#WHO ACCEPTS NEITHER UNTIL HE'S FORCED TO

[motomamita]

farmer!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, arranged marriage, breeding kink!

könig never thought that the love of his life would take so long to arrive, much less in such a small town where he lived and where everyone knew everyone. but yes, he just turned 30 he found himself totally alone, without a wife, girlfriend or even someone to fuck with without commitments.

being an only child, his parents rushed to find the right woman for him. they had to ensure that their legacy would continue and their lands would be passed down to their future grandchildren.

that's where you come in, also the only daughter of a couple of lumberjacks and with a long list of suitors. although you could choose any boy in the town, your parents quickly paired you with könig, who was the son of the wealthiest family in the place.

you didn't know könig personally but you had seen him from time to time on the streets driving his truck carrying fruits and vegetables to supply the businesses. you knew that he was older than you, not only in age but also in body. he always had a serious face and a look that forced you to lower your head because of how intimidating he was.

your families introduced you one day where they had lunch and talked about how beneficial it would be for both of you to get married. könig didn't contribute much, as he spent all that time looking at your breasts through your dress and biting his lip every time you dared to look into his eyes. neither you nor he spoke to each other.

after that, they organized a small wedding in the garden of könig's family and formalized the union between the two of you. you were now his wife and lived with him in a small house built by könig on his family land. however, the most important thing was missing, an heir.

you both knew that your families would not be calm until they saw you carrying his baby in your womb. that's why you and könig had to get closer to each other, both emotionally and physically. every time he came back from a long day of work, you would wait for him with a jug of fresh orange juice or even a beer. then you would prepare the shower for him, where könig would end up dragging you with him and you would shower together. he caressed your skin with excitement and you did the same but with a certain shyness. however, it never went any further, until now.

one afternoon you were harvesting vegetables from the garden until the presence of könig behind you caught your attention.

"it's time... for us to have a son."

könig was wearing his work shirt with a few buttons open and his blue jeans. he looked agitated, as if he needed you at that moment.

"könig... i, i don't know. i've never done it and i'm a little scared..."

you couldn't finish because könig knelt in front of you and grabbed your hips with his hands.

"please, please, let me fuck you. i can't wait any longer, my love, i need you.."

he begged with some pain in his voice, resting his head on your stomach and almost sobbing. his cock was throbbing inside his jeans and dripping with precum. your heart sank at seeing him so needy, so you accepted.

without wasting time, könig fucked you right there in his garden and on the ground, in a primitive way. your pussy took a while to get used to its size but soon the pain turned into pleasure. könig was on top of you, with your legs over his shoulders and his balls hitting your delicate skin.

"i knew this pussy was worth the wait... fuck, you're so tight."

könig kissed your legs, leaving a trace of his saliva and even lightly biting your skin, lost in pleasure. his grunts accompanied your moans and pleas for him to finish inside you as soon as possible, you were afraid that you would be discovered.

"these juicy tits, they're going to look even better when they're big and dripping with milk... are you going to carry my babies, huh? are you going to be a good mom?"

you nodded your head because your mouth couldn't let out anything but moans. könig increased his thrusts, fucking deep inside you until he filled you with his thick semen.

he gently lay down on top of you, careful not to crush you until his orgasm passed. he carefully pulled out of you, caressing your legs and putting the cum that came out back in with his fingers.

"i have to make sure it catch, mommy."

[yanderenightmare]

jujutsu kaisen- which yanderes are really scary? i love the one you did about bnha, like which ones are just show, and which ones are really dangerous ones!! 💘

Yandere JJK

♡ FEAT: Nanami, Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, Itadori

♡ TW: NSFW, noncon, yandere, kidnapped reader, pet-play, degradation, caging, punishments, manipulation, forced submission, other stuff...

♡ FEM reader

♡ Kento Nanami

He’s scary because he’s so strict. 

He’s got house rules and expects you to follow them—no exceptions. Oh, and when you fail to do that? He expects you to take your punishment without any fuss.

“You know what you did wrong, baby. Be a good girl now and make it right, and I’ll forgive you.”

Yeah… you’ve yet to learn how to do that…

Stupid as you know it is, you always try to run—and it always makes it worse.

Your ass stings, smacked raw after three dozen hits. You sit with it on your heels, kneeling before the man who dealt the blows. That would have been the end of it if only you’d managed to take it properly—you could have been done. But now here you are, tears on your face, hiccups still raw in your throat, as he fastens the collar around it.

He doesn’t take kindly to you when you try to avoid responsibility. Accepting your punishments is one of those responsibilities.

It’s about humility, knowing when you’re wrong, and a matter of integrity to accept the consequences. And as Kento makes clear, a good girl should have both. And if you have neither, well, then you don’t deserve to be treated like a good girl, now, do you?

And that's a real shame. You see, because good girls get to eat their dinner at the table. They have the right to take warm showers, can sleep in the bed, and wear clothes. They’re even allowed to have hobbies after they’re done with all their chores. 

But bad girls, however? They don’t get any of that. 

Because a bad girl is no different from an animal. Bad girls get their dinner in a bowl on the floor, are hosed down in the tub, sleep and stay in their cage whenever their master’s out, and walk around on all fours naked with a collar around their throat until they’ve proven themselves worthy of being a good girl again.

And how does she do that?

Why, by obeying and serving her master, of course.

And so, even a whole week later, you're still stuck sucking his cock through the thin black metal piping of your cage, just like a glory hole.

His fingers interlock with the bars above you, holding them tight enough to make his knuckles whiten, rattling the cage somewhat each time he rocks back and forth.

He doesn’t talk to you much when you’re in this state. Small talk and sweet nothings are reserved for good girls. While bad girls, naturally, only deserve commands like sit, open up, tongue out, suck. 

“Turn around.”

Your breath is erratic, throat abused, voice weak, saying, “Yes, master.”

You’re not allowed to call him by his name, only when you’re back to being his good girl. For now, you’re not his pretty wife; you’re just a caged critter he’s training, and as such, you’ll refer to him appropriately with the proper title.

You honestly don’t know which is worse sometimes, acting like his ever-sweet housewife or this, this fucked up pet-play.

You twist around on all fours in the small cage—face down, ass in the air, as you press your cunt up against the cool metal bars and await getting fucked just like an actual animal.

He’s laid out a baby pink dress on the bed, all frills and ruffles like the things dolls wear—a clear sign. This is the last day of your probation—if you manage to pass the test, that is—meaning, be a good pet and take the pounding.

The cage rattles even more after he drives himself inside and sets his tempo.

It’s hard maintaining the position, painful, but you hold it as good as can—keeping your cunt pressed flush against the wire so hard the fat of your ass and thighs squeeze through, leaving cross-hatched markings on the skin, staying there for every harsh thrust until he's filling you up with his load.

When he’s done, he crouches down, asking sternly if you’re going to be his good girl from now on. And you, despite knowing how the cycle repeats, nod your head, desperately wanting out of the cage even if it means wearing whatever he dresses you in and doing whatever he tells you until the next time he deems you’re due for a demotion.

♡ Satoru Gojo

Gojo’s scary for the opposite reason from Nanami.

Where Nanami is structured, Gojo is random. You never know what to expect or when his switch is about to flip or go apeshit.

Most days, he’ll act like your boyfriend and treat you like his girlfriend. Ignoring you when you don’t play along. He just boops your nose and calls you his grumpy little tsundere with a fond smile on his lips.

He’ll be so lax with you then, allowing you to call him names and fight him. Pulling you to him and spinning you about, doing whatever he wants, treating you like a doll. Laughing at your protests as if they’re all just jokes.

Other days, he’ll be much the same, but even more lax, so lax that he might even actually listen to you, throwing his hands up in surrender, saying “okay, okay” when you growl at him not to touch you.

He’ll act, somehow, somewhat normal on those days as if the two of you just happen to be living with each other. He won’t insist on you being his girlfriend or him being your boyfriend, won’t force you to be lovey-dovey, and won’t force his own lovy-dovey-ness onto you.

On those days, he actually seems to accept that you don’t love him, and you can pretend he’s just this roommate you don’t like. You'd call it his sane days. But at the same time, you think you could even stab him, and he wouldn’t care. So, it's more like his too-tired-to-care-or-something days.

Then there's his demon days.

On those, you don’t get away with anything without him shoving it in your face how little anything you do matters.

He’ll be nasty about it, too. Grinning at your struggle as he pins your wrists above your head and holds them there without budging, making it painstakingly clear that no matter how much strength you put behind it, it’s nothing to him. 

He might even lift you by his hold, haul you off the ground, up onto your tippy-toes, and further, until you’re no longer touching the floor, have you hanging there, like he’s nailed you to the wall.

At those times, it’s as if all he wants to do is make you squirm.

Cupping your cunt in his other hand, he tickles the slit before filling you with two of his ever-long fingers. Breath hitting your cheek and neck, where he whispers filthy teasings in your ear, his sharp blue eyes beholding you with a glint and a smirk on his lips.

He strives to make you cum, but it’s not about your pleasure—it’s about proving a point. The point being, everything in your body surrenders to him, so you should give it up already and accept it.

And still, he doesn’t really tell you to stop fighting—he just mocks you with false coos, “All I want is to see the look on this cute face when I make you cum. Come on, show it to me. We both know you’re gonna, so just give it up already, yeah?”

He only snickers when your cunt flutters around his fingers, eagerly watching you try denying it by shaking your head and biting your lips from squealing.

“That’s it. So fucking cute. And it’s all fucking mine.”

Sadistic glee is painted on his face as he furthers your humiliation by treading your sensitive walls over his cock next. Up against the wall, your thighs around his torso, his mouth on your neck with tongue and teeth.

No matter how you push on his shoulders and chest, he doesn’t budge—just continues to have his way.

You never know which mood you’re waking up to. Delusional boyfriend Satoru, strange roommate Satoru, or this, sadistic Satoru, or someone completely different, someone who’s in all matters of likelihood way worse like that time he cam home covered head to toe in blood and still insisted on fucking you then and there.

♡ Suguru Geto

You started off as a simple temple follower before Geto became the new head priest. You’d been brought into it by your parents from birth. They’d both tried leaving when the organization changed. It would have cost them their lives if they hadn’t had you to offer instead.

And so you become one of his personal servants.

It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, to be honest. You had other maids to find solace and solidarity in. It was only when he took closer notice of you that you started feeling the urge to run away.

Geto is an understanding and patient person. And so he allowed you many liberties, such as letting you talk your way out of coming to his chambers when he requests you, knowing it’s only a matter of time before you run out of excuses.

It’s only when you abuse those liberties that he deems it fit to punish you. When you, just like your foolish parents, take his loose reins as an opportunity to run away.

Naturally, you don't make it far. You should have learned from your parents' mistakes. But, where he was more than happy to stain his pristine monks' robes with their blood, he doesn’t lay a hand on you.

No…

He leaves that to them. 

The many monsters he summons—all slimy, bulky, bumpy ones that drool over your pretty skin as they tear your clothes off and start groping you, rearing your every orifice with something gross.

You scream in the beginning. Then you sob. Then you go silent, whole body limp and twitching, eyes miles away.

He calls them all off when you’re spent—when you don’t even have the strength left to lift a finger, and all you do is lie there where they’ve left you, in a heap of your own undoing.

He doesn’t even say anything. He just snaps his fingers, ordering some other servants to come and collect you.

Lying on the floor, your vision fades in and out as you watch his long robe drag along the floor, steadily moving away from you until disappearing.

The other servants bathe you and dress you, erasing all traces except for those left on the inside.

You don’t see him until later. And this time, the very sight of him makes you shiver.

He asks you which you prefer: how you can choose to behave and be treated like his favorite, or pull a stunt again and be reduced to a plaything.

And this time, it’ll be forever—he doesn’t do third chances.

Your hair’s still damp, and you're wrapped in the fluffiest of all robes, and still, you feel raw and cold and dirty beyond relief as you nod your head and whimper out how you’ll behave.

He smiles then. That kind smile he uses with those sorry people who come to the temple to have their problems fixed—the one where his eyes will crease, and his lips will stretch just far enough to curl at the edges and betray him. 

This time, when he touches you, you accept it by lying still and spreading your legs. 

Vowing to both him and yourself that you’ll never be so dumb as to go against him ever again.

♡ Sukuna

You don’t dare fight him at the start, nor do you run. You don’t even dare think about it.

Tales of the king of curses made you more than willing to bend over backward if it meant staying alive. And somehow, it’s enough to get in his good graces. 

It’s not without sacrifice, of course, being his concubine. He’s not the easiest to please. But watching the way he cuts others into pieces before setting those pieces ablaze, you figure catering to the monster is better than being his prey.

You might be his favorite for now, but you know you’re not any special. That’s to say, you don’t think he’d spare you if you tried running away. In fact, you’re quite sure he’d set his domain off and level everything within a mile’s radius.

Again, not because you’re anything special to him, just out of principle. 

You’ve seen him do worse for less. In the end, all that really matters to him is that his word is law, and if anyone goes against it, they pay the hefty toll of death by utter annihilation.

You know this, and yet as the months go by and you grow more comfortable by the day, you do end up becoming a little brazen. A little naughty. A little too naughty for your own good, maybe... Walking about in expensive silk and jewels, wicked smiles, and coy catlike eyes, playing games with the king of curses and deadly poisons as if you’ve become immune.

“What would you do without me, huh?” you drawl, lying on top of his naked chest, softly lulled by the rise and fall of his breathing while listening to his heartbeat betray the fact that he is, in fact, still somewhat human.

The two of you had just finished up, now lying sweaty in the afterglow. He’s got an arm propped up behind him against the headboard. The other three he keeps on you, petting your skin. Cuddling.

He quirks his brow down at you but neither of his faces react much, regarding you like the silly creature you are and talking to you just so,  “Going somewhere, are you?”

You trace the black ink on his chest. “Oh, you never know... One of these days, I might just run away. Never to be seen again. Leave you here with your dick in your hand.” Your finger reaches the apex of his chest, giving it a tap while you look back up at him, a sly smirk on your lips. “Or, well… dicks in your hands.”

His eyes, all four, squint while eyeing you.

“Are you now…”

There’s a sudden rush, you don’t know where you are for a second or what’s happened. Getting your bearings, you realize you’ve been spun on your back, still in bed, though now lying beneath him.

He seems much bigger this way, terribly big, caging you with his four arms.

“I was…” Your voice comes out as a whimper this time, stripped of all things insolent, now weak and soaked in building fear. “I was just… joking. I didn’t mean anything by it… I–”

“You didn’t mean anything by it, huh?” he cuts you off, leaning down until his head’s next to yours, breaths warm and heavy, hitting your neck and chest.

You squeeze your eyes shut, frozen in place, thinking his teeth are next, knowing he’s no stranger to the taste of meat, knowing he has the palate for it.

His mouth brushes your throat. His teeth follow shortly, gracing your jugular.

But, right before he’s about to puncture your skin comes a chuckle instead, then a whisper, “I’m just fucking with you, brat.” 

The bite still comes, but it's barely hard enough to be called that. Just enough to make a bruise, but nothing you’re not used to.

Still, having your life flash before your eyes is not something you recover from quickly, keeping your breath caught in your throat, just beneath the spit and sting left there by him, leaving you mute.

He, however, is feeling uncharacteristically chatty.

“Not that it would matter either way…” He draws back with a smile, leering down at you with an amused expression written plainly across both his faces, stroking your cheek with his thumb, making your breath stay stuck. “You wouldn’t even be able to leave this room, let alone this temple, without me knowing about it.”

His lower arms lift your thighs and spread them. You only now realize he’s hard again.

“But, to humor your question, if you ever dared leave me…” His grip tightens, his black nails sinking into the doughy flesh. “Well, I’d simply haf’to bring you back, now wouldn’t I?”

His grip seizes, turning gentle again. And your brows furrow, needing to blink.

That’s a little boring, you almost say, only to realize you’re able to breathe again. “You wouldn’t punish me?”

He smiles warmly, admiring the confused pout on your face while rubbing soothing circles over the moondents he left on the insides of your thighs.

“Nah…”

His softness is a little offputting, and so still makes you shiver as one of his upper hands slips down between you and starts playing with you all leisurely.

You only barely get the question out, “Why not?”

He hums, entering you with his fingers, feeling the silky slick left there from before, something proud written on his face. His voice is something nearly unrecognizable with what he says next, though, you suppose, he’d already been acting unlike himself. “If you rip just one petal off a flower, it loses all its beauty.” 

Your breath stops short again, this time for a different reason.

He thumbs your cheek, then curls his digits inside you, making you keen. 

He smiles in return, then says, “And I prefer you just the way you are.”

And it might just be the scariest thing to ever leave the tip of his tattooed tongue. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to breathe again.

“Don’t get me wrong, though, pretty flower,” he continues with a grin, feeling your walls clench around him. “The thing is, no matter where you go, no matter how far, and no matter how well you hide. I’d still find you.”

His hand then goes from your cheek to thumbing your chin—still just as deceptively softly, whispering just so, “Even if I’d haf’to obliterate every last person on earth to get to you. It wouldn’t matter.”

You swallow thickly at that, feeling his lips ghost yours, feeling some of that brazenness return for some reason, making you whisper back at him. “You’re crazy.”

He hums out a chuckle again. “Mh, to push me that far… I’d say you’re the crazy one.”

♡ Yuji Itadori

He doesn’t listen.

He’s like Gojo in that regard. He doesn’t take you seriously.

With his view of life and his knowledge of real horror, he doesn’t take anything seriously anymore.

His life is a waking nightmare, and you? You’re his sitcom.

You thought he was going to be gentle your first time together. And he was, sure, to some degree. He’d prepped you on his fingers and tongue first. Having taken his time with it, getting you puffy, wet, and hot to go. 

You’d been ready, feeling good, sitting on the bed, watching him undress, smiling and happy, biting your lip as he lifted his shirt off, revealing his chest and all those perfectly cut muscles of his. 

Everything was going well at the start. But that’s not to say he didn’t totally bulldoze you in the end...

His sweats were next, and you felt your lower belly do somersaults, needing him like you’d never needed anything else.

But then, when he dropped his boxers, and you finally saw the sheer size of him, you could only reel back in silent shock.

Eyes round and glossy in the dim light, switching between looking up at him and it as if your stare alone could keep it at arm’s length. 

You swallowed thickly, trying to ease the sudden pang of anxiety, making your heart shudder in your chest. But it was to no use. When he took a step toward you, you couldn’t help but bring your knees up to your chin, as if on instinct, locking your thighs together before shaking your head.

“That’s not gonna fit—I was wrong, I’m not ready.”

To which he only blatantly disregarded with a smile, “Pff, don’t worry.” Shaking his head right back at you with a chuckle, then insisting with casual neglect, “It’ll fit.”

Still, watching him climb after you on the bed, you shuffled backward away from him and the threat pointing right at you, repeating, “No, I’m serious, I’m not ready.”

“Baby, relax,” he drawled, stroking his rough hands up and down your thighs to comfort you. “Trust me, alright? I’m gonna make you feel real’ good,” he promised with a wink, hooking his beefy arms under your legs and, without further warning, parting them and pulling you closer, making your back hit the bed with a bounce.

The impact made you blink, and when your eyes opened again, you were all but face to face with it—the massive thing bobbing above your belly, struggling to carry its own weight, and even larger up close.

Honest to god, it must be the size of your forearm. No doubt, it’s going to tear you in two.

Your entire system goes into full alarm. And again, you repeat, now with urgency, “No, Yuji, really, that’s not gonna fit–”

This time, he just laughs—as if you’re only cracking a joke and the laugh track within his head is going nuts.

“You’re supposed to squeeze a baby through here,” he smiles, already pressing the tip against your wet entrance. “Compared to that, this’ll be nothing.”

♡ Toji, Mahito, Yuta, Naoya, & Megumi coming...

♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist ♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ NO LOVE IN NEW YORK

… starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ヘ(≧▽≦ヘ)♪ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.

Yet you prided yourself on being quite smart—smart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.

Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.

Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when you’d drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and you’d grinned. Ramen—your downstairs neighbor’s cat, a sandy little imp whose real name you’d never found out but had baptized so after he’d stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counter—only showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day you’d aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.

This was a good omen.

So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.

But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between replies—neither psychopathic nor disinterested—, and he’d told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than you’d dared to hope.

Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, “you said 2:30pm right? can’t wait!” at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, “omw!”. 

But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.

The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.

It wasn’t until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth. 

First miss for Ramen.

You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress you’d picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every step—this was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.

Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naïve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.

Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.

Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to trip—and bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, who’d teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you weren’t even worth showing up for?

“Excuse me?”

You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like he’d run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.

“Are you going to the F1 movie premiere?”

“What?”

“The, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?”

You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf. 

“No, uh... I…” Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. “I got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?”

What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two must’ve painted—two kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.

“I’m sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,” the stranger replied, and although you weren’t entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. “But, uh… I think I’m lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else I’m gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.”

You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason you’d felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1… None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.

“Oh my god, you’re Oscar Pia—”

“Please don’t tell all of Manhattan,” Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. “It’s already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I don’t want to have to take selfies in the subway.”

A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didn’t keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doing—what the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue. 

“Couldn’t you just drive to the damn premiere?”

“Oh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?” he deadpanned.

“No, I mean… don’t you have a chauffeur? An… an agent or something? A team? How do you even end up…” you trailed off, finding no words that wouldn’t bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New York’s rickety railways. “Here?”

Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.

“I’ll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?”

He did not look like the type of man who’d ever begged anyone to do anything for him—you expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permission—and the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten “sooo hectic” in the last ten to twelve hours.

Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.

“You know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,” you shrugged with a growing smile. “I’ll help you. I could use the good karma. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how you’d possibly explain that to your friends when they’d ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced you’d made the right call.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. “Maps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think it’s a little confused—”

“Times Square? Oh, you’re not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?”

You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split second—you couldn’t fault him, to be fair; you could’ve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he must’ve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.

When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest… and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.

“Relax, no one’s looking at us,” you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.

“You sure?”

“Certain. There’s so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,” you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, “does not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.”

But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.

“Excuse me, do you know who this guy is—”

She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.

“See? No one cares.”

He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You weren’t too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastri’s eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than you’d thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like he’d been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.

“Okay, I guess you’re the local,” he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.

Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.

“So,” you spoke up after a bit. “I was promised a story.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.

“How do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?” You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. “They just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?”

No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.

“Oh my God, Piastri,” you gasped merrily. “Did you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?”

“No! … It’s not over yet. I’m just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.”

You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldn’t take your teasing anymore. For heaven’s sake—you’d known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!

“What?”

“How do they let you get away with this?”

“I was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,” he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.

Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what you’d expect from a person who’s constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.

New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.

“Does this happen to you often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never missed a flight?”

“Just once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second ti—watch out.”

Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastri’s hair and the lapels of his jacket.

“But I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so I’m safe,” he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “But… apparently not. I woke up… twenty minutes ago?” That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face you’d mistaken for a fading sunburn. “I wanted to call a taxi, but they’ve cut off traffic. It’s a big deal, you know? Brad Pitt’s gonna be there.”

The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri would’ve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.

“Are you in it?”

“What?”

“The movie. Are you even in it?”

“Uh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.”

“Wow,” you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. “So am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?”

“Eh, just Oscar Piastri’s fine,” he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.

Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park already—too soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridors…

Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket… and stopped him.

“Wait, that’s not gonna work.”

“Huh?”

“Your ticket, it’s a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“You don’t have a Metrocard?”

He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!

“Why would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, I’m in this city about twelve hours a year.”

You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.

Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.

“How late are you to this thing?”

Piastri checked his watch. “Very.”

“And how much do you care about being late to this thing?”

“Normal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri…”

“Say less.”

Veritable horror surfaced on Piastri’s face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.

“Come on! Hop over,” you signaled.

“Uh…”

“Or we could wait in line. Your call.” Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?

Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.

The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.

“Oh come on!” you whined. “They’re never here!”

“What do we do?!” he cried.

“What do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!”

You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and… came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.

“Oscar!” you yelped.

If you’d had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split second’s hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.

It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.

And you were still in Oscar’s arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one who’d done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.

You were about to clear your throat and kindly—begrudgingly, perhaps?—request he put you down… when the announcer’s perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.

“Oscar,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“We got on the wrong way.”

“There’s no oil in New York City.”

Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.

“What?” he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.

You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since he’d sat.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. There’s no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump would’ve sucked it dry already.”

Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.

Rippling anyone’s surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.

You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.

“Why are you so nervous about being late? You’re the main attraction, it’s not like they’re going to hold it against you.”

Hearing his reply proved difficult over the train’s thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouth—to decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.

“Being fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.”

“So why bother going? You don’t look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.”

Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he could’ve told you right then would’ve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.

“I told Lando I’d go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like we’re avoiding each other or something. I don’t know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.” He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. “Also, I don’t know, I felt like I had to go. I had a… a premonition.”

“A premonition?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.”

You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from I’m one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.

“In your cereal?”

“This morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,” he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. “So I thought that was some… sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.” His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. “But uh, that’s a little stupid. Forget it.”

The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New York’s illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.

When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.

“No, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you… I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I could’ve seen coming.”

“Who?”

“Ramen.”

“Who’s Ramen?”

“The neighbor’s cat. That’s not his real name, just what I call him.”

Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as it’d take them to come.

“So you went on a date because a cat told you to?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, silly, he’s a cat,” you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. “He just stared, and every time he does it, I know I’m gonna get lucky that day. He’s never failed me before. Well, until today.”

A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear you’d betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didn’t quite know where to begin.

“What?”

“It’s just… My job, this whole universe I live in, there’s no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. They’re just… distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.” And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. “Well, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldn’t take them as an example.”

“Oh my God, Oscar,” you gasped, “you can’t say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Y—”

A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into you—your hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatness—you fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.

You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorry’s to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries it’s not your fault’s. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing had—except you were now a little closer to each other than you’d been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldn’t notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldn’t have to speak it aloud—nothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.

“Why did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?” you asked softly, not sure why that was the question you’d elected to go with now.

Oscar’s face was impassible—he’d found his calm, collected control back. But he didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.

“You looked funny.”

“Okay, you’re literally wearing a bowtie, and it’s crooked, by the way.”

“No, I mean, you looked pretty.” The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. “You looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.”

Maybe what you’d heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the lady’s mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square. 

“Thank you,” you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.

“I’m… pretty glad that your date didn’t show up in the end, huh,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“Oscar, Times Square,” you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. “That’s you!”

The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscar’s pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.

Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.

Every single light blinded you—no matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylight—as you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and… screaming bloody murder?

“Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!

“Yeah, good luck with that, I’m not going any nearer,” you forced between clenched teeth. “I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldn’t tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.

“Thanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,” he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.

“Thanks for saving mine,” you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

To anyone else Oscar would’ve replied the truth—Probably not—but that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:

“Maybe.”

He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what he’d done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.

Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.

Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, you’d put it on Do not disturb so as to not be tempted—basic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocating—, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.

Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.

“bitch” “who tf is that with oscar” ���and why tf is it you??????”

A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.

The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else could’ve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angle—it looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you would’ve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the man’s face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That she’d watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.

“Oscar Piastri’s Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? 👀”

You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.

This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.

And even if things didn’t smooth over… you had a feeling Oscar’s team would have no problem tracking you down.

©musicallisto, 2025

⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!

[marsian-tango]

Yandere Alien

Part 2

A normal person should be allowed to have normal problems, right? You’re no exception. You have a job that forces you to get out of bed at 8 AM, a shitty apartment that needs to be cleaned and tidied from time to time, bills to pay.

You have a life, you’re busy. But god, you’re exhausted!

You may be an adult, but you’re still young, and sometimes you just need to take a little break from everything!

So when you decide to spend your money on a modest trip to the countryside, staying in a secluded but cozy cabin, you’re finally able to relax…

CRASH!

Or maybe not.

Yandere! Alien who crashes his ship near your cabin, and is pretty much trapped in the debris.

Yandere! Alien who you manage to find through all the metallic rubble, using all your strength to drag his large body to your cabin. Tending to him despite your raw confusion and fear. Trying your best to steady your shaking hands to clean his wounds. How were you supposed to clean a wound again? Ugh! Maybe reddit knows?

Yandere! Alien who in his almost unconscious state, looks at you through half lidded eyes, taking in your soft features and small frame. You look so cute with his blood all over your hands! He can’t believe he got saved by such an adorable human. He needs to learn your culture so he can court you properly. Oh! Will you accept him right away or will you wait a little? Will you come live with him on his planet or should he just remain here with you?

Yandere! Alien who eventually passes out with a lazy smile painting his face, dreaming of how your relationship will develop.

Yandere! Alien who wakes up the next day with waves of pain rushing through his body. But he can only focus on the faint smell that envelops him. The bed he’s lying in…it must be yours! It smells just like you. He takes a deep breath, taking in your sweet aroma. He then gets up from the bed slowly, letting out a groan, he ventures through the cabin until he finds you.

Yandere! Alien who sees you pacing around the living room with a tired and stressed look. Oh, his poor human. You didn’t expect to meet him, neither did he. But don’t worry, he’ll take care of you from now on. After all, you saved him, so it’s the least he can do!

Yandere! Alien who clings to you constantly. He just can’t be away from you! You smell so good, and you’re cute, and small, and so...his. He thought that physical contact was the universal way to show affection, so why are you trying to push him away when he hugs you? It must be a game, right? Yeah, you’re just being silly!

Yandere! Alien who tries to learn your language through shows and movies, while also trying to learn a more human way to court you. It isn’t perfect, but at least you can understand him now.

Yandere! Alien who completely ruined the normality of your life. Having to take him to your house and give him a home. Cause who knows what could happen to him if you don’t? What if the government finds him and experiments with him in a lab? You don’t want that in your conscience!

Yandere! Alien who hates when you go to work. But if he finds out that you’re going out with your friends or, God forbid, a man? Oh, yeah, you’re definitely not leaving. Have fun trying though.

Yandere! Alien who enjoys seeing you struggle against his grip. He’s so much larger and stronger than you. You could bite, scratch, and push as much as you want. It practically tickles him, and it only makes him look down at you with those lovestruck, condescending eyes of his.

Yandere! Alien who’s romantic advances don’t go unnoticed by you, but you just don’t know what to do anymore! You’ve tried your best to make your intentions clear. You saved him, you took him, and you’ll keep him for now. That’s it. You’ve tried telling him countless times that you don’t like him in that way, so why doesn’t he stop cuddling you and asking you to marry him?!

Yandere! Alien who daydreams about his future with you. He’s starting to like earth, so he truly wouldn’t mind living here with you forever. It has nice movies, food that doesn’t exist on his planet, and a funny thing called ‘internet’. He can’t leave your apartment unless it’s nighttime, so when he found out that he could interact with other humans and learn more about your world through this ‘internet’ he was ecstatic! He started learning ways to court you, to treat you, to make you laugh. He even found a website where he can learn how to please you! That one will come very handy once you two get married.

Yandere! Alien who can’t wait to make you officially his…

This is the first time I write for something that isn't school, so this is very new to me. Please excuse my amateur ass, and if you find any mistakes please let me know, cause English isn't my first language. I would really like some feedback, so be as mean as you want, I just want to grow as a writer, even if nobody reads this. Kisses <3

[universescreaming]

Something about even when Tommy is taking care of Buck there being this distance between them, Tommy is on the couch and turning off the lights while Buck is still trying to talk, Tommy is in the foreground of Buck having another “who are you without your family” moment in a graveyard, Tommy in the hospital, wearing a visitor badge, close but never touching, there but never there.

Something about Tommy being all over this episode and still barely there at all. He is in Buck- Evan’s- life but he’s not in it, he’s on the outside, always behind this invisible fence

Something about “Buck. The people who know me, call me Buck”

Something about Buck telling Tommy- his BOYFRIEND- Tommy all about this curse and this story, but it’s Eddie who has to explain the holes in the story Buck doesn’t know he’s leaving

Something about Tommy being in the room with him when he wakes up with boils but Eddie is the one who checks him out and makes sure he’s okay

Something about Buck being the one we’re shown to get Hens text about Denny, signally everyone else in that room, that family, who got that text except for Tommy, Tommy having to ask what had happened, having to be explained that everything was going to be okay

He is there but he is not, he’s in the room but he’s not apart of it

Something about only dreaming about finding a love like that, something about “you don’t find it son, you make it”

Something about Buck constantly trying to make it work with people, trying to force it to work with people because that what he thinks he meant, because love is work right? It’s something you make work

Something about him always misunderstanding the assignment

Something about the last time Buck was in a graveyard he was shoulder to shoulder with Eddie, talking about how a girl he just met sees him, all the while leaning on Eddie in the aftermath of his death he has accepted but never understood

Something about him telling Tommy that the night they met being the most fun he’s had since dying, something about how he connects Tommy and Natalia to an event neither where there for, as two people who can never understand the horror of those 3 minutes and 17 seconds

Something about Buck throwing himself into danger and adrenaline time after time and chasing relationships that feel like that because that’s love right? Something that feels like being struck by lightening and surviving and non of the side effects

Something about Buck not being able to sleep after his death until he sits on Eddie’s couch, Eddie is the person he comes too for when he’s restless, for the calm after the storm

Something about “it’s about how she makes me feel” “like you’re flying high” “like I’m standing on solid ground”

Something about Tommy being jealous of the 118 and the family they’ve built because he’s not apart of it, and a part of him knows he never will be

Because the roles have all been filled and the family has already been made and he is trying to build something with Buck- Evan- thats already been built

[subliminalghoest]

Ghost x f!reader (reader is a knitter and knits items for all the tf141 boys)

The mess hall was quiet, save for the soft clinking of cutlery against trays and the occasional murmur of conversation. You sat at your usual spot, a ball of yarn in your lap, currently working on a swatch for your next project. Knitting had always been a way to unwind, a small slice of home amidst the chaos of the barracks.

Soap sat across from you, elbows on the table as he watched your hands move. “Dunno how you do it,” he muttered, squinting at the intricate pattern forming. “Looks complicated.”

“It’s not,” you said, lips twitching. “You just don’t have the patience for it.”

Ghost, seated beside you, let out a small, amused huff. Neither of you had told the others about that time he came to your room asking you to teach him, rather unsuccessfully. You kept the mess of wool he’d created, never bothering to untangle the mess.

Price was at the end of the table, reading over a report, and Gaz was busy demolishing his second helping of whatever cake was on offer today. It was a rare moment of peace.

Until some new guy, a younger recruit, strolled in and spotted you.

He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Knitting?” He let out a short laugh. “Didn’t realize we had a fucking grandma on the team. Get a life, am I right?” The patronising tone dripping like honey.

You barely reacted, too used to comments like that. But what surprised you was the way the entire table shifted.

Soap leaned forward, forearms resting against the table, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. “You wanna say that again, mate?”

The recruit hesitated, glancing between them. “I mean—it’s just—” He chuckled nervously. “It’s an old person’s hobby, yeah? Didn’t think someone in this line of work would be into that kinda thing.”

Price exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the sheer stupidity unfolding before him.

“It was just a joke, dude.” Looking around for someone who would come back him up, he shifted uncomfortably on his feet again.

Gaz wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back in his chair, gesturing toward you. “Tell me, mate—what kind of hobbies do you have? Anything as useful as hers?”

The recruit blinked. “Uh…”

“Didn’t think so,” Ghost muttered, setting his mug down with a dull thunk. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it, something dangerous.

The guy’s shoulders stiffened.

And then, as if to prove a point, Soap rolled up the sleeve of his combat shirt, revealing a thick, fingerless gloves with ‘soap’ lettered across the top of both knuckles. “Made this for me last winter,” he said proudly. “Bloody lifesaver in the cold.”

Gaz grinned and tugged at his beanie. “This too. Custom made.” It did have a small Union Jack you had painstakingly knitted into the hat.

Price, without looking up from his report, casually lifted his mug. It was wrapped in a snug, knitted cozy, complete with the Task Force’s emblem on it.

The recruit’s mouth opened, then closed.

And finally, Ghost—of all people—reached into his vest and pulled out a small, neatly folded black scarf. He didn’t say a word, just let the recruit see it before tucking it away again.

Silence.

The guy swallowed. “Right. Uh—sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to us,” Price drawled, finally glancing up. “Apologize to her.”

The recruit turned to you, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Uh. Sorry.”

You simply looked up at him, gave him a once over and nodded once before picking up your needles again. “Apology accepted.”

The table remained silent as the recruit awkwardly shuffled away.

After a beat, Soap snickered. “Bloody idiot.”

Gaz smirked. “Think he’s gonna ask for a scarf next?”

You shook your head, amused. “Doubt it.”

Ghost, still quiet, reached over and picked up the ball of yarn beside you. He turned it in his hands, gaze unreadable beneath the mask. Then, voice low, he murmured,

“Why doesn’t mine have a personal touch?”

At your confused look, he gestured to Price’s mug cosy. Your cheeks heated, you had assumed he wouldn’t want anything like that and honestly it had felt too personal of a gift to give to Ghost, too telling of your feelings towards him.

He was more important than the others to you, you’d trust him with anything, everything.

“I have a pretty obvious motif you could’ve used y’know.” His shoulder knocked into yours, careful not to jolt you too much and make you drop a stitch. “Make me another one.”

You met his eyes, warmth curling in your chest. “Yeah,” you said softly. “A balaclava this time maybe.”

His eyes lit up with something at the idea, “you wanna borrow one as reference?”

Your eyes snapped down to the balaclava he currently wore, hiding the man underneath just out of view. The hint of full lips and a strong nose. The idea of having something so integral to him, it stopped your breath in your chest.

“Ok.” You pushed the word out, nodding at him when he told you he’d get it to you later.

————————————————————————

The rec room was unusually quiet tonight, the usual rowdiness dialed down to a low murmur. A football match played on the mounted TV, a few soldiers half-watching as they lounged across mismatched chairs.

You were tucked into the corner of the couch, legs curled up beneath you, the crochet hook you were using consuming your little bubble of focus.

The balaclava was coming along well, the skull design starting to take shape. It was a labor of love, every stitch precise, carefully crafted to match the one Ghost always wore.

You were mid-row when a familiar shadow loomed over you.

“What’s this, then?”

You startled slightly, fingers tightening around the yarn as Ghost settled onto the couch beside you. He sat close—not unusual, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him even through your layers.

You shifted, subtly angling yourself away from his line of sight. “Nothing.”

Ghost hummed, clearly unimpressed. “Doesn’t look like nothin’.”

You didn’t dare look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on the crochet in your lap. “It’s a work in progress.”

A pause. Then, “That the balaclava?”

You bit your lip.

When you didn’t answer, Ghost shifted.

You barely had time to react before he dipped his head, trying to peer over your shoulder. You turned quickly, twisting the fabric away from his view.

“Ghost,” you warned.

He leaned in further, voice low with amusement. “Just wanna see.”

“You cant see,” you shot back, tucking the project behind you to shield it from view. “Not yet.”

Ghost exhaled a quiet chuckle. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one trying to peek.”

You expected him to back off, maybe let it go—but of course, he did the opposite.

With zero hesitation, he reached out, fingers brushing over yours as he gently—not snatching, thankfully—tried to pull the item away from your grasp.

You shot your arm out, keeping the yarn out of reach, and before you could react, you lost your balance.

One moment, you were dodging him. The next, you found yourself pressed against the arm of the couch, Ghost leaning over you, one hand braced beside your shoulder with the other reaching towards the yarn you held outstretched.

You both froze.

It wasn’t that different from combat training, really. Close quarters, tangled limbs, the familiar weight of his presence pressing into your space. But this wasn’t training.

You had touched each-other before, it was familiar.

What wasn’t familiar was how it felt.

Your breathing hitched as Ghost’s gaze met yours, dark eyes dominating your vision. His fingers were still grazing your hands, barely there, but enough to send heat curling through your spine.

Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with awareness. You swore his gaze dipped—just for a second—to your lips before snapping back up.

Then, just as slowly, he eased away. “Fine, have it your way, Love”

The moment passed, dissipating like smoke, ease replacing the tension.

You sat up, straightening the yarn in your lap, fingers slightly unsteady as you smoothed out the yarn now carefully hidden behind your raised knee.

Ghost exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “All that just to keep me from seein’ something I know you’re making f’me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You started it.”

He hummed, gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary before he leaned back into the couch, settling beside you like nothing had happened.

You settled more comfortably, not bothering to hide the project any longer. If he inspected what lay in your lap, he hid it well.

Conversation passed easily between you both as you continued your rows. The warmth from him seeping into you through your legs that was pressed against his side.

The position was borderline intimate.

And neither of you minded one bit.

Prequel here

[ventique18]

~ analysis with a bit of 🐉🌸 drabble

Malleus is obviously wealthy, but throughout the game, he's always depicted as someone who doesn't particularly flaunt this. While he does have times when he gets carried away and offers to purchase exorbitant amounts of something (Jasmine Silk, New Year's), most of the time he would just act like any regular student with a humble budget.

We may have thought of this as "person in a position of power is actually down-to-earth to make him lovable" or the "rich prince is actually humble" stereotype. Until you realize that he is intimately familiar with poverty... because his adoptive dad lives in poverty.

Lilia was never given the riches the country owed him, because he was branded as scum. Forced to live like a rat in the middle of nowhere.

(drabble) So when 🌸 bravely announced that they would be treating him to a nice lunch, he gladly accepted with no expectations whatsoever. Neither did he offer to pay instead-- unlike what you would expect of a wealthy CEO trying to impress the person they like. He tagged along only with keen interest in what they thought he preferred to eat on a special day.

They stopped in front of a rather pedestrian Western restaurant. The type a layman would dine in with their family on a nice Sunday. He neither liked nor disliked the menu posted just outside the entrance but... Seeing 🌸, brows furrowed, burning holes into the restaurant menu display, and unconsciously fiddling with their wallet, was not worth considering any of the cuisine over.

"By the way, I heard about this popular street food recently. The one with meat and vegetables rolled in seaweed-wrapped rice."

His companion, surprised at his sudden comment, quickly stuffed their wallet back in their pocket, "Street food... Kimbap?"

"Yes, that. I feel rather out of place when everyone in my dorm has apparently had it, except for myself. I think I would like to try it out today, if you would be inclined."

Lies. Silver brought enough for all four of them yesterday.

Their eyes lit up. Suddenly, the glum washed away from their face; replaced only with a mixture of relief and excitement as they grabbed him by the arm. "Okay, let's go find one. It's grab-and-go, so we can even stroll around town while eating!"

You would think he would simply offer to pay for their meal instead. That would be easy, yes, but time and again he tried that on Lilia when they dined out as a family, knowing that he barely had enough to even feed Silver. He would refuse every time. I may not be rich like you, but treating my growing boys to good food always fills my heart with pride! It makes me feel less like a bum and more like a responsible guardian, you know?

As he got dragged along the street, he couldn't help but smile. That was another one in the long list of things he had to thank Lilia for.

[occamstfs]

Couples Counseled: Confidence

Sean convinces his boyfriend to go to therapy with him. Both him and the therapist have something besides conflict resolution in mind however as Kyle accidentally wills his twink to be the domtop he never knew he wanted.

Part 1 of a 2-parter! Follow Sean's transformation into a muscular, hairy brute who's sole priority is pleasure, hope you enjoy! -Occam

Couples counseling was all Sean’s idea, they had been dating for well over a year now and neither boyfriend particularly wanted the relationship to swirl down the drain. So, despite his DL boyfriend’s preference to break an arm rather than a single exposed emotion, after setting an ultimatum Sean convinces Kyle to give it a try.

After having been forced to accept the idea, once convinced Kyle was all-in. He even volunteered to find the perfect therapist for the pair, after the hassle of convincing Kyle to try couples therapy Sean was more than happy to let him have a hand in the process. Arriving at the office of Lucien Faust, Sean wonders if he should have done some preliminary research on the therapist.

It’s not as if it’s outwardly shady or anything, something about the place simply sets Sean on edge. The receptionist greets the pair and offers Kyle preliminary paperwork which he promptly begins to fill out. Sean eyes this with a head tilt, wondering why he got no such form, before returning his primary inquisition to the clean waiting room they reside in. 

That’s what it is, it’s too clean. They’re clearly the only patients in right now but surely not the first of the day, and yet Sean is filled with the feeling that nothing in that room had been moved. He’s possessed with the feeling that something horrible is afoot. Narrowing his eyes at a plant sitting directly under a vent he elbows Kyle to get his attention on the ficus.

“Psst, hey- Kyle! That plant’s leaves aren’t moving from the heater!” Pausing from his paperwork Kyle doesn’t feign interest, looking for half a second before returning to his assignment, “I’m sure the thing’s just not running Sean.” The boyfriend purses his lips and wags his hands as he tries to determine what to do, clearly the only one concerned. 

It’s still the dead winter and unseasonably warm in this room, that vent has to be running. Sean slowly stands and ambles over to the plant. The receptionist continues staring at the screen on her desk, apparently unconcerned with the pair. Making his way over, Sean raises his hand and is shocked to find indeed the heater is not on. One mystery solved he is immediately possessed anew, wondering to himself “Then why’s it so stuffy in here?” Suspiciously eying the ficus he messes with the leaves just to prove that he has some will yet, then he hears the bassy voice behind him.

“Now now son, no need to treat old Chuck there with such aggression.”

Sean slowly turns to see Kyle has finished his paperwork and given it to this mystery large man wearing a suit such a deep shade of burgundy it seems black. Sean tries to get backup from his boyfriend but finds Kyle nervously looking at the reception desk. Following his gaze, Sean turns to find the receptionist staring directly at him, standing with a wide smile on her face she states flatly, “Sean Gilroy, the Doctor will see you now.”

The massive man reaches out a hand, “Pleasure to meet you Mr. Gilroy.” He waits until Sean shakes it before turning and ushering the young man towards his office. Before leaving Sean turns to scold his boyfriend for getting him into this mess and notices him nervously looking at the papers in the doctor's hand. Sean immediately reads through this regret and assumes his boyfriend has not taken this seriously. Before the door closes behind Kyle mouths a ‘So Sorry’ and a ‘Good Luck’ with a shaky thumbs up. And then Sean is alone with the therapist.

Sean blinks and finds himself sitting across from the man at his desk, gasping in shock, he clutches at armrests he wasn’t aware he had. The therapist then looks up slowly with quite a canine forward smile, “Ah! Seems I lost ya for a second there Mr. Gilroy. I know day one is boring but let’s try to not fall asleep!” There’s a pause where one might expect him to laugh but he simply continues to smile before continuing, “So! Your loving boyfriend filled out this little preliminary worksheet for us to better understand the problems in your relationship.”

Still on edge from having no idea how he got here, Sean is struck with how unfair it is that he didn’t get to have any input on this session. As if he were reading Sean’s mind, Lucien raises a hand, “Worry not there Sean. Once we’re finished you will have the opportunity to do likewise, filling out the exact same questionnaire for my time with Kyle.”

The therapist pauses, performatively grabbing a pair of glasses before clearing his throat and continuing on, “If you are all-set then Sean. Shall we begin?” The patient nods and goes to cross his arms before deciding to leave them at his side, to at least present as open and not anxious. Lucien, while still looking down, certainly takes note of him quibbling with himself.

“What is your favorite quality of your partner? Ah, how sweet.” Sean stares at him, convinced that Kyle has somehow made this a complete waste of time, “And your boyfriend answered ‘His Confidence’,  well is that something you agree with Sean?” 

Sean blankly stares as he tries to temper his response and calm his ire. The whole reason to their doing couples counseling was an argument about Sean’s lack of confidence. The memory of Kyle getting home late with a suspiciously hickey-shaped bruise on his chest sent waves of paranoia through Sean. He knew Kyle wouldn’t cheat, it was just- So clearly can he see the look of betrayal on his boyfriend’s face at being labelled a cheater. So clearly can he hear the sting on his voice as he explains the injury as being peened by a baseball.

“You need to work on your fucking confidence Sean.”

He has half a nerve to flee into the lobby and slap Kyle for the deliberate disrespect. Clearly he’s not willing to act like a mature adult and talk this out. Sean’s blood is boiling as he stands, though before taking a step towards the door, Lucien adjusts his glasses and speaks up, “Do you not agree with his assessment Mr. Gilroy? You do seem quite confident to me.”

His mouth falls open in shock as he points at himself “Me!?” Sean’s mind flies through every memory in his life in which his self-critical mind rules his actions. He’s been a steaming mess of nerves and self-criticism for as long he can remember, he delves into his mind to try and explain his usual anxious state to the doctor. Only, whenever he focuses too much he hears the echo of Dr. Lucien’s words, you do seem quite confident to me. Hands shaking, as he remembers he sees his memories begin to change. 

All throughout school his time hiding towards the back of class to avoid the gaze of bullies is washed away as Lucien’s appraisal of confidence washes over him. No, he survived not by hiding but by being louder, standing taller. He feels pain in his right hand as he sees a memory of him punching out a particularly cruel adversary. He feels his knuckles reshape as they heal from being broken on another man’s face. 

Wait? What’s the problem, he is confident? He’s always been confident. He sees the vision of himself as a wallflower at a bar when he met Kyle. His brow furrows as he can scarcely recognize himself being pulled onto the dance floor by the bleary eyed jock. And then he remembers that isn’t what happened at all! Blush burns clear on his face as whatever meek shred of self remains is rife with embarrassment as he sees himself approach Kyle at the bar and begin grinding on him. 

Just before he starts getting too worked up from the memory, he shakes off his distraction and clears his throat, “Woah uh, sorry doctor what was your question?” The man at the desk simply smiles, “Do you feel confident, Sean?” Sitting back down the twink makes a weird smirk, as if the question were something that needn’t be answered, “I mean, yeah?” Gesturing to himself exactly as he did when confidence was the furthest thing from his sense of self, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

image?

“Very good!” the therapist’s eyes are hidden by his glasses but judging by the smile Sean assumes him to be very pleased. He continues onto the next question, “Oh looks like we’re getting into it now. What do you hope to achieve from your couples counseling sessions.” Sean racks his mind wondering what Kyle could have written. Fixing our compatibility maybe? Keeping it up? Sean almost laughs at the idea before Lucien raises his eyebrows and reads what his boyfriend wrote, “Oh my! Well no way forward but head on. Kyle says ‘For Sean to learn how to chill out.’”

While his confidence is now boosted to excess, such a change does nothing to Sean’s perpetual high strung state. One can almost hear that too-taut string keeping him composed snap as he recalls the face he saw on his boyfriend as he left the waiting room. Bolting up he shouts, “Chill out!?”  Dr. Lucien watches tepidly, taking a sip of tea while his client paces the small office, railing against his boyfriend. Half-tuning the ranting man out as he goes on and on about how his energy is the only thing keeping them together, Lucien sits and waits for Sean to tucker himself out.

Arranging papers on his desk, Lucien looks out over his glasses to see Sean has worked off enough of his anger and now simply sulks. Ready to get on with it Lucien launches his volley, “So, do you agree you could chill out more Mr. Gilroy?” 

Sean meets that with a sneer though he is promptly struck with a horrible headache. Chill out. The past few minutes of his life rewind through his head and he grimaces at how intense he was? How on edge he was and how he was making it everyone else's problem. Maybe- Maybe he could stand to take it down a few degrees. His shoulders crack as his posture shifts to something more relaxed. Thin chest held high now accompanied by shoulders never raised in anxiety.

Finding every spot of tension across his body soothing unnaturally, relaxing all at once, he sinks into the chair behind him like a puddle as his history begins to change yet again. The GPA he graduated with, one he was always proud of shoots down a few digits. Not from stupidity, sharp as a razor he remains, but from apathy. Sleeping through 8 AMs on the reg and only putting in an effort when there was a consequence hanging directly over himself. He remembers many times his usually chill boyfriend had to put out all the stops to get him to do an assignment.

Pawing at his crotch, his mind latches onto his boyfriend, now apparently the more enthusiastic of the two. He sees someone who looks just like himself struggling to get Kyle ready and out the door for his date, then the memory shifts to their new reality. He sees himself watching some trash on the TV, clothes straining from a slightly less maintained figure as Kyle does a paltry job trying to get his boyfriend excited for his date.

Smirking as he sees just how affected Sean has been from the session already, Lucien almost laughs as he sees the man scratch his crotch like an animal. Chilled out indeed! The therapist sees a small belly appear on the man though reading ahead it seems that is soon to get fixed, “Well let’s get on with it then. I’m sure you’d like to get this wrapped up soon hm, Mr. Gilroy?”

Sean doesn’t even dignify the doctor with words, just waving him ahead nonplussed. “Very well! Onto the final question! What is something you wish your partner did.” The patient purses his lips, he feels he should have a problem that this survey apparently only has three questions and that they were these three at that. But he simply can’t bring himself to care, when met with the idea that this final one is going to be things for him to do for Kyle he frowns as the impulse to do nothing has never been more compelling. 

That is soon to change, skimming the response Lucien finds that Kyle must have spent most of his time on this response, not surprising given how apathetic he was to the process. Lucien fights back a smile when he imagines the man seeing what his boyfriend has become at his own hand, though who knows how he too will be molded. But he’s getting ahead of himself, hemming to himself he goes so far as to scratch off part of the answer he’s disinterested in, knowing that Sean clearly couldn’t care less. “Ah! Here’s one for you Mr. Gilroy, ‘Wish he would hit the gym more with me.”

Sean frowns noncommittal and nods in agreement, he could stand to lose a few. Then his blood starts pumping. He sits up straight once more and his dull eyes get wide as he feels himself surging with energy, his arms start to burn as he clutches at his chest. Sweat pours down his long hair as it pulls into something less obstructive towards his pursuit of gains. 

Going to fan his shirt as his clothes are quickly soaked through he finds his arms struggling against his sleeves as they quickly bulk large enough to impede his range of motion. Soon enough they burst free, exposing sweaty pits as his chest too surges larger, bursting open the neat top he threw on for the couples therapy session he had long been awaiting. Looking down at his torn clothes, Sean then turns his attention to the therapist, having been barely listening he asks, “Sorry, did you say go to the gym more?” 

Lucien’s teeth gleam as he smiles, “Seems to be what he wrote, Sean.” The once-twink crosses his arms in thought, sending matching tears down his back as his whole chest widens and traps burst above his shoulders. Abs hide under the remnants of his shirt as he adjusts his seat to more comfortably hold the perfect bubble butt above his mouth-watering thighs. 

“Ah and here lies the root of most disputes Mr. Gilroy, finances! ‘I wish he would stop wasting so much money on his appearance’” Sean rolls his eyes, he barely does that to begin with! Sitting there steaming in his own sweat he racks his mind to recall what this could even refer to, much of his superfluous spending on manicures and face washes having already been dropped when he chilled out. Scratching his cheek he feels the scritch of stubble and figures that must be what he meant.

He always thought Kyle liked him hairless, but if he insists. Stubble lancing onto his face quickly shapes into a beard as he sits there contemplating what Kyle wants. The curls already extant in his pits expand and lengthen as they long to spread down his bicep and over towards his chest. For now though, they lie content as similar forests pop up everywhere they’re able. Curls pattern his meaty pecs as pubes quickly curl around his crotch, up towards his abs and onto his thighs with expediency. 

Sean rubs his new sweaty fur with delight as he sits there rapt in changes he is worlds away from understanding. Seeing the last message written by Kyle, Lucien can’t help but editorialize, “And last but certainly not least,” corrected in deep red ink from wish Sean would top more the doctor launches the final nail into the coffin, “I wish Kyle was more dominant, like the top he is.”

The top he is. The platonic ideal of a top flashes into his mind, big dicked, muscled up, and always ready to fuck. He clenches his jaw as his body begins following the blueprint he laid for himself. Hairy arms bulking up even more as they go to handle a cock that is already pushing against the briefs that were almost too roomy when he walked into this office. The elastic band snaps free as his dick swings into the open air, flinging pre onto the floor as he moans heartily.

His brows thicken and hang over his eyes as his expression becomes one of almost perpetual sneering. Surging taller he is filled with new ideas about asserting his dominance, always standing over his bottom, always displaying his masculinity in every way he can. Skin tight tanks that allow his pits to breathe, that allow his musk to proliferate. He can feel his hard cock poking into the back of Kyle as they stand to take a thirst trap together, his hand on the man’s throat. 

Biting his lip at the idea his hips begin bucking out of his control as he is unable to prevent himself from losing control at the height of his ecstatic transformation. And so he does, loosing load after load into the couple counselor’s office. Lucien simply watches in glee as the twink finishes becoming the monkey’s pawed version that Kyle asked for. Self-conscious and type A no longer. Lucien can’t help but laugh at the burly man rubbing cum into his new body hair with abandon. And then checking his watch, he figures it's time to turn the tables.

Lucien claps and the room changes at once, cleaned up from the mess Sean made with his release. So too does a new outfit appear on him, one befitting his new appearance and temperament. Beanie hiding his short sweaty hair, a stringer allowing him to show off at will, and sweatpants drenched. One would assume he was at the gym rather than a therapy session, though it seems  The massive new top shakes his head as if awaking from an intense dream as Lucien coyly speaks up, “Seems I lost ya for a second there Mr. Gilroy. But that’s alright, I believe we are done with this part of the session, wouldn’t you agree”

Sean just scratches his pecs and motions for the therapist to get on with it, “Whatever doc, if that means I’m good to go then fine. This shit’s just as much a waste of my time as I knew it’d be.” Lucien pretends to make a few notes as Sean stands with quite a bit of effort, totally unaccustomed to moving in a body over a foot taller and hundreds of pounds heavier. “You are indeed good to go sir, though, if you are interested I do have a copy of that form for you to fill out for Kyle, if you are so inclined?”

Hand on the door, the promise of inconveniencing his boyfriend as much as Kyle did to him, Sean feels himself turn with a decidedly unkind smile. “You don’t say doc?” He makes his way over, heavy footsteps stomping as he casts a shadow over the seeded therapist. “Can I borrow your red pen?” Lucien meets the man’s expression with his own predatory grin, “Be my guest Mr. Gilroy!” 

From behind his glasses he watches as Sean crosses out Kyle’s name and rewrites it Ky. His grin grows wider, he thought Sean’s transformation was the only bit of fun he’d get today, should’ve remembered that every street goes both ways. Watching the brutish man crunched over the form, the doctor can’t wait to walk Kyle through the life his top imagines for him.

Part Two!

[klaus-littlestwolf]

Unconsummated -Aemond T.

Aemond finds himself quickly falling in love during the week long celebration of Aegon and Helaena’s wedding. Sadly his perfect lady is already married to a Baratheon. Happily, the idiot has yet to consummate their marriage as he never wanted to marry Y/n Arryn in the first place.

Aemond sets out to take the sweet girl for himself and he will not take ‘No’ for an answer…

It was much too loud for her tastes.

Y/n’s husband lived for parties like this, being honored that he was invited to the wedding of Aegon and Helaena and enjoying himself in every way he could. He was drunk 10 minutes after the ceremony and would be for the entirety of the next 6 days that the week long party went on for.

Y/n left the room as soon as it was acceptable for her to do so, her husband being locked on another noble woman, one who would happily spread her legs for him in a dark hallway later that night and she could do without the embarrassment of that. She ended up locating the library on her walk through the castle and she couldn’t help but stop. The room was huge, 10x the size of her husbands library as his father, his fathers father and on and on before had never been able to read (and neither could her husband).

He forced her to read all of his ravens to him in private as if he believed that no one was aware that he couldn’t read them himself. Y/n ended up knowing quite a lot about the houses and their leaders, her husband threatening to kill her if she ever breathed a private word of it. She was privy to quite a bit of sensitive information because of his illiteracy, knowing that many houses had secretly sworn to follow Aegon as the true born King or people like her husband who were sworn to Rhaenyra as the King commanded. She honestly didn’t care who ran the realm, all Y/n cared about was her small life, her duties, and her children (of which her husband didn’t seem to care to give her). He was too busy with his whores to give her a child.

She found herself a book that interested her, it was a book on High Valyrian which she had always wanted to learn. She had been teaching herself for only about 20 minutes before she heard a throat clear and she jumped up in fear, the book landing on the floor as her eyes met with one purple one staring back at her.

‘My Prince! I am so sorry! I did not know anyone would be here while the celebration went on…’

He stared at her for a moment before responding. ‘No reason to apologize, I understand more than anyone not wanting to celebrate with drunken strangers.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality…I will leave you be then-‘

‘No!’ He insisted, startling her a bit. ‘I’m sorry, I mean no, you don’t need to leave. Please, sit.�� He moved to take the seat beside her, picking up her book and looking at it before smiling. ‘Teaching yourself High Valyrian? Impressive…I am Aemond by the way, might I know my beautiful company’s name?’

‘Y/n Baratheon, my Prince. It is an honor.’

The two of them spent the next 3 hours by the fire in the Library just talking. They got to know each other very well and Aemond even gave her her first lesson in High Valyrian which he admitted she was a quick study at. It wasn’t until Aemond asked about her family that any of their conversation became uncomfortable.

‘You’re married to the eldest Baratheon son, are you not? I knew he had a wife but I did not know he had brought her with him while he-’ Aemond stopped himself as if he was unsure if she knew what her husband was up to.

‘I am aware of his indiscretions. It is how he has always been, nothing to concern yourself with my Prince.’ Aemond’s face was stoic as always but she sensed sympathy like she got from most other people. ‘He never wanted to marry me, his father wanted my name and the alliance of certain supporters. He had hoped marrying me to his son would stop his…activities and make him happy to have a family…he has no interest in such things however and I am left 6 months after our marriage unloved and childless…I’m sorry…you don’t care about that.’ She laughed though Aemond could tell it was hollow.

‘Your husband is an idiot if he does not want you my lady. I have known you for mere hours and I know that you are a smart, kind hearted girl without a judgmental bone in your body. You would be a good mother, of that I am sure.’ Aemond had no clue where that came from. Seeing this girl all alone and feeling unloved was breaking his heart…what is she doing to him?

‘Thank you my Prince, you are too kind.’

Y/n retired not long after, in bed hours before her husband joined her, collapsing into the bed in his clothes and for once she did not move to take care of him, Y/n left him in his clothes and on his chest in the bed.

Her days went on like that for most of the week. She would have breakfast and enjoy a walk in the gardens before finding her way to the library again and spending the rest of the entire day with Aemond. They both made an appearance at the party every night as was expected before abandoning the noisy, drunken mess and enjoying each others company again.

Aemond continued teaching her Valyrian and they could hold conversations now (albeit simple ones) as she was a fast learner. He also told her all about Vhagar, loving her interest in his dragon where most ladies were terrified.

She had raged when he told her of how he really lost his eye, furious that his nephew would do such a thing, all of them. She also condemned the ladies in the court who had made Aemond feel ugly just because of his injured eye. She swore to the heavens that he was one of if not the most beautiful man she had ever seen and she would not take his negative words into account.

Aemond had quickly come to love Y/n and she loved him as well, they both knew but neither of them crossed the line to say it. Though as her husband had never consummated their marriage Aemond had decided that he was going to ask his father to annul the marriage so that he could marry her instead. It would be a good match for his family, Y/n originally being an Arryn, and he knew that her father would take insult from the Baratheons for not taking care of his daughter or making their marriage legal. He was determined to convince her that night, the second to last day of the celebration, however his soon to be Princess never arrived.

Aemond waited for over an hour before searching the party. He found her husband, nearly as drunk as Aegon and with his tongue down a ladies throat but Y/n was not there.

He then left the castle and walked the gardens in search of her as he knew she enjoyed the Red Keeps gardens. After about 5 minutes he found her sitting on a wall overlooking the beach.

‘You are difficult to find, my dear.’ She jumped, turning slightly but not looking at him, turning back to the view.

‘I am sorry my Prince. I have enjoyed our time together but it must come to an end, please forgive me but I wish to be left alone now.’ He was stunned, unsure of how to respond but knowing that he wasn’t about to leave her like this.

‘Whatever I have done, please forgive me Byka Zokla? I do not-‘ (Little Wolf)

‘You have done nothing my Prince! It is I who is in the wrong. I have led you to believe that we could be friends and that was wrong of me. My job is to be there for my husband and I have not been doing my duty-‘

‘Your duty? What about him? He has not taken care of you as is his job as your husband and protector! You’re not waiting on him hand and foot anymore so he is upset, yes? Please? Do not push me away Y/n, I can help you to-‘ he cut himself off as he turned her head to make her look at him and he finally saw what she was hiding from him. Her right eye was black and blue, her bottom lip was split in 2 places and her throat was bruised, clearly in the shape of hands. ‘Oh my Love! No! This will not stand! Come with me.’ He insisted, holding out his hand. She hesitated but he looked down at her softly, giving her time to decide. ‘Trust me?’ After another few seconds Y/n took his hand and allowed him to whisk her off and they arrived in the Small Councils meeting room where the Queen walked in not a moment later having been fetched by a guard for her son.

‘Aemond…what is the meaning of this?!’ Alicent snapped, storming over to the girl and seemingly thinking that her son had done it but she changed her tune when the girl flinched away and hid behind him instead.

‘Mother. This is the girl I spoke to you about, her husband has proved…ungallant. I wish to take her as my bride.’ Alicent was looking over his ladies face when she fully understood what he had said and jerked her head up.

‘My son, she is married already. You cannot just take another man’s wife, even as a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You-‘

‘Their marriage has not been consummated.’ She stopped speaking and looked between them in shock.

‘Well…that changes things…she will need to testify it to the King and he will need to annul the marriage before anything else can happen. It will take time. I will speak to the Hand and start the process for it, we will find a room for her here to keep her safe from now on.’ Alicent turned to Y/n and held out her hand. ‘Come, let’s get you out of those dirty, bloody clothes and put you to bed.’

‘I will come and say “Goodnight” in a bit. You have a bath and relax…I will take care of you, I promise.’ Aemond swore, kissing her hand and watching her blush before she walked off with his mother.

Aemond straightened himself as she left the room and turned to head back to the party where he almost immediately found the man he was looking for.

Y/n’s husband was holding a full goblet of wine with his arm around a ladies waist looking quite content. Aemond moved beside him to grab himself a cup of wine, purposefully causing the idiot to bump into him.

‘Fuck! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ He laughed obnoxiously and Aemond found himself wondering how Y/n ever stood being around him at all.

‘Evidently.’ He rolled his eyes and could instantly see that this man didn’t appreciate the action.

‘You may be a Prince but you’re still only a second son, and no where close to Daddies favorite. Watch yourself. I am the head of Storm’s End and soon enough the Vale, you are nothing and even less than that without your Dragon behind you.’ The man was clearly drunk as fuck but Aemond was happy with that. It would make this easier…

Aemond smirked as he leaned in close, the young Tully girl that he had had on his arm long gone, not willing to upset a Prince, let alone the one eyed prince himself. ‘I fucked your wife.’ He mumbled, close enough that only he could hear and he absolutely did.

‘What the fuck did you say?’ He snarled, eyes nearly catching fire in his instant rage but Aemond stayed calm. He needed to control himself for this to work.

‘I fucked…your wife…Gods knows you weren’t doing it. Such a lonely girl, desperate for a man’s affection and all she was given was an insolent child. It’s pathetic. Don’t worry though, soon enough she will be raising my son and she won’t be worried about you anymore.’ The boy was practically shaking in his rage, fists clenched and men were beginning to take notice, several of the women moving to alert the guards so Aemond would need to do this quickly. ‘Give it 9 months and everyone will know exactly who your wife strayed from you with, the silver haired boy suckling on her tits will be evidence enough. I’m sure with enough words to the King I can ensure my son will inherit all of your lands when you die. Too bad you weren’t man enough to impregnate her yourself or y-‘ He was finally cut off by a truly pathetic punch to his face but he played into it, falling dramatically to the ground and biting his tongue, spitting blood out to make it seem worse than it had been.

He was grabbed instantly and held back from coming at Aemond again who smirked up at him, the boy only seeming to now realize what had happened. ‘Chain this drunken fool and take him to the Black Cells for-‘

‘No!’ Aemond snapped, cutting off his Grandsire. ‘It was me that he assaulted and as a Prince of the realm it is my decision what happens to him.’ He declared and though Otto looked at him strangely he nodded nonetheless. He reached out, grabbing the collar of the drunk and yanked him forward, dragging him from the party and outside through the front gate.

‘Aemond-‘

‘He dies tonight, would you like to argue?’ The one eyed Prince hissed at his Grandsire who knew not to argue with him in this state.

Vhagar peeked her eyes open at the sound of men approaching her beach, seeing her rider dragging along a man that was trying very hard to get away or hurt him making her bare her teeth and hiss instantly.

‘Dokimarvos Vhagar! Umbās!’ He spoke to her and she sat her head up and waited for her rider to speak. *Pay Attention Vhagar! Wait!*

‘This is a message to anyone that thinks to defy me or Gods forbid, harm the people I care about. I am not merciful, you can find mercy with my family but not here. Anyone who wants to disagree with this will not end up in the Black cells, but with my Dragon as their punishment!’ Aemond ignored Otto who was trying to stop his rushed decision. ‘Dohaerās Vhagar! Kisās!’ *Obey Vhagar! Eat!*

Everyone watched on as the giant she-dragon lifted her head over the abusive asshole and opened her mouth wide before chomping down on the man and seeming to swallow him whole which had several people screaming and one man actually fainting.

Aemond was proud of himself, he had saved his girl and it barely took an hour.

He quickly made his way back into the Red Keep and up to the room that he knew his mother had put his soon-to-be wife in. As he entered, knocking softly as to not frighten her, he saw her in a sleep shift and he couldn’t help but stare. His girl was beautiful and she was going to be all his now.

‘Did you have a nice bath?’ He asked, moving to pull the blankets back for her and enjoying her soft blush as she crawled into the bed.

‘It was very relaxing. I’ve never had servants to wash me like that before.’ She teased, though Aemond was surprised by that.

‘You are a lady, are you not? How-‘

‘My mother took care of us as children and when we grew she insisted that we were able to bathe ourselves. My husband however, did not want anyone seeing me in a state of undress…it was strange but nice I suppose. A lady could get used to such treatment.’ Her soft laugh was everything Aemond loved as he reached out and cupped the side of her face.

‘You will get used to it. You are to be my wife, and my wife will have the best of everything. I will bathe you myself if it brings you happiness.’ He teased her, kissing the side of her head before standing again. ‘Get some sleep my lady, no one will bother you, you have my word-‘

‘Will you stay?’ She asked and though he was startled he did not let it show, knowing she was still probably feeling afraid after all that had happened, especially now that she’s in a strange place that she’s sure to never leave again. She would need to get used to being his and knowing that she is completely safe here, she would learn to trust what he said when he told her that he would never let anyone harm her again-let alone another husband. Aemond removed his shoes and coat, as well as his weapons before crawling onto the other side and feeling her head rest on his shoulder. He was careful not to touch any of her injuries as he let her drift off to sleep. He knew his mother would be upset at his sleeping here but he didn’t care. Y/n would be his wife by the weeks end and he would give her everything that bitch of a “husband” could not.

Aemond Targaryen Masterlist

[maskedbyghost]

part 2 to Simon marrying another woman. there will be one more part.

That dreadful day, you didn’t stay for the reception. You couldn’t.

The sight of Simon’s lips pressing against hers, his hands on her waist, was more than you could bear. The weight of it settled in your chest, as you pushed through the church doors and into the biting cold. You told yourself you just needed air, but you kept walking, your heels clicking against the pavement as the world blurred past you.

It’s been seven months since he married her.

Seven months since you watched the love of your life vow to cherish someone else for the rest of his days.

Not you like he promised.

Her.

You tried moving on—tried dating, tried sleeping with other men. But no matter how hard you tried, no one compared. They didn’t know how you liked your coffee after a mission, or the songs you hummed when you thought no one was listening.

They weren’t him.

The team had noticed, of course. How could they not? Soap was the first to say something, pulling you aside after a particularly grueling mission.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

You lied, of course. “I’m fine.”

But Soap wasn’t buying it. “Fine, my arse. You’ve been off for months now. We’re worried about you.”

We.

The word stung more than it should have. You knew they all meant well—Price, Gaz, Soap—they were your family in every way that mattered. But the one person you wanted to notice, the one person who had always been able to read you like an open book, wasn’t yours anymore.

Simon barely looked at you these days. He kept things professional, as though the years you’d spent breaking down each other’s walls had never happened.

You hated him for it. You hated her for taking him from you. But more than anything, you hated yourself—for still loving him despite it all.

Why wouldn’t you? You and Simon were perfect for each other. Everyone saw it. The team had long accepted that you and Simon were a package deal, even when neither had put a label on it.

Everything was great—until she arrived.

She was an old friend of Simon’s, someone he’d known long before the Task Force. You remember the day she was introduced to the team, handpicked for her unique skillset, and vouched for by Simon himself.

Captain Price welcomed her without hesitation, and the rest of the team quickly followed. She was smart, capable, and annoyingly charming.

You wanted to like her. You really did. But something about her never sat right with you.

At first, her friendliness seemed genuine, and her interest in Simon was understandable given their history. She would tell stories about him from the past. You noticed how he seemed to soften around her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he listened. It stung, but you told yourself it was harmless.

Then the games began.

She found ways to insert herself into moments that were once yours and Simon’s alone. If you were paired with him during training drills, she’d casually request to swap partners, laughing it off as wanting to “catch up with an old friend.” On missions, she’d position herself as his backup, leaving you to work with others.

Her manipulation was well calculated. When she slipped into Simon’s good graces, it was so gradual that even he didn’t see it happening.

During a team meeting, she’d mention how Simon had always been the one to “clean up after reckless partners” in the past, glancing at you just long enough to make her point. Or she’d joke about how “some people” needed constant saving in the field, her tone light but her eyes sharp as they flicked in your direction.

Simon rarely reacted to that. But you could see the doubt creeping into his expression, the seeds she was planting beginning to take root.

It wasn’t just her words, either. She had a thing for orchestrating situations that made you look bad without ever appearing to do so intentionally. During one mission, she “accidentally” overlooked a key piece of intel you’d flagged, leading to a delay in the operation. When Simon asked what happened, she apologized but subtly implied that your instructions had been unclear.

Another time, she volunteered to handle a critical piece of equipment, only to claim later that she thought you had already taken care of it. It was small things—barely noticeable—but they added up, each one chipping away at the trust you and Simon had built.

What hurt the most was how easily she slipped into Simon’s world. She knew how to talk to him in a way that made him feel understood, playing on their shared history to create a bond you couldn’t touch. She’d bring up memories from their past, reminding him of a time when life was simpler, safer.

And slowly, Simon began to change.

He second-guessed your decisions in the field. When you tried to talk to him about it, he brushed it off, saying you were overthinking things.

The worst part was that she always made sure to maintain her image as the perfect teammate—loyal, competent, and supportive. To everyone else, she was a godsend, a valuable asset to the team.

But you knew the truth. You saw through her façade, the way she manipulated situations to her advantage, the way she slowly turned Simon against you. And no matter how hard you tried to hold on, to remind Simon of the bond you shared, she was always there, pulling him further away.

And by the time Simon announced his engagement to her, you barely recognized the man you’d fallen in love with. The man who once held you with such tenderness now looked at you as though you were a stranger.

You started to fight with Simon often, because he was a dumb, stupid man who didn’t realize he was being manipulated. You tried to make him see it—the way she twisted things, the way she subtly undermined you—but he wouldn’t listen.

“She’s my friend,” he said once, his jaw tight. “You’re overreacting.”

You hated the way he said it, as if you were imagining things. The man you knew better than anyone, was slipping through your fingers, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The fights grew worse, spilling over from arguments in private to tense exchanges on missions. The team noticed, of course, but no one said anything. They kept their heads down, unwilling to get involved in whatever was happening between the two of you.

Then, one night, while you were on leave, Simon came home to the apartment you shared and started packing his things. You didn’t understand at first, standing frozen in the doorway as he folded his clothes and stuffed them into a duffel bag.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t look at you. “Leaving.”

“Why?” You stepped closer, trying to put yourself between him and the door. “Simon, please. Just tell me why.”

But he wouldn’t. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

You begged him to stay, tears streaming down your face as you pleaded for an explanation, for anything that could make sense of the sudden shift. But Simon—your Simon—had already made up his mind.

A month later, you saw the photos—Simon and her, sitting side by side at a café, her hand resting on his arm like she’d always belonged there. The smile on his face was small, but it was there, and it broke something inside you.

A few months after that, they were engaged. The wedding followed soon after.

“They want to have a small ceremony,” Soap said. He hadn’t looked at you when he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

And now here you were, seven months later, still trying to piece yourself back together while Simon lived a life you were supposed to share with him.

One night, during a late briefing, you caught Simon looking at you. It was just a flicker, his gaze lingering a moment too long, his expression unreadable.

For a second, you thought you saw something—regret, maybe even sorrow—but it was gone before you could be sure. You told yourself you imagined it, that your mind was playing tricks on you, desperate for any sign that he might still care. But the look stayed with you, in your memory next to the happy moments with him.

And so, you wanted to continue living your life normally, and tried to move on, but it was hard. You kept telling yourself it would get easier with time, but time seemed to stand still.

The memories of Simon lingered everywhere—his voice in your head, the way he used to call you “love,” the small habits he’d left behind in your shared life.

You threw yourself into your work, drowning in the chaos of missions and training. But even in the most hectic moments, there was always an ache in the back of your mind, serving like a fucking reminder of the man you’d loved and lost.

You tried dating, fleeting distractions that always ended the same way—with you staring at the ceiling, wondering why no one could make you feel the way Simon did.

But then, one day, something happened.

Price called you to Simon’s office. His tone over the comm was urgent and it made your stomach twist. He didn’t explain, only told you to come immediately.

You hurried down the corridor, your mind racing. Something about Price’s voice told you this wasn’t about a mission or a routine debriefing.

Something was wrong.

When you reached the door, you hesitated for just a moment, hand hovering over the handle. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and pushed it open.

The sight inside made your heart drop.

The office was in ruins—papers scattered across the floor, the desk overturned, a chair broken and lying in pieces. A crack ran through the mirror on the wall, distorting your reflection.

And there, amidst the chaos, was Simon.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, knees drawn up slightly. His mask was gone, revealing a face filled with exhaustion and pain. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as he muttered the same words over and over, barely audible.

“She ruined my life… she ruined my life…”

Price stood near the door, arms crossed tightly as he watched Simon. When he saw you, his shoulders relaxed slightly, as though he’d been waiting for you.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”

Your throat tightened as you stepped closer, every movement feeling heavy. You knelt a few feet away, your voice soft, almost trembling.

“Simon…”

He looked up at the sound of your voice, his gaze locking with yours. He managed a weak, bitter smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Sorry, love,” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper.

And then, before you could react, he raised the gun to his head.

PART 3

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

yup. this is a perfect place to stop. gonna go hide now hehe

(sorry if you didn't want to be tagged)

@daydreamerwoah @postm0rt3m @blacpiink @nightunite @surprisinglydreaming @shybasementtree @foxwitch666 @snaaaaaaaaaked @somethingsaladsomething @massivescissorsthingperson @abbeyskeff @a66-1 @mortem-writes @jupitersmoon167 @blankk3 @yxfairyrx @balletbiscuit @pickyourpoisonandevolve @emilia527 @midgalaxysparkle @0bonnie-bunny0 @kittygonap @babybimbo777 @johnnyshoe @probably--possessed

[neeeooon]

Hey neo!Literally ran to ur requests as I found out!I wanted to ask specifically if u can do a fif for nagi or Rin or both about them having a girlbest friend they absolutely adore!!!💕

i swear i read reo and got like two paragraphs in before realizing im blinder than yuki 🙃 hope you enjoy!

a goth, a slob, and a ray of sunshine

nagi seishiro & fem!reader, itoshi rin & fem!reader. platonic, crack, fluff. reader is nagi and rin’s best friend but nagi and rin are constantly competing for her affection

“i’m taking y/n to watch the minecraft movie in theaters tonight.”

“think again. you took her to wendy’s last night. it’s my turn to hang out with her.”

your head flicked from nagi to rin as they went back and forth, arguing about your schedule as you stood there with a smile. “why don’t we all go to the movies together?” you suggested, drawing their attention.

neither looked happy to have to share you, their best friend, but they also hated seeing you upset. nagi was the first to speak after shrugging. “‘m not paying for his ticket.”

“i didn’t ask you to,” rin snapped back with a glare. you stepped forward and took one of their hands in each of your own. “tonight will be fun!”

you should have known better than to force your two best friends to sit through a nearly two hour film peacefully, but you managed to keep your eye from twitching as rin and nagi pulled your arms like you were a tug-of-war rope.

the theater was great at distracting you from your friends, as it was full of lively movie-goers, but even they couldn’t save you fully.

“y/n,” rin whispered into your ear. “do you want any snacks?”

you smiled at him and shook your head. a moment later, there was a tap on your other shoulder, and you turned to see nagi staring at you before leaning it. “thirsty?”

shaking your head again, you fell back against your seat. big mistake, as in doing so, your head stopped acting as a block between nagi and rin. they glared at each other, and you sighed when neither refused to get comfortable.

thankfully, the movie came to a quick end. you jumped up on your own, ignoring both boys when they offered you their hands, and left the theater without the normal skip in your step.

“slow down,” rin called from behind you, quickly followed by nagi’s “‘m tired.”

you waited until you were outside of the building before spinning around to face them, your smile back but tight. “yes?”

rin blinked. then he shuffled uncomfortable and tugged at his sleeve, avoiding your eyes. “i’m sorry.”

both you and nagi stared at him, your lips parted in shock as nagi rolled his eyes.

“it’s okay,” you replied, mouth twisting into a real smile as rin tried his best to mimic the look. nagi practically waddled forward and let his head fall against your shoulder. “‘m sorry, too.”

you chuckled when his words tickled your neck and playfully ruffled his white hair. “it’s okay, too. i appreciate you both for joining me. maybe next time we’ll have more fun!”

nagi and rin internally cooed at your adorable excitement. nagi lifted his head from your shoulder just enough to shoot a silent glare at rin, who quickly returned the look.

“one day, maybe the three of us will be best friends!” you exclaimed.

“never.”

“not on his life.”

you expected that. instead of letting it put a damper on the rest of your evening, you reached both hands out—one for rin and one for nagi. neither hesitated long before accepting, and you swung their hands in yours as the three of you finally left the theater.

[formula-ghost]

Wildflower (OP81 x fem!reader x LN4)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You’ve reached your breaking point with Oscar, but an unfortunate grand prix changes everything you thought you wanted. 

WORD COUNT: 10.3k

WARNINGS: Conversations about sex and but no actual smut, degradation, angst. Mentions of cheating. Oscar is literally horrible. Mention of unhealthy family dynamics. Lots of cursing. Pain, so much pain. Mention of injury. I’m so sorry for all the emotional suffering this chapter will cause. 

TAGLIST: @at-a-rax-ia @henna006 @linnygirl09 @cassielikereading @judelina @supertrashbread @fastandcurious16 @widow-cevans @czennieszn @irisesinthegarden @wierdflowerpower @sweetwh0re @reginalaufeyson-holmes @honethatty12 @suns3treading @obxstiles @mimiastroos @mrs-reeves-17 @milkysoop @amalialeclerc @starksztony @llando4norris @ginsengi @angxlzinthesky

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Accept message request from Lando_Norris?

Your fingers hovered over the “accept” button, nervous but curious. What would Lando ever want to talk to you about?

He had avoided you like the plague since that night in Italy, and you hardly blamed him. But as far as you knew, no one except you and Nicole knew that Lily was no longer in the picture; still, what would have changed to cause Lando Norris, of all people, to be messaging you at night?

“Who are you texting?” 

You jumped, not having noticed that Oscar had turned over to face you, seemingly unable to sleep.

“No one,” you said. “Just scrolling.”

Oscar confirmed your suspicions. “I can’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” you said, short and annoyed. 

Oscar didn’t respond, instead just moving on top of you, holding your chin in his hands to force you to look at him.

“You can’t even sleep until I fuck you like the little whore you are, huh?” He leaned down to kiss your neck, lips grazing over where only hours before he had left dark marks in the supple skin.

“Get off me, Oscar,” you said, and he immediately pulled back.

“You okay?” he asked.

You weren’t okay. In fact, you were furious. “You realize that you never even asked me if I was okay with you talking to me like that?”

The look in his eyes said only two words: Oh shit.

“YN, I… I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think of it like that. Shit, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you to treat me with respect.”

“I thought you liked it?” he said, running his fingers through his hair out of nervousness.

You sat up, the anger burning within you. You hadn’t planned to confront Oscar so soon after what you had overheard, but now that you’d gotten started, there was no stopping you. 

“That’s not the point. Maybe I’m tired of feeling like your personal sex toy, Oscar. Oh, but I forgot. My feelings aren’t your problem.”

Oscar exhaled angrily. “Is that really what this is about?”

You just looked at him, bewildered. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.

He began, “Look, I don’t know what you think you heard—”

“I heard you talking shit about me on the phone to your own mother.”

“It wasn’t like that, YN.”

“Then what was it like? What’s your excuse now?”

Oscar tried to begin, his mouth opening with no words coming out. He truly didn’t know what to say. “It’s been a hard time.”

“I know. I’m well aware, Oscar. Because I made your feelings my problem for years.”

“I know, and I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses anymore.”

“I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to explain it to you.”

“Of course, you want to talk now that I won’t give you sex anymore,” you said, rolling your eyes. 

“Oh my God,” Oscar huffed, and it took every ounce of your strength not to curse him out then and there. “You act like I’m some fucking villian. You can’t get mad at me for fucking you when you wanted this too.”

“But how do you know that, Oscar? How do you know what I want? Have you ever asked me what I want?” Tears began prickling at the edge of your eyes. “You haven’t, because you don’t care.”

Oscar looked at the wall, his jaw tense. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“Am I not even deserving of an honest conversation?” you said, the tears now flowing down your cheeks. It had been years since he’d seen you cry, but Oscar wouldn’t even look at you. 

You got up from the bed and started changing from your pajamas to your regular clothes. “If you don’t want to talk, fine. I can’t make you. But I’m going home.”

“YN—”

“Leave me alone,” you said, grabbing your purse and exiting the bedroom. You heard him call for you again, but you ignored his pleas, walking ahead out of the apartment and to your car.

When you slid into the driver’s seat, you finally broke down, resting your head against the steering wheel. No thoughts went through your head. You weren’t much of a crier, so when you finally gave in, it was more of an act of your body giving up.

So you took a few minutes to compose yourself before driving the short distance home through the streets of Monaco, a place you’d grown to love. But his presence was everywhere. The car. The streets. Your apartment. Oscar was inescapable.

And when you felt your phone buzz as you sat with a cup of tea on the balcony an hour or so later, this reality was confirmed. He was calling. 

You didn’t answer the first call, or the second. But by the third you knew that your only options were to turn your phone off, block him, or answer.

Well, what did you have to lose?

“What do you want?” you asked upon picking up the call. 

“I’m sorry, YN. Can we talk?”

“Say whatever you’re going to say.”

He paused. “In person? I’m in the hallway.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” he asked. You sighed. Why could you never say no to this man?

“Fine. Give me a sec.” You hung up the call, took another deep breath, and opened the front door before immediately turning around to go back to your balcony. You couldn’t bear to look at him, and you welcomed the sound of the soft waves lapping at the harbor as a buffer.

He sat down beside you, and even before any words were said, you felt the tears returning. Something about this felt…final. And your intuition had hardly ever been wrong before. 

“YN, I’m so sorry. When I get frustrated I say things I don’t mean. I was really out of line earlier.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, unable to truly accept his apology.

He continued, “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have just assumed that all the rough stuff was okay. And I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

You waited a moment for him to continue speaking, but he didn’t. “Is that all you have to say?”

“I just…don’t know what else you want me to say.” You looked over to him. His head was hung low, like a child in trouble at school. Not like a man who was taking accountability for his actions.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What?” he asked. 

You just stared at him for a moment, gathering the courage to ask your question.

“Did you talk to Lily like that?”

“Huh?” he echoed.

“Did you call her all those names? Degrade her?”

“Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s…personal. I don’t think Lily would appreciate me talking about it.”

“She didn’t appreciate me being in your life, either. But look how that turned out,” you said, the malice lingering on every word. 

Your statement cut a little too deep for comfort. But Oscar finally relented, answering, “...I would, sometimes. She didn’t care for it. But I just…get frustrated a lot. It helps me get all that pent up energy out. Half the time I don’t even think about what I’m saying.”

You hummed. The implication of his words hung in the air; you were a relief for his frustration, a thoughtless passtime. 

When you didn’t respond, he got nervous. “Did I…hurt you?”

“Not physically, no,” you answered, your eyes never moving from the sight of the harbor in the distance. “But I don’t think you really care.”

“Of course I care.”

“No, you don’t.” Your lip quivered. You tried to swallow the tears that came up, but you couldn’t.

“No, don’t cry,” Oscar said, reaching out to embrace you, but you avoided him, getting up to lean on the railing. He followed you, this time not offering any comforting touch. 

“What the fuck are we doing, Oscar?” you said, barely able to get the words out. He grasped for words but wasn’t able to find them before the flood of emotions spilled from you. 

You began, “I used to think that the fabric of our lives was…like, sewn together. Like we were destined to always be in each other's lives. But ever since the breakup I’m so afraid that everyone who ever warned me about you was right. I feel like all these years you’ve just been using me, stringing me along so you could have someone there when things don’t work out. Like I’m just your backup plan. Like I’m not even good enough for you to treat me like a human being.”

“You really feel like I’m using you?” Oscar asked, his surprise horrifically genuine. “Was I just using you when I went out of my way to call you every week for 4 years when I was away in school, even during exams and races? When I got you this place because I wanted to live close to my best friend?” His tone went from gentle to frenzied—not angry, but desperate, like he couldn’t even fathom it. “I mean, YN, what, did you want me to cheat on my girlfriend with you?”

You looked up at him, and he realized again that he had messed up again.

“No, that’s not what I wanted. I’d never do that to Lily because you know it’s been done to me.”

“I know, and was I not there for you when you needed me?” In a way, Oscar was right. When you had broken things off with your unfaithful ex, Oscar was the first to your rescue, staying with you for days while you could barely even function. “YN, what else do you want from me?”

“I want you to be honest about what’s going on between us.”

“We’re…. hooking up, I don’t know.”

“Is that all I am to you, a hookup? A friend with benefits?” Your soft tears became full on sobs now. “Oscar, I am in love with you! You are the love of my life. And you can’t tell me that you haven’t known exactly how I felt, for years now.”

“Of course I knew,” he whispered. 

“Then why would you do this to me? Why would you take advantage of me like this?”

Oscar had started crying now, too. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“This isn’t fair, Oscar.”

“I’m sorry.”

A thick silence fell over the balcony. You knew that the conversation should be over now. There was nothing else you needed to say. But you couldn’t stop yourself from continuing the pointless hurt. 

“Do you even love me?”

“Don’t—”

“Can you even look me in the fucking eyes and tell me that you don’t love me?”

“YN—” 

You didn’t even let him complete his sentence, instead walking back into your apartment and slamming our now cold mug into the sink. “Just go,” you said, your voice stern.

“YN, please—” Oscar said, following you inside the apartment. 

“Go!”

“You want the truth?” Oscar said, raising his voice to you for the first time since you’d ever known him. His eyes now flooded with tears, staining his cheeks. His hair was tousled, his under eye bags puffy and pronounced. He looked like a mess. 

“All I’ve ever wanted is the truth.”

“The truth,” he began, swallowing, his voice cracking as he spoke. “The truth is that I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

“No—”

“Yes, YN,” he said, his voice raising again.

“No, fuck you, Oscar, that’s not true!” You were both sobbing messes now. 

“Yes it is,” he begged, his voice ragged.

“Then why would you do this?”

“Because…” he paused, taking a deep breath and sniffling, trying to regain his composure. “Because we were best friends, and you lived with us, and I was so scared of fucking things up.”

“So you went and just found a girlfriend instead?”

“No, it…” he looked away from you and took a sharp exhale. “It wasn’t as simple as that. You…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “It was just…complicated. You were the girl who lived with us, like another sister, I mean, I couldn’t have feelings for you of all people. So I was so scared.”

He looked at the wall, scarating his neck, and continued. “And when I met Lily, it was all just…simple. Everyone liked her, she was nice, she’s smart. When I brought her home she fit right in, the fans loved her. She was everything I needed her to be, y’know?” He exhaled. 

His gaze fell to the floor and lingered as he continued. “I didn’t love her at first. I mean, I liked her, she was great, but it was more about just…filling a need, I guess. But I did fall in love with her later. I tried to love her with my whole heart, I really did. I thought that what I felt for you would just go away but obviously it didn’t. And then she fucking left me. As she should, honestly.”

Oscar nervously looked around the room until he could no longer avoid your piercing gaze, face frozen in disbelief.

“You’re horrible, Oscar.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You used me. You used Lily. And all of this from the very beginning was about… my family? I’m sorry you all had to take me in because no one else would. I’m sorry I didn’t go to a fancy boarding school in London. I’m sorry that my parents are two pieces of shit that didn't want to take care of me when I was a literal child.”

“It’s not that—”

“But it is. That’s what you said.”

“It’s not you, YN. I mean, it was, but we’re not kids anymore. I love you. It was just… awful circumstances.”

“And now? What’s your excuse? I cut off my parents. And Lily fucking left you. So why are you just using me now?”

“It’s just too much right now. The breakup, the championship…I know if I try, I’ll just fuck it up. I lost Lily, I can’t lose you too.”

“Why? Because then you’ll have no one to warm your bed when you’re sad?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone that you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with!”

“You’re right, I don’t. Because the person I want to spend the rest of my life with is you, Oscar. But you don’t want me. You never have. I’m your backup plan until something better comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been. I’m not good enough for you, you don’t love me. I don’t even know who you are any more.”

“You said I was the love of your life,” Oscar said, his voice lowered now. 

“You are. But I’m not yours. I don’t care what you say you feel. If you really love someone, you don’t treat them like that.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s all I can say.”

You let out a shaky breath, exhausted of all energy from the fighting. You didn’t even have it in you to be angry anymore. 

“We shouldn’t do this. We should just go our separate ways and be done with it.”

“No, YN—”

“You have a championship to focus on, don’t you?” you said. 

“You’re my best friend,” he said through his tears. “I need you.”

“I’ll finish out my employment contract through the end of the season. You can sell the apartment. I’ll pay back Mum for anything she had to spend on me when we were younger.”

“YN, please,” he begged. 

“Don’t, Oscar,” you said, your voice soft now. “Just let me go.”

“Can I kiss you?”

The correct answer should be no. You should have told him to get the fuck out of your apartment and never come back. But it was Oscar. 

You didn’t answer him, instead just walking up to him and embracing him, letting him hold you in his strong arms as his lips met yours one last time. His lips were salty with tears, but for once his touch was soft and gentle.

When you pulled away, he stayed close to you, pressing his forehead down to yours. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Go home. You’ve got a flight to catch in the morning.”

You could call in sick to the United States Grand Prix in Miami; Oscar could not. 

Well, theoretically, he could. God knows the reserve drivers would be happy to take his place and show off in front of the teams that were always scouring for new blood. But he couldn’t back down now. Not with a trophy looming so ominously over his head.

And especially not in Miami. Everyone hated Miami. Everyone except Lando, that is. 

And as Oscar mindlessly paced the paddock back and forth, praying to God that no journalists would pester him for an interview, he couldn’t escape the reminder of his teammate’s victory. 

“Well, things seem to be heating up here in Miami! The race continues between McLaren teammates Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris in this early battle for the World Driver’s Championship. Piastri is putting in a valiant effort, but who can forget Lando Norris’ first victory here last year? It’s incredible to see how far he has come in such a short amount of time—”

He really needed to stop walking past the commentator’s box. 

This is usually when Oscar would try to find you in the paddock, or send you a text from halfway across the world. But he couldn’t do that anymore; you hadn’t quite barred him from communication, but what could he say?

He just needed to focus. Perform. Drown himself in the work. That’s what he told himself as he made his way back to the McLaren garage, away from the prying eyes of the media and the haunting words of the commentators. That’s what he told himself as he slipped on a set of headphones and nodded along as his race engineer spoke, acting as if he was paying attention. 

That’s what he told himself as he climbed into the car, took a deep breath, and pressed his foot to the gas. 

Thousands of miles away, in Monaco, you were supposed to be having dinner. Actually, you were supposed to be in Miami, taking photos of Oscar in all his glory.

But you couldn’t face him. You couldn’t eat. You couldn’t even sleep.

In the corner of your living room sat a box with Oscar’s old stuff in it. You stared at it as if it had the eyes to stare back. Your hand mindlessly swirled your fork around your remaining food, now cold and mostly uneaten.

Why did this feel like a breakup?

You wanted to scream, but you’d already gotten noise complaints from the fight days prior. So instead, your apartment was deadly quiet. 

You sighed, moving to your bedroom and collapsing in the soft covers, having decided to give up and indulge yourself with a night of bed rotting. But even your bed felt empty. The sheets held a faint trace of Oscar’s scent. It would come out with a simple wash, but laundry was the furthest thing from your mind right now. 

You needed a distraction. You grabbed your phone and immediately went to social media to mindlessly scroll. 

But in your notifications was one you had nearly forgotten about: that message request from Lando. 

You opened it without even thinking, unfortunately sending the read receipt even though you weren’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now. 

Hey, not to be weird but do you know if anything’s going on with Oscar? He’s been acting odd recently.

You groaned in frustration. You couldn’t escape your best friend. 

The message was sent a while ago—when the pair were in Bahrain, actually. You should have just deleted it and acted as if you never saw it. But you felt horribly awkward leaving Lando on read. 

Yeah, he and Lily broke up :(

Was the frown really necessary? Should you say more? You didn’t have the energy to think, sending the message without much fanfare. You locked your phone and put it back on your nightstand. 

But only a few moments later, it buzzed. Another message from Lando.

But…Lando was in Miami? At the circuit? He should be driving, not texting you. You opened your phone and clicked on the notification. 

Damn, that’s rough. I thought they were endgame. You in the paddock?

You raised an eyebrow. Why would Lando Norris, of all people, want to know where you are?

No, I’m back in Monaco. 

Another nearly instant reply. Ah, I was hoping to make a cameo on Oscar’s Instagram haha. You’ll be at Imola though?

This whole interaction felt…weird.

I will! I’ll be sure to get some good team shots lol

You tried to match his energy with your reply, but you couldn’t shake the odd feeling that this wasn’t right. But as you finally did put your phone down and retire for the night, your mind kept racing, coming to wildly different conclusions.

Maybe Lando did want to be friends. Maybe, now that Lily was out of the picture, he felt more comfortable around you. Maybe he was just trying to smooth things over with Oscar in the championship battle. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Or maybe you were so used to Oscar’s lying and manipulation that you couldn’t imagine someone talking to you just for the sake of friendship. 

You huffed to yourself as the thought crossed your mind. You pulled your blanket up and buried yourself in it, as if the thoughts were something physical you could hide from. You fell into a tense sleep.

Oscar couldn’t sleep, though. He could barely sleep back when he had you at his beck and call, let alone when you all weren’t speaking to each other.

How had he fucked up so badly? He brought his hands to his face and roughly exhaled. Like you, he had resigned himself to spend his night scrolling, until he too noticed an unanswered message. 

Except it wasn’t from Lando. It was from Lily. As if things couldn’t get any worse. 

She was brief and to the point.

I just wanted to let you know I’ll be at Imola for a company event. I doubt we’ll run into each other. Hope you and YN are well. 

Her words stung. The professionalism where there once was warmth and love. The perfectly petty dig at him and you, assuming that he had already moved on (though, she wasn’t exactly wrong). 

He wanted to throw his phone off his hotel room balcony. From the slight crack in the blinds, he could see palm trees, and the ocean far off in the distance. And he knew that back in Monaco, you’d be staring at the same moon, hearing the water in the distance as it lulled you to sleep. The miles between you during race weekends had always been numerous, but the distance wasn't—not until now, at least. 

He slammed his phone on the nightstand and took yet another sleeping pill. 

It was going to be a horrible week. 

And, unfortunately, the morning wasn’t much better. Another oh so friendly interaction with his teammate. 

“Hey, Oscar, wait up,” the Brit called, jogging to catch Oscar as they both entered the paddock. Oscar slowed his pace but didn’t stop, hopeful that this would be a clear sign that he wasn’t here for conversation.

When he did catch up, Oscar just gave Lando a small nod as a greeting. 

“Hey, I, uh, heard about you and Lily. I’m so sorry, mate.”

Oscar turned, making a confused and irritated face. “Who told you?”

“YN. Well, I asked her if you were okay.”

The Aussie made a small grumbling noise. 

“I was just worried, you know. You just seemed like you were going through some stuff. You know I’m always here if you need me, right?”

“I need to beat you,” Oscar said, but his words had no bite to them. There was no snappy anger anymore, just exhaustion. 

“Of course,” Lando said, smiling, as if he thought his teammate’s championship ambitions were nothing more than comic relief. “But for real, man, I’m sorry and I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,” Oscar said, though he didn’t really mean it. He just wanted to be alone.

In Monaco, you were breaking your first cardinal rule of a breakup (even a friendship breakup) and turning on your TV to watch Oscar drive. 

You had managed to go without watching the free practices and even quali, but you couldn’t bring yourself to not watch the Grand Prix. 

And it was good that you tuned in, because he won. 

You nearly threw your phone across the room when he finally passed the checkered flag. You had been practically holding your breath since he secured the lead in a masterfully timed pit stop mid race, beating out Max Verstappen to bring home his second win of the season. 

So, maybe he wouldn’t hate Miami as much anymore. 

Your phone—secured now on your nightstand to prevent any race-related breakage—loomed in the distance as you debated sending him a congrats text. It wasn’t like you all had gone through a true breakup; you weren’t even together. But you knew you couldn’t let yourself end up in his bed again. You knew that he was a broken man, and you couldn’t fix him. 

So your friendship had come to occupy this odd liminal space in which neither of you knew exactly where you stood. At some point, this would have to be discussed, but clearly neither of you had learned your lesson on healthy communication. 

You wanted to tell your best friend that you were proud of him. Was that such a bad thing?

It wouldn’t be, if you could ignore that voice now echoing in your mind.

Since when are her feelings my problem?

You nearly gagged at the thought. Yeah, you weren’t texting him.

And back in Miami, Oscar anxiously awaited a text that would never come. 

“Oscar, mate, quit staring at your phone and let’s celebrate!” Lando teased, patting his teammate on the back. 

Oscar just sighed, opening his phone again to find no messages from you. 

“She’s not coming back,” Lando said. “So either you get drunk enough to call her, or you get drunk enough to find someone to replace her. Either way, you’re getting drunk tonight.”

“Really, Lando?” 

“She destroyed a five year relationship over some stupid shit, and you just won another grand prix. So yes, I think you should get fucked up with me tonight!”

“Don’t talk about Lily like that, mate. And besides, I’m not even waiting on her.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Then who are you waiting on?”

Oscar’s defenses were wearing down, even while sober. “You know who.”

“And you still want me to believe that you two aren’t hooking up?”

“It’s…complicated.” 

“Spill.”

Under normal circumstances, Oscar was never the type to discuss his personal life at work, much less with his rival for the championship. But as the plan of going out was abandoned in favor of a nice bottle of Cuban rum ordered to the room, Oscar found himself spilling his secrets like a teenage girl at a sleepover.

“And then I just…” he hiccuped, “I told her everything. And she didn’t believe me, and I don’t blame her, but it fucking hurt, you know? And we were just screaming at each other, she said we should go our separate ways. What am I supposed to say to that? And I still haven’t heard from her, but her and Lily are gonna be at Imola. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Mate,” Lando said, slurring his words, “You fucked this up worse than I fucked up the championship last year.”

The two drivers laughed—otherwise, they’d have to cry at the peril poor Oscar had put himself in. 

But the time flew by, and soon enough Oscar found himself on a flight to Italy, which he secretly prayed would crash so that he could avoid this entire charade. 

Of course, on all your respective flights, the feeling was mutual; neither you, Oscar, nor Lily really wanted to be there. But duty called, and you were nothing if not professional. 

It was an odd place to be; on one hand, you loved this job. It was fun getting to explore the world with your best friend and get paid to take pictures and make silly videos. The electric atmosphere of the paddock was one that had always felt like home, like you belonged there.

On the other hand, every time you thought about seeing Oscar again, you wanted to puke. 

Thankfully, when you did inevitably see him again, your lunch did not resurface. You operated like a robot; no banter, no friendliness, just stark professionalism. 

And Oscar didn’t know what was worse; not having you there, or seeing you act like a stranger. 

The one silver lining, at least, was that Lily was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t handle those emotions too. 

So, again and again throughout the weekend, he repeated that manta to himself: Just focus on work. Just focus on work. 

He said it to himself one last time before he hopped in the car for qualifying. Just focus. 

But he just couldn't. From the seat of his car, the chaos of the pit lane and the gaggles of photographers were just blurs, unidentifiable blobs. I had always comforted him to think that one of those was you, watching him. Now it was haunting. 

And somewhere, buried away in the paddock, Lily was there. Oscar could imagine it; her polished and professional demeanor, almost perfect, as she schmoozed up to that one executive from the company that he swore always had a thing for her. 

He wanted to scream. Instead, he had to pull the car into the garage as the session was stopped due to an accident. It was raining heavily. Extra caution was advised, his engineer explained, but Oscar couldn’t focus. Not because of his thoughts—although, those certainly didn’t help—but rather because of what he saw across the garage.

You were chatting with Lando. 

“Hey, YN!” Lando greeted as he hopped out of his car, seeing you in the back of the garage taking photos. “It’s nice to see you.”

“You too,” you said, though it wasn’t particularly true. 

“Looks like we’re going to be a while,” he said looking over his shoulder at the storm brewing in the distance, “want to walk the paddock with me and get some candids?” 

“Sure,” you agreed, though the request confused you. 

The two of you left the garage and Oscar felt like punching the wall. 

At first you walked in silence, your only emitted sound being the soft click of your camera. It was kind of pointless, though, since you were supposed to be getting shots of Oscar. You knew this. Lando knew this too.

“Can I ask you something, Lando?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there any reason that you’ve been pretty…friendly lately?” you asked, controlling your tone so it came off as genuinely curious rather than suspicious.

“Honestly,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck with nervousness, “I felt really bad about everything that happened on the trip. I was afraid I might’ve scared you off.”

Well, that didn’t make much sense. Lando was the one who had been avoiding you since the trip. But, after dealing with Oscar, you had simply accepted that men in general made no sense. 

“You didn’t,” you said. “And, I mean, the only reason we ended up like that is because Lily was trying to get rid of me. But, you see how that worked out.” 

“Really? She didn’t have the balls to tell you to leave her man alone?”

“Not until after you left,” you said, exhaling in exhaustion.

“Damn,” he said, looking away from you. You snapped a few photos of his candid side profile, admiring how the light hit his curls just right. “You know, the only reason I ran off in the club that night like that was because I didn’t want to get involved in all that? I mean, I wasn’t about to steal Oscar’s side chick.” He laughed.  “But from what I hear, things have changed?”

You laughed. “Oscar’s side chick?”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t sleeping together?”

“Why do you want to know?” you laughed. Was Lando…flirting with you? No. He couldn’t be. He was Lando Norris, the most notorious playboy of the 2025 grid. 

“Aw, c’mon. I want to know the drama!” he teased, flashing his boyish smile. 

“Well, what if I want to know your drama?” you teased back, taking the opportunity to snap a few photos of him as you continued walking. 

“Psh, I’ve got no drama. Just keeping to myself, trying to win.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“You’re avoiding the question, YN,” he said, smirking. Holy shit, he was flirting with you. But did you really mind? It felt nice to have that playful banter, to see a man who wanted that back and forth more than he just wanted your body. What was wrong with having a little fun?

You sighed and told him the most technical version of the truth. “Oscar never cheated. But you really thought I was sleeping with Oscar and you didn’t say anything to Lily?”

“Wasn’t my business. Besides, I thought it was pretty obvious.” His comment left a bit of a sour taste in your mouth, especially knowing the fears that Lily had confessed to you so long ago.

“No, I wouldn’t do that to Lily,” you said, and it was true. After all, you were both women. 

“And what about Oscar?”

You rolled your eyes. Having a nice conversation with Lando helped you remember how not nice your time with Oscar had been recently. “Oh, fuck him,” you said weakly. 

“Well, did you?”

You paused, unsure of whether or not to confess. “I already told you that he didn’t cheat. Is what, or who, I do in my spare time really any of your business?” you playfully teased.

His lips curled upwards. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

The double entendre wasn't missed on you. You glanced over your shoulder, scanning the crowds to ensure that no one was paying too close attention. “You don’t have to worry about me and Oscar. But you know I run his social media, right? So I see all the gossip pages, all the shit you get yourself into. It’s a bold claim to say you’ve got no drama.”

“Oh, darling, they don’t even know the half of it,” he smirked. You all had turned around by now, walking back in the direction of the paddock. The crows were thinner now. 

He continued, “But what about you, huh? You’re all bored with Oscar and now you want some real fun?” He let out a small laugh. “No, you’re not like that. Too much of a good girl.”

“You think I’m too good? I’m here flirting with my best friend’s rival for the championship.”

“Are we flirting, is that was this is?” he asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. “I thought we were just having a pleasant conversation, catching up on the gossip.” Unbeknownst to you, Lando had gotten all the gossip from Oscar after their drunken celebration in Miami. But he wanted to see exactly how much you’d reveal to him. 

“Well, sure then. I’m sure you get tired of race talk all day, anyway.”

“You say that like you think race talk is boring. But I’ve seen you at enough races to know better. Don’t play coy, you love it, don’t you? You know more about racing than most of the drivers’ girlfriends.” 

It kind of unnerved you, the way Lando knew exactly how to push your buttons. The subtle you’re not like the other girls implication; both you knew it wasn’t a compliment, but rather a statement meant to rile you up and see how you’d react. And it worked.

Your voice lowered, steady yet quieter. “It’s a bit sexist to assume that women don’t know anything about racing. And knowing more about racing doesn’t make me any better than anyone else.”

“I never said that, love.”

“Hmm, but you thought it.” 

“Are you in my head now?” You playfully rolled your eyes. “So tell me about all the race talk between you and Oscar.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” you chuckled.

“D’you want it to be?” he smirked. “No, no, really. Tell me what groundbreaking F1 opinions are inside that pretty little head of yours.” Yeah, he was definitely flirting with you. 

“I’ve got nothing groundbreaking,” you said as your smile loosened, contemplating how you wanted to arrange your words. “I think Oscar has a good shot at winning the WDC this year, if he can get out of his own head.”

“And what about me?”

“I think you’ll give him a run for his money. But you care too much about what random people on the internet think,” you said, ending the statement with that on the nose jest.

“You’re probably right,” he smiled. “God, you sounded like my PR manager for a sec there.”

“Not exactly dirty talk, is it?” you joked.

You arrived back at the McLaren garage. Lando walked in first, seeing that Oscar’s back was to you, and positioned himself so that when Oscar looked around, he’d see him instead of you. You were none the wiser. 

He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “You still haven’t answered my question. How was he?” Lando’s face was plastered with a mischievous grin. 

You playfully hit his shoulder. “Don’t ask me that!” you cooed, though you didn’t mind his closeness, the warmth of his breath on your ear. 

Oscar didn’t like it, though. And when he turned around and saw your back to him, Lando leaned down next to you, and smirking, he wanted to run him over with his car. 

Lando looked up for only a split second, but his eyes met Oscar’s, as if to acknowledge what he was doing. Or, as if to say, yes, I’m doing this, and you can’t stop me. 

Oscar couldn’t handle the audacity of watching Lando flirt with you in front of his own eyes. Thankfully, you were tapped on the shoulder by none other than the new guy, who had broken his extremely expensive camera, and you were called away to help him figure it out. 

Oscar crossed the garage to face Lando, never breaking his line of sight. 

“Oh hey, mate, what’s up?” Lando asked, innocently.

“Why are you talking to YN?”

“Oh, she wanted to take some photos—”

“Don’t talk to YN,” Oscar said, his voice plain but stern. 

“Mate, we were just having a chat. It wasn’t like that. Don’t be so paranoid.”

“I’m serious,” Oscar reiterated. “Don’t cross that line, Lando.”

“Okay, my bad,” Lando said, nervously laughing and carelessly throwing his hands in the air. Oscar still wouldn’t shift his gaze, even as both drivers were called to get back in their cars to resume the qualifying session. 

There was something up about Lando, he could tell. But it’d have to wait. Now, he had a pole to get. 

Well, he tried, but only managed to come in fourth. Lando got pole. Of fucking course. 

Another sleepless night passed with no messages from you. 

And the next morning, there you were as usual, staring at him only through the eye of your camera lens. 

But then, across the garage, you had no problem chatting it up with Lando. He threw you a glimpse of his award winning smirk and Oscar felt violent. He didn’t like this. Not one bit. 

You were doing it to spite him, that was obvious. You’d never be interested in a guy like Lando; too much of a playboy. And honestly, Oscar knew deep down that he deserved this. But it still made him sick to his stomach. 

The feeling only dissipated when it was replaced by that primitive need within him to win. The lights before him went out and reason gave way to instinct. 

Lando bottled the pole, losing the lead to Max after the first corner. Oscar fell back one place, narrowly avoiding a collision between Charles and Lewis, before overtaking them as they struggled to reorient their cars. 

So it was just him, Max, and Lando. He could do this. 

His body moved automatically. He could hear the roar of the engines, the chattering of the radio, and the screaming of the fans in the distance, but in his mind all was quiet. Laps blurred as he sped along the track, pushing inch by inch closer to overtaking Max. 

Eventually he did, getting DRS and flying past the Redbull driver, pushing hard to get a good lead over him. 

All that was left now was his own teammate. 

“Okay Oscar, you’ve got enough space between you and Verstappen,” his race engineer said.

“I want to overtake.”

“A 1-2 is our goal right now—”

“Then he can be 2nd. I want to win.”

Silence befell the radio channel for a moment. 

His engineer returned. “Okay. Papaya rules.”

Papaya rules. The phrase that haunted his dreams. 

There was really no need to use the coded language anymore. The world knew what it meant—race, but keep it clean. Put the team above yourself. Don’t do anything reckless. 

But Oscar was sick of being the good teammate, the one who always let Lando win for the sake of the team. He was tired of being gifted wins. Team orders were bullshit. This wasn’t about McLaren anymore. This was about his pride. This was everything. 

So he pushed harder than he should have. He was wearing his tires out, he knew, but Lando just coasted along, as if nothing was amiss. As if his teammate wasn’t out for blood and gaining on him with every lap. 

Lando glanced in his mirrors and saw Oscar behind him. 

“Oscar’s getting close,” he said to his engineer. 

“We told him papaya rules. Remember, our goal here is a 1-2.”

“He’s gonna wear out his tires.”

“Let’s just focus on keeping P1.”

But Lando knew it wasn’t that simple. This was no longer impersonal racing, just the best of the best competing against each other because it was in their nature to do so. 

No, this was personal now. 

Lando rounded the corner, feeling Oscar hot on his heels, but managed to defend his position. He knew that with DRS enabled at the next stretch, he wouldn’t be able to hold him off. 

But in front of him, he was already close to lapping the backmarkers of the grid.

Oscar could see them in the distance; the familiar teal of Lance Stroll’s Aston Martin, and an even more familiar fumble as he drove erratically due to some mechanical issue with the car. 

Lando slowed down, but Oscar couldn’t react. He swerved, hitting the barrier. 

Back in the garage, the breath left your lungs. 

You couldn’t resist the temptation of watching. You’d slid the headset on after Oscar had driven off, and you’d planned to leave before he got back to the garage and discovered that you’d ever been there. No harm, no foul. The allure of the purring engines and adrenaline-fueled racing was just too much to resist.

But now, hearing the violent scrape of carbon fiber against metal as Oscar’s car screeched along the barriers, your heart sunk into your chest. 

“Are you alright, Oscar?” you heard his race engineer ask, his voice filling your ears. 

But the silence afterwards was deafening. 

“Oscar, can you hear us? Are you alright?” 

All that came through was a metallic gargle of noise, a sign that the radio had been damaged in the impact. There was no way to know if Oscar was hurt or not.

A hush fell on the track as the safety car was brought out. Lando had effectively secured his win, with so few laps remaining. 

Your eyes were glued to the screen, praying to whatever God would listen that Oscar would be okay. You watched as the marshalls rushed to the site of the car, huddling around the lump of broken parts that stood still on the sidelines. 

Because of the force of the crash, the medical car had been deployed as well. You were frozen in place.

You had never been much of a believer in God, but all you could do now was beg.

Please, God. Please let him be okay. If he’s okay I can forgive everything he’s ever done. If he’s okay I will never let him out of my life ever again. Please, God, please let him be safe. 

You chanted the prayer over and over again to yourself as the seconds ticked by like hours. 

Finally, after an agonizingly long wait, you saw the marshalls carrying along an orange-clad form into the medical car. 

You didn’t even think. You just reacted, taking off your headset and booking it towards the medical tent. 

You weren’t the only one there, though. The tent was already swarmed with media, all craning their necks to see Oscar. You pushed your way through to the front, only to be stopped by security, since you had your media pass instead of your usual VIP pass as one of Oscar’s friends. 

You panicked—to the eyes of security, you were just another reporter who was rudely trying to cut through the crowd to get to the injured driver.

“Please let me by,” you pleaded. “I know Oscar—”

“You can wait at the media tent.”

“C’mon—”

“Ma’am, we need you to leave.” You groaned, and you were about to leave before you heard the voice of your savior from out of nowhere. 

“Hey!” he called. You turned your head to see who it was—the familiar, friendly face of Zak Brown. 

He was on the other side of the barrier, but Oscar was still nowhere to be found. 

“Oh, YN, am I glad to see you!” He turned to the security officer. “Let her in.”

“Sir, media personnel are not authorized—”

“She’s VIP, not media.”

“Sir—”

“Do you know who I am?” he said, an unusual sternness in his tone. The security officer glanced down at his pass and silently let you through. 

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Zak said, his boyish grin returning as he patted you on the back and led you along to the private area where they’d be bringing Oscar any second now. 

You sighed as he pulled the medical curtain closed. 

“Boy, was that a nasty crash,” he said.

“Is he okay?”

“Well, he’s alive. That’s as far as I know.”

Your heart sank again. But as if on cue, you heard the rumble of camera shutters and reporters chattering outside the tent as the marshals escorted Oscar into the tent. When he came up, the room was flooded with medical personnel, pushing you and Zak back to the edge of the curtained-off room. 

A nurse rushed in. “Who’s his emergency contact?” she asked Zak.

“Her,” he said, gesturing to you. You were confused. Since when had Oscar made you his emergency contact? 

“Stay here,” the nurse instructed, but even if you wanted to, you couldn’t move an inch. You resumed your prayers as Zak blabbered on and on, mainly to himself. One thing that you’d learned very quickly about Zak Brown once Oscar had gotten to McLaren is that he really liked to yap. 

As the doctors and nurses filtered in and out of the room, you caught a brief glimpse of Oscar in the hospital bed, his eyes rolled back into his head, slumped over into his shoulder. 

You wanted to wail. 

But it was only a few minutes before everyone began to filter out of the room, creating enough space for you to finally see your friend. And when you did lay eyes on him, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you feared. 

His eyes were closed; an attempt to rest, rather than a state of unconsciousness. 

A nurse at his bedside turned to you. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be fine. We’re going to sedate him and transport him to a hospital, but he’s not gravely injured. He just needs some tests done that we can’t do here.”

You nodded along, not once taking your eyes off Oscar. 

“And, yes, you are his emergency contact, so we’ll need you to come with us. He’s authorized you to make decisions in the event that he's unable to. But that is unlikely, of course.”

“Is he…?” you asked, gesturing towards him. 

“He’s still a little shaken up. The best thing right now is to get him into a calmer environment.”

You nodded. “I’ll make sure that new guy doesn’t lose all your stuff,” Zak quipped, and you threw a smile out towards him. “I’ll meet you all there when we’ve wrapped up here.”

Ah yes, the grand prix was likely still going on outside, and Lando would have to climb the podium and take his P1 trophy home. 

But as you sat in a hospital room in Italy next to your best friend, the podium was the last thing on your mind. 

Oscar was still completely out of it. The doctors had come and gone, confirming that all of his tests had come back normal. No broken bones, no concussion, nothing major. Just a shit ton of bruises and a shock to the system that left him too exhausted to stay awake for more than 15 minutes at a time.

Outside, the sun was setting, but you couldn’t sit still. You held Oscar’s limp hand in your own, tracing patterns into the cold skin. You hadn’t held his hand since you were kids—no, Oscar had held your hands above your head as he pinned you to the wall only weeks ago. 

You flung the memory away. Now wasn’t the time. Besides, you promise you’d forgive all that. 

Either way, you couldn’t focus on that now. Oscar’s eyelashes were fluttering open, his eyes squinting at the fluorescent light above him. 

“Osc!” you said, truthfully too energetic for the occasion. You dropped his hand, got up, and turned off the overhead light, leaving only the swiftly fading daylight from outside the window to illuminate the room. 

He groaned as you sat back down, but still mumbled a small thanks. 

“Where am I?” he asked, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes.

“A hospital in Imola.” 

“Shit,” he sighed. 

“Yeah. You had a pretty bad crash.”

“I remember that,” he said, his throat dry and cracked. He took a sip of water. “Lando brake checked me.”

“Is that what happened? I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yeah. Fucker,” he cursed, his voice dripping with contempt. You didn’t know what to say. 

“How are you feeling?” you finally said, tired of the lingering tension. 

“Awful. Everything hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, reaching for his call button to request painkillers. “I’ve missed you.”

It was bold, doing this when he knew you couldn’t exactly be cruel to him. So, instead, you were honest. 

“I’ve missed you too. I’m just glad you’re okay,” you said, reaching forward to smooth his hair away from his sweat-stained forehead. Your touch felt better than any painkiller. “We were really scared.”

“Nah, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon,” he joked as the nurse arrived and wordlessly administered his meds. He let out a sigh as he felt the painkillers enter his system. “I run on pure spite. A little wall isn’t gonna take me out.”

You gave him a small smile. “You didn’t say anything after the crash,” you said, your voice just a quivering whisper, giving away the true depths of your fear.

“I had the wind knocked out of me. And then, everything just went black, I was fading in and out.”

“I was praying you’d be okay. It was so scary.”

“Hey, I’m okay. A little busted up, but I wasn't exactly a looker anyway, huh?” he joked, a feeble attempt to make you laugh. You sniffled and smiled.

He continued, “Can I use my near-death experience as an excuse for us to make up?”

Your smile dropped and you bit your lip.  “Osc…”

“I just want my friend back,” he said, cutting you off. “Look, I can’t be the boyfriend you deserve. Not right now, at least. And I think, after all the shit I did, you wouldn’t want me to anyway. But I miss my friend.”

“I miss my friend, too.” 

Your heart to heart was interrupted by a knock at the door. The same nurse from before poked her head in. “Excuse me?” she asked in an Italian accent, and you looked up. “There is a visitor asking to be let in. She said her name is Lily?”

You couldn’t help the face you made. What on God’s green Earth was Lily doing in Imola?

“Um, yeah, let her in,” Oscar said. He didn’t react, though you scooted away and sat at the edge of your seat, ready to leave at any second. “Stay,” he whispered to you, and you did. 

A few moments later, you saw her walk in, and the atmosphere was thick. 

“Hi Oscar,” she exhaled, grateful to see him okay. He greeted her back, but she didn’t even look at you. You got up to give them a moment, but Oscar reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Don’t go,” he said, and the look in his eyes was impossible to refuse. You tentatively sat back down. 

“How are you feeling?” Lily asked, and the two exchanged pleasant conversation back and forth. You wanted nothing more than to jump out of the window that now showed the sunset over the trees. Normal visiting hours would be ending soon. 

“Well, I just wanted to make sure that you were okay,” she said, getting up to leave. “I’m glad you’re doing well. You too, YN,” she added on the end, but you didn’t believe it. You gave her a flat but polite smile. 

“Actually, YN, could we have a word?” she asked, cocking her head in the direction of the hallway. 

The look on Oscar’s face told you that this was a horrible idea. But one of you was confined to a hospital bed, and the other wasn’t. You ignored him and followed Lily into the deserted hallway.

She turned to you, voice full of venom. “How long have you been sleeping with Oscar?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” she said, plain as day. 

“I’ve told you before, Oscar never cheated on you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head in confusion. “What are you getting at?”

Lily angrily sighed. “You think that you can just waltz around the paddock talking shit about me with Lando, and that I’m not going to hear about it?”

Had Lily been at the paddock? Or even worse: had she somehow heard you?

“Well, if you actually heard my conversation with Lando, you’ll know that I stood up for you.”

“I thought you were a girl’s girl,” she said, deflecting from your defense.

“I am.”

“Then why were you in bed with my boyfriend 4 days after we broke up?”

“Your ex boyfriend,” you said, meeting her level of venom. “You left him.”

“I just thought, after all that talk, you’d have the decency not to prove me right.”

“Lily, I was honest with you. If you’re mad at Oscar, don’t take it out on me. He’s the one who suggested it. I told him it was a bad idea.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“And I felt horrible about it. So I stopped.” Your voice was sharp. “Who told you any of this?”

“It doesn't matter. I hope you’re happy.”

“I hope you are, too. Genuinely.” You lacked the words to say what you really wanted to. He treats both of us like shit. He used us. I am not your enemy. She wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. She wordlessly walked away, scoffing and mumbling to herself. 

You didn’t say anything either as you walked back into the hospital room and slumped in the chair.

“I’m guessing that didn’t go well?” Oscar said.

“Nope.”

“Well, we were in the middle of something…”

Oh, right. The conversation where Oscar was trying to get back in your pants. 

“I’m not going to fuck you, Oscar.” 

“I’m not asking you to.”

“We can let anything lead to that. Not again.”

“I understand,” he said. “I just want my friend back in my life. Like all of that never happened.”

“Could we even do that?” you asked. It felt like a line had been crossed, moving your friendship in a way that couldn’t be undone. 

“I promise. And I know my word doesn’t mean much, but really, I promise. Never again.”

Haven't you promised that you’d forgive him?

“Okay,” you said, “Okay.”

Oscar smiled at you, showing off his bunny teeth. You still loved him. You couldn’t help it. But true to form, you could never stay away.

“Oh, and by the way, congrats on Miami.”

You fell asleep in the chair, having refused to leave Oscar’s side. He’d be discharged in the morning to make his flight back to Monaco, though it was questionable whether or not he’d be able to race in the iconic Grand Prix. 

True to his word, though, Oscar got one final set of visitors in the dead of night.

The first was Zak Brown. 

“Oscar!” Zak yelled, before Oscar shushed and pointed to your sleeping form. You stirred but didn’t fully wake, and Zak placed his hand over his mouth and raised his eyebrows as Oscar let out a quiet laugh.

“Hey Zak,” he said, his voice hushed.

“Glad to see you’re doing better.”

“Yeah, I made it,” he mused. “Hey, what did the FIA say?” Oscar’s phone had died since you had fallen asleep, and his charger had been left at the track.

Thankfully, Zak had brought his (and your) belongings, and he placed the bag at the foot of the hospital bed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the penalty, from the crash?”

“No one got a penalty.”

“But, Lando brake checked me.”

“Lando barely avoided a crash with Stroll.”

“I know, but he didn’t swerve, he slowed down. He had room to swerve, I didn’t. How did no one get a penalty?”

“That's just racing.”

“He intentionally slowed down to stop me!”

“Oscar, I highly doubt that that’s what happened. It was a crowded track, and you all had to react in a split second. These things happen, you know this.” 

Oscar wasn’t at all pleased with this answer, and it was worsened by the appearance of his second visitor: Lando himself.

“Ah, there’s our grand prix winner!” Zak said, giving him a hearty pat on the back. 

Lando smiled, and Oscar wanted to throw up. 

“Had to bring it home for the team,” he said, smiling at Zak. “You doing alright, mate?” he asked. 

Oscar was already tired of people asking him how he was feeling. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Lando gave Stroll an earful after the race.”

“Oh yeah, probably getting fined for that one…”

“Why? I didn’t crash because of Stroll. You brake checked me.” The pain was making Oscar more irritable. He’d need another dose of meds soon. 

“No, Stroll was driving like an idiot out there, I had to slow down.”

“No, you had to move. You’re not stupid. You just didn’t want me to overtake, didn’t you?”

“Okay, boys, let’s save this for the track,” Zak interjected. Oscar just grumbled. “I’ll meet you outside, yeah?” he said to Lando, who nodded but stayed behind. 

The Brit glanced at you, still fast asleep in the chair by Oscar’s bedside. “D’you tire out your babysitter?” he smiled. 

But Oscar was relentless. “Don’t talk about her.”

“I thought you all weren’t on speaking terms?” 

“Lando, mind your business.”

“I don’t know what your problem is, mate.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“I’m not up to anything. I’m just trying to be a good teammate. Jesus, Osc, they should check that you didn’t hit your head too hard, you’re so paranoid.”

Truthfully, Oscar was bluffing. He had a horrible feeling about his teammate, but no evidence to back it up. But his intuition was hardly ever wrong. 

“I ran into Lily after you left,” Lando said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told her you were here.” His tone of voice was so gentle that Oscar began to wonder if maybe he was being too paranoid.

“Yeah, she came by earlier.” 

Lando’s eyes glanced back to your sleeping form, and Oscar felt his anger rise again. He didn’t even want Lando to look in your direction, let alone be speaking to you. 

“Your heart rate is up,” Lando said, gesturing to the monitor that now showed the physical effects of Oscar’s anger.

“Look, Lando,” Oscar said, shifting to sit up in bed. “Stop acting like we’re friends. Stop talking to YN, stop trying to play this buddy-buddy game. We’re here to beat each other.”

“I was just trying to be kind, but I guess if you really don’t want to be friends, I can’t make you.”

“I’m serious. Leave YN alone. Don’t even go there.”

“She’s an adult.”

“And she’s mine.”

Lando laughed. “Seriously? That’s not exactly what she told me.”

The monitor beeped again as Oscar’s heart rate continued to rise. “I don’t care what she told you.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“Try it. See what happens.”

A nurse gently knocked on the door, and Oscar was grateful for the distraction and relief of pain meds. 

“Well,” Lando said, leaning on the door, “I guess I’ll see you all in Monaco.”

[kentofic]

Aaaaa could you pls do #19 with Sylus for the christmas prompts? 🥹

(Also heyyy, hope you’re well! Sending you love! 🥰💕)

anything for you my dear 💗💗 thank you for the prompt! and i hope you’re doing well too !! 🥰

Head over heels - Sylus x reader

You’ve learned exactly two things this evening:

You should always, always test the treads of new shoes before braving a wintery evening walk.

The N109 zone needs to salt the damn sidewalks.

“Sylus, would you stop that and help me,” you say through gritted teeth. You’re clinging to a lamppost, your legs unsteady and slipping beneath you.

“Thought you said you didn’t need any help, sweetie,” Sylus snickers.

You groan. You had, in fact, said that the first time you almost ate shit on the walk home. But this is the fourth time your new boots have skidded out from under you on the icy sidewalk, and you’ve come to regret turning down the arm he offered.

Sylus, of course, is gloating. The lens shutter sound of his phone camera clicks repeatedly as he snaps blackmail photos.

“Is this all it takes to bring the valiant Miss Hunter to her knees? A bit of ice?” he grins.

Your frown deepens, and you try to pull yourself into a more dignified position, but your feet slide on the icy concrete. You squeak as you hold tighter to the lamppost, your feet slipping in a frantic sort of dance until you finally find a precarious balance again.

“This is all your fault. You’re the one who bought me these boots,” you glower at him.

“I assumed you knew how to walk, kitten. Forgive me.” His shit-eating grin is illuminated by the light of his phone. You’d like very much to smack it off his face.

Finally, he slips his phone back into his pocket. He extends a hand towards you—the picture of a gentleman, if it weren’t for his self-satisfied smirk. You scowl, but you’re not above accepting his help at this point. You reach a mittened hand out to his, stretching your arm as far as you can, but you can’t quite close the distance without losing your balance. Sylus takes a step closer, about to clasp your hand in his, but then there’s a blur of movement and a grunt of surprise and—

He’s flat on his back, limbs akimbo. He looks up at you from the icy ground, bewildered and disoriented.

You literally point and laugh—howling with mirth, shoulders shaking. Sylus heaves himself into a sitting position, unimpressed, as you double over with the force of your laughter. You’re giddy with delight at the karmic justice that has unfolded; Sylus, however, isn’t so accepting of fate.

There’s a snap, a curl of red mist, and the world suddenly tilts as Sylus pulls you down to the ground with him, his chest to your back and his arms wrapped around your waist. He lands straight on his ass, you in his lap, and you shriek as the two of you slide several feet down the sidewalk, spinning as you go. By the time you’ve skidded to a halt, you’re both laughing and breathless.

“You absolute bastard. I hope you ripped a hole in your fancy pants.”

“You want the whole world getting a peek at my ass? Thought it was for your eyes only, sweetie.”

“Sylus!”

You wriggle and kick in his grip, but he just buries his face into the softness of your hair, still chuckling and trying to regain his composure. He must be a sight—the infamous leader of Onychinus on his ass in the street, giggling like a schoolboy, with his pretty Hunter in his lap. He savors the moment a second longer before dropping a kiss to the top of your head and releasing his grip.

You extricate yourself and find your way back onto your feet, warily testing the grip of your shoes on the sidewalk. Finding it adequate, you extend a hand to Sylus and help pull him up. Neither of you fall this time. You dust off your hands and turn back in the direction you were walking, ready to resume your treacherous journey.

Sylus stops you with a hand at your waist. You turn to look at him, then you’re suddenly scooped up into his arms, bridal-style.

“Um??” you squeak as he shifts, settling you more comfortably in his arms, your head nestled against his chest. Your feet dangle—your useless boots finally freed from their futile task.

Sylus glances down at you, a twinkle in his eye, as he starts walking in the direction of home.

“Cross your fingers for me, kitten. If I go down again, we go down together.”

[simplyholl]

The Newlywed Game

Summary: You’re forced to play The Newlywed Game with your ex situationship.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F. Reader

Warnings: Angst. Smuttish, but not my usual descriptive smut. 18+ Only. Minors DNI.

See my Masterlist here

“I can’t.” That’s all the explanation you got when Bucky ended your situationship. You were friends with benefits for almost a year. The only rule he had was don’t fall in love. He had too much baggage and he never wanted a family. He didn’t want anyone to depend on him.

You couldn’t blame him, he was traumatized by Hydra. Trapped inside his own body for decades, he was afraid it could happen again. You jumped in head first with him anyways. You were in his bed after every mission, every meeting, every day. You basically lived in his room, not that he would ever admit that. Then one rainy afternoon, you knocked on his door like always. Except this time, he didn’t pull you into his warm embrace.

He moved out of the way so you could come in, and immediately you knew something was wrong. You reached for him, ready to console him, desperate for his touch. He had just finished a mission with Sam and he’d been gone for two weeks. You missed him, and he was usually so excited to see you.

When you placed your hand on his cheek, rubbing the scruff that had grown while he was gone, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist removing it. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was so low you could barely understand. Your eyes narrowed at his words. “Have I done something wrong?”

“This has gone on for longer than it should have. I can’t let it anymore.” Your throat tightens, but you refuse to cry in front of him. You walked out and your relationship with him was never the same. You didn’t hang out anymore.

When you were alone, he would leave. He didn’t sit beside you during the Friday night movie. He didn’t choose you for his partner on game night. The other Avengers didn’t know for sure that you were hooking up. You hid it pretty well. They had their suspicions, but neither of you ever confirmed it.

Tony called everyone to the back yard. “What’s all this?” Steve asks, pointing to the stage he had set up. “It’s my anniversary tomorrow and Pepper said she always wanted to play the Newlywed Game. So I had this built so we could play.”

“That’s great, Tony. But who are you all going to play with? There’s four set up’s and only two couples.” Steve gestures to Wanda and Vision. “Thought about that and Cap, you and Natasha are going to play and….” He looks at the whole team, everyone looking in different directions trying not to make eye contact. Except for Sharon, who hung around a lot lately. She was getting closer to Bucky, obviously wanting Tony to choose them. You roll your eyes. “Barnes and Y/N. There now we have all our couples. I’m going to go get Pep, you guys take your spots.”

You look at Bucky,but he’s busy talking to Steve about how ridiculous it is. You hear Sharon agree that he should have chosen someone else. When Pepper comes in, she excitedly claps her hands together. She points to the other teams, “You’re going down!” She laughs, but you can’t help but protest, “This is rigged! You guys and Wanda and Vision are the only real couples!! How is anyone else supposed to win?”

Tony shoots you a death glare but answers, “Cap and Natasha have definitely bumped uglies before. And you and Barnes are close friends. I thought that would make it more fair. But, I do expect to win.” You cross your arms, but accept his answer. Bucky finally looks at you, but it’s not friendly.

Sam comes out, wearing a suit Tony made him wear to host. “I’ll explain the rules. You all have a whiteboard, marker, and eraser. I will ask a question and you will write your answer on your boards. If your answer matches your partner’s you get a point. I’ll eliminate one couple each round until the final tie breaker.”

You take a deep breath. This is hell. But you do know Bucky better than anyone, so as long as he didn’t ask any crazy questions, you would be fine. “First question. Where is the craziest place you and your partner have had sex?” You freeze. Of course Stark had these wild questions. If you both answered the same, everyone would know that you had hooked up.

You think about lying, but decide the ball should be in Bucky’s court. You’ll answer correctly, and if he doesn’t you’ll know he doesn’t want anyone to know. You quickly scribble your answer, waiting on Sam to call on you. Tony’s answer is Steve’s room and Pepper’s matched. Everyone laughed while Steve said Tony has to pay for his room to be deep cleaned.

Wanda and Vision both answer “in the air.” Natasha and Steve said a table in the meeting room. You turn your board to reveal your answer and Bucky shows his. You look and see that he has answered correctly. “The quinjet?! Damn y’all are nasty!” Sam laughs.

You’re taken back to that moment. You, Bucky, and Bruce were on your way back from a mission. Bruce was driving the quinjet, but activated the mode Tony installed for breaks. As soon as he started snoring, Bucky led you to the bathroom. He took you against the wall, metal hand across your mouth to stifle your moans. It was one of the hottest things you’d ever done. Your suit clung to you in the worst ways after that. His cum dripping down your legs, it was nearly impossible to take off.

The others look at each other in surprise. Scott yells “I told you they were hooking up. No one believed me!” Sharon looks at Bucky so harshly that if looks could kill, he’d be dead. He just shrugs his shoulders. Of course, he would be hooking up with her. Why wouldn’t he? She was pretty and it had been three months since he ended things with you.

The next question was “Who hogs the covers more?” Everyone got it right except for Steve and Natasha. She said that wasn’t a fair question because they never actually slept when they were together. The round continued with four more questions. At the end, Steve and Natasha were eliminated because they had the least amount of points. The rest of you were tied.

“What is your partner’s pet name for you?” Sam asks. That’s easy, “doll”, you write. When you reveal your answers, Sharon looks furious. That must be what he calls her too. It stings, thinking of them together. You don’t have time to dwell on it before Sam asks the next question. “What is the highest number of orgasms your partner has given you in one night?” Your eyes widen, you know the answer, but you don’t know if he will remember.

Tony and Pepper answer three, Tony grins like the cocky asshole he is. Vision and Wanda answer two. Bucky raises his board, “Six?!” Sam shouts, “How were you guys fucking this much and nobody knew?” He laughs. The round surprisingly ends with Wanda and Vision getting eliminated.

But you’re busy thinking about that night. Bucky’s head between your thighs for hours. He barely came up for breath. You were sure he would smother, but he insisted. He didn’t stop until the sheets were soaked, your legs were shaking so hard, you’d immediately fall if you tried to stand up.

He had you screaming his name all night. When he finally started fucking you, he took his time, pulling another orgasm out of you before going back down for another taste. He finally came with you on top. He had to lift your limp body on him, using you like a sex doll. You couldn’t move if you needed too. It was the best sex you’d ever had.

“It’s time for the tie breaker question. Answers don’t have to match, the crowd will vote on the most romantic answers.” Sam states. “When did you know you were in love?” Tony and Pepper immediately begin writing. You’re certain you’re going to lose this one. Bucky was never in love with you. You write your answer, deciding to answer truthfully.

Tony and Pepper’s answers make you tear up, they are so in love. You can only hope you’ll find that one day. You and Bucky reveal your boards at the same time. You glance at his, his answer knocks the breath out of your lungs because it matches yours. The Avenger’s Barbecue. You lock eyes, his gaze softens as he reads your answer.

You’ll never forget such a pivotal moment in your life. All of the Avengers and Shield agents’ friends and family were invited to play games, eat, and have a good time. Emily, who helped coordinate your missions brought her husband and three young children. A baby girl, a two year old boy, and a five year old girl. The children were drawn to Bucky. The two older children swung from his metal arm while he held the baby with his other one.

The image made your ovaries explode. You couldn’t help imagining how he would be if you had kids. He laughed as they asked him a thousand questions, playing on him like a jungle gym. You knew without a doubt, you were in love.

Bucky took a deep breath when he read your answer. Why was it the same as his? Did you know? Was it a prank you were playing on him? Emily’s children were entranced with you from the moment they met you. He couldn’t blame them, he felt the same. They had played with him for an hour before the food was ready. When Tony told everyone to make a plate, you offered to watch the kids while she and her husband got their food.

Bucky watched as you comforted the crying infant. The two older children sat beside you while you read from a book the girl got from their bag. Bucky knew he was screwed. He could see a life like this so clearly. Your belly round with his baby, while you tended to your other children. He didn’t want to admit how badly he wanted that. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He was in love with you.

That night he made love to you, it was softer, slower than the other times he touched you. He knew you could tell the difference too. He placed one last kiss to your lips, willing himself to let you go. The next morning, he left for his two week mission with Sam. He convinced himself that it was for the best if he ended things. He didn’t want to hurt you. You might be okay with it now, but years later you would regret it.

You’d realize having the Winter Soldier for a husband wasn’t worth everything you would have to go through. Then Sharon started flirting with him after Steve rejected her. He hadn’t so much as hugged her, but she acted like she was entitled to him.

Everyone voted for Tony and Pepper to win. They were the real couple and it was their anniversary tomorrow. Tony was going to treat everyone to dinner for being such good sports. You got out of there as soon as it was over. You needed a nap before going to dinner. It was all too much for you. How the hell did you and Bucky make it so far in the game? Why did he have the same answer for the last question? You convince yourself that he knew how you felt.

That night changed everything. The sex was different. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was making love to you. He had to be messing with your head. Somehow you manage to fall asleep even with your thoughts racing.

You wake up two hours later, just enough time to get ready for dinner. You put on the little black dress Bucky loved. If he wants to play games, bring it on. You apply your perfume when a light knock sounds on your door. You would recognize the knock anywhere. “Come in” you call. Bucky walks in, his tight black t-shirt hugging him in the best ways.

“Hey doll, we need to talk.” You put your earrings in, anger surging through you. “Talk about what? How you were trying to humiliate me up there? How you’re banging Sharon now? There’s nothing to talk about. You should just go.”

“Humiliate you? What about me? How did you know the answer to the last question?” He demands, charging toward you. “I answered it truthfully, James. How did you know my answer?” You ask, hands on your hips. “I answered honestly too.” He confesses, his blue eyes sweeping over the swell of your breasts.

“Stop lying! I don’t see what the point is. We have been over for three months. Why are you doing this?” He shakes his head, “I was telling the truth. I realized I was in love with you when all those kids were sitting in your lap. I could see our life together. And I wanted it, the kids, the white picket fence, the big house, you.”

“Bucky, I wanted all that with you too. Seeing you playing with those kids made me realize it too.” You sigh, feeling relieved to finally get it off your chest. His lips crash into yours, hands moving at lightning speed to remove all of your clothing. You’re under him in seconds, panting against his lips as he rubs himself against you.

Bucky moans as he sinks into you. He’s always known deep down you were made for him, now he has no choice but to accept it. “I’m so in love with you.” He tells you between thrusts. You claw at his back, his confession almost sends you over the edge. “I am so in love with you, Buck.” You kiss him gently. “Say it again.” He smiles, as you get lost in each other.

Tags

@cindylynn @wheredafandomat @multifandom-worlds @loz-3 @megharat-barnes-reid @kats72 @crimson25 @mochie85 @cakesandtom @lokidokieokie @theallknown213 @alexakeyloveloki @tmilover1993 @yeaiamme2 @pigeonmama @yeehawbrothers @lokischambermaid @fictive-sl0th @nomajdetective @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @weirdothatwritess @silver-tongue-taken-to-bed @freegardenbanananeck @lamentis-10 @jainaeatsstars @queenshu

[slylycurioustreasure]

The Bleeding Sky

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia, Historical

Pairing : Enha hyung Line x reader

Warning: Death, pain, blood, injury, hatred, loneliness, despair, psychological suffering, fear, anguish, black magic, ritual, sacrifice, intense emotions, fatality, forced marriage.

word : 15k

NEXT (PART 2.1) ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

Long ago—so long that even immortals have forgotten the taste of memory—there existed a clan whose name was erased. Erased from the royal chronicles. Strictly erased from the celestial tablets. Defiled and then buried beneath centuries of silence and fear.

A clan that should never have existed. A clan born from a crime against the laws of creation.

It is said that when the world was young, before the mountains rose, before the stars aligned, a fragment of chaotic essence wandered freely at the edge of the worlds. 

Neither life nor death. Neither order nor destruction.

An ancient, formless spirit, hungry for form. His name was Wu Hei, the Nameless Shadow. And one day, in his drift, he met a woman who had fallen from the sky. A banished celestial, whose wings had been burned for loving a mortal. Her name was Yun Qiao, the Bearer of the Red Star.

He possessed her. Or she accepted him. No one knows.

From this blasphemous union was born a lineage the heavens had not foreseen. Neither human. Nor demons. Nor celestial. Something else. Something too ancient to be named. They were called sorcerers. But that word, in itself, was a betrayal.

Their bodies were of shadow and flesh. Their veins carried a black fire—not a fire that illuminates, but a fire that consumes, slowly, silently, until nothing remains but ashes of soul. Their gazes troubled mirrors. Their voices disrupted the seasons. They were born with screams, and died in silence.

They lived for a long time on the fringes of the world, slipping into the invisible faults—where maps end, where laws lose their power. They built cities from the roots of ancient trees, dug palaces beneath acidic lakes, carved temples from the skulls of dead beasts.

They didn't pray. They remembered.

They were cursed at birth. Not by a god or a demon, but by the very nature of their blood. For their magic was unchanneled: it burned unhindered, transforming them, devouring them little by little. Each spell cast cost them a part of their being. But they had no choice. It was that or disappear. And then they became powerful. Too powerful.

The world noticed them.

Men, jealous of what they did not understand, decided they were heretics. Demons, intrigued by their raw magic, wanted to capture and domesticate them. The celestials, frightened by what they perceived as a threat to the balance of cosmic laws, condemned them without trial.

And then the purge began.

Sorcerers were hunted like beasts. Shrines were ransacked. Children were torn from their mothers' arms to be purified in flames. Sages were executed, their tongues torn out and nailed to the doors of celestial temples. Pregnant women were disemboweled under the red moons, so that their lineage would not survive. The rivers where they had washed were rendered unfit for life. Even the demons eventually retreated. Too unstable, too dangerous. Too human, too inhuman. And in the final hour of their fall, a single name was whispered among the ashes: Wu Zhen.

Wu Zhen was the last of the Negative Fire masters. He had been trained in the depths of a forgotten sanctuary, beneath the Heiyan Sea of ​​Mist, where the sky was no longer reflected. He knew the 49 languages ​​of pain. He could make a blade cry, or a corpse sing.

But he never wanted war. The world imposed it on him.

They took his sister—hung her naked on celestial chains, her womb cut open, her eyes burned with divine light. They took his son—a three-year-old child with diaphanous skin, whose heart was offered to the gods to sanctify a harvest.

They took his name, his clan, his history.

And then Wu Zhen, the last, the tombless, lost his mind. But it wasn't a madness of screams and blood. It was a madness of order. A madness of silence. A madness of purpose.

He carved a forbidden incantation into his own body, right into his bones. A curse so ancient that even immortals feared it. He shattered the barriers between worlds, reversed the flow of rivers, disrupted the cycle of the seasons. He opened gates even demons barely dared to touch.

And into that gaping chasm between existence and nothingness, he cried out a single wish: “Let all perish.”

It wasn't revenge.

It was an end.

Not a war. A sentence.

The three great clans, panicked, forgot their ancestral hatred. Humans—weak but cunning. The celestials—pure but cruel. The demons—powerful but divided. Together they forged a pact. A new curse, born of fear.

They could not kill Wu Zhen. But they sealed his work. And they swore that never again would such power be born. So they turned the curse on his own line. The sons were erased. But the daughters… The daughters still carried the seed of chaos. 

Every generation, a witch would be reborn. And to control her, to prevent her from opening the gates again, she would be bound—body and soul—to four representatives of the enemy clans.

A demon, to contain his violence.

A celestial, to watch over her.

A human, to humanize him.

A fox, to disturb her.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a cage. A punishment. A living seal. Each bond devoured the witch a little more. Each oath bound her essence to enemy souls. She wasn't allowed to love. Nor to choose. She had to obey, survive, bleed, and then die. Her heart was a tomb. Her body, a key.

And as long as the key remained in the hands of fate, peace, fragile and corrupt, could be maintained.

But with each generation, the same tragedy began again. The witch suffered. Her husbands fell, slowly, consumed by the curse. And despite everything, despite the fear, despite the pain—they fell. Into her eyes. Into her distress. Into her cursed light. And the circle began again. One girl. Four men. A cracked world. And love, like a double-edged sword—beautiful, fatal, and always bloody.

500 Years Later — Guangyin Si (光殒祠) – The Temple of Falling Light

In the forgotten languages ​​of the ancient Celestials, the name Guangyin Si is broken down as follows: Guangyin , the light that no longer shines, the clarity that falls, fades, slowly collapses into the abyss without a cry—and Si , a funerary word, a term of sacred exile, which does not designate prayer, but mourning. Not that of the living, but that which the dead impose on the survivors. A complaint that even the gods no longer console.

Guangyin Si is not a temple. It is a scar.

A fracture in the celestial order. A chasm in the memory of the immortals. A remnant of an act of betrayal so pure, so absolute, that no tongue yet dares to name it.

It rests—or rather, hangs—on the edge of reality. Where the celestial realm frays into mists of frost. Where the sky ceases to be a shelter and becomes a precipice. The temple hangs over an infinite abyss, like a black fruit plucked from the world tree, held together only by ancient chains of fossilized light, stretched across the last pillars of a vanished era.

They creak sometimes. Not in the wind, because here, the wind is dead. But under the weight of centuries and captive souls.

It is said that Guangyin Si was sealed, not built.

The Immortals themselves speak of it only in hushed tones, as if they feared being overheard by the shadows that still sleep there.

The temple is carved from celestial obsidian so dense, so pure, that it absorbs light. The walls are black, but shot through with dull reflections, dead glows—memories of collapsed constellations.

Each slab is engraved. Not mere characters, no—but psalms of eternal penance, calligraphed in the funerary script of the High Immortals, a language only the fallen can read without losing their minds. They are forbidden to be spoken. Some have. Their bodies froze. Their mouths vanished. And their names were blotted from the sky.

The sanctuary rises like a vertical tomb. Its columns, twisted with runic chains, bear the weight of ancient, petrified celestial guardians—mutilated statues with bandaged eye sockets, severed wings, unearthed hearts. Each blind gaze seems to cry out for a punishment they did not choose. Their hands implore the heavens. The sky remains silent.

The wind doesn't blow here. It moans.

A deep, slow rattle that seems to come from within the walls. As if the stone were sighing under the sins it contains.

At the exact center of the temple rests the Altar of Lost Tears. A translucent, almost living monolith. It doesn't always shine. It doesn't vibrate with prayers. It waits. And when a soul collapses, when a being swears without believing, when a heart opens to mourn what it can never have... Then the Altar lights up. With a soft glow. Tragic. Deadly.

Guangyin Si does not welcome crowds.

It opens its doors only to those whom destiny has marked with a sacred seal:

The witches, descendants of the cursed blood. And the husbands, those who will be bound to them by the Pact. But this is not a marriage. It is a divine judgment. An offering. An execution.

The Celestial designated for this bond is never a weak being. He is chosen for his righteousness, his faith, his ability to obey without question. But when he enters Guangyin Si, he understands. He understands that he will not be a protector. That he will not be a lover. He will be the chain. He will take an oath not out of duty, but out of condemnation.

The ritual is long. Slow. Cruel.

He is temporarily stripped of his wings. To remind him that he is not a god here. He is made to kneel before the Altar. His hands plunge into the crystal. He then feels the memories of others, the fragments of those who came before him.

Their screams.

Their doubts.

Their useless love.

Their fall.

The bond is woven not with flesh, but with essence. An invisible vein opens between him and the witch. She doesn't see it, not yet. But she feels it. A burning deep in her heart. A trace of ash in her bones. From that moment on, she is his—not like a wife, but like a sacrificed key. And he is condemned to love her without ever being loved.

It is said that some Celestials tried to flee. Others begged. Some tried to break the pact at the final moment, facing the Altar. The Altar does not judge. It absorbs. We can still see their traces. Luminous silhouettes, half-melted into the walls, like star specters.

They don't scream. They no longer have a voice.

But if you listen carefully, if you listen for a long time, you will hear... Their regret.

You were only twelve years old.

Twelve silent winters spent growing up within the hushed, treacherous walls of the Black Lotus Pavilion. There, nothing was truly alive. Everything was only forms and appearances. You were fed bitter herbs and carefully measured poisons, twisted truths and dire premonitions. You were spoken to softly, like a precious doll... but every step, every word, was watched like a sin in the making.

You were neither a child nor a student. You were a warning. The cursed descendant of a blood the immortals had tried to erase, a living echo of a time the books no longer dared to mention. A shard of chaos embodied in a body too young, too thin, too still trembling to bear such fatality.

So you ran away.

Not forever.

Just… for a few hours.

You wanted something other than the acrid smell of black incense, something other than the long processions of mute sorcerers, the lessons delivered with voices of stone, the stares that weighed like blades balanced on your neck. You wanted to see something other than the dried blood in ritual cups, the tattoos seared with hot irons on the arms of the elders, the sacred ashes that served only to hide fear.

You had run barefoot, unprotected, unguided, through withered groves, hills where twisted trees seemed to weep. You had crossed the remains of ancient battles, fields of ashes where souls never truly rested. The wind carried whispers there that no one listened to.

And then you saw it. A temple. Broken. Half collapsed, half engulfed under thick brambles, roots bleeding black sap. A forgotten, or perhaps hidden, shrine. Something in its silence had called your blood.

You should never have come in.

This was not an abandoned shrine, nor a lost ruin. This was Guangyin Si. Where even immortals dared not set foot. Where oaths were bound by blood and silence. Where the living were sealed like upright coffins.

The ground beneath your feet was icy. You felt the stone vibrate—not like matter, but like memory. Each slab seemed to weep. There was a strange heaviness in the air. No smell. No light. Nothing but emptiness. A palpable chasm opening inside you, as if this place already knew who you were. What you carried. You reached out toward a worn relief, a sculpture eaten away by the centuries, half angel, half beast. Your fingers barely trembled—and that's when it appeared.

Not a sound.

Not an alert.

Just… the pain.

A hand, large and cruel, had fallen upon you without warning, seizing you by the hair with animal brutality. You felt your neck twist. Your feet leave the ground. Your breath catch. The grip was that of an executioner: assured, disgusted, sure of his right.

You had screamed.

But the sound had crashed into the walls, absorbed by the stones. No echo. No response. Even the shadows had turned away. Your tears had flowed at once. No shame, no fear—just a flood of naked pain. You felt them slide down your twisted jaw, mingling with your blood. Whole strands of your hair had fallen to the ground, some clinging to your scalp, tinged a dark red, almost black. Your stomach twisted. Your vision rippled.

And he spoke.

"What's a little witch doing here?" His voice was a low whisper, laden with suppressed anger, but also with a kind of cold disgust. Not like an outraged man. But like an insulted god.

As if your presence desecrated not only this place, but also its essence.

You wanted to speak. Scream. Spit out your rage. You wanted to bite him. Scream your name. Throw your curse in his face. But your body no longer responded. So you struggled. Your hands, too thin, too fragile, reached out toward his face. You scratched, struck, screamed silently. Like a cornered animal.

But with each attempt, the light pushed you back. A barrier. Thin. Invisible, but burning hot. You felt your skin melting. Your palms sizzled from the impact, marked with red, painful blisters.

You'd never touched anything so pure. So... unattainable. It wasn't a spell. It was him. A Celestial. Not a simple guard. Not a priest. One of their own. An immortal. One of those who think that their gaze is enough to judge, that their silence is a sentence.

He watched you, suspended in midair, like an anomaly he needed to crush. But he wasn't crushing you. He was waiting. He was sizing you up, like a scientist with a rare insect. Maybe he hoped you'd cry more. Beg. Break down like the others.

But you didn't.

You were in pain. The world was spinning. Blood pounded in your temples like funeral drums.

But you growled. A hoarse sound, coming from deeper than your throat. A scream that wasn't human. A howl of bloodline, of curse. Something that came from the shadow of your clan. Something that wouldn't die.

The Celestial sneers. A shrill, broken sound, like a bone being bent until it cracks. There is no mercy in this laughter. No hesitation. Just a cruel, tiny joy that pierces beneath his voice, as if what he is about to do is not only a duty... but a forbidden pleasure.

Then comes the shock. Brutal. You don't see it coming.

Your body is thrown to the ground with such brutal force that the air suddenly leaves your lungs. You hit the stone with your lower back, your legs, your arms. A sinister crack mixes with the impact: your shoulder, perhaps. Or your hope.

The pain is immediate. Acute. You want to scream, but only a hoarse breath escapes your throat. Your face contorts, not from fear, but from this unbearable, pure, white suffering. Your legs refuse to move. Your back screams.

You stand there for a moment, face down, listening to the irregular beating of your own heart. The echo of the Celestial's sneer floats above you like a mocking specter.

And then you crawl. You have no more strength, but you crawl. Your fingers, covered in burns from his barrier of light, are already bleeding. But the stones here aren't mere pebbles. They're engraved with ancient runes, ancient celestial oaths as sharp as blades, encrusted with obsidian crystals and purifying salt. Every movement tears at your skin. Every step forward tears the flesh of your hands a little more, opening deep cracks that are instantly blackened by blood.

You swallow your screams. You refuse to give him that. Tears fall, heavy, hot, silent. You feel them slide down your cheeks, mix with the sacred dust of the ground, form a sticky red mud beneath you.

Behind, his footsteps still echo. One. Two. Three. Slow. Measured. As if counting the beats of your heart before the final silence.

“You think you can run away?” His voice is low, calm, almost gentle. And it’s that gentleness that chills the blood. “You think you can escape what you are? Little scum of the world… Your kind should have been eradicated generations ago. You are a mistake. A blasphemy.”

He doesn't scream. He just observes. As if your existence violates some fundamental law of the universe.

You keep crawling, a little, just enough to get away from his shadow. You're out of breath. Out of strength. Your body is a field of pain. So you stop. You close your eyes. You breathe in. Slowly. Once. Twice. Your hands are shaking, covered in blood and tears. But you place them flat on the floor. You clench your jaw. And you straighten up. Painfully. Trembling. Like a flame that refuses to go out.

Facing him.

He watches you. His eyes are pale, shot through with a hard glow, as if forged in the glare of divine judgment. But you don't lower your eyes.

“We didn't do anything…” you say. Your voice is raspy, barely above a whisper. But it's there. Alive. “Nothing… to deserve this. We didn't choose. The universe rejected us. But… You chose to hate us.”

You swallow. Blood rises to your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, stained, soiled, and continue:

“If living is a crime… if being born a witch is a fault… then kill me. Now. But look at me well, and tell me if your oath gives you the right to treat me as less than a beast.”

You challenge him. Your eyes shine—not with light, but with that shadow so ancient it predates even the laws of the gods. It is a spark of chaos. A promise of destruction. And he sees it. He frowns, a breath hesitates on his lips. Doubt? Fear? Perhaps. Or perhaps a simple shudder. Then he raises his hand. A sword materializes in a shower of golden shards. Its light is almost unbearable. It sings. A crystalline music, pure, sharp. A blade fashioned to kill beings like you—living curses.

He points it at you.

“I'm going to kill you, for the good of this world. For peace. So that my people can sleep without nightmares.” He smiled. Cold. Empty. “Don't take this the wrong way, little one. I have no choice.” 

But you see it. You feel it. He's lying. He loves this scene. He enjoys this terror. And he chooses, every day, to hate what he doesn't understand.

And in the silence that follows, as the blade lights with the will of the gods, something within you awakens. Something older than your name. Deeper than your blood. Older than the temple itself.

At first you feel a dull tension gnawing at your being, like a poison slowly seeping in, then a hot ember igniting in the hollow of your chest. This ember becomes a cruel fire, a voracious fire that consumes your veins, devours your flesh, consumes your will.

Your breath quickens, gasps, becomes hoarse, like a trapped animal. Your hands tremble, your whole body screams silently.

Then this fire explodes.

A storm of white light erupts from your heart, violent, blinding, torn with deep-black shadows, as if the sky and the night themselves had been unleashed within you. The blast surges forth in furious waves, devastating everything around. The ground trembles, the temple walls vibrate with the force of your power.

A pungent smell of blood mixed with that of dark magic fills the air. The very air seems to be cracking.

The celestial, until now frozen in a deceptive calm, is swept away by this storm. His body flies backward, crashes against the thousand-year-old stone of the sanctuary wall with a dull, dry thud, his skull hitting the stone with a sinister crack.

A shudder of pain twists his face. He collapses to his knees, gasping for breath, overcome by the violence of your power. Blackish blood seeps from his temple, slowly sliding like a river of darkness across his pale skin. The thick liquid seeps into his hair, stains his face, and falls in silent drops onto the temple's engraved flagstones. He half-closes one eye, his gaze clouded with pain and surprise, but refuses to sink. His saber, planted in the ground, is his last anchor.

And you, at the center of this chaos, no longer resemble the child you once were. You are no longer the vulnerable girl who sought light amidst the darkness.

Something ancient, dark, unfathomable, has taken possession of your soul.

In your palm rises a sword. It is forged in your own blood, mingled with swirling black smoke, as alive as you are. The blade is deep black, veined with incandescent red, smoking like the maw of a sleeping dragon. It throbs, a cursed heart beating within the steel.

You take it without hesitation. It's heavy, but it feels like a natural extension of yourself. It's cold, yet it burns your skin like frost and fire combined.

You advance, slowly, inexorably. Your bare footsteps hammer the sacred ground, leaving crimson prints, bloody traces that seem to dance beneath the grim glow of the torches.

Your gaze is a blade. Empty. Icy. Merciless. Your heart no longer beats for yourself, but for one thing: revenge, survival.

"You won't blame me..." your voice rises, foreign, broken, woven with a veil of shadow. It is no longer that of a child, but that of a being who has seen too much, suffered too much, lost too much. "...for killing you to save my clan. To save me."

The celestial lifts his head, barely conscious, panting, a vein pulsing in his forehead. His eyes, half-lidded, are a mixture of pain, disbelief, and a final spark of defiance. He knows that this gaze is no longer that of a child, but of a demon inhabited by a curse. He knows the battle is lost.

"I don't have a choice either." You say the words with a cruel smile, a grimace distorted by pain and determination, which is anything but childish.

You suddenly disappear in a swirl of thick black smoke. Then you reappear before him, a specter of vengeance and despair. Your saber raised, but too slow, too weak. 

Your blade pierces his chest. The black metal pierces flesh, splits bone, pierces a heart that still beats, but weakly. A deep, muffled rattle escapes his throat. It's not a scream, but a final breath laden with pain, regret, and silent forgiveness.

His eyes open wide, filled with indescribable grief, a silent goodbye. His fingers weakly grip your wrist, searching for one last connection, one reason, one forgiveness. His breath comes short, uneven. His body trembles, slumps, like a wilted flower in a black rain.

He dies.

You slowly back away.

The sword in your hand is still warm, steaming, saturated with its essence, its ripped life. Heavenly blood trickles from the wound, falling in heavy drops onto the sacred ground. You watch it crumble, motionless, slowly absorbed by stone and shadow.

You don't look away. You smile. A broken, torn, heartbreaking smile, somewhere between the bitter jubilation of having survived and the visceral horror of having killed.

And in this silence, you don't see. The child. Thirteen years old. He stands there, in the shadows, like a frozen ghost. He still wears the uniform of the celestial novices, clumsy, too big for him. His face is pale, his eyes too light, frozen in a mixture of fear, pain, and despair.

He saw everything.

Your unleashed power. The death of his master, the one who had taken him in, raised him, loved him like a father. Your smile, that of a witch lost in her own night. His lips tremble, his hands clench the hilt of a saber he has never wielded.

Then he screams. A heart-rending, shrill cry, a sound that pierces the silence like a blade.

He throws himself at you.

You no longer have time to think, nor to flee. A sharp pain explodes in your shoulder. The blade is thin, clumsy, but it penetrates, brutal, cruel. Your cry of pain tears through the sanctuary, awakening echoes of the past. Your magic breaks free, uncontrollable. A new explosion of dark and luminous energy propels him backward. The boy is thrown against a column, collapses, half-conscious, gasping for breath.

You stagger, breathless, your body bruised. You tear the blade from your flesh with a scream of agony. Blood flows, a red river on the cold stone. You tremble. And in this absolute pain, you see it.

He is not a warrior. Not a celestial. Just a child. A boy with a face still round, his eyes full of tears. And you have just stolen his world. He looks at you one last time. A look full of sadness, fear, hatred. Then he passed out. And you... You run away. You become mist again. Silence. Shadow. A nightmare we prefer to forget.

That day, Sunghoon didn't just see his master die. He saw a demon born. And this demon had the eyes of a girl. Eyes that, one day, he knew, would find him again.

16 Years Later — Shīhún Qiáo — The Bridge of Lost Souls

You've always been told legends. Tales to lull children to sleep, or to nurture the bravery of young soldiers. You've been told that true warriors don't bleed. That their skin is as smooth, immaculate, and fragile as a newborn's, protected by an invisible, impenetrable force. That their flesh refuses injury, like a mystical shield insulating them from pain. That their bones, tempered in fire and iron, are as strong as the immortal blade they wield. You've been told repeatedly that they never fall, that their bodies are living fortresses, invincible, eternal.

They lied to you.

For at this precise moment, on this bridge suspended over the sacred river—this thick, black stream, whispered by the ancients as the incandescent border between the realm of the living and that of the dead—there is a body. Or what remains of it.

The wood of the bridge groans beneath your cautious steps, slippery, soaked by the recent rain, drowned in a thick winter mist. The worn ropes hang like vines covered in mold and, above all, stained with blood. Ancient blood. Blood mingled with lost souls.

The air is icy, laden with an almost palpable humidity that clings to your skin like a shroud, heavy and suffocating.

Amidst the blackened, war-scarred planks, you see a collapsed figure, clinging to the worn wood, like the last castaway on a worm-eaten raft.

A man. No. A soldier. A survivor. Or rather, a dying man.

He is slumped, overwhelmed, on his knees, but his legs seem to have broken themselves, or perhaps they have betrayed him. He can no longer support them, he no longer feels them. His body is curled up, folded in on itself, as if the pain, as unbearable as death, were trying to suffocate him. His chest heaves painfully, each breath a hoarse, wheezing rattle, each inspiration a struggle against the approaching nothingness.

Behind him, a trail of blood stretches across the wood, long, thick, and winding, like a funereal mark carved into the bridge. In places, the bright red color has darkened, coagulated into thick, almost solid black stains. In others, the carmine liquid still drips, warm, fresh, vibrant with the life slowly escaping from his body. Every step you take splatters this bloody ground; you walk on the remains of a battle, on the vestiges of a broken army.

You step forward, your muscles trembling with emotion, your breath caught, and what you discover draws a stifled cry from you. His armor, once gleaming black and gold, bears the scars of hell. It is cracked, torn, twisted. The protective plates, once solid, now hang in shreds of bruised metal, some melted, cracked, as if burned by magic too devastating to be human.

His flesh appears, torn, burned, shredded. Blood flows in invisible, sticky streams between the plates, trickling down his pale skin, splashing the wood of the bridge in a macabre fresco. On his left side, a gaping wound spreads like an open carnivorous mouth, revealing the red and black pulp of his entrails, which throb painfully with every breath.

And yet, despite this devastation, he is still alive.

His fingers, stiff and tense, desperately grip the hilt of his sword. A long, cracked blade, eaten away by rust and fire, its metal blackened by the infernal heat of spilled blood and raging flames. This once-proud sword now bears the scars of a war that poets would sing of as an epic tragedy. But this blade is twisted, worn, tired. Like its master.

His forehead rests against the cold, icy pommel, covered in dried blood. You might think he's praying, finding some final comfort in this contact. But his lips barely move. These aren't prayers. They're names.

« Jiang… Lu'an… Fei… »

You crouch down beside him and scrutinize his face, hidden by soaked locks of hair, stuck to his pale skin. He's young. Far too young. Maybe not even twenty. He could have been handsome. He could have laughed. But today, that face is broken. Fractured. Fragile like porcelain abandoned in torrential rain. His gaze, red and glassy, ​​expresses an indescribable pain. An immense fatigue. A pain of the soul. And suddenly, you hear. It's not just the wind that slips between the ropes.

These are voices. Barely audible whispers. Forgotten breaths. Gaunt sighs. Smothered cries that tear at each other. Moans distorted by eternity. These are the spirits of the dead. The black souls floating on the river. Those who sank into its waters, believing they would find rest there. Those whom the soldier himself perhaps sent to the other bank.

They circle him like invisible vultures, carried by the wind. Drawn by the smell of blood, of despair, of the end. You reach out hesitantly to touch his shoulder. He groans, a heart-rending rattle, and your heart clenches painfully. He looks at you. And in his eyes, there is neither fear nor anger. It is a consuming, infinite shame. The shame of having survived. Of having seen his brothers fall one by one. The shame of not having died with them.

“They… told me to run away… I… I left. I left everything…” His voice is a hoarse breath, a painful rattle, a whisper of death. Each word seems to cost him his life. And yet, he speaks. Because there is nothing left but the words. The memories. The ghosts.

You see his tears. But they don't run down his cheeks. They mix with the blood. They slide from the corners of his eyes, mix with the grime, and fall silently onto the sticky wood of the bridge. He grits his teeth, but his body trembles, shaken by fever and pain.

You look at his wounds again. Not all of them are visible. Some go far deeper than flesh, to the very heart of the soul. Wounds that neither magic, nor time, nor tears can heal. 

You tear off a piece of your garment, soaked with moisture and blood, and press it against his gaping wound. The fabric immediately soaks, bright red, bursting like a cry of despair, red with death, red with stolen life.

You feel the heat escaping from his body, the end near, the flickering light. And as you try, with all the strength you have left, to right him, he collapses, sliding against you. His forehead rests on your shoulder, his weak but firm hand grips your wrist like a desperate anchor.

“Tell them… we didn’t run away. Tell them… we fought. To the last man.” Her voice fades little by little, like a flame blown out by the wind. But her grip, fragile and trembling, remains. Almost stronger than her breath.

The wind howls through the bridge ropes, carrying with it the funeral melody of wandering souls. The river roars, black and untamed, engulfing the dead and their secrets in its waters. And you stand there. Frozen. Holding this brother of blood and pain against you. The sky is a thick gray shroud, laden with ash and despair. The world seems reduced to dust. And you... you finally understand.

Heroes are not immortal. They are bleeding. They cry. They die. And sometimes they howl into the night, alone in the cold, on a bridge between two worlds.

You hadn't thought. You hadn't had time. Your instinct had screamed louder than reason. Your heart, drowned in a storm of invisible tears, had screamed louder than your magic itself.

And in the blink of an eye, you had left that bridge. You had left the world suspended between life and death, this theater of blood and shadows, to appear within the Black Lotus Pavilion—this forbidden, ancient sanctuary, which even the most powerful hardly dared to name.

A black mist engulfed you before spat you back into your room, its walls draped in dusty silk and the faded scent of forgotten incense. The man's inert body hung in your arms, heavy, icy, wet with the blood of former comrades, enemies, or perhaps both.

He'd slipped from your grasp once as you staggered to your feet. You'd screamed unintentionally, in pain or rage, or perhaps both. But you'd finally hoisted him onto the black brocade bed, the sheets of which immediately became soaked with the blood that kept flowing, slowly, mercilessly, like the grains of an hourglass whose fall you could no longer stop.

His breath was almost imperceptible. A weak, broken whimper, somewhere between life and agony. You placed your hand on his chest. Cold. So cold. And then you understood. He was dying. And you were going to have to save him. But he wasn't an immortal. He wasn't a celestial, a demon, or a spirit beast. He was just a man. A wounded, broken, shattered man.

You knew what it would cost.

This wasn't a simple healing. It wasn't a stitching of flesh or a bandage of light. What you were about to do… was about to tap into an ancient magic. A dark magic. Forbidden. A magic that drew on your life force. Your blood. Your memory. Your essence.

And you knew that by triggering it, you would never be the same again.

Every ounce of power used to save him would be ripped from your own soul. Once given, it would never return.

You looked at him one last time. He looked so young… almost peaceful, in that moment. Like a child exhausted by war. Like a brother you never had. A king without a throne. A soldier without a war.

You made your decision.

Your fingers began to dance in the air, despite their trembling. You formed the first mudras, the first sacred gestures, precise, sharp as blades. Each one made your bones creak, as if your flesh refused to obey this forbidden invocation.

Then your mouth opened. And the spell flowed from your lips like a river of curses. A deep, guttural, ancient whisper. Words in a language no one spoke anymore. The walls of the pavilion seemed to shudder at their sound. The room began to shake slowly, then more violently, in time with your voice.

The wind rose in the closed room. Yet there were no open windows, no half-open doors. But magic called for a storm. The candles flickered. One by one, they went out, swallowed by an invisible breath. The shadows fell. And suddenly, your body began to burn. Your blood turned to fire. You felt a pressure burst in your chest, your veins twisting like angry snakes, your breath caught.

You leaned forward, gasping for air, and vomited blood onto the floor. Red. Thick. Hot. You didn't stop. You couldn't stop. You continued the actions. The words. The sacrifices. You lost track of time. Hours. Or maybe seconds. Your body was on fire, and your soul was bleeding, but suddenly you felt a jolt in the air. A pulse.

The soldier's body rose slowly above the bed. He floated, his arms dangling, his head hanging. Around him, a black aura, like liquid ash, formed. Black flames—no, spiritual burns—rose from his torso, his arms, his wounds. They devoured the pain. They stitched the flesh together, slowly, brutally, like incandescent needles. His bones cracked. Snapped back into place with an unbearable noise.

And yet, he didn't scream. Because he was unconscious. But you felt every wound as if it were tearing at you. You screamed silently. You felt your power melting, your essence burning away, your heart beating like a war drum ready to explode.

Then, like a dying wave, the spell fell. The body fell back onto the bed with a shudder, its wounds healed, its breathing more regular. Still weak. But alive.

You collapsed. You fell to your knees, your hands pressed against the ground, in a pool of blood—your blood. You were shaking. Your breath was nothing but a rattle, a painful hiss. You raised your head. A tear fell. Then another. You tried to speak. Nothing came out. You coughed up more blood. It was darker this time. Almost black.

You placed your hand on the wall to keep from falling. Your eyes burned. You couldn't see anything anymore. You were empty. And in that almost total silence, broken only by your broken breath, you understood. You had saved a man. And you had just sacrificed a part of yourself that you would never get back.

You closed your eyes. You were no longer whole. But he… he was alive.

A few days had passed, but they had brought no relief. The echo of the forbidden spell still screamed through your bruised flesh, reverberating through every vein like a blade that was both cold and burning. Your body, once a proud and solid sanctuary, was now nothing more than a cracked receptacle, tainted by the dark, corrupted magic you had summoned. Forbidden, unholy magic, an open wound in the very fabric of your soul.

Every night, you lay on the frozen floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion, your wide eyes fixed on the ceiling of shifting shadows, frozen between life and death, like a motionless offering in an abandoned temple. Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps, a hoarse rattle that seemed to come from the depths of an abyss. Your blood, that vital liquid, had become a burning poison, distilling pain and fatigue with every pulse. You had given everything, sacrificed everything. And something inside you, that day, had ceased to exist.

Time no longer had any contours. The hours ticked by in a thick fog, slipping like black sand between your icy fingers. The nights coiled around your throat like poisonous, endless snakes, strangling you in a silence echoing with the howls of the past war. Nothing made sense anymore, except this dull, tenacious pain, this gloomy wait, and the silent figure lying a few feet away from you, this fragile body that you had torn from the grim reaper, without it ever knowing.

Sitting cross-legged, arms clasped around your bruised stomach, you meditated in the icy silence. You tried to reconstitute that sacred IQ, that mutilated vital energy, torn apart by your forbidden act. But the gaping rift remained, hungry, insatiable. It was a bottomless pit, a void that nothing could fill. Your body was still bleeding, despite the magic. Streams of thick, black blood, weighed down by the curse, escaped from your nostrils, ran down your palms, sometimes even from your eyes. The metallic smell of iron, of rust, of misfortune had permeated you, sticking to your skin like a second flesh, an invisible gangrene.

And yet, despite this ignoble agony, you knew you had to make him leave. He must never know. Never discover that you had slashed your own heart to snatch his from the clutches of death. He must not see you as you were—the damned witch, the outcast of heaven, the guardian of a silent and monstrous sacrifice. You refused to let him bind you to this desecrated magic, to this horror that even the heavens refused to bless.

So you got up.

Your body reeled, heavy and broken. Your legs suddenly buckled in a wild spasm, as if refusing to bear such a heavy burden. You clutched desperately at the rough stone wall, your fingers trembling, your flesh bruised, to keep from collapsing into a pile of ash. A sharp pain, as sharp as a rusty blade, pierced your spine. You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled, to keep from letting out a scream of agony.

But you walked.

Your bare feet slid across the cold, damp, black-moss-covered flagstones, each step echoing in the icy silence like a funeral drumbeat heralding the end. You walked through the stagnant mists of the cave, where the air seemed laden with ancient deaths, oozing from the walls like a promise of despair. The smell of decay and blood permeated your matted hair, and your breath came in short, harsh gasps. Even the wind, once free and alive, seemed frozen here, trapped in an invisible tomb.

You finally reached the bedroom. And then… your eyes find him.

He was sleeping.

You stopped, panting, unable to go any further. Your breath caught in your tight throat. The name of this man, this mutilated soldier, echoed in your head like a profane incantation you had never dared to utter aloud: Lee Heeseung.

This stranger, this fragment of humanity torn from the demons of war, this broken body that you had saved, at the cost of your own sacrifice.

He lay on the black wooden bed, unconscious but alive. His chest rose and fell gently, almost timidly. His skin had become a little lighter, his wounds healed, cleansed of clotted blood, but the scars remained—etched into the flesh like so many silent witnesses to the carnage. His gaze, even closed, seemed to bear the weight of an unfathomable abyss, a void as black as night. You had felt his last breath slip through your fingers, and you had refused it, clinging to him by a thread of forbidden magic.

You approached slowly, your hands trembling, hesitant, as if haunted by the fear of profaning this fragile miracle. You wanted to hide them in the sleeves of your worn robe, but they slipped away, nervous, uncontrollable. You leaned over him, observing the rebellious locks falling on his forehead, still damp from the cold rain of the resurrection spell. He wore a black hanfu, woven in a secret whisper by your trembling hands—a robe of shadow, made of silence, ashes, and oblivion, the garment of a fallen king.

You looked at him for a long time, too long, as if you were looking for an answer, a release. Then, slowly, with infinite delicacy, you placed two fingers on his chest, where his heart beat weakly—that slow, hesitant drum, fragile like a last breath.

The black mist rose around you, dense and heavy, enveloping you in a veil of oblivion. And with a breath, you disappeared with it.

When you reappeared, it was in front of the Lee Residence. It was a shadow of its former self.

The stone bore the scars of a recent battle: arrow shards embedded in the walls, gaping breaches like open wounds, the ground stained with fresh, damp blood, filling the air with a metallic smell of iron and death. Distant screams rose muffled, drowned out by smoke that rose in thick curls toward a low, gray sky. The war was over here, leaving behind a silence of ashes.

You moved slowly, each step heavy, almost solemn. The lanterns hanging from the branches of the surrounding trees trembled, half-melted, casting flickering lights on the faces carved in the stone—dead heroes, forgotten ancestors, frozen in a time that would no longer pass.

You gently placed Lee Heeseung at the foot of the rough wall, his legs bent like those of an exhausted man, his back pressed against the cold stone. His head tilted limply to one side, exposing a pale, vulnerable throat, bare to the world. You knelt before him, and for the first time, truly, you looked at him.

He didn't look like a survivor. He looked like a sacrificed king. To a forgotten martyr. To a bloody offering.

You reached out your hand. A black lock of hair fell on his cheek, which you pushed back with a gesture of infinite gentleness. Your fingers brushed against his burning skin, slid slowly across his forehead, beaded with cold sweat. You felt the warmth of his life flickering, that fragile beat in the night.

And there, in that tiny touch, your heart nearly broke. No love. No pity. Something ancient, crueler, more voracious. A savage need, a burning desire. A hunger born of blood and war.

You jerked back, gasping for air. 

His brows furrowed in an almost imperceptible spasm. He was about to wake up. You shouldn't have been there. You were only the shadow, the silent sacrifice. Then, without a word, without a goodbye, you withdrew. You were dissolved into the mist, erased by the night.

When Heeseung opened his eyes, it was like a blade slashing through the black mist of unconsciousness. At first, it was a pale, harsh, unbearable light—as if his soul, snatched from the clutches of death, was not yet ready to return to life. Then, slowly, the outlines of a silent world appeared around him, blurred, twisted, bathed in an almost supernatural calm.

He no longer felt pain. And that alone should have alarmed him. For before… there had been only pain. Fire, blood, screams, swords slicing through flesh. The chaos of a battlefield that even the heavens had denied.

But all of this… seemed to belong to another life. A life he had left behind.

A veil covered his memory, not like natural forgetting, but like a curse. Thick, sticky, oozing with that dark, ancient magic that men should never touch. A painful absence, a hollow in his mind where something should still have burned. Someone. But there was nothing.

Not even a trace.

Not even an emotion.

As if the memory of someone he had unknowingly loved had been torn from him. When he looked down, it was to meet the gaze of a woman kneeling before him.

A celestial one.

Her immaculate dress floated in the still air as if it obeyed no laws of this world. Her skin was unblemished, her face marked by serene compassion. In her open palm, a soft light pulsed, like a heart ready to offer a second life. She looked at him gently, like a goddess descended from the heavens. And he… he believed her. He believed this illusion.

Because he needed to believe it.

Because a man returned from the dead, covered in healed wounds and clotted blood, no longer had the strength to doubt. His soul was too damaged, too weary, too broken to question what fate offered him. So he accepted. He accepted this lie. And in this choice—or this non-choice—was the most terrible cruelty. For it was not she who had saved him. It was not this woman of light.

It was you.

You, the shadow, the forbidden one, the witch with the torn heart. The one who had vomited blood to give him life again. The one who had sacrificed years of existence, burned away his power, lost part of her soul. The one who had carried him, inert and covered in wounds, to your home to snatch him from death.

You, of whom nothing remained. Not a trace in his memories. Not a hint of warmth in his gaze.

Heaven, in its cruel justice, had erased your name from its destiny. It had made you invisible. And while the celestial placed a benevolent hand on its brow, you were nothing more than a faded memory, a phantom presence that even the wind refused to name.

But your blood was still there. It stained the stones in front of the Lee house. It seeped into the roots. It called your name silently.

And if Heeseung had paid a little more attention... if he had listened a little more to his heart, he might have heard that silent cry, that tiny dissonance in the false harmony that was being held out to him.

But he didn't. He accepted the lie. He accepted his "savior." And you, somewhere in the mists, watched. Heart broken, body hollow. Knees in the mud, fingers covered in ash, eyes wide open in the night. You were the one who had loved him enough to disappear from his memory. The one who had saved him... so that he could live without you. 

And in a world torn apart by war, in a time when life was sold for pieces of soul, there was perhaps nothing more tragic...

…than having given everything to be forgotten.

20 Years Later — Yǒng míng huī diàn (永冥灰殿) — The Shrine of the Ashes of the Eternal Shadow 

It is said that the sanctuary of Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn stands on a desolate plateau, swept by icy, howling winds, atop a barren mountain, torn by centuries of storms and battles. Where life once tried to cling, today only black stones, split and splintered, remain, mutilated remnants of a world consumed by the fury of flames and the wrath of the gods. 

The ground is dry and cracked, crevassed like the skin of a dying man, and the few tufts of grass that dare venture there are quickly scorched by a burning dust laden with ash and dried blood.

The temple itself is a grim colossus, rising like a scar on the devastated landscape. Its dark stone walls appear to have been eaten away by fire and time, covered in thick, still-damp ash, as if war had just been raging within them once more. 

Massive columns, as black as the purest ebony, soar into an inky sky, heavy with clouds that stretch as far as the eye can see, threatening to engulf this place in an endless abyss. Each stone bears the scars of ancient battles, engraved with forbidden and cursed runes, engravings that glow faintly with an ashen, malevolent light, as if the temple's tormented soul itself manages the boundary between this world and the underworld.

The air is so thick with dark magic that it constricts the chest and tightens the throat, each breath becoming a painful struggle for breath, as if the shadows themselves were trying to penetrate your being. The wind, laden with dust and ash, never ceases to moan, carrying with it strange whispers, sighs of lost souls and the muffled laments of vanished soldiers. These voices haunt the temple, echoing through the empty corridors, mingling with the distant creaking of walls cracking under the weight of centuries and curses.

With every step, the ground becomes more menacing. It is littered with shards of broken bones, fragments of shattered weapons—swords, spears, axes—silent witnesses to a forgotten massacre, buried beneath layers of dried blood that blacken the earth. In places, dark, sticky pools, remnants of unspeakable carnage, betray the violence of the fighting that robbed this place of every ounce of life. The blood has mingled with the dust, creating a dark, viscous paste that oozes between the stones, like the indelible memory of a suffering that even time cannot erase.

Once sacred altars lie shattered, their mystical symbols half-erased by flames and the passage of time, but still imbued with a sinister energy. Reddish traces—a mingling of blood and ash—still stain their surfaces, evidence of ancient, bloody, perhaps forbidden rituals that resonate in the bleak silence of the sanctuary like an echo of immemorial horror.

The temple seems alive, breathing a dark, almost palpable melancholy. It echoes with a dull, incessant murmur—a spectral chorus of forgotten chants, muffled cries, and distant laments that twist the soul. The wind carries these sounds like a morbid lullaby, a funereal symphony mingling pain, anger, and despair. 

In some places, a thick black magic spreads in the air, undulating like a black and toxic mist, capable of plunging the heart into an icy night, of weighing down each beat, of constricting the lungs to the point of suffocation.

It is said that this sanctuary is not simply a place of contemplation or prayer, but a living tomb, a crossroads where tortured souls and vengeful spirits intertwine. Here, the boundary between the world of the living and the world of the dead is fragile, and the shadows of fallen warriors wander in a dance of death, trapped in an endless cycle of suffering and blood. 

This place embodies the end of all things—absolute destruction, inexorable fall—but also the terrible power of that which refuses to die: the eternal shadow, the black flame, the incandescent ashes of war.

A marriage sealed in this place does not celebrate the sacred union of two souls, but a fatal pact, a fragile and unstable alliance between the unleashed forces of destruction and the resurgent forces of pain. It is marked by suffering, by the cruelty of fate, by the bloody violence of an oath forged in fire and blood. It is not an oath of love, but a commitment to bear the cross of a fragile balance between life and death, between light and darkness, sealed forever by sacrifice, pain, and the memory of torn souls.

You wore a blood-red hanfu, as bright as an open wound. It slid across your skin like a stream of fire, its long sleeves trailing behind you like the funeral ribbons of an offering. Motifs of bridled phoenixes, with folded wings and dull eyes, snaked along the fabric. They weren't sewn to fly. They were there to remind you of sacrificed nobility, aborted rebirth, the chains that even mythical creatures could not break.

The bottom of the hanfu was so dark it looked as if it had been dipped in ashes, blackened by the flames of a sacred pyre—that of your freedom.

And you, silent, you walked.

On your head rested a phoenix crown, forged from gold too heavy, engraved with imperial motifs and encrusted with ancient jade and pearly beads. With every step, it pulled you toward the ground, weighing like the sky itself. Every pin stuck in your hair seemed to pierce your skull to reach your mind, and the gold chains that hung from it vibrated gently, tinkling like funeral bells. They didn't celebrate a union. They mourned an execution in disguise.

You were dressed like an empress... But you felt like a prisoner being led to sacrifice.

Your face was hidden beneath a veil of red silk, embroidered with gold threads that outlined ancient characters—perhaps prayers, or perhaps curses. No one dared read them. This veil was the last bulwark between you and the world, between dignity and collapse. Around your neck, stiff, tight collars hampered your breathing. On your arms, dark metal bracelets, engraved with pact seals, bound you to the four clans that had shared your fate.

You moved slowly, each step painful. You felt the muscles in your legs protesting under the weight of the fabric, the metal, and the memory. The shoes were thin but stiff, and small patches of blood were already appearing at the tips of your toes—your body was reminding you that it refused to get used to this pain.

Since childhood, you had been trained. Yes, trained. Uneducated. Untrained. Trained as one forms a weapon, a tool, a bond.

Each ceremony, each ritual, had distanced you a little further from your humanity, making you the living heart of a fragile peace pact, the final barrier between war and the end of the world. And yet, today, atop this bare mountain, you understood that it was not peace you carried, but war frozen in a silk coffin.

The path to the Yǒng Míng Huī Diàn shrine was steep, lined with sharp stones and broken bones half-buried beneath the black dust. With every step, the mountain seemed to whisper, speaking to you in a language made of biting wind, scorched sand, and dried blood. The wind slapped you, sometimes lifting your veil, reminding you that you were only a body offered to the ancient gods.

When you finally reached the summit, a wave of dizziness washed over you. Before you, the temple stood its black silhouette against an inky sky, its walls cracked by war, its columns covered with forgotten symbols. There were no wedding decorations. No ribbons, no flowers, no music.

Only silence. The cold. And the ruins.

It was right. It wasn't a marriage. It wasn't a union. It was a ritual of mutual submission, an offering of flesh and soul to delay the inevitable—the next conflict, the next fall.

You saw the representatives of the four clans, posted at a good distance. Each of them wore mourning in their eyes, or in suppressed hatred. None of them really looked at you. You were not a woman. You were not a wife.

You were the knot in the rope, the one that bound them all in this senseless trap.

Your heart was beating. No fear. No hope. Of rage. Silent. Burning. Ancient.

Because no one had asked your opinion. No one had looked at you as you bled. No one had mourned the dead you left behind. And today, you were alone, terribly alone, surrounded by men, legends, pacts, and ruins. Your name, your past, your future had been torn from you. And now they wanted your body, bound by blood and the chains of an ancient oath.

And you walked towards the altar. The chains of your jewels rattled like funeral gongs. Your veil fluttered like a shroud. And beneath your feet, the mountain was still bleeding.

You walked slowly toward the altar, each step echoing off the icy stone of the shrine. Your blood-red hanfu, weighed down by the gold, silk, and chains that snaked around your body like so many silent oaths, trailed behind you like a living shroud. The black phoenix embroidery seemed to stir in time with the howling winds, as if they too rebelled against your fate. The golden crown on your head seemed to dig into your skull, each pin like a sharp claw. It was not an ornament, but a cage—a sentence.

Your veil obstructed your view, but you didn't need to see to know where you were going. You felt the presence of others. Their gazes. Their judgments. Their silence. You kept your head down, not out of submission, but out of necessity. To avoid looking at them. To avoid giving them the satisfaction of gazing at your broken face.

Because you didn't want them to see. Your pain. Your anger. Your fear.

You arrived before the altar, frozen like a statue. The wind rushed into the open nave of the temple, carrying flakes of ash, the smell of iron, ashes... and blood. The entire mountain seemed to contract around you, as if the earth itself were rejecting this marriage of ashes and chains.

You had been prepared for this moment since childhood, conditioned to obey, to endure. But none of the forced prayers, none of the cruel training, none of the mock ceremonies had prepared you for this real horror.

Five bowls were placed before you. Then a knife.

You grabbed the weapon, the cold metal biting into your palm before you could even move. Your hands were barely shaking, yet you felt your heart pounding against your ribs, like a captive beast. Without a word, you cut into your flesh. The pain was sharp, acute, almost clean at first. Then it became deeper, duller, settling into your bones, your nerves, your stomach. You poured your blood into the first bowl. But it wasn't enough. So you started again.

Again.

And again.

Each time, the blade cut more slowly, as if resisting, sinking more painfully into your already tortured flesh. Your blood was hot, viscous, almost black red in the funereal glow of the temple. It flowed slowly into the stone bowls, sliding down your wrist, dripping onto the sacred ground. You heard the pearls of your ornaments clash against your hanfu, and the shudder of the metal echo against the oppressive silence.

You weren't allowed to cry. Not now. Not here. Because you knew you were already in chains. You were just afraid of breaking yourself even more.

When the five bowls were finally filled with your blood, you put down the knife, your purple-covered fingers trembling slightly, but you straightened up, back straight, eyes still hidden.

Then came the others.

The celestial. The cold embodiment of divine law. He poured his blood into two bowls, one for him, one for you. His expression was fixed, solemn, almost inhuman. He wasn't afraid. Perhaps he felt nothing. Or perhaps, like you, he had learned to hide everything.

Then came the demon, the fox, the general. Each offered their blood. Each wove a scarlet thread between you.

One by one, you mixed your essences.

The mixture was thick, almost black. The blood pulsed in the bowls as if it were still alive. You could hear murmurs rising, ancient, guttural, as if the temple itself were awakening, hungry.

So you lifted your veil. The silk slid slowly off, revealing your pale, frozen face, bursting forth like a poisoned flower in this funereal setting.

You grab the bowl. And you drank. The first sip was lukewarm, metallic, disgusting. The second, a test.

You wanted to vomit, to spit out this abject agreement, this carnal pact, but you didn't. You swallowed every drop, your gaze empty, your hands clenched. And as the black liquid went down your throat, you felt something tear inside you—a last innocence.

Then the pain came. Not normal pain. Holy agony. As if a burning blade were slowly inscribing itself between your shoulder blades, carving an eternal seal into your flesh. You fell to your knees, your breath caught, the cry frozen in your throat. You heard ancient chants, muffled cries, the crash of armies, the suffering of the dead, fire and ice mingling.

And on your skin, the mark took shape. A black and red swirl, like a cursed galaxy. At the center, the demon's devouring spiral, blood red, pulsing like a heart. A vivid, barbaric energy that seemed to want to engulf you.  Around them, the stylized wings of the celestial—elegant, but burned, tarnished, broken. Justice corrupted. Duty sacrificed.  On the right, the dancing flames of the fox—graceful, undulating, deceptive, dangerous. The cruel charm of the manipulator.  On the left, sharp fragments of armor—the general. Fallen honor. War in the flesh. The weight of responsibility on broken shoulders. And you, at the center, receptacle of their power, prisoner of their war.

It wasn't a wedding.

It was a curse.

An eternal condemnation.

And in the silence of the temple, while your blood still steamed at the bottom of the bowls, you understood that nothing would ever be the same again.

You would never be free again.

The marks of the pact were not mere symbols.

They weren't painted or tattooed. They had been burned into their flesh like a hot iron, but this fire wasn't made of ordinary flames. It came from another world. From an ancient magic, closer to a curse than a blessing.

On Sunghoon, it had formed on his right wrist—not on the palm, nor on the arm, but right there, between the fineness of the tendons and the pulsing of the artery. Where the blood beats regularly. Where chains, in other times, would have been attached.

At first, it was only a shudder. Then the pain came, sharp, dull, as if a needle of pure light were piercing every nerve. The mark had carved itself, slowly, in silent agony, like an invisible hand tracing an ancient incantation on his skin, indecipherable to mortals.

It depicted a broken circle, surrounded by vines of lightning and celestial runes half-erased by the centuries. Each line seemed to breathe. Sometimes the mark would pulse with a dull red light, whenever he came close to you—or whenever his heart wavered between duty and anger.

He no longer dared raise his arm without feeling the mark burn. As if it reminded him with every gesture that his hand was no longer his. That it belonged to the pact. Yours.

For Jay, it was a more intimate torture. The demon's mark opened in the center of his left palm—the hand he extended when he made deals, killed, or caressed.

It appeared as a crack in the middle of his skin, as if a lightning bolt had split it from within. A breath of shadow escaped from this mystical wound during the ritual, almost as if something living were screaming silently. It wasn't just a wound, it was a door. A rift into the dark. Into everything he had repressed, locked away.

Black filaments, like dead veins, extended from the mark, running up his forearm like snakes ready to burst beneath the skin. It burned him whenever he used his magic. Whenever he thought of you. Whenever he wanted to run away from what he had become.

Sometimes he would slam it shut, his fist trembling, as if to stifle a voice that only he could hear. But the voice came back. And she whispered your name.

In Jake's case, the mark was more insidious, almost elegant in its cruelty. It had drawn itself behind his right ear, where the whispers of yesteryear slip in, where promises are made in hushed tones. An intimate place. Fragile. That no one can see... unless they get closer. And few were those he let approach. The mark was shaped like an inverted crescent moon, surrounded by thin claws, like a forgotten bite. On its surface, ancient symbols appeared and disappeared like illusions. They glowed with a murky purple radiance, a reflection of moody and unstable magic.

When his thoughts became too vivid, too painful, the mark would come to life, pulsing against his skin like a stray heartbeat. Sometimes he would scratch it until it bled, but it remained there, unalterable.

A secret. A curse. A subtle and cruel chain that he wore in silence, with the lying smile of those who prefer to hide their pain behind laughter.

For Heeseung, the mark had taken root on his left collarbone, where the heart beats strongest, where the burden of command weighs like invisible armor. It had burst from his skin like a blade's shard: brutal, sharp, silent. It looked like a gash in the shape of an inverted cross, lined with black fragments like pieces of shattered armor. The surrounding skin was purple, as if bruised by fire. Through the lines, screaming faces could be seen, silhouettes in flames, memories of ancient battlefields.

When he breathed deeply, the mark spread. As if it were soaking up every breath, every thought. Once, he lay alone, shirtless, in the freezing rain, hoping the water would wash away the seal. But nothing worked.

The brand remained. Alive. Red. Living. Like you.

And at the center of each of their bodies… The mark sometimes throbbed in unison. A silent, barely perceptible shudder, like the breath of a memory thought forgotten, but which never quite dies. An ancient echo, buried in the flesh, engraved in the bones. A cursed pulse that responded to the most visceral emotions, as if each heartbeat was no longer entirely theirs. As if a part of you lived through their pain.

When one of them thought of you—not with tenderness, but with that confused burning between hatred, regret, and desire—the mark would awaken. Red. Dark. Cold, at first, like the shiver of a warning. Then hot, burning, devouring. It vibrated beneath the skin, as if something inside them wanted to come out, scream, flee… or come back to you.

And when you suffered—when you wept alone, under the weight of the pact, when your knees touched the stone floor and your blood flowed again to assuage the curse—their marks would flare for no apparent reason. They would awaken in the middle of the night, in the midst of battle, or in the silence of a deserted palace. They pulsed like a reminder. A bond. A shared pain, foreign yet intimate, as if your grief screamed through the bones of the world.

And when one of them used the magic of the pact... When the forces sealed in their flesh were activated, when they invoked forbidden techniques born of common blood, then the five marks would light up together, even from leagues apart.

They answered each other, clashed. They screamed. Not an audible scream, no. But a scream from the soul. A scream that only those who suffer understand.

A red light—dense, almost black—emerged from those open cracks in the skin, those scars that never healed. It shone for a moment, like an eye opening. An ancient eye. Witness to the horror. And then… the pain returned. Not the pain of an injury. Not the pain of a torn muscle or a broken bone.

No.

That of a heart forced to beat for a cause it didn't choose. That of a love buried alive, beneath duty, war, and black magic. The demon shuddered, growled, his fangs clenched, his palm branded with fire beneath his chains. The celestial, for his part, closed his eyes, trying not to show anything, but his wrist trembled, and his breath broke in the prayer he never finished. The fox, still smiling, held his hand behind his ear as if it were nothing—but his eyes lost their sparkle, and his laughter became empty, hollow, broken. And the general... He placed his hand on his left collarbone. He said nothing. But his silence bled more than all the screams.

And you. You, at the center. Voluntarily imprisoned by a destiny that no longer allows you the right to love or hate freely. You who drink their pain like one drinks poison that never ends.

Your own seal, lodged between your shoulder blades, pulses every time they think of you. You never know which one. But you feel it. You feel their rage. Their confusion. Their sadness. And sometimes, that burning in your back becomes unbearable. A silent agony, a fire beneath your skin, as if each of them is calling you, claiming you, cursing you… or loving you, all in the same breath.

And you, what can you do but stand upright, veiled in red and silence, your back burning, your hands bloody, and your heart poisoned by four souls who can neither love you... nor forget you?

It wasn't a bond. It was a chain. A blood oath, twisted, impure, sacred. Impossible to break. Impossible to escape.

A mutilated love.

An exiled love.

A love that bleeds and lives, against the will of the gods.

Yè Mó Gǔchéng – Ancient City of the Night Demon

You find yourself in Yè Mó Gǔchéng — the Ancient City of the Night Demon.

Suspended in the heights of a cursed valley where dawn never breaks, it is a relic of a forgotten age, a chasm of shadows frozen in stone. As you advance, the wind crashes against the fractured walls like an ancient sigh, carrying with it a thick, reddish, almost living mist. It seeps between the collapsed arches, winds between the mutilated columns, and coils around your ankles like bloody chains.

The cobblestones creak beneath your feet. Not because of the cold, but because the ground is made of crushed bones and memories frozen in stone—fragments of war, betrayed oaths. They say every wall in Yè Mó Gǔchéng is a tomb, every roof an open coffin, every tower an unfinished prayer. And you hear them, those whispers of pain—muffled, tiny, like tears that even death could not silence.

The Demon King's palace sits in the center, like a black heart wrapped in obsidian chains. It has no stained-glass windows or light. It offers no shelter, only the weight of its silence. It is said that this palace still beats like a wounded beast curled into itself, infected with forbidden magic, growling with every sigh of the wind.

This is where you must spend your wedding night.

You were not led to him with tenderness or music. There was no procession or flowers. You walked alone, draped in red, the veil falling over your eyelashes, escorted only by the ghosts of the virgins who had died before you. You were the offering. The pact. The blood sealed in a cup of agony.

The bridal chamber does not resemble a love bed, but an execution cell.

The bed, immense, is made of a blackened wood that even flames refuse to consume. The sheets are heavy, red silk woven with tarnished gold threads, embroidered with scenes of war and ancient pacts. From the ceiling, a mobile of hanging bones creaks with every movement of air, emitting a macabre music of dry clicking. Chains hang from the walls, unused but present, like a silent threat. The room is saturated with overly thick perfumes, burning black jasmine candles, and immortality incense—an aroma too sweet, almost sickening, like the taste of something too beautiful in a mouth full of blood.

You are here.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, straight as a marble statue, frozen in a dignity that crumbles with every second. Hours pass and your gaze wanders to the floor, then to the wall, then to the moving shadow cast by the dying flame of a lantern. You say nothing. You hardly breathe. Waiting is a blade against your throat.

You are hungry. But hunger is a suffering you know how to contain.

For it wasn't your stomach that groaned the loudest—it was your heart. Your heart, which, despite the pain, despite the betrayal, had held onto a shred of hope. A shred of humanity. You had thought, maybe… maybe he would come. Not for you. But at least for the honor of the pact. For the blood you had shed. For the pain that had scarred you forever.

But he doesn't come. Not a step. Not a vibration in the air. Just silence. And cold. And shame. When the door finally creaks, it's not him. She's a young maid, pale-faced, arms outstretched, trembling like a candle in the rain. She doesn't speak right away, as if your anger will strike her before it even takes shape.

You don't even turn your head. You no longer have the strength. Your eyes stare into space, the moving shadows of the red veil hanging over the wedding bed, that bed where no oath was ever consummated, that bed where your heart emptied itself in silence.

"He won't come... will he?" Your voice rises, weak at first, then colder, sharper than a blade drawn in the dark. It's not a question. It's a sentence. The kind you carve on a stele, funereal, irrevocable.

The maid jumps as if she's been struck. She lowers her head so low that her forehead almost touches the black stone floor. Her fingers tremble on the coarse fabric of her dress, as if she's trying to sink into it, disappear.

"I... I apologize, madam... the lord... he is overwhelmed this evening."

"Overwhelmed"... The word resonates, bitter. Like a poison distilled in a low voice. You stand slowly. You don't leap—you rise. Like the rising red tide, unstoppable. Your robe, a vast hanfu of scarlet silk embroidered with dead phoenixes, spreads around you, heavily, like spilled blood that never dries.

Your hair, tied back in a crown and studded with golden thorns and precious chains, quivers under the weight of silence. Your eyes, shining with a pain you refuse to let flow, stare at the maid who barely dares to breathe.

“Get out. I no longer require your services.” Your voice is calm. Too calm. A chilling calm, where you can sense entire worlds crumbling beneath the surface. “And tell him this: if the king of hell thinks his throne is too heavy to honor a pact sealed by blood and pain… let him know that some things never forgive forgetting.” You don’t scream. You don’t cry. Feelings are an offering you refuse to make to those who trample them.

You reach out. The black mist envelops you. A mist born of the pact itself, a cursed magic, contracted in blood, worn like a chain around your soul. It devours you and carries you away. In a breath, you are gone.

And you reappear at the Black Lotus Pavilion. A sanctuary. A refuge. No… not anymore. The lanterns are out. The silence is so dense it crushes you. The walls, painted gold and jade, seem narrower than ever. As if this room has become a tomb. Your tomb.

And then you collapse.

You let out a scream. A howl. Not of pain. Not yet. A scream of rage, of shame, of loneliness. You tear down the draperies, you smash the precious objects you were given, you toss the censers, the vases, the instruments. Everything that reminds you that you were an offering. A bride. A thing to be consumed and forgotten.

The mirror shatters against the floor. It reflects your own face back at you, shattered into a thousand shards. A thousand versions of you. All lost. All hated. You fall to your knees, your palms bleeding against the shards. You gasp, your lungs burning. And your eyes… your eyes, they still refuse to cry.

Until you see her.

The pin. Just one, slipped into the storm. A thin golden stem, adorned with a black pearl and a drop-shaped ruby. It was your mother's. One of the few memories not taken from you. A promise, long ago. That you would never be alone. And you grab it. Your fingers tremble. You press it against your palm. Hard. Hard enough to feel the bite. Hard enough to make the blood flow again.

“I'm an idiot… an idiot…” Your voice breaks. Each word is a fragment of soul you spit out like shards of glass. “I should have known… Hope… hope is poison… And love… love is a curse.”

You curl into yourself, your dress crumpled, your body twisted. You lie down on the cold wood. Your cheek against the ground. Your hands close around the void. You shiver. With grief. With shame. With anger.

And the tears come. Not human tears. Ancient tears. Tears that carry within them all the sacrifices you've had to make, all the sleepless nights, all the sacrifices imposed on you.

You cry. Until your eyelids close against your will. Until sleep tears you from the pain. A dark, haunted sleep. A dreamless sleep. Or perhaps populated by just one: that of a man with red eyes... who will never come.

And in the icy silence of the Lotus Pavilion, the shadows close in on you. Some cry with you. Others… laugh softly in the darkness.

And that night…

As your body lay on the floor of the Black Lotus Pavilion—this place now a tomb, this sanctuary now empty—an ancient breath rose in the air, imperceptible, but laden with a forgotten memory.

A thrill. A whisper in the spine of the world. A call.

And beneath your skin, just between your shoulder blades, where the flesh had been marked by the pact, a glow ignited. Faintly at first. Like an ember thought to be extinguished. Then the light grew brighter. A pale blue. But it wasn't the blue of the morning sky, nor that of a distant dream.

It was a spectral blue.

The blue of the abyss.

The blue of goodbyes.

It rose from you like a silent complaint, a wave crossing heaven and earth, striking, without pity, the hearts linked to yours. And with that light… came pain. Not for you. No. Not this time. It hit them. One by one. Slowly. Irremediably.

At the top of the world, where the air is too pure for mortals, the celestial Sunghoon meditated, seated on a pale silk cushion, in the silence of a temple suspended in the void. Circles of ancient ink floated around him, chains of celestial prayers, all intended to purify his soul, to sever the bonds of the lower world.

But no seal, no prayer, no divine law could stop what happened.

Without warning, he tensed. His right palm began to burn. Not on the surface, but deep within the flesh. The blue light seeped into his veins, sinuous, painful, as if a river of ice and fire were flowing against the current of his blood. His breath caught. He leaned forward, his hand pressed against his wrist, where the mark pulsed like a second heart. A scream rose in his throat… but it didn't come out. He didn't scream. He closed his eyes.

And in that inner darkness, he saw you. Collapsed. Extinct.

Something tore inside him. Not his pride, nor his celestial dignity. No. Something older. More primitive. A link. An oath he had sworn to hate… but which survived the hatred.

He didn't think. His body acted on its own. And his steps, free from all logic, began to move.

Towards you.

In the bowels of a cursed temple, beneath blood-soaked stones, the demon king Park Jongseong uttered the final words of a forbidden spell, his forehead covered in black sweat, his body surrounded by ancient glyphs.

But even the dark magic stopped, as if terrified. A blue flash split the shadow.

His left palm burst into flames, and he howled—a guttural, primal sound, a wounded beast in the darkness. He fell to his knees. His heart skipped a beat. The tattoos along his arm activated, pulsing, as if your name were etched into them in letters of fire. He spat out blood. And in that blood, a fragment of your grief. He slowly straightened up, his eyes wild.

“You again… what did you do to me…?”

But it wasn't anger that drove him. It was something else. Even more terrible. A dull fear. A worry he never wanted to feel.

In the heart of a pleasure house hidden beneath red lanterns, the fox Sim Jake played the lute, his laughter hanging on his lips, his charm diffused like sweet poison.

He seduced. He played. He forgot.

Until the pain hit him. Just behind his ear, where his mark, so subtle it might have seemed inexistent, began to glow an electric blue. He dropped his instrument. The lute shattered on the ground. He staggered, one hand on his temple, his eyes wide. He stood up, unsteady, his legs weak. He leaned against a wall painted with flowers, which now looked faded.

"You really are... incorrigible," he murmured, his throat tight.

He wished he didn't feel anything. But that fire in him was yours. That pain was your heart screaming into the void. And even in his cowardice, he could not escape it.

On a training ground abandoned since the war, General Lee Heeseung tirelessly repeated the same movements. A blade. A step. A breath. The saber dance in silence.

But on the fourth move, his sword slipped from his grasp.

His left collarbone flared up. He fell to his knees, his hand clutched at his chest. His mark glowed like a firebrand, blue cracks spreading across his skin like frozen lightning.

And suddenly… he knew.

He saw you. Not with his eyes, but with that part of him you had locked away in the pact. He felt your shame, your loneliness, your silent rage. He felt your cold body against the floor. Your muffled sobs. And he bowed his head. Without a word. He wouldn't come. But he didn't forget you.

And in the silence, a tear traced a bitter furrow on his cheek.

Four places.

Four pains.

Only one link.

The mark throbbed on their skin, a single beat. An invisible chain.

You, forgotten witch, rejected, abandoned in the room where no lover came... you made them suffer. Not out of revenge. But because you bled. And they bled with you. Not because they wanted to. But because the pact does not forget.

You crawled slowly towards the bed, your gaze drowned in absence, your hands pressed against your stomach as if you could contain your pain, and you whispered, to no one:

“Hope is poison… Love… damnation.”

And the shadows around you wept too. Or cursed you. But it didn't matter. Because that night, you were all bound together.

Not by desire.

But by blood.

And blood… never lies.

Taglist : @weepingsweep @immelissaaa

[trans-queen-administrator]

Slaughterhouse Nine ranked on how likely they are to wear a maid outfit:

1 - Siberian. Bonesaw would want to play dress up, so that's the cause. If Siberian ever put a maid dress on it would crack her egg, and she would make it part of her outfit permanently, finally wearing some damn clothes. Matches the black and white striped skin, can make it invincible to keep it around.

2 - Murder Rat. Bonesaw dresses them up in one for fun maybe, same as Siberian, and it would only stay on until she gets bored. No agency, no say in it, neither Ravager nor Mouse Protector are thrilled but if they didn't want a maid dress they shouldn't have gotten Bonesaw'd.

3 - Bonesaw. It's a frilly fun dress that fits her cutesy aesthetic. I think she'd probably do it for a bit but likely switch to her usual outfit after. Probably a non-black variant, since she seems like she'd like colorful outfits more. About as likely as the previous two to wear one (and is the likely reason both would wear it in the first place) but would not stick around in a maid dress unlike them.

4 - Burnscar. No backbone, if Shatterbird asked her to put it on she'd put it on. Shatterbird is the #2 possible cause of maid outfits in the 9, although while Bonesaw makes others wear one because it's cute Shatterbird does it so she can feel superior to them. It's less likely for Shatterbird to make it happen because she'd maybe have to realize she's bisexual first.

5 - Jack. Neither Bonesaw nor Shatterbird would be a cause of this, and Jack would probably never put one on of his own free will, but if he did wear a maid outfit he'd stick with it for a shockingly long amount of time. Would modify it to show his chest like normal, attach knives to the bottom, and spin around to kill everyone in a half mile radius. Gets super pretentious about it too. "You see, the maid is a role in society that is always underestimated, overlooked. But without it, you all cease to function. By wearing this dress I remind you all of how fragile your civilization is, and invoke your greatest fear of the lower classes rising up in revolt. It's a metaphor, Skitter, you wouldn't get it."

6 - Cherish. Would only put it on if forced by Shatterbird, who hates her guts and therefore has a motive to humiliate her like this. Cherish would try to pretend it's planned and fine but would despise wearing it, taking it off the first chance she gets.

7 - Mannequin. Would only do it if he thought it was unnerving and weird and trans humanist. Which it could be, but I don't think that he's vibing with one very much so it'll never happen. Everyone here and below is very unlikely to ever even touch one.

8 - Crawler. Can't fit. Would try, but can't fit. Sorry big guy.

9 - Shatterbird. Would actually fucking die before thinking of putting one on herself, she needs to feel better than others and as a previous spoiled rich kid (affectionate) and pretentious asshole (affectionate) she would never be able to fathom a maid outfit as being anything other than demeaning. To her, being in a position of service or labor, which is inherent to being a maid, is probably a fate worse than death.

Honorable mention - Damsel of Distress. Canonically wants a mansion full of maids (and butlers iirc but shush), so there's a bit of a fixation on the concept there. She would absolutely rock one with her white hair and general aesthetic though, and I think she's slightly more likely than Shatterbird to accept that a maid outfit is not inherently a marker of lower class and to incorporate one into her outfit for the aesthetic.

Honorable mention 2 - Number Man. It's a professional outfit. Doesn't fit his aesthetic, but he'd have nothing against one.