#and all of that work would be for nothing. my world isn't made for people like me

[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

[nordfjording]

.

[shadesofmauve]

I want to step away from the art-vs-artist side of the Gaiman issue for a bit, and talk about, well, the rest of it. Because those emotions you're feeling would be the same without the art; the art just adds another layer.

Source: I worked with a guy who turned out to be heavily involved in an international, multi-state sex-slavery/trafficking ring.

He was really nice.

Yeah.

It hits like a dumptruck of shit. You don't feel stable in your world anymore. How could someone you interacted with, liked, also be a truly horrible person? How could your judgement be that bad? How can real people, not stylized cartoon bogeymen, be actually doing this shit?

You have to sit with the fact that you couldn't, or probably couldn't, have known. You should have no guilt as part of this horror — but guilt is almost certainly part of that mess you're feeling, because our brains do this associative thing, and somehow "I liked [the version of] the guy [that I knew]", or his creations, becomes "I made a horrible mistake and should feel guilty."

You didn't, loves, you didn't.

We're human, and we can only go by the information we have. And the information we have is only the smallest glimpse into someone else's life.

I didn't work closely with the guy I knew at work, but we chatted. He wasn't just nice; he was one of the only people outside my tiny department who seemed genuinely nice in a workplace that was rapidly becoming incredibly toxic. He loaned me a bike trainer. Occasionally he'd see me at the bus stop and give me a lift home.

Yup. I was a young woman in my twenties and rode in this guy's car. More than once.

When I tell this story that part usually makes people gasp. "You must feel so scared about what could have happened to you!" "You're so lucky nothing happened!"

No, that's not how it worked. I was never in danger. This guy targeted Korean women with little-to-no English who were coerced and powerless. A white, fluent, US citizen coworker wasn't a potential victim. I got to be a person, not prey.

Y'know that little warning bell that goes off, when you're around someone who might be a danger to you? That animal sense that says "Something is off here, watch out"?

Yeah, that doesn't ping if the preferred prey isn't around.

That's what rattled me the most about this. I liked to think of myself as willing to stand up for people with less power than me. I worked with Japanese exchange students in college and put myself bodily between them and creeps, and I sure as hell got that little alarm when some asian-schoolgirl fetishist schmoozed on them. But we were all there.

I had to learn that the alarm won't go off when the hunter isn't hunting. That it's not the solid indicator I might've thought it was. That sometimes this is what the privilege of not being prey does; it completely masks your ability to detect the horrors that are going on.

A lot of people point out that 'people like that' have amazing charisma and ability to lie and manipulate, and that's true. Anyone who's gotten away with this shit for decades is going to be way smoother than the pathetic little hangers-on I dealt with in university. But it's not just that. I seriously, deeply believe that he saw me as a person, and he did not extend personhood to his victims. We didn't have a fake coworker relationship. We had a real one. And just like I don't know the ins-and-outs of most of my coworkers lives, I had no idea that what he did on his down time was perpetrate horrors.

I know this is getting off the topic, but it's so very important. Especially as a message to cis guys: please understand that you won't recognize a creep the way you might think you will. If you're not the preferred prey, the hind-brain alarm won't go off. You have to listen to victims, not your gut feeling that the person seems perfectly nice and normal. It doesn't mean there's never a false accusation, but face the fact that it's usually real, and you don't have enough information to say otherwise.

So, yeah. It fucking sucks. Writing about this twists my insides into tense knots, and it was almost a decade ago. I was never in danger. No one I knew was hurt!

Just countless, powerless women, horrifically abused by someone who was nice to me.

You don't trust your own judgement quite the same way, after. And as utterly shitty as it is, as twisted up and unstead-in-the-world as I felt the day I found out — I don't actually think that's a bad thing.

I think we all need to question our own judgement. It makes us better people.

I don't see villains around every corner just because I knew one, once. But I do own the fact that I can't know, really know, about anyone except those closest to me. They have their own full lives. They'll go from the pinnacles of kindness to the depths of depravity — and I won't know.

It's not a failing. It's just being human. Something to remember before you slap labels on people, before you condemn them or idolize them. Think about how much you can't know, and how flawed our judgement always is.

Grieve for victims, and the feeling of betrayal. But maybe let yourself off the hook, and be a bit slower to skewer others on it.

[justsomuchhacking]

So like another thing about the transgender mecha discourse is like... the mech can be a metaphor for empowerment and an extension of the customizable self, but specifically for transfemmes the metaphor also works in the other direction!

The mech is safe. And it is familiar, and you have gotten used to controlling it. You are told that your highest purpose is violence, but that's not true about you, though it might be true of the mech.

The mech is safe. It is many layers of cold steel and machinery between you and the world. When people see the mech, they see power and strength. But you will have to crawl out of it if you wish to be seen and known by your name, instead of your callsign*.

The mech is safe. It does not take courage to pilot - it takes courage to leave. Anonymous, stoic violence in a shell that is not your body vs the horrifying ordeal of crawling out of a numb pile of metal and hoping people will love the weird-looking girl who is a little unused to socializing. On account of all the mech-piloting.

Anyway if I was going to write transgender mecha fiction the robot would be the closet. War is hell, truth is life, get out of the fucking robot, girl, and live!

Other small things I would include in an anti-war transgender mecha story:

"Why did you stop being a mecha pilot? You were so good at it!"

Patriarchal military industrial complex discovers trans people are just better at using the weird neural mech piloting interface. This plays out as badly as you'd expect.

"cis" pilot who has an unusually high sync with the mecha and the veteran pilots who Definitely Know.

Nothing good ever happens as a result of mecha battles and the reader should start to feel anxious about which beloved character Isn't Going To Be The Same after this one.

This would of course be very difficult to pull off in a way that's like... as fundamentally entertaining as giant robot fights where the giant robot is a metaphor for personal agency and the power of the individual, where a very traumatized trans girl incinerates mecha hitler with a blue-and-pink laser beam she got from self-actualizing. I recognize that my version is harder to make and definitely not for everyone. But I think it should be made. Both should be made!

*historical note here about callsigns - in fiction people choose their own but in the military these are chosen for you by your unit - and if yours is cool it usually means that your unit thinks you're a dweeb. If you try to make people use a callsign you chose for yourself, there is no doubt at all about whether you are a dweeb. So for me a callsign is a terrible stand-in for a true name. Knowing this fact ruins movies, because every Cool Callsign Protagonist makes you think "Iceman? Oh, he definitely got caught masturbating in the walk-in freezer".

[neil-gaiman]

I'm sorry Neil, although I love your writing and agree with your opinions on most subjects I have to disagree with you on the writers' strike. No-one should have a more privileged life as a result of being clever and creative. I worked from the age of 15 to the age of 65 in low-paid jobs, taking 1 year off to go to drama school and 3 years off to get a fine art degree. I worked in terrible but necessary jobs, labouring, stacking boxes, unloading trucks, running errands, filing, going to work on a bicycle at all hours of the day and night on shift work in all kinds of weather. Even when I was a student I was still working in part-time cleani8ng jobs and even during periods of unemployment I worked in volunteer jobs for charities and social services.

According to Mensa I have an IQ of 160 and according to Plymouth University I have a BA hons in Fine Art but I cannot accept the idea that writers and other creative people should avoid normal jobs like driving an "Uber" or working in an office/shop/factory/construction site. To accept that idea would be to create a new aristocratic class when we should abolishing the old princes and aristocrats.

What we need, I feel sure, is a redistribution of labour so that everybody who can do so would spend some time each year in blue collar work and everybody who can would get higher education and a chance to make art of one sort or another.

The idea of doing other jobs to supplement writing or drawing shouldn't be seen as a terrible thing, a punishment or a suffering. Sharing the jobs around should be seen as normal.

I mean, I've done my half century of sweat labour and it didn't hurt me too much. I'm retired now and still making art of various kinds and I've never asked anyone to pay me for any art piece I've made. making art, writing, drawing etc. is the fun stuff which we get to do in exchange for the blue collar stuff which puts food on the table.

The worst pop song ever written was Sting/Dire Straits song "Money for Nothing" which ridicules the working class from a position of educational privilege.

So what's my question? My question is: What's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet? Sounds perfectly fine to me.

Nothing's wrong with a writer doing other jobs to make ends meet. Writers and artists have been doing that since the dawn of time. Actors too.

But by the same token, there's nothing right about assuming that writing isn't a blue-collar job, or that writers and other people who make art can only make it for love and that thus they need other jobs to subsidise their craft.

I like living in a world in which the people who make the things that make the world worth living in get paid for their work. For me, that includes the people who make films and TV, books, art and music and comics.

Having spent a lot of time on film and TV sets, it's a blue-collar world on set, and everyone is working long and hard to make the shows you love. I'm never going to suggest that the riggers or the gaffers or the make-up team or the focus-pullers should drive ubers in order to have the privilege of being on the set and working there.

Or to put it another way, from the most blue-collar writer I ever knew...

[theonottsbxtch]

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MV1

codes: ✦ angst

ONE SHOTS:

miss you baby | gf!reader summary: while max may be an aggressive on track, there is one thing that most don't know and that's how much of a love sick sap he is for his girlfriend. his whole world revolves around her. and when she's not around, he feels it a lot. so when she couldn't make it to brazil, the only thing he could do was pout, until...

mi novio, max verstappen | mexican!reader summary: how crazy of a thing would it be to introduce your long term boyfriend to your mexican family during christmas out of all times?

baby, baby | fiance!reader summary: max's performance is waivering a tiny bit, and people are confused at how the 3x world champion is struggling. but little do they know. it's because of a little one.

forever and always | military!max summary: if max had to count how many people had stuck with him his whole life, he'd only have to lift a pinky. there was only her, always her who stuck beside him, even when he went off to the military.

don't wanna be saved | mob boss!max summary: she'd gotten good at escaping her past, at covering up her tracks. but when a good looking single father with enough money to end her problems comes for dressage sessions for his daughter, she struggles to hide her secrets. and one thing she doesn't want, it to be saved.

my peace | bestfriend!max summary: growing up, max wasn't allowed friends. but she had managed to sneak into his life. no matter how many times jos told him he didn't deserve her. when he wanted the world to go quiet, only one person could do that, and that was his best friend.

my birthday, my love | gf!reader summary: it's understandable to forget a birthday, especially when you're a formula one driver. but next never would. he's too good for that.

marne la vallee | war deserter!max summary: the war took so much out of people and it took so much out of max, that's why he fled. fled south to france, where he met her. the woman of his dreams. but not everything is fair in love and war.

teen idle | stranger!reader summary: the pressure of being a driver and becoming generational talent wasn't easy, which is why max liked the idea of going incognito sometimes, meeting people who didn't know his name, or recognise his accent. he liked it when life was quiet.

serve | tennis player!reader summary: she'd heard it all by now, how max was nothing but a distraction. and while she was good at shutting out the noise, sometimes it was good to shut them up for good.

SERIES:

the princess and the driver | princess!reader summary: her whole life all she's known is duty and how to be the perfect princess, but sometimes she yearns for freedom. and to her, that freedom came in the form of a boy by the karting track with a twinkle in his eye and a soft accent.

part one | part two | part three | part four | completed

whats left behind | barrell racer!reader x bull rider!max summary: when max had the chance to make it big, he took off and left his small town and girlfriend behind in the rearview mirror of his truck. he made a name for himself but now he's not quite sure he's happy with that so he comes back. but if there is one thing the town doesn't forget, it's their grudges.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | completed

preacher’s daughter | catholic!reader summary: her family was the perfect picture of what a catholic family should look like, everyone but her family knew what happened behind closed doors, until max found out. until max did something about it.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | final part | completed

99 problems | single dad!reader summary: max, multi wdc owner, multi millionaire, mul- father? that wasn't supposed to happen. nor was having an 18 year old dumped on his door step. max isn't used to this, he doesn't know how it works, so is it bad if he lets him live a little? part one | part two - completed

foggy memories | spy!max summary: all his life, all max can remember is working as a spy for this agency. he's one of the best in his field. he goes in, extracts the information and gets out. until he finds himself compromised, by a girl who feels all too familiar, who tells him that maybe his life he'd constructed in his head wasn't real.

part one | in progress

match made in hell | driver!reader summary: she had everything, wins, championships, a fiancee. but one text message makes that all crumble. and suddenly the man she thought loved her his whole life is her sworn enemy? and now her track enemy is her lover? what was going on.

part one | part two | part three | completed

[sirxlla]

Hi! I see you accept requests so I want to send a promt 🥹💖

Batboys when they accidentally get jealous of reader's brother please 🤲

They Mistakingly Get Jealous of Your Brother (Batboys)

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

Dick: "Hey, if you didn't want to be with me anymore would you tell me?" He asked you with worry in his tone.

"Dick, Why would you ever think I don't wanna be with you? I love you." You looked up from where you were chopping onions for dinner.

"Well, I- Who's James?" He asks with that same level of nervousness in his tone.

"Oh, James is my brother. We don't have the same last name because he's only my half-brother. We share the same mom but not the same dad. Now that I think of it I probably should've had you meet them a long time ago."

Dick nods, his worries sated. Dick's not really one to ever get jealous. He only really gets hurt by the idea that you might not want him anymore, which prompts you to reassure him you'd never want any other man on this Earth or the next but him.

Jason: "Be honest are you cheating on me with Johnny?" He came into the kitchen as you cooked dinner for you both.

"Johnny?" You laugh and Jason looks confused and starts to get angry rapidly.

"Why the hell are you laughing?! It's not funny, Y/N!" He slams his hands on the kitchen table, the tone of his voice and the sound of his hands slamming on the table snap you out of your laughing.

"He's my brother!" You stay a bit startled. Jason notices your semi-scared tone as well as your level of sincerity.

"Oh." He says with the realization of his overreaction.

"Yeah, Oh. Don't you ever slam shit around when you're mad at me again." You say with a serious tone as you pointed at him.

"I'm sorry, I- I got jealous 'cause I'm afraid you were gonna leave me. I know that's not an excuse, and I'm really sorry." He slowly made his way over to you and hugged you.

"I'm so sorry, Babygirl. I'll work on my anger. I'm so sorry."

Bruce: "I see you were out with Frank all evening." He said with a flat tone but you could tell by his body language he was jealous. "You know he's married."

"Bruce, for being the World's Greatest Detective, you didn't even bother to look at his last name before he got married?"

"N- No. Why would I do that?"

"His last name was L/N. He changed it to his wifes when they got married."

"Oh. I-"

"You assumed, yeah. He's my brother and one thousand percent, not my type. You have nothing to be jealous about. No man compares to you, so quit overthinking."

You slip onto his lap and run your fingers through his very messy hair from the bat cowl, gently cleaning some grease pain from around his eyes.

"Plus no one pulls off the raccoon look as well as you do." You kiss his nose and give him a hug.

Tim: Tim isn't usually the type to confront things head-on when it comes to relationship things; he doesn't particularly like assuming or hurting your feelings. Your brother had come over to his car jack from your house, and Tim had seen him leaving.

He didn't ask you about him at all; all he had was his age and hair color, and he's memorized his license plate.

He's not confrontational, but that did not stop him from searching your brother to the ends of the Earth like an ex-girlfriend researching her old man's new girlfriend before you two were getting into bed.

You caught a glance at his computer and it made you laugh. "Oh, my god. You're such a weirdo." You teased him. "He's my brother, Timmy. You could've just asked, I wouldn't've gotten upset." You close his laptop and hug him.

"We promised to be honest with each other, but with that also comes you asking questions when you're curious. Don't stalk people; not only is it weird, but you also stress yourself out for no reason. It's gonna take you ages to calm down for bed."

You rub his back and play with his hair stopping only briefly to turn the light off on your bedside table. His head rested on your chest. Tim's an overthinker, so he's kinda glad you stopped him before he got into borderline conspiracy theory territory.

Damian: "Tell your weird ass boyfriend to stop stalking me. He keeps sending me these threatening messages about 'staying away from his woman.'" Your brother texted you and showed you a photo of some flowers Damian sent Theo with a note. It caused you to laugh and snort which you best believe Damian heard.

Damian sent Theo a text that said, 'You best lose her number.' which Theo sent you a screenshot of.

"BABE!" You laugh as you see the message. "MY BELOVED BEAUTIFUL MAN, COME HERE!"

"Yes?" Damian asks as he leans on the doorframe like he hasn't been sending your brother threatening messages.

"Say Hi to my brother, Theo." You put Theo on speaker as you gaze into Damian's green eyes, which widen when he realizes Theo is your brother.

"Hello, Theo. I'm Damian, her boyfriend." Damian hopes that Theo doesn't mention what he's said to Theo due to him not knowing Theo told you already.

"I already told her, Dude." Theo's voice leaves the speaker of your phone and Damian's heart falls into his ass.

"Forgive me, I jumped to a conclusion, Theo." Damian surprisingly apologizes because normally he doesn't do that at all, but he realizes his assumptions were incorrect.

Masterlist

Send me prompts if you'd like

[nightingale-prompts]

Davey Plays Games

More Davey

Barbara: Alright, we agreed that we would help turn Davey normal.

Davey: *lizard blinks*

Barbara: Or as normal as he CAN be. All things considered, Cocomelon isn't helping. We have managed to stunt his speech development and attention span. Thanks to Tim

Tim: But it worked and he's too addicted to short-term dopamine rushes and flashing colors to wander the earth looking for peds to torture and kill.

Jason: A great loss for the world. Can't we let him use his powers again?

Dick: Unfortunately no. And you are still not allowed to watch him.

Jason: It was an accident!

Dick: You put him on a long leash and walked him like dog-well bloodhound to find targets.

Jason: Well fuck me for using his talents to better the world. It's easy when he's a walking murderer detector. Besides he is a radar only for child and animal killers.

Dick: And he was able to slip out of his leash and escaped. He was able to target and kill two more people by the time we caught him again.

Jason: And nothing of importance was lost.

Barbara: Focus guys. We need to teach him how to talk again. Ms.Rachel is not going to cut it anymore.

Cass: (I've been teach him sign language)

Barbara: That works. We have at least been able to use baby sign. But it's still important to fill in his language development.

Tim: I have a plan.

Damian: Your last plan caused this.

Tim: Don't worry it'll work.

*****

Davey:(playing Fear and Hunger) Hehe, Bloody. It's so messy and funny.

Dick: What the hell is this Tim?

Tim: Progress. I've chosen a collection of indie horror games with heavy dialog, puzzle-solving, psychological situations, and enough gore to keep him interested. Corpse Party games, Slay the Princess, some niche murder mysteries, and a lot of pixel RPG horror games.

Dick: That can actually be working.

Tim: No, it's working. He got sad playing Slay the Princess when he realized that killing her made her sad. He learned empathy.

Dick: Oh my god, it's working.

[alchemistc]

Once again I need to get off my ass and go work but instead all I'm thinking about is Them:

Buck's mostly got his breathing under control by the time he hears the side door slide open, and he adjusts his weight automatically, tips his chin as he straightens his spine, tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket like that will fix the wrinkles he'd made bending at the waist for the last ten minutes.

"Buck?"

He's turned away, thank god, so Tommy can't see the wince.

"I'm fine," he says, annoyed with himself and the world at large when it comes out wobbly. "Go back ins-." When he hears the door click shut again he takes a moment to hope Tommy's just left, again, but -

No such luck.

"That door locks from the inside," Buck murmurs, and tears his gaze away from the gentle expression on Tommy's face. There'd been a cardboard box wedged up in there by whatever line cook had been out here smoking when Buck burst through the doors, and the guy had left it with a warning about how insanely large this building was and how few doors along its perimeter were unlocked, and now the broken down box is somewhere beneath Tommy's left foot.

Tommy tries the door anyway.

It doesn't budge. "We could just call Eddie," Tommy says, and Buck feels the ire rise in his throat.

"Eddie's not here," he spits, and it feels like a knife under the ribs. Everyone fucking leaves, eventually. "Call your date, if you want. I'm walking."

Buck heaves himself up from his lean against the brick, takes two large strides to make it past Tommy and keeps going.

He should have known better than taking Bobby at his word that this stupid gala would be worth his time. So far he's dodged conversations about the curse of the 118, spent an unbearable five minutes smiling blandly at Gerrard before he could excuse himself, and tossed two numbers written on raffle tickets into the trash in his mad dash through the kitchens because apparently Tommy had been chosen as the rep for 217 and he looks fucking good in his suit, and he'd been pretty sure they'd be spending this Christmas together, until last month.

He's twenty yards down the alley when he hears footsteps catching up to him. Light, brisk - he's jogging to catch up and Buck doesn't want to deal with -

"Not my date," Tommy says, and Buck curses his own body for automatically slowing to allow him to catch up.

Buck snorts. "Okay." The guy was older - than Buck, at least. Grey around his temples, fat lips and clever eyes that caught Tommy's mid-sentence and sent them both into quiet hysterics.

"Buck, would you just -."

He's close enough to reach for Buck's arm, so Buck wrenches it away before he can make contact. "Don't call me that."

December twenty-third is one of those weird days where the world doesn't quite work the same. Traffic is heavier or lighter in weird places, people with nothing to do wander the streets or hole up in their homes making too much food and watching weird holiday movies, and even in LA it gets chilly enough at night to need a jacket. This one isn't doing shit to keep Buck warm, but the anger catching in his throat sure is.

"It's your name," Tommy says, exasperated.

"Not to you." Buck stops dead in his tracks, watches Tommy take another three steps before he realizes he's alone. When he turns, Buck doesn't allow himself to turn away from his gaze. Annoyance isn't a new look - Buck has tested the waters enough in six months to know intimately exactly how far he could push it before Tommy stopped indulging him.

He looks upset. Frustrated. Tired. Hot as fuck. Buck sort of wishes he'd do something about those first two.

Something other than walk away.

Tommy sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, and the sides aren't as high and tight anymore. There's a piece curling over the tip of his ear and Buck wants to tug at it, slide his fingers in there and tuck it back. "That was Sal," he says, and Buck flicks through the sadly small Rolodex of names Tommy has mentioned in the past. Another boundary Buck hadn't realized was a brick fucking wall in the way of getting to know his boyfriend.

Ex.

Sal. He'd been at the 118 with Gerrard, in the early days. Before Chim and Hen, before Bobby. He'd been the one to prompt Tommy into filing a complaint against Gerrard even though he'd been scared out of his mind to do it.

"I don't care."

He does care, is the problem. He cares so much. He's got a pile of fruit cakes and half a dozen pies sitting on his kitchen island right now that prove it. He can't seem to stop caring.

Tommy looks sceptical.

Buck brushes past him again, keeping his strides long. Tommy's the same height, but both literally and metaphorically he's always struggled to keep up when Buck had somewhere to be.

At least the panic attack has passed. Maybe he could take up running, as a cure all, instead of the weak ass recovery period he usually takes that involves him drinking a bottle of water and staring at the same spot on the wall until he sees stars.

So, fine. Tommy hadn't brought a date to the work function it was entirely possible Buck would be at six weeks after breaking up with him and disappearing into the damn wind. He'd bubbled Buck seven times that Buck knew of, and he hadn't brought a date.

Fine.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You looked -."

Buck had watched Tommy wheeze with laughter and curl a hand around the dudes - Sal's - wrist and he'd felt like maybe he was gonna throw up. Like six months and the something he'd been working his way up to defining hadn't meant a damn thing. Like Tommy could just move on like he seemed to think Buck could.

"Doing great, Tommy. My best friend is moving to Texas and the man I thought I could -." Buck clears his throat. Shuffles sideways just a bit because Tommy is keeping pace now and his cologne is familiar and devastating. He doesn't have anything inside. Once he rounds this corner he could just order an Uber and go home.

There's nothing keeping him here.

"Eddie's moving?"

The no contact thing had extended to everyone at the 118, apparently. At least Buck wasn't alone in that.

Buck digs out his phone, slows his pace just enough to pull up the app he needs. He can feel Tommy's eyes burning a hole in the side of his head.

"Yeah, well. I'm getting used to people leaving at this point," he says, filling it with as much ire as he can. His voice doesn't wobble this time.

"Buck."

It's soft, this time, same inflection as when he'd cage Buck against a counter and lick into his mouth. "Don't worry about me, Tommy. You made it a point not to."

"That's not fair."

Buck couldn't care less. He's spent six weeks on a depression baking spiral and now he wants to go home and destroy every bit of baked goods he's made that are still left.

It only takes a few taps. They're surging prices, but that's not exactly a shocker.

He'd really thought the next time he saw Tommy he'd just be sad. Maybe he'd feel a little wistful about all the moments they'd shared that had meant something to Buck even if they hadn't meant the same to Tommy.

He wants to swing a fist, if he's being honest. He wouldn't. Not ever. But the desire is there and he hates it.

"Buck, could we just -."

"Stop calling me that!"

"I pay a mortgage, Evan!"

Buck can't remember Tommy ever raising his voice. It's - weird.

"I'm forty years old and I own a house and you asked me to move in to your loft after you told me you admired me." The emphasis isn't lost on him.

His ride is three minutes away.

"I got it the first time, Tommy. Haven't sucked enough cocks or done enough tests to know what I really want, so. Go enjoy your evening with Sal and -."

"That is not what I said." Cool, calm. Infuriating.

"Well that's what I got from it, so clearly we were never on the same page. I wanted a future with you and you've been eyeing the expiration date the whole time so -."

He's definitely not expecting Tommy's lips. But there they are, on his, and Buck's stumbling back, fully expecting the sharp crack of the brick at the back of his head as Tommy surges forward with him, only Tommy's hand curls around his skull at the last second and takes the brunt of the landing. His mouth opens on a groan and Buck licks up into it. Their noses clash and rather than shifting for better positioning they just press closer. Tommy's free hand finds the soft give of Buck's waist and his thigh finds purchase between Buck's legs and -

"You're willfully misunderstanding me," Tommy says, lips on Buck's jaw, heart pounding under Buck's hand, his breath ghosting along Buck's cheek.

"Never really gave me the opportunity for clarity," Buck bites back, and Tommy huffs, rolls his hips, tucks his forehead into the juncture of Buck's shoulder.

His pulse is pounding in his ears and there's a cloud of Tommy Tommy Tommy obscuring his senses.

"Do you still want that?"

Buck's phone dings in his hand.

His ride is here.

"Not if you're just gonna walk away again," Buck bites out, and shoves. Hard.

It barely moves Tommy, but it's enough to slip out of his grasp.

He doesn't glance behind to see if Tommy follows as he pulls at his suit jacket again and rounds the corner to try to catch - he eyes his phone - Sheri before she cancels the ride on him.

Doesn't stop him from hearing the footfalls behind him while he searches out the blue Honda Civic.

[snoopyhughes]

to be loved is to be known: Quinn hughes

hello and welcome to the first installment of my "to be loved is to be known" series! you can find all posts related to this series in the series tag! Quinn screams acts of service, domestic moments, quiet moments, really just the little things about love that make it so special, so I thought it would be perfect to start this off with Quinn. feedback is always lovely and if you would like to see me write one of these about someone else, feel free to send it in, although I can't guarantee I will write for them.

just about 1k words, no physical features mentioned of reader.

to be loved is to be known...

Quinn, who starts every morning with his routine that he created just for the two of you. He always rises before you, laying a soft kiss on your forehead and tucking the blankets up to your shoulders. He always leaves a sweatshirt on the chair in your bedroom for you to slip into, right next to your slippers, because he knows you want to be cozy when you first wake. He has a sixth sense for when you've woken up, and no matter when you descend down the stairs into the kitchen, Quinn has a cup of coffee, prepared exactly how you like it, seemingly made just moments ago. He will always prepare a small breakfast for you as well, because it is most important to Quinn that you get three meals a day. speaking of that...

to be loved is to be known...

Your health and safety is Quinn's number one priority. If you don't eat three meals a day, Quinn knows, it's like a sixth sense. He always tries to face time you during at least one meal a day so he can have the reassurance that you're well taken care of. If you have a tough day, just know to expect a DoorDash of your favorite restaurant at yours and Quinn's apartment when he's out of town.

And safety is just as important to Quinn. The sidewalk rule is more of a law to Quinn. His card is saved in your Uber account because you will not be walking anywhere on his watch. Quinn watches like a hawk whenever you two go out together. There's no such thing as jealousy because Quinn knows you're his forever, and he also trusts you more than anything. But he understands how special you are better than anyone. Any wandering eyes or hopeful suitors approaching you are quickly turned away when Quinn lays eyes on them.

Quinn's gruff exterior lets people know that he does not mess around when it comes to you. The team knows better than to ever try to poke fun or make any semblance of a joke about you, because he does not joke about the love of his life.

to be loved is to be known...

speaking of the Uber account... you would pay for nothing if Quinn had his way. Quinn is a caretaker, it is his natural state due to being the oldest. He knows how hard you work, he admires your dedication and your resilience almost more than anything about you. But he can't help it. Quinn loves you, truly so much. He would buy you the world if he could. It's not even about material things or buying out the store, he just wants you to feel loved, he thinks you should never want for anything. Want is one thing, but Quinn would just topple over if you ever struggled for money. Quinn knows why you work so hard, he thinks you are the best but he knows his salary isn't common in the real world. Quinn would actually combust if you ever struggled financially, especially on his watch. He's not naive to think that people don't struggle financially, but he never wants that for you, especially on his watch.

to be loved is to be known...

It's no secret that Quinn isn't a man of many words. He wishes that he could tell you how much he loves you, how much you mean to him, but he struggles to convey that verbally, hence, the acts of service. This is part of why Quinn tries to get you whatever you want. However, you've had a conversation that Quinn doesn't need to buy you anything, you know how much he loves you, you see it everyday in the little things.

to be loved is to be known...

Some of the little things include... post it notes around the house, telling you he loves you, that you're beautiful, how much he appreciates you, that you work so hard, he's proud of you, whatever he can think of, you name it.

Flowers, every Monday, no matter what. If he's home, he works with the local florist to create a custom bouquet for you each week, complete with the sweetest note you could ever think of, always wrapped in brown paper because you mentioned once that you liked the way they look. When he's away, you get a delivery to work at 11 am everyday, because don't think he also doesn't have a flower delivery service on speed dial.

Songs that make him think of you. He sends you songs frequently, usually just with the message of: this made me think of you. Sometimes, he will send you a lyric that made me think of you. When you met the captain of the Vancouver Canucks, you couldn't have imagined him sending you Noah Kahan lyrics that remind him of your beauty, your smile, your laugh, but Quinn really stumps you everyday.

Chores around the house are always done. Quinn is a busy guy, but he doesn't assume he's the only one who's busy. When you come home from a long day at work, you can often find Quinn folding laundry on the couch, the smell of cleaning products in the air, with dinner simmering on the stove. He knows well that a bad day can feel even worse when you come home to a dirty apartment, an uncooked meal, or heaps of dirty laundry. If he can do anything to make your life easier, he's doing it.

All in all... if acts of service is your love language, trust that Quinn is the one for you. Quinn lives to make your day easier, to make you feel loved through actions, not words. A man of few words, he would match rather show you how much he loves you by filling your gas tank, cleaning the sheets and making the bed, cleaning up your side of the vanity when he does his own, filling the pantry when he notices your favorites are low, anything he can do to make your life easier, to make you happy, is non-negotiable for Quinn.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 3/?)

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

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 6K

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

Part 1 Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah... I heard about it."

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

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

"How did you find out?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know how to protect myself, Kate."

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

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

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

"Come with me to Piltover."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He noticed. Of course, he noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, you didn't back down.

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

Silco's eyes narrowed at your words.

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

"Then tell me if I'm wrong."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hate you."

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

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

"I know you do, dove."

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

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

And then he claimed your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not yet, dove. Not yet."

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it was covered in blood. Part 4

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[dan-ish]

Can we really call Cale oblivious?

When I was reading tcf for the first time I had the question "Why is cale oblivious to his own actions destroying his slacker dream? Why does this man turn the world upside down and still thinks he might be unknown at the end of the day? ?" In my mind all the time..

So, I decided to analyse his actions in his own perspective!

What did Kim Rok Soo do that was so different from Cale? Nothing really, in both lives he's doing the same exact thing :

• Fighting the evil beings with overwhelming advantage (as much as he could).

• Scamming the bad guys in whatever way he does it.

• Preparing several plans for most possible situations before stepping in.

•Encourages and helps his people to become stronger and uses their abilities in the most efficient way helping them 'stand out more than him' as he thinks.

• Has no problem in retreating if the situation is not going as intended, prioritise his people's wellbeing above all else!

• Works from the rear as a strategist, but is always ready to step in whenever the situation goes south to flip the tables; not just turn them.

He has been doing this since he became a team leader and has continued in the same manner after transmigrating, so far almost 13 years !!

But here's the one most important difference between now and then: Cale is not affected by the White Star's curse anymore! Since it broke the moment he transmigrated into Cale's body nothing now is hiding his achievements from the world.

However, as a victim of both WS's reincarnation and og Cale's transmigration, (the curse's cause and its breaker) he had no idea, until recently, so this is the thing Cale does not understand the most. He may have figured out the concept of what effected him but he's yet to link his past to his present comparing them to the point he believes this is an important factor of why he's becoming a worlds wide hero.

So when he says 'i just wanted to be a small hero why isn't it working like it always has?!' he actually means it and is genuinely confused! (And certainly justified) Because why ,if he does almost the same strategy, is he's having different results this time!?

The variables become clearer if you have an outsider pov, for example: krs's curse made it that he can't cherish anything or be cherished, that's why all the people he cared about left him one way or another, This explains why Cale can't understand why his family care for him. Something inside of him thinks unconsciously "How are they still here?". It's not that he's in denial, it's rather that he has never been given the chance to process this love and care in his 40 years of life, for as soon as he starts to accept that he may have a chance of happiness, it's immediately stolen from him, leaving him more traumatized than before...

Another side would be that every time a chance arised for him to standout in public, like the speech thing he talked about, "something" would happen; a monster outbreak, an accident, or maybe an unexpected attack from some evil ability users...

Which means it's not only his desire to stay hidden that has been keeping his achievements in the dark as krs, it was mostly his curse and when he couldn't be praised he thought 'Well, who wants public recognition anyway?'

You can see he was well-known inside his feild, the government,guilds and throughout the company, He was almost an idol to the people in the brain team! But that's where it stopped, always.

So, it's totally understandable how Cale gets confused everytime he does something good and is praised and cheered for by the citizens; what he had learnt from YEARS of experience is that whatever he did, in the end it remained between these companies walls. [It mostly won't go further unless someone is digging around, like the assassins and illegal guilds that hated him]

No matter what good deeds he does, he can't be 'loved', for he is cursed to be left alone. I mean, we still barely know ANYTHING about team leader krs,his abilities, exact strategies, his team and their relationship with each other what other hardships did he face?

The speech curse is one thing we figured just recently and it never crossed my mind before that he could have been in such a situation...

Maybe he never bought a better house because each time he tried it would get destroyed because he "can't have anything to cherish" so he had to be stuck with the wrecked place that triggered his records and brought him more pain and suffering...?

Back to the point, krs was free to do much more without standing out, he didn't have these "fame/heroic consequences" as for he thought this was the norm for him at least, and tbf that's a major one less headache for him to deal with since he had enough enemies already. And he's a shy little boy but we don't talk about that !

And one little thing to note, he's used to trouble coming after him, and he has this sense of responsibility that he should be the one dealing with all of the trouble since most of the time he concluded that he was the reason everyone around him got hurt...and he can't forget so that's two reasons why he's now dealing with all these problems even if his actions now have such consequences or if it brings him more trouble.

If your daily life was like this of course you'll be confused to WHY ISN'T IT WORKING OUT I JUST WANTED TO LIVE IN PEACE !!!

[eclipseberrycake]

Poly! MoonBerryCake x Reader

I took some inspiration from @huneybeen who wrote this first so please please dont hate me but I've been thinking about them for the past 3 days and I needed to word vomit.

...K thanks bye.

Divider Credit: @sister-lucifer

☁ The dynamic of this alone is something I'd like to touch on especially because it's so fun to me.

☁ I imagine if anything the reader would be a common toon, so that changed things. You have two mains, Astro and Sprout, and two commons, yourself and Cosmo.

☁ You and Cosmo probably meet first because of that. You get close because of similar interests and stay close during runs.

☁ To add an extra layer to this, imagine Distactor! Reader too? Licking my fingers at this.

☁ Cosmo thought he had just gotten a new friend! He loves giving them treats and using them as a taste tester and even taking naps together wherever possible! It's great!

☁ Until...it's not? Why are you taking off? Why do the trinkets hooked onto your belt look suspiciously like the ones Goob and Tisha are known to use? Why are you actively getting the Twisteds attention?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

☁ The first time he sees you distract is a little stressful for poor Cosmo. The second you're back in the elevator and it clinks shut, he is whirling on you and demanding an explanation.

☁ He's so exasperated that he's left speechless when you simply smile up at him, still high off adrenaline, while talking a mile a minute about how much fun that was.

☁....Are you insane?

☁ That being said, after the fact, Cosmo is literally your personal healer. He is constantly fighting Toodles the other toons for heals, not for himself, not really, but so he's never left with nothing to give you.

☁ That's probably when he realizes he has an initial crush on you. He's mid-way through using a med-kit on you, on a floor high enough he can see the running starting to effect you. You're sluggish and fatigued and can't chug pop fast enough. It makes his chest ache at the sight before he's swallowing his nerves and wrapping his arms around you.

☁ "You're doing great. Thank you for the work you do."

☁ Feeling you melt against him made every grueling floor worth it in that moment. The draining yank of his own health leaving him to go to you through every new treat was far beyond repaid. He would do it a million times over for you if only for a smidge chance at this moment again.

☁ The run was finished soon after that, and you were quick to express your thanks towards him after that. Safe to say, if you thought he was clingy before, that was nothing. It's like he literally took an invisible chain and connected it between you two and you just haven't found it yet.

☁ He's always there with a smile and a treat and a snuggle if time and twisteds permit.

☁ Now, some world building for ya. I imagine that the OG Twisteds of the mains you see, are the real mains until that research is completed. Then Dandy lets you purchase an...un-twist antidote or something and that's when they come back. It's fun to me >:(.

☁ Following this, most people are gonna assume Sprout comes first.

☁ WRONG. I got Astro first so guess whose coming back. Astro.

☁ When Astro comes back, he's evidently shaken by the whole ordeal. The mains probably didn't know the commons overly well unless they were explicitly paired together. Like Sprout and Cosmo in that one animation, or Glisten and Vee, etc. Astro isn't seen with any commons, as far as I know, so he's probably a little lost and feels like an outsider.

☁ While he's recovering he's banned from any runs. Point blank period. However, that means he's alone while the commons are all out scavenging for research.

☁ Guess who comes in? Guess :)

☁ It's you!

☁ Unlike Cosmo, there are other distracting toons. Tisha and Goob both are more than happy to take some shifts while you stay back to recover yourself. Unfortunately, there's only one Cosmo, so he's left going on the runs as a healer and leaving you behind. You always see him off though, giving him pecks on the cheek before he's stepping into the elevator.

☁ You take the time to wander through Gardenview, eyeing each room as you pass before blinking at the infirmary. The new toon was in there.

☁ Astro half expected you to just continue on, regardless of if he was there or not. He was fine on his own, even if it wasn't his favorite. It reminded him too much of when he was... Of before.

☁ But you poked the top of your head in the doorway, your eyes being the only part of you visible. He blinked at the action, making eye contact. Your head tilted at the action and his own mirrored it. It made you giggle as you disappeared back around the door.

☁ Despite it, Astro found himself smiling at the action. what an odd toon you were.

☁ He never heard your footsteps disappear however, stunning himself when you popped your eyes back in, gleaming with mischief. The rest of you stepped in right after, pressing a finger to your lips with a humorous little wink. "Wanna sneak into the kitchen and steal some cookies?"

☁ Needless to say, he found himself in the kitchen, sitting beside you with a cookie jar shaped like a suspicious, rainbow petal'd plant sat between you munching on cookies that looked a little too familiar for comfort.

☁ You filled the silence whenever something popped into your brain, talking about things you felt he should know for whatever reason. He now knew all about Rodger and Glisten and Teagan's tension, which he wouldn't have guessed, and all about Gigi's...problem with misplaced objects. He even knew about your own rumors that laid hushed in the walls, spoken like they were about someone else.

☁ "Yeah! People keep saying Cosmo and I are a thing but he's never asked so until then, that's a no."

☁ He hummed at the time, even if some part of him felt a bit relieved at the information.

☁ By the time he was cleared to go on runs, you were bouncing up and down by his side excitedly, trinkets clinking from where you had hooked them onto your waist, with Cosmo excitedly grinning behind you.

☁ He liked seeing you two like that.

☁ Now. Sprout. Mr. Seedly.

☁ He's last to join. Astro helps with this tremendously. When you're downed from a surprise Shrimpo attack, clutching your arm as Ichor pooled over, Cosmo is quick to try and jump in to help, only for a twisted clone of himself to turn and lock in onto him.

☁ As much as I love to proclaim "Distractor! Cosmo!" he's not actually a distractor. So, he has to run to lose the twisteds quickly before getting bit himself. This is where Astro comes in. Not only does he quickly re-energize both you and Cosmo, he is able to give you a momentary heal, letting you run off, air horn blazing, while hiding in the back to turn his attention to Cosmo.

☁ Whatever pieces you or Cosmo may lose, Astro picks up. Yet, not all of them seem to click into place just yet.

☁ When the elevator stills and you all hear the telltale steps, Astro is quick to grab your shoulders and spit all sorts of warnings. "Watch the tentacles. You'll know where they're going to appear. Don't try to test them. It's not worth it." "He's slow but don't take that for advantage. He will find a way to keep up." "Ignore every other twisted. We can handle them."

☁ Blinking, he watched you slowly nod before blinking and giving a much more firm acknowledgement. "Understood."

☁ When the elevators opened, Astro watched as you quickly got Sprout's attention, darting around a budding pile of ichor before sharply turning the other way. The reason why quickly became apparent when a twisted Teagan turned the corner, which Goob quickly took away.

☁ Nodding to himself, Astro found himself turning to face Cosmo, who looked terrified at the what just happened. Did he look that way when Astro was...That way with him? He hoped not.

☁ Frowning, he gripped his blanket tighter before letting out a breath, extending one of his hands through the opening towards Cosmo. The other looked at it with wide eyes before his eyes upturned to look at Astro's. "I'll stay with you the entire time."

☁ They had to follow you after all.

☁ They stayed a good distance away from where you and Goob were distracting (which was rather entertaining to watch actually), grabbing capsules wherever possible and tossing healing treats to you both as you passed.

☁ It was a rather seamless process actually up until the elevator timer began, sending the other toons of the squad running. Cosmo, who had been waiting for Astro to finish the last machine, seemed to halt before Astro was urging him forward, steeling himself to stay behind. "They'll run out of stamina before getting to the elevator. We'll be fine!"

☁ Albeit hesitantly, Cosmo did turn and run, finding safety next to Rodger while Astro stayed a ways away outside. Goob was quick to return, free of twisteds, but looking no less stressed. "They were far! Sprout cut off their exit!" Goob quickly explained, twiddling his fingers in front of him.

☁ Astro nodded before instructing him to stand in the elevator as well just in case.

☁ As the seconds ticked down, Astro was seconds away from stepping just far enough to remain out of Goob's range just in case when you came skidding around a corner. He could tell you were running on low as you kept looking back, narrowly avoiding Sprout's clawed grasp. Waiting until you were close enough, he let his power thrum along the ground, watching as you immediately perked up.

☁ Goob took this as a signal, or maybe you gave him one, as you quickly moved to push Astro forward, right into the awaiting arms as you continued towards the elevator. Just as the elevator began to close, you dove, making it just under the steel metal as it slammed shut behind you.

☁ You were panting as you laid on the ground, the entire elevator silent save for your heavy breaths and the sound of Dandy preparing for his arrival.

☁ Cosmo was quick to jump onto you, hurling threats of no more heals if you ever tried anything like that ever again. You took it with grace, gently resting a hand on his head as he cried into your shoulder. Your eyes angled back, catching his and extending your free hand. "You can't fool me. I know that scared you too."

☁ If Astro moved forward to take your hand, sitting close enough to you his knees brushed your shoulders.

☁ You had gotten what you needed though, evident with the glower Dandy shot at you, hidden behind a plastic smile.

☁ Getting Sprout back was harder than getting Astro back, admittedly. You had explained that when getting a main back, you kept most of the toons behind simply for everyone's sake. Distractors, Cosmo and fast extractors was where you drew the line.

☁ Which Astro understood. But didn't like. However, that being said, his power made him a valuable asset, which he used to argue his point. When you acquiesced, he nearly cheered, triumphantly trekking into the elevator with Cosmo by his side.

☁ To say this was like the previous runs, but on some sort of crack would be an understatement. It was fast. It was grueling. It was a thing of constant motion with machines constantly being done and the elevator a repeating pattern of opening and closing.

☁ There were no jokes like usual. There was no chatting. There was a new tension among the people in the elevator, simply waiting for the countdown before starting it all over again.

☁ Cosmo ensured he stuck beside Astro the entire time, remaining a rock the entire time while you were busy. They kept close enough they could rush to you should the need arise, and have a few times, but stayed within hands reach of each other.

☁ By the time they reached floor 24, with all of you tired and injured to some extent, the sound of his steps were both a welcome reprieve and a dreaded expectation.

☁ You were the one trusted with the serum, clutching it tightly as you glared at the elevator before you were turning to look at Cosmo and Astro over your shoulder. "Stay safe, please. Don't wait for me."

☁ It was a harrowing ask, but not one they could linger on as the elevator opened and you took off.

☁ But then the lights went out.

☁ And then they heard Sprout let out a shrill roar signaling he spotted you.

☁ Then they heard the snarling of Pebble signaling he too also spotted you.

☁ That was all they needed before the group of them dispersed, eager to complete the machines as quick as possible before you paid the price for their lack of action.

☁ One by one each ticked off before the elevator was reopening and they all rushed back to the elevator. Goob, Cosmo and Astro stood right up at the lip of the elevator, eyes darting for you. You appeared much quicker, both Pebble and Sprout on your heels as you did.

☁ You dropped a quick smoke bomb, loosing both of their attentions as you quickly rounded around a counter. Pebble let out a snarl as he ran off in the other direction. He didn't get far before hearing you move and it was like a movie.

☁ You moved, launching at Sprout with the Serum poised and ready while Pebble snarled, rushing to catch you. You managed to catch Sprout, digging the spout of the needle into his neck before being chucked off, making you scramble as you quickly darted back around the counter. Astro let his power thrum as Goob snapped his arms out, Cosmo catching you as you ran into the elevator while Goob's arms snapped back. The elevator snapped shut as Glisten moved to end the run and send the elevator back up, both you and Cosmo moving to where Goob cradled an ichor riddle body.

☁ You quickly let Cosmo do what he needed too, diverging to wrap your arms around Astro, who's eyes were locked onto Sprout.

☁ He spent the night with you and Cosmo, both of which he dragged out of your rooms to sleep in his that night.

☁ Sprout's recovery is quicker than Astro's, as he's a toon made for healing. He's up and bitching before any of you can stop him.

☁ Cosmo is his first stop, duh, they're canonically very close, with Astro a close second as he would know the other main. But you? Sprout's got no idea who you are.

☁ So he's a little stand-offish. He sees you interacting with Cosmo and sees you with Astro, and both seem to thoroughly enjoy your company, but he also saw you when he was a twisted.

☁ You were a dumbass if he had anything to say about it.

☁ You'd see someone way down a hallway and risk running into a wall to avoid them getting maybe even possibly spotted. He'd seen you eat enough chocolate bars to make him sake just to stay just in front of Pebble. He'd seen you slip on a stray jumper cable only to get right back up and do the same thing when you rounded around.

☁ He wasn't sure he wanted that rubbing off on him.

☁ But you stuck around. When Cosmo wanted to bake, you were the first to get a bit of the final product. When Astro wanted a nap, you were right there with a blanket, acting as a pillow while you napped with him.

☁ Even on runs, you were quick to come to his aid, taking back the twisteds once he'd gotten his aggro-tapes. All with a stupid smile.

☁ He kind of hated that smile.

☁ Man this is getting LONGGG

☁ Anyway, how would you and Sprout bond? Uh, the common denominators silly!

☁ You were injured on a previous run, bad enough to warrant bed rest decrees from both Cosmo AND Astro. Lucky you!

☁ Sprout had only been cleared for basic runs and this was another possible retrieval run, which you heavily protested against with not only you injured but your second healer still on probation.

☁ Still, they went on with it. You and Sprout were left in the infirmary, awkward silence settling between you. Neither of you knew what to say from there. Your buffers were gone.

☁ With a huff, you sat up, running a hand down your face before turning to face Sprout. Who was watching you.

☁ He watched you like a hawk, watching as you swung your feet off the bed and slowly stood like a shaky new born fawn. "Cosmo's not gonna like that."

☁ You snorted at him, falling back onto the bed only to try again. Sprout's eyes narrowed as he scoffed. "Astro's not gonna like it either."

☁ You snorted again, finally finding your standing before turning to look at him, narrowing your eyes at him. "Are you coming with me to get cookies or not?"

☁ ...well, he can't say he didn't warn you. He did follow you to go get treats, acting as a crutch along the way simply for the reason he didn't want to wait for you to hobble along.

☁ That was the only reason.

☁ By the time you both got to the kitchen, munching on treats, you had picked up a fun back and forth with each other, trading quips as you dug into the cookie jar once more. You pulled out the last cookie, offering it to him.

☁ He looked at it before shaking his head, only for you to roll your eyes and split it in two. He took it with a grumble, scoffing. "I made them I can make more."

☁ "Gonna make them with Astro's face again?" You shot back with a grin, nibbling onto your own half.

☁ He gave an affronted gasp before the ding of the elevator was making you both look over, Sprout giving you a hand to welcome back the group. They hadn't been gone very long, so it either went very well or not well at all.

☁ It turned out be neither. The run had been called as they were unable to fall into a rhythm and Scraps and Brightney had gotten into quite the altercation.

☁ Both you and Sprout find yourselves looked for Cosmo and Astro, only to find them chatting near the entrance, completely fine. There's a moment between you and hi m, where you both side eye each other before you're reaching out and shoving him. Without trinkets you two are practically the same speed, only he has you outmatched with stamina.

☁ Which was his only hope as he stumbled, not expecting the dirty play, watching you take off towards them. He quickly caught up trying to shove you only for you to dodge him with a laugh.

☁ He knew he should've distracted more. He had gotten complacent with Pebble and was now paying the price for it. He should've known you were a dirty filthy cheater. He should've guessed.

☁ In a last ditch effort he launched himself at you, making you squawk as you both rolled forward, giving both Cosmo and Astro little time before the two of you collided into them sending the four of you into a heap of undignified limbs and cackles.

☁ I spent that entire time just developing that omfg and its already long. sobbing.

☁ Anyway how y'all get together is gonna be TBD bc my head is hurty and my tummy is empty. ~<3

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHER WEAKNESS * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Matt's secret relationship with Y/N, the boss of LA's most feared mafia, is revealed to the media in seconds. Now, Matt is in danger, and Y/N isn't afraid of burning the world down to protect him.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x mafia boss!reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　use of guns, car racing, blood, injuries, mean!reader ('hate the world but love him' trope), mentions of death, dark romance.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Looking back, it was hard for Matt to remember a time when his life wasn’t full with the kind of fear that made him look over his shoulder every five minutes.

It wasn’t the kind of fear born out of paranoia, no, Matt wasn’t paranoid. He was just aware. Aware that being the boyfriend of Y/N Y/L/N, the most notorious name in Los Angeles, came with its own set of risks. Risks that loomed like shadows, thick and suffocating, creeping into every corner of his existence.

Becoming her boyfriend had been as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Y/N wasn’t just anyone. She was the Y/N Y/L/N, the Queen of Los Angeles, a woman whose name was whispered in hushed tones, whose reputation alone was enough to make the strongest men cry. She wasn’t just the boss of a mafia; she was the boss. Every move she made sent quakes through her world, her presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

To the rest of the world, she was the devil. But to him? She was something else entirely.

Matt often found himself thinking about the contradictions of their relationship. There was no point in explaining the downsides of being with someone like her; even with the constant threat of danger, the late nights spent waiting for her to come back to him, the uneasy knowledge that she ruled a world where mercy was a foreign concept, all of it came with the territory. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Because Y/N, for all her sharp edges and lethal reputation, treated him as if he was the one ruling. She hated the world, but she loved him. And not just him, his brothers, too. By extension, Chris and Nick had become part of her orbit, and she cared for them in a way that left Matt awestruck.

She always put him first, ensuring that he never wanted for anything, that he was shielded from the worst of her world even as he stood at its edge.

Her kindness to him came in forms, both small and extravagant. Expensive gifts appeared without occasion - jewelry that gleamed under the light, tailored suits he’d never wear unless dragged to one of her events, a vintage drum he’d only dreamed of owning. Once, she’d surprised him with a trip to Paris, casually booking an entire penthouse suite as though it were nothing. It baffled him sometimes, the lengths she went to just to see him happy.

She treated him like he was the most important person in her world, and maybe he was. He felt it in the way she looked at him, her eyes softening in a way they never did for anyone else. He felt it in the way her hand would linger on his arm, in the whispered words she saved just for him. With her, he wasn’t the Matt Sturniolo, one of the triplets that made worldwide success. He was hers.

Still, there were moments when the weight of her world pressed down on him, moments when the reality of who she was and what she did became impossible to ignore. Her enemies weren’t nameless shadows; they were people with resources and vendettas, people who wouldn’t hesitate to affect her, no matter how.

It was late at night, and Chris was sprawled on the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, the other propped against the coffee table. The glow of his phone illuminated his face, basking in the steady stream of comments that flooded his Instagram live.

"Yo, what’s up, everybody?" He drawled, the words slithering out while a grin painted his face. "Where’s Matt and Nick?"

He paused, scratching his stubbled jaw.

"Nick’s upstairs, probably editing our next video. And Matt? He’s over there being my personal maid."

The front camera changed its focus abruptly, revealing the kitchen in all its warm, domestic glow. Behind the table, Matt stood hunched over a cutting board, his movements clumsy as he sliced through a pile of vegetables, ready to make simple sandwiches for them.

Without missing a beat, Matt flipped him off, his voice a low, exasperated rumble.

"Chris, shut up."

The live chat erupted with reactions and comments. What Chris didn’t notice - but the viewers certainly did - was the figure walking from Matt's bedroom toward the kitchen - or, more specifically, toward the middle triplet.

Y/N moved silently, her steps deliberate, her presence commanding despite the casual simplicity of her appearance. Black sweatpants clung to her legs, and an oversized shirt - Matt's shirt - draped her frame, covering the gun holster that held her black Glock; an intentional option of indifference, one that she only used when she was at his house. But her eyes betrayed her.

They were sharp, focused entirely on Matt as if he were the center of her universe - only traveling briefly to Ricardo and Lucas, her bodyguards who stood like brick walls at the top of the stairs that lead to the main entrance, watching over them like hawks.

They were always the ones who Y/N chose to follow her when she went to the triplets house, since both of them were the best at treating the brothers as 'normal' as possible, and not like people who were under extreme protection 24/7.

Just as Chris turned the camera back to himself, Y/N reached Matt, her arms encircling his waist in a gesture that spoke volumes. Matt didn’t flinch - he never did when it came to her - but his body softened, the rigid lines of his shoulders easing as a faint smile ghosted across his lips.

It was nice to have her close.

"Hey." He murmured, his voice a private sanctuary meant only for her.

"Hi." She replied, her tone quiet but rich with adoration. Her guard lowered just enough for a hint of vulnerability to escape.

"You okay?" Matt asked, tilting his head slightly, his knife pausing its steady rhythm against the cutting board.

"Always." She answers, ignoring the way her voice showed the weight of a day that had pushed her to her limits. "Missed' you today. So fucking much." She moved her body slightly, searching for more skin to skin contact - no matter their clothes, ignoring the way Matt shivered when her covered gun pressed against his lower back.

"... going to feed me good, obviously." Chris joked from behind them, oblivious to the intimacy unfolding mere feet away.

Matt tuned him out, his focus narrowing to the woman resting against him. Her forehead pressed into his shoulder, and her breathing slowed, each exhale a quiet surrender. In his arms, she allowed herself to just exist, an escape from the chaos of her world.

The fragile peace shattered as a ringtone erupted from the hallway, its shrill insistence cutting through the air like a blade.

Her body tensed immediately, her muscles locking as if bracing for an unseen attack.

"Your phone." Matt whispered, his tone calm but underlined with an edge of concern.

"I don’t want to get it." She muttered, her reluctance heavy.

"It might be important." He pressed gently, his words carrying a logic she couldn’t ignore.

She sighed, frustration and resignation mingling as she withdrew from his warmth. She had already spent the whole day dealing with imbeciles who thought that owing her was a good idea. Her mind was in no right place to deal with more problems.

The absence of his touch felt immediate, a cold void where safety had been moments before. Her fingers brushed lightly against his back as she stepped away, a silent promise that she’d return.

Matt caught her gaze as she moved toward the bedroom, his eyes steady and reassuring, a quiet affirmation that he’d be waiting, always.

The sound of the ringtone grew louder as she neared the door.

The muffled sound of Chris's voice was grounding, but it suddenly turned distant, irrelevant, as her gaze locked onto the glowing device vibrating against Matt’s nightstand.

Raphael.

Her blood chilled at the sight of the name of her right-hand, her fingers flexing instinctively at her sides. Raphael never called unless it was urgent - unlike the idiots who bothered her minute by minute to ask mediocre questions and made her want to pull out her gun and see blood, and in her world, urgent rarely meant anything short of catastrophic.

The moment her fingers wrapped around the phone, she pressed it to her ear, the cool surface grounding her.

"Raphael." She said, her voice clipped and razor-sharp, an edge of control that allowed no room for weakness.

"Y/N." He began, calling her name in the way only he could, his tone level but brimming with tension. "We have a situation."

The words hit her like a punch to the chest, though her expression didn’t waver. Externally, she was unflinching. Internally, a darker part of her coiled, poised to strike. She had navigated countless crises since she was seventeen, each one making her tougher. But no amount of training or experience prepared her for the particular dread that crawled beneath her skin at the word situation.

"What kind of situation?" She demanded, already bracing for impact, her voice an anchor of authority. She hated when they told the bad news but didn't explain it.

Raphael exhaled sharply, closing his eyes tightly behind the call.

"Our tech team flagged something around the internet. There’s a picture of you circulating online. It’s starting to spread."

Her grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles blanching as she steadied her breath.

"Explain." She commanded, though her pulse betrayed her, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.

"It seems to be from Christopher Sturniolo's live thing. It's barely a second of footage." Raphael explained, his voice tight with urgency. "But it’s enough. Fans are analyzing it, trying to figure out who you are. Threads are blowing up. And..." He hesitated, his pause causing Y/N's eyebrows to furrow. "They’re connecting it to Matt."

A visceral reaction clawed its way to the surface, her breath catching in her throat.

Matt.

His name wasn’t just a word; it was a weapon, one capable of splitting her in two. The image of him - standing in the kitchen, his shoulders relaxed, his focus far removed from the chaos - flashed in her mind. He was a constant in her life, someone who turned her softer, someone she couldn’t afford to lose. The thought of him being dragged for life into her world - her dangerous, unforgiving world - sent a sharp pang of desperation through her entire being.

"Y/N?" Raphael's voice pulled her back, a glimpse of worry shining between his words.

"How far has it spread?" She asked, her tone glacial now.

"Far enough." He replied grimly. "If we don’t act now, it’s only a matter of time before someone makes the connection."

Her mind was a battlefield, each thought a calculated move in a war she refused to lose.

"I want it gone." She said, each word deliberate, unyielding. "Every post, every thread, every trace. Use whatever means necessary, bribery, threats, force. I don’t care how you do it. Just erase it."

"You got it, Boss." He didn’t hesitate, changing his demeanor abruptly, the sound of keystrokes filling the silence on his end.

"And Raphael." She added, her tone softening. "Leave nothing behind."

"It’ll be done." He affirmed, his voice steady. "Anything else?"

Her throat tightened, her guard faltering for just a heartbeat. She leaned against the edge of the bed, gripping the phone like a lifeline. She would have to tell Matt eventually, but not now. Not when her own composure was hanging by a thread.

"No." She said quietly, her voice betraying none of the chaos beneath. "I’ll handle the rest."

"Understood." The line clicked dead, leaving her alone with the silence.

Y/N lowered the phone, her hand trembling slightly as she set it down. She had always known this day might come, always known that her careful steps could fail, leaving Matt exposed to her world - or her to his. But knowing didn’t make the sting any less painful.

Her gaze drifted to the doorway, her thoughts spiraling to him. She despised herself in that moment; for the danger her presence brought to his life, for the quiet desperation she felt whenever she thought of losing him.

But she couldn’t lose him.

Straightening her spine, she forced the vulnerability back, locking it behind the iron walls she took years to build. She was a leader, a protector, a force to be secured with. And no one - not her enemies, not the nameless, faceless masses online - would take what was hers.

The air in the house had shifted, thickening with an invisible tension that Y/N could feel in her bones the moment she stepped out of Matt’s room.

Her sharp gaze swept across the living room first. Chris was slumped on the couch, looking almost guilty. His phone lay discarded beside him, screen dark, as though it had betrayed him. His face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line, and he stared at the floor with the kind of intensity that suggested he wished it would open up and swallow him whole.

Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, her stomach knotting at the sight of Matt. He leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed defensively over his broad chest, head bowed slightly. His brows were furrowed, his jaw clenched, and his warmth from minutes ago was replaced by a cold anger that radiated from him in waves.

"What happened?" She asked, her voice slicing through the oppressive quiet. There was no softness in her tone, only a commanding edge that left no room for staling.

Chris flinched at her words, his head snapping up to meet her gaze. His blue eyes darted toward Matt, searching for guidance, for an excuse, anything that might soften the blow. But Matt didn’t move. He remained locked in place, his intense focus on the floor as though the answer to their problems might be just there.

"Chris." Y/N prompted, her voice lower this time, but no less cutting as she stepped further into the room.

Chris exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck as though the action might somehow delay the inevitable.

"Uh... people saw you?" He finally said, the words spilling out in a rush.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" She asked, her tone firm.

Chris hesitated, glancing helplessly at Matt again. When no help came, he pressed on, his words tumbling over each other.

"During the live stream, you showed up at the camera. It’s everywhere now. They’re asking who you are, Y/N. It’s blowing up..." His panicked voice seemed to start flying up. "I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t even notice-"

"Enough." She interrupted, her tone quiet but laced with an authority that made Chris snap his mouth shut. "I know." She said simply. "It’s already being handled."

Chris blinked, confusion flickering across his face.

"Wait, you already know?"

"Yes." She replied, her gaze shifting briefly to Matt. "And it’s already being handled." She repeated.

Matt straightened at that, his concern breaking through the desperation that had kept him rigid. This was one of the moments when the weight of her world pressed down on him, and he felt scared. For him, for his brothers... for her. He knew that if her picture at his house fell into her enemies' hands, it was the end of peace for them.

"What does that mean, Y/N?" He asked, his voice low and tense.

"It means." She said evenly. "That my people is taking care of it, and soon enough, it'll be as if nothing had ever happened."

Matt’s brow furrowed further, and he took a step toward her, the movement slow but certain.

"And how exactly are they doing that?" He asked. "You're being careful, right?"

Her heart twisted at the concern in his voice, feeling like she could laugh, because Matt was the one who opened the front door for a bloody version of herself earlier, and he was the one who took care of her wounds - the ones that didn't even made her flinch.

"Silly boy." She started, her tone softening just enough to reassure him. "Y'know that I'm always careful."

Matt’s jaw clenched, his frustration evident.

"I don't like that." He said quietly, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

Her posture wavered for the briefest of moments, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

"What I need from you two and Nick." She said, addressing both him and Chris while keeping eye contact with Matt, completely ignoring his comment. "Is for you to be vigilant. For the next few days, you need to watch everything, what you post, where you go, who you talk to. Understood?"

Chris nodded quickly - even if she wasn’t looking at him, his expression contrite.

"Yeah. Of course. I’ll be careful."

Matt didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his intense gaze bored into hers, searching for cracks in her armor. Finally, he nodded, though the tension in his shoulders remained.

"Fine." He said, his voice quieter now. "But you’ll tell me if anything happens."

She hesitated, the truth forming on her tongue before she swallowed it down.

"I will." She lied instead. She wouldn't be crazy to involve him in any of this more than he already is.

His features softened slightly, but his worry lingered, etched into every line of his face.

"Good." He said. "Because I’m not letting anything happen to you."

She was the one who wasn't letting anything happen to him.

"I know."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The triplets were now on an empty parking lot, surrounded by the kind of darkness that usually set the stage for their filming sessions. The camera perched on the dashboard blinked red, capturing every move of them.

Matt sat in the driver’s seat, his hands tapping the bottom of the wheel as Chris gestured wildly from the passenger side. His animated voice carried through the car, weaving a story with Nick chiming in from the back seat.

But Matt wasn’t fully there.

His brothers could turn the most mundane story into book-like ones, and while he’d normally give his opinion on each one of them - when they let him, today his mind felt unusually restless. He couldn’t shake the brutal unease that had settled in his chest ever since Y/N’s warning the day before. Her words played over and over in his head: Watch your surroundings. Be careful.

Still, he had tried to shake it off. She worried about him; he got that. But the longer the evening dragged on, the heavier that knot in his chest grew. His brothers’ laughter ricocheted around the car, but the sound barely registered.

"... if we take a right, then a left, and there's a guy down there walking his dog, I'm gonna freak out." Chris was saying, his voice rising dramatically.

"And then we did it, and the guy was walking his dog." Nick completed, widening his eyes to the camera to emphasize it all.

Their voices faded into background noise as Matt’s gaze traveled to a shadowed corner of the lot. He couldn’t shake the prickling sensation that something - or someone - was watching them. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his mind replayed Y/N’s warning for the thousandth time.

You’re being paranoid, he told himself. It’s just a parking lot.

But paranoia had its place in Y/N’s world.

It was Nick who broke the illusion of calm.

"Hey." He said sharply, his voice cutting through the laughter. His posture changed in an instant, stiffening as his eyes fixed on something outside their car.

"What?" Chris asked, his smile faltering as he followed Nick’s gaze.

"Don’t make it obvious." Nick hissed, leaning slightly forward. "But look. SUV, two o’clock. Isn't it parked way too close for how empty this lot is?"

Matt’s pulse quickened. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and there it was, a sleek, black vehicle angled toward them. Its windows were so dark they might as well have been painted. Everything about it felt wrong.

Chris turned in his seat, ignoring Nick’s plea for subtlety.

"Weird." He muttered. "Why park there when the whole lot’s empty?"

"That's what I'm saying." Nick said, his voice lower.

Matt’s jaw tightened, his earlier unease turning into cold certainty.

"Do you think it’s a fan?" Chris asked, his voice tinged with forced optimism.

Matt shook his head, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Doesn’t feel like a fan."

The SUV sat unmoving, its presence heavy and oppressive. Matt’s thoughts spun as he tried to make sense of it. Y/N had warned him about things that could happen since day one, but she hadn’t given details. She rarely did. Keeping him in the dark was her way of protecting him, but right now, he wished he knew more.

"We should leave." Nick said urgently after some minutes of silence.

Chris frowned.

"Leave? We’re in the middle of filming-"

"Forget the video." Matt snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. "Something’s off."

The tension in the car thickened. Nick leaned forward again, his breath brushing the back of Matt’s neck as he watched the SUV through the rear window.

Then, as if sensing that it was seen, the door of the black vehicle opened.

"Guys." Nick warned sharply, his voice tight with alarm.

Matt’s heart slammed against his ribs as a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit that screamed professional. His face was obscured by dark sunglasses, even in the dim light. Everything about him was strange, the way he moved, slow and purposeful, like he had all the time in the world.

The man stood by the SUV for a moment, then began walking toward their car.

"Go, Matt." Chris urged, his voice strained.

Matt didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers fumbled with the ignition, the engine roaring to life.

"What’s he doing?" Chris asked, staring at the approaching man.

"Doesn’t matter." Matt ground out. "We’re not sticking around to find out."

He threw the car into reverse, his movements swift but controlled. The tires screeched as he backed out of the parking spot, his eyes flicking between the mirrors and the shadowy figure stopping behind them.

"Is he following us?" Nick asked, his voice tight with panic.

Matt didn’t answer immediately, focusing on navigating the lot. But as he turned onto the main road, he caught a glimpse of the SUV’s headlights flaring to life in the rearview mirror.

"Yes." He said grimly, accelerating into the main road without looking to his side, forcing himself to ignore the loud and random honk that followed his action.

Nick swore under his breath, his hands gripping the edge of Chris's back seat, grimacing.

Matt’s mind raced, calculating their options. He didn’t know who was in that car, but he had a sinking feeling that Y/N did. Whatever this was, it wasn’t random.

And as the SUV closed the distance between them, Matt realized that the shadows he’d been looking over his shoulder for weren’t just paranoia.

They were real. And they were coming for him.

Chris twisted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the ominous car trailing them. His voice cracked with a mixture of frustration and alarm.

"Okay, now that’s not just weird. That’s bad."

"No shit." Matt muttered, keeping his tense posture. "Buckle up." He growled, his tone leaving no room for argument, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like a drug. Before his brothers could react, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator, their KIA lunging forward with a roar.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chris shouted, his hands darting to the door handle as he braced himself against the sudden burst of speed.

"Losing them." Matt ground out through clenched teeth, his voice laced with grim determination. The engine roared, the car slicing through the sparse traffic.

The SUV responded immediately, surging forward with precision, its movements aggressive and calculated. It wasn’t just following them. It was hunting them, and it wasn’t hiding it anymore.

"This isn’t a movie, Matt!" Nick yelled from the backseat, his voice tinged with panic as the car swerved dangerously close to a parked sedan.

"Feels like one." Chris muttered under his breath, though his usual joking tone was replaced with raw tension. His fingers dug into the fabric of his seat, knuckles bone white.

Matt’s focus was razor-sharp, his mind calculating every turn, every gap, every possible escape route. The city blurred around them, streetlights streaking past like shooting stars.

He maneuvered with a precision that bordered on reckless, the heavy van sliding between vehicles with inches to spare. Years of navigating chaotic LA streets had sharpened his instincts like a knife’s edge, but even he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up.

"They’re not giving up." Nick said, his voice a strained whisper.

Then, out of nowhere, a flash of silver caught Matt’s peripheral vision.

"Matt! Fuck- watch out!" Chris screamed, his voice cracking as a Audi RS7 tore into the intersection from their right to their left, leaving a perfect trail of white smoke behind, its polished body gleaming under the fluorescent haze of the streetlights.

Time seemed to slow. Matt’s heart slammed against his ribcage as he yanked the steering wheel, the van skidding violently to the side, definitely scraping a car or two. Their camera fell from its place with a force that told them itself that it broke. Tires screeched, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the air as the RS7 narrowly missed their front bumper by mere inches.

For a small moment, Matt thought they were done for. They would die in the hands of unknown, sick people. But the Audi didn’t slow. Its driver - whoever they were - handled the car with perfect precision, swerving past them.

"What the hell was that?" Nick gasped, his voice trembling as he craned his neck to look back.

"I don’t know." Matt muttered, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. His foot hovered over the brake, instinct warring with the need to keep moving.

The RS7 didn’t stop. Instead, it sped straight for the SUV, its engine roaring like a beast. It cut off the larger vehicle with a series of calculated moves, herding it like a sheepdog corralling a wayward flock.

Chris leaned between the front seats, looking back, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"It’s... helping us." He paused, his mind racing. "Do you think it’s one of Y/N’s people?"

Nick didn’t take his eyes off the unfolding spectacle.

"Who the hell drives like that?"

Matt didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His thoughts were a chaotic storm, torn between taking advantage of the distraction and trying to piece together what was happening.

The SUV, once so powerful, was now on the defensive, the Audi forcing the larger vehicle toward the shoulder of the road.

"They’ve got this." Matt said, his voice tight as he pressed down on the gas pedal. The van surged forward, putting as much distance as possible between them and the chaos in the rearview mirror.

Chris turned back to face him, his expression a mix of awe and unease.

"You think this is over?"

But that hope lasted only for a minute as the night exploded with sound. The first gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, ringing in the enclosed space of the car, followed by honks and screams. Chris ducked instinctively, his hands flying to cover his ears as a yell escaped his throat.

Nick swore loudly, his voice almost drowned out by the second shot that followed in quick succession. Matt barely registered the sound of it before the driver-side window exploded beside him.

The world stopped.

Glass shards sprayed into the car like a violent glitter storm. Matt flinched instinctively, his head turning away as the jagged pieces tore through the air. His hoodie absorbed most of the impact, but a sharp sting grazed his cheek. Warmth spread across his skin, and the metallic scent made him realize that it was blood.

"Shit!" Matt yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to regain control of the car. His hands were trembling so hard it felt like they would break.

Chris screamed, ducking lower in his seat.

"What the fuck?!" His hands flew to his head, shielding himself.

Nick, in the backseat, was wide-eyed and pale, his voice cracking as he shouted.

"Are they shooting at us?! Why are they shooting at us?!"

Before anyone could fully process the first attack, a third shot rang out. This time, the bullet struck the back of the van with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through the vehicle. The car jerked slightly from the force, and Nick let out a strangled yelp, gripping the back of Chris’s seat as if it might protect him.

Matt's widened eyes found the rearview; catching just in time the Audi reacting to the shooting and executing a perfect spin, its tires screeching as it turned in a tight circle. The maneuver was so seamless that it felt like a dance. As the car straightened out, it began driving in reverse, keeping pace with the SUV.

From the driver’s side of the Audi, a hand emerged, gripping a handgun with deadly precision. The barrel gleamed under the pale moonlight for only a moment before the first shot was fired.

BANG.

The bullet hit the SUV’s hood, sending sparks flying into the night.

"We're going to die." Chris choked out, his voice raw with panic. "Matt, what do we do?"

"I don’t know!" Matt snapped, his voice sharp as his focus stayed on the road. "I’m just trying to keep us alive!"

BANG.

The second shot took out one of the SUV’s headlights, shrouding it in uneven shadows.

"Is this about yesterday?" Chris asked, looking over his shoulder at the fireworks created by golden bullets.

"What about yesterday?" Nick asked, his voice being cut by other loud sound.

Matt didn’t answer, but the hardened look in his eyes said it all, his eyes running around the street full of scared people and desperate cars.

The Audi’s driver didn’t stop behind them, firing round after round with precision, shielding their van. Each shot forced the SUV to swerve and falter, its pursuit growing more desperate by the second.

Suddenly, a new set of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, drawing closer at an alarming speed, maneuvering between random cars. Matt’s stomach sank as the black Nissan GT-R quickly closed the gap between them.

"Great, another one." Nick muttered, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Wait." Matt said, narrowing his eyes as the GT-R came closer. It wasn’t chasing them. It was moving with purpose, calculated, and controlled. And then, from the side street, another car emerged.

The third one sped toward them, a Dodge Charger, unmistakable and a far cry from subtle. It closed the gap with ease, pulling alongside Matt’s car.

Chris frowned.

"Matt, who the hell-"

The black window of the Charger lowered, revealing Walsh, one of Y/N's trusted bodyguards who he always saw close by, his expression as stoic and sharp as ever. He glanced at Matt briefly with a knowing gaze before lifting his hand, making a quick, sharp motion - a signal.

"I guess we are following you, then." Matt muttered, his voice resolute as he adjusted his grip on the wheel.

"What?" Nick asked, his tone a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Follow him? How do we know-"

"It’s Walsh." Matt interrupted, already easing off the accelerator slightly. "He’s one of Y/N’s people. He’s here to help."

Walsh accelerated, cutting smoothly in front of Matt’s car and taking the lead. Without hesitation, Matt followed, mimicking his movements as Walsh led them onto a side street, away from the main roads.

From behind, the black GT-R repositioned itself, falling into place directly behind the triplets’ car. It felt like they were being shepherded, boxed in with purpose.

Chris glanced nervously at the vehicles surrounding them.

"This feels like a crazy dream."

"Well, it’s very real to me." Matt muttered, his eyes darting between Walsh’s Charger and the mirrors to keep track of the GT-R.

The streets grew quieter as Walsh led them further from the city center, the cold air of the night invading the insides of the van through the broken window. The Charger weaved through back roads and alleys with practiced ease, its taillights a beacon for Matt to follow.

"Where is he taking us?" Nick asked, his voice breaking the tense silence.

"Not home." Chris replied. "That’s for sure."

They drove for another ten minutes before the Charger finally slowed as they approached a gated property on the outskirts of the city. Walsh leaned out of the window, flashing a badge at the intercom. The gates creaked open, and the small convoy filed through, disappearing into the privacy of the estate.

The driveway was lined with towering trees, their shadows dancing across the cars as they came to a stop. Matt parked behind Walsh’s Charger, the Nissan pulling in behind him to complete the formation.

The silence in the car was deafening as they sat there, processing what had just happened while the group of man dressed in all black suits backed out of both cars, moving around their KIA.

"What now?" Chris finally asked, breaking the quiet.

Matt exhaled, his hands still gripping the wheel tightly as he turned to look at his brothers, his skin itching with the dried blood.

"I don't know."

Then, cutting through the oppressive quiet, the distant roar of an engine reached their ears, growing louder by the second. Matt’s head whipped toward the gates just as the same Audi from earlier burst through.

The car moved with predatory intent, speeding down the driveway toward them. The headlights blazed like twin daggers, slicing through the darkness, and as it neared, it showed no signs of slowing.

The sleek vehicle skidded to a halt mere feet from where Walsh’s Charger was parked, its tires kicking up gravel in a chaotic spray. The door of the RS7 flung open with no ceremony, and at the second that Y/N stepped out, Matt was opening his own car door.

Of course, she was the first to find him. How could she not be? The GPS she’d insisted on slipping into his horse necklace after the last close call wasn’t just a precaution, it was a leash, one she pulled the second something went wrong.

He hadn’t even argued when she’d done it. He’d learned by now that Y/N always had a way of knowing where he was, no matter how far or how fast he tried to outrun trouble.

Her heels clicked sharply against the gravel as she strode toward Walsh, her every movement a calculated strike.

Matt watched her from his standing place, his body still trembling from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His legs felt weak, the rush of survival not yet dissipating, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

She was magnetic, terrifying, and commanding all at once. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure if he should stop her, but something inside him begged to watch the whole scene unfold.

Y/N’s expression was a storm, her lips curled into a snarl as she closed the distance between herself and Walsh, who was standing near the driver of the Charger. The man had just been speaking, his voice low and controlled, but the second he saw her approaching, he fell silent, his posture stiffening. He wasn’t a coward - years by her side had hardened him - but even he couldn’t deny the raw, violent fury in her eyes.

"Walsh!" Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the air.

The men around her stiffened but kept their gazes forward, trained on the horizon. They knew better than to interfere and knew the rules that governed her world.

Y/N didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t grant second chances.

Walsh turned, his face already pale, though he tried to maintain his composure.

"Boss, I can expl-"

She didn’t let him finish. In a blur of motion, she reached for her knife, the familiar silver weight of it reassuring in her palm, small droplets of blood stained its holder, being there for a long time now. Before Walsh could react, she had him pinned against the side of the car, her arm pressed against his chest with force, knocking his breath away. The knife’s blade kissed his throat, the edge cutting just enough to draw a thin line of blood that trickled down his skin.

"You dare speak?" She hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You fucking dare?"

"Boss, I-"

"Shut your fucking mouth." Her voice was a growl, more animal than human, the kind of sound that made grown men cower. "You had one job. One fucking job! Protect them. Keep them alive. And you-" She pushed the blade harder against his neck, the blood now dripping faster, staining the pristine collar of his shirt. "Fucking failed.”

Matt’s stomach churned as he watched, his chest tightening with every word. Her rage was consuming, and while he’d seen her like this many times before, it always felt like the first time.

Nick had turned away, his face pale. He hated blood and hated violence, and now, he stared at the trees as if they might somehow shield him from the scene unfolding before him. Chris, on the other hand, kept his eyes glued to the ground, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He still carried fear for her when she acted like that, so he didn’t dare look up.

But Y/N wasn’t done. Her grip on Walsh’s collar tightened, and she yanked him forward, slamming him back against the car. The sound reverberated, as if she wanted the car's bodywork to deform under the weight of his body. And if it did, she would make him fix it with his bare hands.

"Where the fuck were my men?" She demanded, her voice rising now, echoing against the estate’s high walls. "I left five of my best men guarding them. Where the fuck were they, Walsh?"

Walsh’s lips trembled, his composure faltering for the first time.

"They’re dead." He admitted, his voice hoarse.

Y/N’s eyes darkened, the fire in her gaze burning hotter.

"What?"

"They killed them." Walsh continued, his voice steadying as he spoke. "All five of them. The second the brothers left the house, they were dead. By the time I got the call, it was already over."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, but Y/N didn’t flinch.

"I didn't thou-"

"Shut up!" She muttered, her free hand slamming against the car beside his head, her knuckles grazing the metal. "Shut the fuck up! Where the fuck were you? You’re supposed to anticipate this kind of shit. To have eyes everywhere. And instead, what do I get? Five man dead and a fucking alarm telling me they’re being hunted!"

Walsh kept silent. His hands stayed at his sides, fists clenched, but he didn’t dare move.

"You think I keep you around to stand there looking pretty, huh? You think I pay you to sit on your ass while my people are being slaughtered?"

"No- ma'am-"

"You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here." Her tone dropped into a deadly whisper, more chilling than her shouts. "You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat and leave your corpse here for the crows."

Matt’s breath hitched at her words, his chest tightening as he watched her, feeling a strange mix of fear and something deeper - something that made his pulse quicken.

"You’re worthless." She hissed. "A fucking liability. And if I ever-" She fist his hair, slamming the back of his head against the car for emphasis, almost begging for a concussion. "Ever see you fuck up like this again, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Walsh croaked, his voice barely audible because he does understand it. Because he knows that she could kill him in seconds with her bare hands if she wanted to. Putting the triplets brothers in danger could drive her to burn the whole world down.

"I said, do you fucking understand me?" She shouted, her voice echoing across the estate.

"Yes!" Walsh gasped, his face ashen.

Satisfied - for now - Y/N finally stepped back, her hand still gripping the knife tightly. Blood coated the blade, glinting in the faint light. She wiped it on Walsh’s shirt, the act casual and dismissive, before putting it back at her hip.

He should be grateful that he still had his head glued to his body and that she didn't treat him like one of her enemies. Because if she had, his organs would probably be scattered across the front yard.

Y/N adjusted her blazer, her movements sharp, and turned on her heel. Her security detail remained impassive, and their faces were unreadable as they stood at attention. They knew better than to question her.

"I want to know who's the son of a bitch who dared to go after what's mine. I don’t care how many men we have to send. You find him. And I want him, and anyone else involved in this shit, dead. You hear me? Dead. No fucking exceptions." Y/N's tone was ice, colder than the Siberian winters, and it sent a chill through the men standing nearby. "Now, get the fuck out of my sight."

The bodyguards didn’t hesitate, retreating without a word, their heads low. Even Walsh - still pressing a hand to the bleeding cut on his neck - scrambled back, keeping his distance.

Y/N didn’t so much as glance at them. They were beneath her attention now. Her focus was singular, her sharp eyes scanning the scene before her as she stalked toward the three brothers.

Nick and Chris stood stiffly by the car, their postures tense, the weight of the night etched into their faces.

Y/N stopped in front of them, and for a moment, she said nothing, her icy gaze raking over their bodies like a surgeon searching for injuries.

"Nick." She called sharply, a softness hidden behind her tone.

Nick looked up at her, his hands playing with the bottom of his sweater. Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him.

"You’re not injured?"

"No." He muttered, shaking his head. "I’m fine."

She turned her attention to Chris, her cold stare unwavering.

"Chris?"

Chris hesitated, swallowing hard before answering.

"I’m fine too."

Y/N’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she nodded curtly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Inside." She ordered. "Grace's here, find her. She’ll take care of you."

Nick and Chris exchanged a brief glance, neither daring to argue. They gave her a quick nod before turning and walking toward the mansion to look for Y/N's maid, the one who treated them like a loving mother. Y/N’s eyes followed them until they disappeared through the front doors, their figures swallowed by the shadows of the estate.

Only then did she turn her attention to Matt.

He was standing a few feet away, his arms hanging limply at his sides, looking like a wall in front of his side of the car, his face pale but his eyes wide with worry. His breath hitched as she approached, her movements deliberate, predatory.

"Y/N-"

"Quiet." She snapped, cutting him off as she reached for his face. Her hands, rough and calloused, cupped his cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her touch was firm, almost harsh, as she tilted his head this way and that, her eyes narrowing as she examined him closely.

Matt stood frozen under her scrutiny, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt small under her intense gaze, like a child caught misbehaving.

"I’m fine." He tried to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Really, I-"

"Shut up." Her tone was sharp. Her thumb brushed over the dried blood that covered the small cut on his upper cheek, and her lips curled into a sneer. "Fine? You’re fine, you little shit? You think I should believe this?"

Matt swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wanted to protest, to reassure her, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

"You’re a fucking idiot." She spat, her voice low and venomous. "A fucking brat. You knew something was wrong, and you didn’t call me. You didn’t fucking call me." Her grip on his face tightened, just enough to make his breath hitch.

"I thought I could handle it." He muttered, his voice breaking. "I didn’t want to bother you."

Y/N’s laugh was sharp, bitter.

"Handle it?" She repeated, her accent wrapping around the words like a blade. "You thought you could handle it? You? Alone? Against men with guns?"

Matt looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

"I-"

"Do you know what I should do to you?" She hissed, her voice dropping lower. "I should kill you for this. For almost fucking dying on me. For being so goddamn reckless." Her fingers brushed against the necklace around his neck.

Matt’s lips twitched into a small, nervous smile.

"Thank god you put this thing on me then, huh?"

Y/N’s eyes darkened, her lips curling into a snarl.

"You think this is funny? You think I do this because I enjoy babysitting you?" She shoved him back slightly, her hands still gripping his face. "If it weren’t for this-" She tapped the tracker, her voice rising. "I wouldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have found you."

"I know." He whispered, his voice trembling.

"You’re fucking stupid." She muttered, her tone quieter but no less sharp. "You’ll be the death of me, you know that?"

Matt nodded, his cheeks flushing under her intense gaze because he knew. He knew that he was her weakest stop, the one who could make her lose her mind without consequences.

"I’m sorry." He said softly.

Y/N sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as her hand softened its grip on his face.

She let her gaze actually register his state, noticing his still trembling hands gripping the bottom of her jacket, and her jaw tightened. For all her strength and control, seeing him shaken dug into her chest like a dull blade.

"You really should’ve called me." She repeated, her tone no longer scolding but laced with a quiet plea this time. Her fingers moved from his jaw to his hair, threading through the strands in a gesture that was both tender and grounding. "Do you hear me?"

Matt smiled slightly, trying to ease her - and his - tension.

"I’m okay, dove." He murmured, risking using her favorite pet name, his voice low and calm, though it wavered slightly. "Just a little shaken up. A cut or two from the broken window. But... you saved me. Like you always do."

Her hand faltered for a moment in his hair as his words settled over her, turning her head slightly, breaking their gaze as if the vulnerability in his voice had pierced through her armor.

But Matt wasn’t about to let her retreat. His hand came up, his fingers gentle as they took her chin, forcing her to look at him again.

"I’m fine, Y/N." He said firmly, his voice carrying a quiet conviction that made her chest tighten. "Really. You don’t have to keep punishing me or you for this."

Her lips parted, a protest hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let her speak. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in a hug that was warm, strong, and grounding. Y/N stiffened for a moment before melting against him - in the way that she only let herself do in his arms, her hands clutching at his back as if he might disappear if she let go.

"I don’t want to see you in the line of fire because of me ever again. Do you understand me?" Her voice was a whisper against his chest, rough and laden with emotion.

Matt’s hands moved soothingly from her hips to her waist and her back, his touch steady.

"Y/N." He began, his voice gentle but insistent. "You need to stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault. It’s just how things are. I get that. I chose to stay by your side, knowing exactly what it meant."

She shook her head against him, her arms tightening around his waist.

"You don't understand, I could’ve lost you tonight." She said, her voice breaking in a way that she despised. "I can’t-"

"You didn’t." He interrupted, leaning down to rest his chin on top of her head. "You didn’t lose me. You won’t lose me. Not tonight. Not ever."

The sincerity in his tone made her chest ache, and she closed her eyes, letting herself press closer. She nosed along his jaw, breathing him in, her mind desperate for a piece of peace amidst the chaos. His scent - clean and familiar - grounded her in a way nothing else could.

"You know." She murmured after a moment, her voice quieter now, almost teasing. "It’s your fault. You got me hooked from day one, making me worry too much."

Matt let out a low, warm laugh, his breath tickling the top of her head.

"Lies." He said softly, his tone playful but affectionate. "You wanted to kill me for the first few months we knew each other."

Y/N let out a quiet scoff, a small smirk tugging at her lips despite herself.

"It doesn’t mean I didn't want to have you to me." She admitted, though the sharpness in her voice was covered with affection. "You were insufferable, you know? Still are."

He leaned down further, brushing his nose against hers.

"Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have it any other way." He murmured.

She didn’t respond, but the faint, almost imperceptible curve of her lips was answer enough. Her fingers wrapped around his hoodie strings, bringing him closer until their lips touched, the force of her kiss taking him off guard.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss meant to soothe or console. It was possessive, claiming him in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just hers by circumstance. He was hers by choice.

Her hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers back to threading through his hair as she deepened the kiss, desperate to taste all of him as a way of reassurance, and Matt melted into her without hesitation.

When she finally pulled away, her lips still slightly parted, Matt stared at her, his expression a mix of surprise and arousal. She smirked faintly, wiping her thumb across the corner of his mouth before leaning back, leaving him dazed.

"Uh..." He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself, though his heart was racing faster than he cared to admit. "I think I need you to get my window fixed." He gestured toward the gaping hole where his window used to be, right behind his back, shards of glass still clinging stubbornly to the edges.

The response came so casually that it almost didn’t register at first.

"No." Y/N said dismissively. "I’ll just buy you another car."

Matt blinked, his jaw dropping as he turned to face her.

"You’ll what?"

© vanteguccir

[sundrop-writes]

How would Spencer react to the f!reader eating a sucker in a very provocative way during a meeting?

I decided to change this up a bit. Rather than it being during a meeting, it's just randomly around the office because eating a sucker/lollipop during a meeting would be annoying af.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

How would Spencer Reid react to you teasing him with a lollipop?

Warnings: reader can definitely be interpreted as gender neutral because there isn't much description of them beyond their mouth (sorry if that isn't what you wanted lmao); this is very sensual/smutty toned (but there is no sex scenes); Spencer is thinking about sex acts/is having sexual fantasies about the reader; heavy sexual innuendo; definitely leans more toward Sub!Spencer; I was thinking of S4/S5 Spencer when I wrote this but you can imagine any Spencer; background Morcia; implications of Spencer masturbating in the bathroom at work. Reader loves teasing Spencer - idk what else. Not really proofread.

"Oooh, what's this?" You asked, walking up to see a large bowl of candy sitting in the middle of Morgan's desk.

"Leftovers from Halloween." Prentiss explained, not looking up from the file that she was reading. "Of course, Garcia put them on Morgan's desk. What was it that she said?"

"A little something sweet for my something sweet." JJ recited the words from her place at the coffee machine with a laugh.

"Oh, he is gonna love that when he comes in." You chuckled.

You knew that he wasn't going to eat all of it himself, and Garcia likely intended it as a pick-n-go for the office anyway - so you took a careful glance into the bowl and then picket an appealing round lollipop. A blow-pop, you quickly realized. Very nice. You knew the gum in the middle was crappy, but you would have fun seeing how long it would take to get to it, and it was cherry flavoured - one of your favourite candy flavours.

You grabbed it up and a few others to slip into your desk drawers, along with taking a few packets of M&Ms for your favourite desk neighbour. When you walked over to your desk that was in front of his, you tossed the candy so that it hit the front of his chest, and Spencer jumped violently, having been scared right out of his concentration from whatever he was reading. A thick academic paper, from the looks of it.

You heard Emily's nasel chuckle in from behind you at how hard he had jumped.

"Good morning." You greeted him with a wide smile as he glared at you, but took the candy and began opening it anyway.

"Yeah." He scoffed.

"You're welcome." You also said, nodding toward the candy in his hand.

"Did you know that M&Ms shortly after their creation, M&Ms were exclusively distributed to the US military during World War II as a part of soldier's rations?" Spencer stated, giving another one of his 'fun facts'.

"Due to the candy coating making them far less perishable, and far easier to transport due to the fact that they were less likely to melt. At the time, they were packaged in cardboard tubes and featured a violet colour among the candies. And that's how they became famously known as 'the candy that melts in your mouth, not in your hand'." Spencer explained, the last words becoming muffled as he stuffed some of the candy into his mouth.

"And now they have gone from feeding soldiers to being the breakfast of a skinny little genius like you." You joked, unwrapping your lollipop and raising it to your lips.

You were one of the people who joked about it, but you secretly loved the fact that he was skinny. You would never tell, but you imagined pinning him down and him not being able to get away because of his lack of muscle.

Spencer would have made some clever reply, but instead, his eyes became locked on your lips.

Watching your lips gently wrap around the roundness of the lollipop immediately sparked something in him. From that moment, his eyes focused on nothing but your mouth, and he absolutely lost all train of thought - including the fact that he had been reading something before you even sat down.

It wasn't even intentional at first. At first, you were just enjoying a random sweet treat at seven o'clock in the morning, going about small things like taking off your jacket and getting the files organized on your desk, and when you looked up to ask Reid if he had a spare red pen that you could use to mark off some things - that was when you noticed it.

That far off, glassy look in his eye that you had never seen before.

He was staring at your lips, hard, clearly not even realizing that he was doing it - at this point, the candy had just barely stained the inner part of your mouth red, and he was being driven insane, imagining himself running his thumb or even the head of his leaking cock along that spot, feeling the pure softness of your lips, having your sweet tongue reach out to meet the throbbing head of his-

"Reid?"

The sudden sound of your voice seemed to shake him from this daydream.

You pulled the lollipop from your mouth with a wet smack, and he swallowed a whimper - it was a sound so subtle that you wouldn't have been able to hear it if you hadn't been carefully listening. You clenched your jaw, suppressing a smirk. You didn't want him to know that he had been caught. Not yet.

"Um - ah - yeah?" He stuttered out, quickly looking back down at the papers in the middle of his desk, trying not to make it seem like he had been staring at you so blatantly.

"Can I borrow a red pen?" You asked, trying to give him your best look of feigned innocence as you placed the cherry red bulb back to your lips while waiting for his answer, gently tracing your tongue around it.

You loved the way his eyes clung to this action like a magnet, his own lips dropping open slightly as he let out a hot breath in awe, his pupils blown wide.

His pants were suddenly very tight.

Spencer had to purposefully tear his eyes away from your mouth when you began oh-so-slowly teasing the lollipop in and out of your lips, forcing him to perfectly picture the round head of his cock fucking between those perfect cherry lips.

He frantically looked around his desk, and grabbed the first pen with a red cap that he could find.

"Here you go." He mumbled, tossing it onto your desk, not even bothering to hand it to you.

He then grabbed his messenger bag from underneath his desk and so subtly placed it at his front while he scrambled off toward the bathroom. You simply let out a laugh and then shoved the candy into your mouth fully, looking back down at your files and getting to work.

Spencer could only pray that you would be done with the lollipop by the time he got back.

A/N: Okay this definitely turned more into the style of a blurb, but what I love about writing requests right in my inbox is that I don't need to do a super defined style, I can just write whatever comes off the top of my head and I don't have to worry about over-editing stuff. It's great for creativity and it's almost like a writing exercise? Anyway, I had a lot of fun with this.

Criminal Minds Masterlist

[eff-plays]

Ok fine you guys twisted my arm (I say to a completely empty room) here's why I think Mass Effect 2 worked and Veilguard tried to copy it and failed.

First up is the complexity of the goal/plot. In ME2, the end goal was simple: Stop the Collectors from harvesting humans. Blast off through the Omega 4 Relay and probably die. Take down as many Collectors as possible before you die. Basically, shoot stuff until it explodes. It made sense that half of the squadmates were just "legendary badass", "legendary badass (green skin version)" and "legendary badass (huge tits version)." You need to kill dudes, so you pick people who are good at killing. There are a few who are better at tech or science, but they use tech and science to, you guessed it, kill dudes. Then you have a few who join due to aligning goals (Legion) or loyalty to Shepard (Tali, Garrus) or humanity/Cerberus (Jacob, Miranda), or they're literally getting paid to be there (Kasumi and Zaeed). But all of them have reasons to stick around, of various importance.

The specificity of the main plot is also relevant here, because everybody in the galaxy is like "oh humans are getting kidnapped? sucks to suck dude rip in piss ://" so it makes sense to recruit whoever you can get. You need help for an issue that (according to everyone who would otherwise help) only concerns you. So you're like "hey are you good at killing? and do you mind dying?" and most of those freaks go "yeah lmao whatever." They're self-selecting, because the cause is so specific and explicitly suicidal.

The suicidal thing also helps explain the loyalty missions, btw. They're not presented as "hey can you umm help? or I'm gonna be distwacted 👉👈" but as "hey man, these people are willing to die on your command, you should probably help them with their unfinished business at the very least." And yeah, the mechanic of "if you don't help they'll fucking perish" remains the same, but the framing is different. In ME2, you're basically helping a bunch of professionals to do this final thing before they die for your cause. It's both a sign of respect and of consideration for them as people, and strengthens your bond with them and their loyalty to you. The way it's framed means that you don't have to do this in order for them to do their job, but doing it helps strengthen their belief in you.

And because the stakes are relatively low (as far as everyone knows), of course the squadmates will respect and appreciate a Shepard who takes care of them more. Of course it builds loyalty. This person isn't just using you as a meat shield for their pet crusade, they're genuinely trying to do what's right and don't want you to die for nothing.

In Veilguard, you're literally told multiple times that you have to do their dumbfuck busywork or else they're gonna throw in the towel. Hey man can you do this thing? Or else I'm not saving the world :3c The stakes being SO HIGH while their issues are SO NOTHING makes most of them look really immature and incompetent, which clashes against the whole "gang of experts" thing. You're telling me this couldn't wait? I have to go into Lucanis' mind and figure out his traumas or else he won't ... hold a knife good? And that will doom the world because he's the only guy who can hold a knife? Okay???

ME2 presents everybody as professionals and experts in their field, but at the end of the day, they're just there to kill stuff. Remove one, and another will be found. The mission is (as far as everyone in power knows) not galaxy-threatening yet, so finding new guys to help would be easy. That's why Shep taking the time to solve their final issues means something and why it earns their loyalty. It shows that Shep cares about them as people.

Veilguard presents these people as experts in their fields, too. They're considered irreplacable in this conflict. And the conflict is saving the whole entire fucking world. And YET, that has to take a backseat to them figuring out what happened to a work colleague or Lucanis' grandma, because none of these experts can take a fucking chill pill to SAVE THE WORLD.

ME2 offers "low" stakes for the conflict and high stakes for the characters, so when it focuses on the characters' stories, it makes sense. You get the impression that it's character drama with a common goal that brings them all together. Veilguard offers high stakes for the plot and low stakes for the characters, but still focuses on the characters, so you get the sense that we're fucking around playing therapist while the world is on fire in the background, and it's presented as totally logical, because these guys can't save the world without a clear mind!! Despite being ... experts in their fields.

That's why, to me, Rook feels like a therapist while Shep feels like a leader.

Anyway, this is the formal end of the post but I wrote more on the specific character motivations of the Veilguard and why they don't work/feel trite to me and how that adds to Rook feeling like they're a therapist but it didn't fit with the rest of the post so under cut.

Another thing is that, while sometimes the problems of the Veilguard are technically higher stakes than the problems of the ME2 squad, there is a sense of "Hey do you actually need me for this?" And that I think is in part to the lacking motivations of the Veilguard. It's so unclear why some of them stick around that it becomes difficult to justify why they wouldn't just leave to fix their own issues.

(For example, Garrus asks us to help kill a guy. The guy isn't dangerous, he's not out there killing people or in possession of a superweapon ready to destroy a city. He's just an asshole and Garrus wants revenge. He could, technically, leave and just kill the guy himself. He knows where the guy is, so what's holding him back? Well, the job is. And Shepard is. Garrus wants Shep's help, because he doesn't trust himself to finish it on his own. He needs somebody to rely on, but he also knows that he can't just leave without Shep's permission, and that Shep needs him, too. Everything is on Shep's schedule, and there's no real time limit. His revenge can wait until Shep is ready to offer their help.

Neve is hunting an old rival who is a blood mage threatening to enslave her favorite city in all da world. It's pretty damn high stakes. But in my playthrough, Neve wasn't counting on Rook's help at all. In fact, she explicitly mentioned several times that she didn't. Yet, she still sat around and waited for their help. She didn't leave to deal with this on her own, didn't even consider it. But why not? What about Rook or this cause is keeping her there, especially since there's canonically time before the next big move and the issue is so high-stakes and pressing? People will die if she doesn't do something, yet she's sitting on her ass waiting for Rook, whose help she isn't counting on, to step up? What???)

Neve is introduced as being hired by Varric to find Solas, which she does. In the tutorial mission. She sticks around after Varric dies because ... she's in too deep now, I guess. She has to help save the world, you see. Even though all she wants is to go back to Minrathous and protect the people there. She wants your help to. Figure out some stuff. The famous big city detective needs the help of a person who's introduced as somebody who "thinks in straight lines" and whose nickname is probably a play on "rookie." She is not getting paid for this. She's doing this out of the kindness of her heart, even though most of her time on screen is spent dreaming of her favorite city in da world. She's not an expert in anything that has to do with the current plot, so she's in-fiction not really vital to keep around. Her role as a mage is made entirely pointless by the existence of Bellara and Emmrich. Supposedly her area of expertise is in blood magic ... despite hating it and not actually practicing it, on account of it being bad and evil. So she's an expert in killing blood mages, then?

Well, no. That's Lucanis. He's the resident mage killer ... who we find in an underwater prison, guarded by blood mages. I get there is a reason for why he was defeated, but the optics aren't great, ya know? We don't really free him as much as we lightly distract his guards, so he can bust out of the prison fully clothed and armored. He's suuper eager for revenge, but he's also been forcefully possessed. But that's okay, because we need his expertise for um. Killing mages. Which is what the Evanuris are. So this random possessed human guy will know better than anybody else how to kill the Evanuris. Sure. He decides to stick around on account of ... the Crows always finishing a contract. Who is paying him? Who is paying the Crows? His gam-gam ordered him to stay, she's basically offering us his services for freeing him. Guy is an indentured servant but acts like it's his choice, like it's an honor thing and not his grandma putting him in the toilet. And when it's time for him to show/offer his expertise in the field, he says "How am I supposed to fight a cloud?" which is fair enough, sure. But have you not fought mages before? Do you not have any reference for them doing weird shit at all? Do you not know how to disrupt rituals, break barriers? In the end, all he can practically do is hold the special knife and attempt to stick the pointy end into his target. Which my rogue Rook or Davrin or Taash chould've done. But gam-gam says to sit so he sits! It's not a very compelling motivation for this epic expert mage killer to just kinda. Stick around out of obligation. It could've been interesting, if he chafed against it or had to be won over, but he's just fine with it. It's treated as natural that this dude, who isn't even slightly an actual expert and is just a glorified knife holder and who isn't practically useful in any sense of the word, is still in the group. It's treated as natural that Rook has to go out of their way to help him clear his mind so he can hold the knife better next time, instead of just finding another guy to hold the knife. Maybe the spirit in him makes him stronger and more capable of fighting mages? No, the spirit is what made him miss in the first place, actually! So you have to help him figure it out or he'll miss again. DON'T ask somebody else to hold the knife though. It HAS TO BE Lucanis. Because he's the mage killer expert. Who missed. And can't handle mages.

Then we have Taash, who we need to kill the blighted dragons. They're the only dragon hunter around and have an encyclopedic knowledge of said dragons. Unfortunately the blighted state of the dragons that are actually necessary to kill are behaving in unexpected and different ways from normal dragons. They're literally manipulated by the Evanuris to be harder to kill. Making Taash's expertise moot. I didn't even have them in my party when I took on two dragons at once, and in fact the only dragons that Taash is presented as capable of killing are ones that they want us to kill. So this expert we recruit mostly introduces more dragons for us to kill that aren't actually threatening us in any way. The main time Taash has to show off their knowledge is when we use the dragon trap ... which was fashioned by Wardens. Who are all trained specifically to fight Archdemons. Who are dragons. That are blighted. Do you uh. Do you see my problem here. Taash also sticks around the Veilguard for inexplicable reasons. Mostly it seems they don't want to go home to their mother, which is fine, but this is a whole-ass adult, supposedly. They could go back to hunting dragons for the Lords, because they're written as too self-absorbed to really care about stepping up to the fight just for the sake of it. So despite them not really being useful in any way to the overall plot, we still have to help them figure out their gender identity, or else they won't be able to ... fight the blighted dragons. Which they couldn't fight. On account of the blight. Cool cool cool.

Then we have Emmrich, who is a professor and has shit to do. He is also presented as a Fade expert, while Bellara is somehow not, despite doing most of the Fade-related and artifact-related magic on-screen. Emmrich joins the Veilguard on account of um. Well we asked nicely, and he's a good guy, so he has to help save the world. Despite the fact that he's terrified of dying. Which he's far more likely to do after leaving his job. And the thing is, yeah, "the world might end so we need to stop that!" is a valid motivation, but if we accept it as the motivation of a central character whose plot we must find compelling, then why is it that it's only a few guys trying to save the world? This conflict is prestented as bigger than all the previous games combined, bigger than (the) Inquisition, which had literally entire armies and different branches and infrastructure for it's "smaller" conflict, and people were still volunteering and joining in droves, but here we're 8 guys? Are we meant to believe Emmrich's willingness to join the Veilguard is somehow unique to him, and that nobody else in the world would volunteer to join? When Harding exists, on the same team?

Speaking of, Harding is a character who can really get away with "I wanna save the world", because her joining the Inquisition is literally how she got into the plot in the first place. She's a joiner. She joins heroic causes. So her having this sort of bare-bones but noble motivation works. Same with Davrin. Bellara seems to join out of both curiosity and guilt, which are interesting enough reasons and come through visibly in her subplot and characterization, but more importantly, she doesn't have anything holding her back that might take priority until she finds out her brother is alive. Her sticking around also makes some sense because she's ya know. An elf mage Fade expert. Or sorry an elf artifacts expert.

I'm not saying "somebody's gotta do it!" or "it's the right thing to do!" aren't valid motivations, they clearly are, but there's gotta be more to it, especially when it comes to characters who have something to lose like Emmrich. My guy is terrified of death but he's such a good dude that he jumps into this life-threatening conflict without a second thought? But then gets so "distracted" by his wacky scientist former colleague that he needs our help figuring it out? Huh???

Um. I didn't have a conclussy for this part of the post so. bye