it. P2 felt so close I could taste it. Then being held out without pitting ...” He trails off, shaking his head.

You pull Oscar closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You showed everyone what you’re capable of today. That won’t be forgotten.”

George finally stops pacing, sinking onto the bed next to you. “I just feel so ... helpless. Like no matter what I do, something always goes wrong.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hands. “You can’t control everything. What matters is how you handle the setbacks.”

Charles props himself up on an elbow, a hint of a smile finally tugging at his lips. “She’s right, you know. We’re lucky to have such a wise girlfriend.”

Oscar chuckles softly. “And a patient one. How do you put up with three moody drivers?”

You grin, playfully ruffling his hair. “It’s not easy, but someone’s got to do it.”

George leans into your touch, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “We don’t deserve you, truly.”

“Nonsense,” you reply, pulling him closer. “You all deserve the world. And I intend to remind you of that.”

Charles’ eyes spark with interest as he finally seems to notice your attire. “Is that ... new?” He asks, gesturing to the lacy ensemble.

You blush slightly, a coy smile playing on your lips. “Maybe. I thought you boys might need some cheering up after the race.”

Oscar’s gaze roams appreciatively over you. “Well, consider me thoroughly distracted.”

George grins, some of his usual charm returning. “You know, I’m suddenly feeling much better about that DNF.”

You laugh, the sound bright and infectious. “Good. That was rather the point.”

Charles sits up fully, his earlier despondency forgotten as he drinks in the sight of you. “You are far too good to us, mon amour.”

“Never,” you insist, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “You all work so hard. You deserve to feel appreciated.”

Oscar’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “How did we get so lucky?”

You turn to him, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m the lucky one, darling.”

George wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “I beg to differ,” he murmurs against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Charles watches the exchange with darkening eyes. “Perhaps we should show our appreciation more ... thoroughly?”

You bite your lip, a thrill of anticipation coursing through you. “I certainly wouldn’t object.”

Oscar’s fingers trail along your collarbone, feather-light. “Where should we start?”

“I have a few ideas,” George says with a roguish grin, his earlier frustration melting away.

You laugh, playfully swatting at his chest. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Russell.”

Charles moves behind you, his arms encircling your waist as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “And what about you, chérie? What do you desire?”

Your breath catches as Oscar’s hand skims up your thigh. “I ... I just want you all to feel better.”

George cups your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. “Oh, we feel much better already. But we’d like to return the favor.”

Oscar nods in agreement, his voice low. “Let us take care of you for a change.”

You melt into their touches, overwhelmed by the love and desire radiating from all three men. “Well, when you put it that way ...”

Charles chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “I think that’s a yes, hmm?”

George’s lips capture yours in a searing kiss, effectively silencing any further discussion. You lose yourself in the sensations, grateful for the chance to comfort your boys and be comforted in return.

As clothes are shed and caresses grow bolder, the disappointments of the day fade away. In this moment, there is only love, passion, and the unbreakable bond between the four of you.

Later, as you lie tangled together in a blissful haze, Charles breaks the comfortable silence. “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind about today.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Charles nods, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Mhm. Any day that ends like this can’t be all bad.”

George laughs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. “I have to agree. Though I still wouldn’t mind a do-over of that race.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Always the competitors, aren’t you?”

Oscar grins, pulling you closer. “Can you blame us? We like to win.”

“Well,” you say with a mischievous smile, “I’d say you all won today, wouldn’t you?”

Charles’ eyes sparkle with amusement. “Absolutely. Though I think we should double-check, just to be sure.”

George nods solemnly, though his lips twitch with suppressed laughter. “Very true. We wouldn’t want any doubt about the results.”

You giggle as Oscar’s fingers find a ticklish spot on your ribs. “And how do you propose we do that?”

The three drivers exchange a look, matching grins spreading across their faces. “I’m sure we can think of something,” Oscar says, his voice full of promise.

As hands begin to wander once more, you send up a silent prayer of thanks for these three incredible men and the love you share. No matter what challenges they face on the track, you know that together, you can weather any storm.