#and thank you for inspiring me to post this

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Sixteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, DTS style chapter.

Notes — Bit shorter than usual but just a bit of a fun chapter inspired by a DTS episode. Covers Imola - Monaco, so CH17 will pick up in Azerbaijan <3

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Imola - Monaco)

The Netflix crew trailed behind Lando and Amelia as they walked through the Emilia Romagna paddock. Lando’s hand was tightly gripping Amelia’s, pulling her closer in a reassuring gesture. While Amelia didn’t outwardly show it, it was clear she was aware of the cameras following them. Her eyes flicked nervously to the side, but she kept walking, trying not to let the cameras get to her. The intensity of their presence made her skin crawl.

Lando noticed immediately. Without a word, he subtly shifted his body to shield her from the prying lenses. He moved just a little slower, positioning himself slightly in front of her, making it harder for the cameras to focus solely on her. His grip on her hand tightened.“You’re good, baby,” Lando said with an easy grin, his voice warm. “They’re not gonna bite.”

Amelia looked up at him, her eyes flicking nervously around, still not fully comfortable. She adjusted her MV33 jacket and shifted closer to him, thankful for the slight reprieve. But the fidgeting didn’t stop; she was still aware of the boom mic hovering just above them.

“I’m not sure they realise how loud they are,” she murmured, leaning closer to him, trying to make her voice as quiet as possible. “And I don’t like it when they’re so… close.”

Lando’s expression softened with understanding. He adjusted his body a little more to block the view of the cameras, holding her hand with a firm but gentle grip.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his tone low but calm. “It’s just for a few weeks, yeah? They’ll get bored of us eventually.”

Amelia let out a breath, her shoulders relaxing a little. She leaned her head against his shoulder for a brief moment, grateful for his presence.

They continued walking toward the Red Bull garage, the cameras following closely behind. As they neared the entrance, Lando noticed Max just inside, waiting for Amelia. He turned toward her with a reassuring smile.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, “Don’t worry about it, don’t even think about them. Just do your thing. I’ll find you later?”

Amelia nodded, her eyes softening with gratitude. She stepped toward Max’s garage, but not before she gave Lando one last look, a quiet, unspoken emotion passing through them. 

“Thanks,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “I mean it.”

Lando grinned and squeezed her hand one last time before letting go.

Amelia walked toward Max’s garage with more confidence now. Lando watched her go, his gaze protective but proud. He paused for a moment, watching her blend into the chaos of her team before turning toward the Netflix crew with a pointed look.

“Hey,” he said, his voice firm. “If she’s on her own, back off, yeah? Don’t make this harder on her than it already is.”

The crew exchanged glances but nodded in acknowledgment. 

— 

WILL BUXTON (interview, to camera):

“The start of the 2021 season? It was chaos. Red Bull had the car, no question. But what they didn’t have, straight away, was consistency. Bahrain was a late heartbreak. Imola was a redemption. Portugal? Wobbly. Spain, Monaco — each came with its own drama. But people stayed optimistic. There was still this… belief. In the team. In Max. In Checo. And in ‘Mini Newey.’”

He leans back slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s what they started calling her. Amelia Brown. Quiet in interviews, blunt on the radio, brutal in post-race debriefs. She wasn’t Red Bull’s secret weapon — she was Max Verstappen’s. And for a season this tight, with this much on the line… that made all the difference.”

Cut to a quick montage. Max stepping out of the RB16B in slow motion, Amelia scribbling notes, Jos Verstappen nodding through a strategy briefing, and Max’s garage lit up like a war room. 

“She wasn’t just part of Red Bull’s setup anymore — she was the setup. No more garage rotation. No more neutrality. In 2021, she belonged to Max.”

Will tilts his head slightly, that familiar knowing smirk playing at his lips.

“And yet — off-track? She’s dating McLaren’s Lando Norris. Publicly. That raised more than a few eyebrows. Word in the paddock was that Christian Horner wasn’t happy about that; at all.  And let’s be honest — in Formula 1, mixing personal and professional like that? It always comes with consequences.”

Then the screen fades to black as the episode title appears. 

Drive to Survive Season 4, Episode 4 — “Mini Newey”

— 

Amelia sits stiffly in the interview chair, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in her lap. She’s dressed in a white cotton sundress, and she’s clearly not thrilled to be there. Her eyes flick briefly to the boom mic overhead before settling back on the interviewer, her nose scrunched unhappily. 

The producer’s voice comes from off-camera, “Welcome to Drive To Survive, Amelia Brown.” 

She stared at him, unspeaking. 

He continued, “So. There’s been some talk about why you moved to working exclusively with Max. Can you tell us what exactly happened with Christian?”

“Oh. He tried to accuse me of leaking data to McLaren, which was completely unfounded, by the way.” She says it matter-of-factly, no emotion in her voice — just her usual blunt precision. “So I accepted Jos and Max’s offer to work directly for them instead. I don’t do well with unnecessary drama.” She pauses, eyes flicking off-camera again. “I joined the team to win Max his first championship, not to have my private life controlled.”

There's a beat of silence. The Netflix crew doesn’t dare push further.

— 

The camera rolls. Christian Horner sits back in the chair, arms loosely folded.

Off-camera, the producer asks casually, “can you talk us through Amelia Brown’s exit from Red Bull Racing?”

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “No comment.” 

“Can you confirm or deny that you accused her of causing a data breach that never actually happened?” 

“Next question.” He leans forward slightly, his tone still frustrated. “I’m here to talk about the car. The team. Not… personal matters.”

Fade to black.

WILL BUXTON (voiceover): “In Formula One, silence says more than words ever could.”

— 

Five races in, and the cracks had started to show. 

Bahrain had stung. Max had driven like hell and lost by the smallest margin. Amelia spent two weeks dissecting that final corner, pulling telemetry apart like bones, looking for answers that didn’t exist. Imola had healed something — a win for Max, a podium for Lando. She’d smiled so hard it hurt her cheeks, captured on the broadcast camera. 

But then came Portugal. Spain. Monaco.

Each circuit another layer of exhaustion. One foot in the Verstappen camp, buried in setups and strategy and staring down telemetry sheets until her eyes blurred. The other foot in Lando’s world; post-race texts, hushed hotel room conversations, moments shared in cars and corridors.

It was thrilling. It was also hell.

She celebrated Max’s pole positions like they were her own. But she felt every one of Lando’s podiums like a spark in her ribs.

But the headlines were starting to shift. Whispers getting ever louder. 

“Does Max Verstappen have what it takes to win a world championship?”

Amelia already knew the answer. 

— 

It was late by the time she made it back to the hotel. Her MV33 jacket was soaked from the drizzle still hanging in the air, her shoulders tight from hours hunched over data.

Lando was already there. Feet up on the end of the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. When she stepped inside, he looked up — and didn’t say a word.

He just opened his arms.

Amelia hesitated for only a second before slipping into the space between them. His hoodie smelled like sweat and rain and something that had become home. She didn’t speak either. Didn’t need to. Her hands found the hem of his shirt, her head tucked under his chin, and the world shrunk down to this. Just this.

A girl who built fast cars, and a boy who drove them like poetry.

— 

The Netflix crew hadn’t expected to be at an F2 race that day — but where Amelia Brown went, they followed.

It was the round at Barcelona. The paddock quieter, younger, more chaotic in a different way. Less polish. More edge.

Amelia stood near the pit wall, arms crossed, denim jacket layered over a dark blue dress. 

The crew kept their distance at first. But as the race unfolded, and as one car in particular started carving through the field like it knew more than the others, they drifted closer.

Oscar Piastri seemed to have Amelia Brown’s entire focus. 

Then she noticed the boom mic.

She stiffened, blinking once, jaw tightening as she took half a step back, tucking herself further behind a nearby barrier. One of the producers motioned for the camera to keep rolling — but they didn’t get far.

“Alright, mate. That’s close enough.”

Mark Webber had appeared at Amelia’s side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sunglasses on, arms folded, calm as anything. He gave the crew a polite smile that wasn’t really a smile.

“She’s here as a fan today. Let her watch the race, yeah?”

The producer started to argue, but Mark held up a hand. “Seriously. Fuck off.” 

Amelia said nothing. But her body relaxed, just barely, when he stayed beside her. Close enough to form a buffer. Far enough not to hover.

— 

TOTO WOLFF (cutaway interview):

“Amelia Brown is one of the most intelligent technical minds in the paddock. That’s not an opinion, that’s a fact. I tried to sign her — more than once.”

He leans back slightly in the chair, expression wry.

“Red Bull got her. And they let her slip through their fingers. All because she was dating a McLaren driver? Please. That’s not just petty — that’s bad business.”

He shakes his head once, almost laughing under his breath.

“Christian made it personal. I think he saw her relationship with Lando as a threat. Which, frankly, is ridiculous. She wasn’t leaking secrets, she was just smarter than most people in the room, including him. And that made him uncomfortable.”

Then, a pause — softer, thoughtful.

“But look where she is now. Integral to Max’s title fight. Calm under pressure. Trusted by Jos Verstappen. Loved by the grid. Christian lost her. Max didn’t.”

He offers the camera a subtle, knowing smirk.

“That’s going to cost them more than they realise.”

— 

LANDO NORRIS (cutaway interview):

Lando’s gaze is focused, but there’s a relaxed air about him — the kind of ease that comes when he’s comfortable talking, but not trying to impress.

“Amelia and I, we’ve been through a lot together. When we first met, she was just my boss’ daughter you know? I mean, she knew her stuff. I respected her immediately. She was just… different. She’s blunt, she’s honest. She doesn’t try to play games. And for someone like me, that’s refreshing.”

He smirks briefly, rolling his eyes at the memory.

“I can’t say I don’t get a bit of a kick out of the whole ‘rival’ thing, though. McLaren and Red Bull? Yeah, it’s all a bit… dramatic. But at the end of the day, we’re both just people, and we’re both trying to win. Doesn’t matter who you’re working for.”

Lando shifts in his seat, a slight seriousness to his expression now.

“What happened with Christian... that wasn’t about racing. It was personal. And she didn’t deserve that. Amelia’s one of the smartest people I know, but she’s also tough and loyal. For a while, it felt like people didn’t respect that.”

Lando leans back, considering his words, before giving a small shrug.

“Max has her now. Loves her like a brother. And that's good. She deserves that.”

His eyes soften, but his voice remains steady as he looks directly at the camera.

“Sure, in an ideal world, she'd be in papaya, running my garage. But for now, this is how it is. And I’ll always have her back. Whatever anyone says.”

— 

Amelia stands near the front, her eyes focused on the podium where Lando Norris stands, grinning ear to ear, his first-ever podium in Imola. His McLaren suit stands out against the sea of colours in the paddock, bright orange like a beacon of triumph.

Amelia’s face is a study in quiet pride. Her ear defenders are securely in place, muffling the deafening noise around her. It’s almost as if the world is softened, leaving just the moment between her and the two men who’ve come to mean everything to her.

Max flashes her a quick grin as he waves to the crowd. His calm, reserved demeanour contrasts with Lando’s excitement, but both drivers have made their mark today, and it’s a feeling she knows too well. She’s proud of both of them — two victories, two worlds, one goal.

— 

The Monaco Grand Prix podium ceremony is a blur of flashing lights and deafening cheers. Amelia spends it hidden behind telemetry screens in the far corner of Max’s garage, tucked away from the frenzy. 

Her ear defenders are snug, but even they can’t completely block out the pounding rhythm of the crowd. The screams, the shouting, the applause; it all collides in a wave of noise that she’s learned to tolerate but can sometimes just become too much. Her heart races, and despite her best efforts to keep it together, she can feel the anxiety creeping up her spine. It gets like this sometimes. Too many people, too much happening at once.

She clenches her hands into fists, the sensation grounding her, trying to focus on the singular moment unfolding in front of her. Max and Lando have made it to the podium. It’s a rare double and they take their spot under the sun of Monaco, framed by the trophies and the flashing cameras.

Max stands at the top, but Lando... Lando’s right there, too. He’s beaming, the joy written across his face as he waves to the crowd. 

She pulls her jacket tight around her shoulders, a self-soothing gesture that doesn’t seem to ease the storm inside her head. Pulls her golf ball out of her pocket, squeezes it, rubs it.

She watches, heart in her throat, as Lando raises his champagne bottle to the sky, his smile lighting up the whole scene. Max, too, is soaking in the moment, looking almost subdued by the joy, his trademark calm in full force.

She stays in the garage, invisible to the outside world, only able to watch from a distance. She’s thrilled for them. Thrilled, but on the verge of a meltdown. 

“Good job, Lando,” she whispers quietly to herself, voice barely audible over the racing pulse in her ears. “Good job, Max.”

—

The scene shifts, the camera zooming in on Amelia as she sits in front of the Netflix crew, a subtle discomfort in her posture. She takes a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her jacket, before speaking up, her voice direct yet softer than usual.

"I’ve talked about it on Twitter, but never on video... but yeah, I’m autistic," she says, locking eyes with the camera. "I’ve loved F1 for years... but working in this sport? It’s harder than it looks, especially with all the noise and pressure. People don’t always get it, and it takes a lot out of me to keep up with everything happening around me."

She glances away for a moment, clearly gathering her thoughts. The producer, sensing the shift in energy, quickly interjects, "What’s your all-time favourite race?"

Amelia’s eyes brighten immediately, her voice gaining momentum. "2005 Japanese Grand Prix. Alonso’s win, Raikkonen’s drive was absolutely stunning. It was... perfect. The strategy, the drama, the weather; everything came together. Raikkonen flying through the rain? Insane. And Alonso? There’s a reason he’s my favourite, you know? And—"

As she dives deeper into her passionate breakdown of every single overtake, the camera shifts to the back of the room. Lando Norris is seated, hands folded in his lap, trying to keep a straight face. But as Amelia’s excitement grows, the corners of his mouth twitch before he bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement.

The scene fades out, with Amelia’s animated voice still filling the space in the background. Lando’s fond smile lingers. 

— 

Will Buxton (cutaway interview):

"Even before it happened, I had full belief that Amelia Brown would win Max Verstappen his first championship," he says, his voice steady, almost prophetic. "She’s the key. The one thing Max has that no one else does. The way she sees the car, the way she works with Max; it's a bond that’s as strong as any I've ever seen in the history of motorsport."

He pauses for a moment, the air thick with anticipation. Then, a faint but knowing smile crosses his lips, as if he knows what’s coming next.

"But after that? Well... I can see her doing the exact same thing for the man she loves. Lando Norris, McLaren’s future, his own championship fight. Obviously I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think it’ll be long before we see Amelia Brown back where she started. Only this time — on her terms.” 

[luvbabydoll]

crack blurb inspired by this post @sigh-tofm

you were just trying to enjoy your drink.

maybe flirt a little. maybe not. it was one of those nights—bored enough to entertain a conversation, but not quite desperate enough to start one.

so when the guy with the thick scottish accent slid up beside you at the bar, all easy charm and cocky grin, you didn’t immediately wave him off. he was cute. smug, but cute.

“my husband thinks you’re attractive,” he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

you blinked. “your what?”

he grinned, sipping his drink. “aye. told me to come over an’ say somethin’. said you’ve got nice eyes.”

your stomach dropped a little. husband? plural? open marriage? what kind of sitcom were you walking into?

he tilted his head toward the other end of the bar. “that’s him, by the way.”

you followed his gaze.

and immediately wished you hadn’t.

standing there like they owned the building—6’4, easily 250lbs of pure intimidation, wearing a goddamn skull balaclava in public like it was fashion week. black combat boots. gloves. arms crossed. and staring at you like you’d run over w dog and laughed about it.

you turned back slowly. “that’s… your wife?”

he nodded, like a proud husband. “ghost.”

you stared at him. “ghost?!”

“aye,” he said, like you were the one being weird. “don’t worry, they’re lovely. bit quiet. but he likes you.”

you risked another glance.

ghost hadn’t moved. hadn’t blinked. just stood there. watching. like they were waiting. and if you so much as breathed the wrong way, you’d be eating through a straw.

“he… doesn’t look like he likes me.”

johnny chuckled. “nah, he’s just thinkin’. probably already planned how he’d carry ye out the bar. over his shoulder, princess-style.”

your whole soul left your body.

“i think i’m good,” you said, already stepping away. “tell your wife thanks, but i’m not ready to meet god tonight.”

“he likes a challenge,” he called after you, way too cheerfully.

you didn’t stop walking until the air felt less murdery.

[fragranticareviewers]

Question inspired by the recent compilation of Lust reviews! I have the "solid" (creamy) version of the fragrance and I've never smelled anything like the mouth/breath/bodily notes reviewers are mentioning. Does it just play well with my skin? Is it possible that the solid comes off totally different from the atomized spray? ....Are reviewers just talking out of their asses in order to have an opinion about a "controversial" scent? This is an interesting subject to me bc I'm a product development chemist but I don't work on anything remotely close to fragrances or anything used on the body, so I know very little about how these products work!

Love the blog, thank you for curating these really good posts!

thanks for the ask! this sent me on a fun rabbit hole.

it's probably a few different things:

you're right on the spray and solid versions being different. from what i know, it's a lot harder to control the dosage with the spray, so it's really easy to go overboard

lust is also a particularly indolic jasmine. indoles occur naturally in both human feces and jasmine flowers - however, the indoles in jasmine occur at concentrations of around 200 ppm, whereas the indoles in human feces vary depending on gut microbiome, but generally seems to sit at around ~2.59 mM. i'm having trouble finding sources on the concentrations between the two that even use the same measurement, but anything above 0.01% concentration of indole tends to give, to quote perfumerflavorist.com, "an aggressive, repulsive, overpowering fecal-decaying impression."

with the above said: i am awful with chemistry. just absolute dogshit. i haven't studied it since high school. if anyone wants to play with some numbers here or rip into my math, you have my blessing.

but basically, my understanding is: more fragrance = more indoles = more fecal smell.

i think there's also a social component to it, like you said. which happens with any controversial fragrance - people see other people writing funny reviews and want to write their own. this is something that applies to the whole blog, i think - my posts are carefully curated to be funny, but that also means you miss out on the majority of the reviews where people say it's fine.

& in case anyone wants to correct my work, my sources are as such:

perfumerflavorist profile on indoles, and a paper from 2015 on a method of measuring indole in human fecal samples

[humanjarvis]

thank you so much for all the love on this so far!! i’d wanted to get it out at least a week earlier so i could write some other things but life got in the way 🥲 but i’m glad it’s posted now and i get to be proud of myself lmao

special shoutout to @nightofsecrecy @thearynn @yunieful @seungkwansflower! these comments/reblogs made my day, and thank you to everyone else who’s left a note as well 💖💖

and to answer your questions @yunieful because i can’t help myself:

i've been obsessed with the concept of this for like a decade with hundreds of different songs and could probably write 50 of these if i had the time. so i had years' worth of fantasizing prep

i inhale pop culture for breakfast so again writing this was VERY self-serving and interest heavy lmao

in terms of inspiration i did watch lady gaga's coachella performance twice before starting this. more because i wanted to (it's fantastic, highly recommend) and less to help me write, but oh well. also anybody here know exo? that bar set idea? that was from their 2017 concert tour

and finally lmao sorry i'll stop talking. what motivated me to actually write this instead of just imagining it was ariana grande's new song dandelion. had it on loop during brainstorming, love this whole deluxe album

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay. 

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

 “A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise. 

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell. 

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame. 

Sylus Qin. 

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe. 

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive. 

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk. 

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota. 

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon. 

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked. 

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection. 

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong. 

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase. 

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase. 

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery. 

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder. 

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room. 

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth. 

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact. 

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.” 

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.” 

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?” 

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.” 

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale. 

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place. 

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.” 

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post. 

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice. 

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.” 

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face. 

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.” 

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name. 

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is. 

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over. 

It was time to stare Death in the face. 

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably. 

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair. 

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates. 

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve. 

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen. 

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin! 

Your heart stops. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera. 

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet. 

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives. 

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome. 

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.” 

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway. 

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.” 

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…” 

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked. 

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage. 

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny. 

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.” 

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down. 

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more. 

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise. 

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country. 

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy. 

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again. 

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.” 

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot. 

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience. 

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge. 

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours. 

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period. 

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door. 

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go. 

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires. 

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history. 

You’d started simple: his social media. 

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck. 

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face. 

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse? 

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history. 

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too. 

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned. 

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate. 

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter. 

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read. 

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer. 

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him. 

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him. 

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him. 

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo. 

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point. 

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done. 

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin. 

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism. 

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :) 

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered. 

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.  

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them. 

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind. 

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words. 

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in. 

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair. 

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do. 

Sylus Qin is here. 

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh. 

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know. 

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you. 

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you. 

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over. 

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show. 

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.” 

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little. 

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan. 

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls. 

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in. 

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided. 

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.” 

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm. 

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore. 

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification. 

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile. 

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.” 

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance. 

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not. 

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week. 

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime. 

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do. 

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain. 

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe. 

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life. 

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights. 

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme. 

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television. 

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair. 

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips. 

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about. 

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit. 

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you. 

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man. 

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips. 

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair. 

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show. 

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography. 

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine. 

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you. 

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all. 

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left. 

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room. 

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late. 

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place. 

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you. 

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear. 

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response. 

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches. 

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs. 

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit. 

 “I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.” 

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon. 

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.” 

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely. 

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss. 

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight. 

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.” 

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body. 

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls. 

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing. 

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.” 

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal. 

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment. 

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give. 

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you. 

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan. 

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight. 

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room. 

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning. 

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily. 

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker. 

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off. 

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

[luna-azzurra]

Hi, Friends!

I wanted to try something new. Lately, I’ve been feeling the urge to not only share writing advice—but to really pour my heart into it. To create content that’s not just helpful, but also beautiful, thoughtful, and something you’d want to save, revisit, or maybe even print out and pin to your writing wall.

So… here’s what I’ve been working on.

Over the next few months, I’ll be building a little creative space on Pinterest—posting writing tips, story inspiration, and cozy little guides (like this fairytale one!) that are visually fun and creatively useful. Of course, I’ll keep sharing advice here too—but if you want more of that ✨aesthetic writer brain chaos✨, you can follow me over there too!

 My Pinterest: Just Click here @Lunaazzurra0656

Thanks for being here, for supporting my work, and for caring about stories that matter. I really hope you enjoy what’s coming...

[rotapathetic]

[ ⌕ ] rafe laughed, moving away from the brush slightly. “that tickles,” you saw him bite his lip in the camera to stop another laugh. you two wanted to record the process to post, but not if he would be laughing the entire time.

you giggled, holding his shoulder. “i know, i told you. do you think you can handle it?” rafe blew out a breath, straightening. “yep,” he spoke in a serious voice.

you dipped the brush back into the dye, continuing painting the shape. rafe held still this time, but spoke up again. “you sure i need to be shirtless for this?”

you shook your head, explaining it to him once again. “i asked you which shirt you’re fine with getting stained and you told me you like all of your shirts. so this was the next best thing, it’ll wash right off.”

rafe still seemed unconvinced, a soft tilt to his eyebrow. “’s just not for their eyes,” he muttered, referring to his chest. you could never help the flutter you feel whenever rafe mentioned that touching and looking at him was only for you. “it’s fine. i’ll allow it this once,” you reassured.

“as long as you’re okay with it,” rafe responded, nodding, and you immediately pulled the brush back. you waited for his head to stop so you could continue. you wouldn’t bring it up that you told him not to move his head. he’d only feel bad that he could’ve messed you up.

you picked the phone up to get a closer angle of his head. “want me to hold it for you?” rafe immediately reached up, a habit of his to hold things for you.

you brought the brush back again, pausing. “rafe, no moving,” you giggled out. “you can not hold the phone, thank you though.” rafe put his arm down. “right, my bad. did i mess you up?” he fought the urge to turn around to look you in the eye when he asked.

“no, no. you’re fine. just want to be careful with the design. why’d you pick this one, anyway?” it suited him, you just wondered if he had any inspiration behind the design.

rafe shrugged, “it looked cool on pinterest.” you nodded at his blut answer, “fair.”

you were almost done with painting, getting good shots with your phone when rafe asked, “why don’t you show yourself?” he was referring to the video. you smiled, “because it’s about your hair, not me.”

rafe pulled a funny face, grabbing the phone from your hand and holding it to get a shot of you. you waved shyly, rafe putting the phone close up to his face to say, “she’s pretty,” then handed the phone back to you.

the viewers wouldn’t hear what rafe said when you added music, but they could read his lips. and there goes the flutters again.

you stopped recording, putting the phone in front of rafe so he could see, and set down the brush. “okay, now we let this sit and then you can rinse.” you wiped your hands while rafe moved his head side to side, looking at himself.

“you’re good at everything, bro. like freaking barbie with all those careers. have you done this before?” he looked back to you, face stern. you stepped up to him, grabbing his face between your hands and shaking his head. “no, i have not.”

rafe smiled at you shaking his head, “okay. thank you, pretty.”

[kbsd-main]

WINNIX: in real life, on-screen, and in fandom

"Dad has this record of "People Will Say We're in Love." Reminds me of a couple I once knew, so there's that tricky smile on my lips and a wee bit of twinkle in my eye as I listen." — Dick Winters in a letter to DeEtta Almon

this video could not have been made without yna @evidenceof: i compiled all your wonderful posts, but every single historical photograph, letter, quote, and transcript you see (including the one above!) was scanned or collected by her. thank you for everything, and for providing inspiration and motivation to work on such an ambitious project!

more credits/sources under the cut ->

the style of this video was inspired in part by (and could never live up to) twelve years a clown and a new season by kira @remythologise. you do well-sourced fandom meta as comedy so well!

HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS CITED (in order of appearance; sourced by yna unless otherwise specified):

Letter to from Bob Gibson to Harry Welsh

Conversations with Major Dick Winters by Cole C. Kingseed (partially via @sheletlune here)

Easy Company Soldier: The Legendary Battles of a Sergeant from World War II's "Band of Brothers" by Don Malarkey, Bob Welch

Band of Brothers panel at the American Veterans Center Conference (2007)

From Toccoa to Europe: On the Ground with Easy Company from The National World War II Museum

Biggest Brother: The Life of Major Dick Winters by Larry Alexander

Letters from Dick Winters to DeEtta Almon

Band of Brothers show bible (via USAHEC)

Ron Livingston interviewed by Ross Owen for The Story So Far podcast (via @sidsledge here)

Letters from Lewis Nixon to Dick Winters

Mark Cowen's interview of Dick Winters

Dick Winters' eulogy for Lewis Nixon

Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife from The Gettysburg Museum of History [disputed]

Beyond Band of Brothers: The War Memoirs of Major Dick Winters by Dick Winters

Letter from Grace Nixon to Dick Winters

Letter from Dick Winters to Lewis Nixon

FAN POSTS FEATURED (in order of appearance):

Tom Hanks meme by @bleedingcoffee42

Gay people can never flirt normally by @4o4notf0und

Tags on this post (by @stopstopstopit) from @igotyoubabeheffron, @randlemartin, @mr-chatterboxs-column

Why is he looking at him lighting a cigarette like that by @sidsledge

Tags on this post (by @airborneinfantry) from @roedotjpg, @holdingforgeneralhugs, @airborneinfantry, @boogiesheep

This yaoi shit is life or death by @bleedingcoffee42

Yearning disease by @evidenceof

Fujo goggles by @sidleckie

I'd follow him to hell by @stopstopstopit

What are your thoughts on... by @balladofthe101st

Their souls are literally intertwined by @stopstopstopit

Harry Welsh art by @foxholebuttfinder

Live Harry reaction by @finalgirljesus

Addicted to chilling with gay guys by @ww2yaoi

He gave him chocolates by @sidsledge

Loving your best friend so much by @sidsledge

Happy VE Day by @evidenceof

Getting your shit rocked by @sidsledge

Tags on this post (by @searchingforacircuitbreaker) from @sleepy-hyperfixations, @siiiiideblooooog, @redhcad, @kazanskied, @hanniewinnix, @danopdf, @cock-guillotine

Fellas, is it gay by @luckyreds

Tank fanart by @andromeddog

Bastogne fanart by @roberttingle

He's the exception to everything by @runaeveena

The Inherent Homoeroticism of War Media by @oatflatwhite

Honey, come to bed by @ww2yaoi

Lake fanart by @andromeddog

The most romantic dialogue ever by @ww2yaoi

Like New Jersey by @lesbiandarvey

[artist-ellen]

The Gaang!!!

Look at these little babies. The Season 2 Gaang is taking names and kicking butts!

(Reoccurring disclaimer for this art series: This is for fun, they are inspired by the show's costume designs and then extrapolated out with historical fashion or things I think will be fun to draw. These are not meant to be accurate, only inspired. I hope you like them!)

I am the artist! Do not post without permission & credit! Thank you! Come visit me over on: instagram, tiktok or check out my coloring book available now \ („• ֊ •„) /

https://linktr.ee/ellen.artistic

[meruz]

I’m absolutely obsessed with your art! Your art is such an inspiration, and I like to analyze it to make my own work grow (don’t worry, I am not copying ur style. Perfection is impossible to cheat off of)

I’d like to know- How do you get that dot/noise-ish texture? In the tmnt art you made, one is Raphael’s arm had a bright cyan light from it, but then fades into little dots- I’d like to know how you do that.

Ofc you don’t gotta answer! If you see this in your inbox and don’t want to answer, that’s okay <3

hi! firstly thank u im flattered ;_; secondly its funny to get this ask because i actually made a tutorial for this months ago and i was like.....actually im a little anti-tutorial because i think online art communities pass them around and treat them as a "you've been doing art WRONG this is the RIGHT way" thing and not as like. individual technique sharing. idk. also nobody asked so im not gonna post this. but u asked so... here i am posting it LOL

basically its just the dissolve brush mode in photoshop with the softest default brush + some sneaky masking to get the right fall off/shadows that i want. u can technically use eraser instead of masking but idk i find its a pain to edit afterwards.

this has kind of been my default coloring method for the past... year plus now? basically i just do all the work in my inks/flats stage and all i do for "paint" boils down to like. 2-3 of these lighting layers (normally one key light and one bounce light. sometimes more key lights depending on how much i hate myself) i used to do shadows with this too but then i stopped because it was getting too complicated. sometimes if i want it to be glowy ill throw a frickin.... outer glow layer style on the light layer too.

you can also see me kind of work thru this method in a couple tiktoks (1) (2)

[milkoomi]

i’m finally seeing this for the first time (damn you tumblr notifications) but MINDY!!!!! the way my smile grew wider and wider while reading this? it’s so heartfelt and sweet! i could feel the genuine and raw emotion you put into this and i can’t express enough just how grateful i am to have found you and other girlbloggers out there. it’s been such a game changer for me, being a part of this community and seeing such uplifting and powerful posts on girlhood is just so healing.

from your study/academic posts to your life-changing advice about being a woman in the world, i seriously have so many thanks to offer to you and the rest of this community! and thank you so so so much for including me in this, i can’t express enough in words just how grateful i am. i started this blog thinking it would help me in my own personal life and i’ve met and interacted with angels like you! now i’m slowly coming back because every time i came onto tumblr to just ghost around and scroll through my dashboard, the girlbloggers have inspired me! you have inspired me! not only to create more on my blog, but to also create more of a fulfilling life for myself!

ugh, i love you and this community!! thank you so much for all that you do, mindy! 🤍🌷

✧ girlblogging saved my life | tribute to girlbloggers of tumblr

💌 a love letter to the girls who feel everything all at once

hi angel. mindy here.

i just want to talk to you for a second. not as a persona, not as a brand, not even as a blog, but as a girl who started typing into a blank text box one day and never stopped.

because the truth is, i didn’t make this blog because i was healed. i made it because i was hurting.

and somewhere between the aesthetic pinterest photos, the late-night diary entries, the posts that only got 3 notes, the 2am reblogs of girls who looked like soft versions of my pain... i found something. i found you.

✿

i didn’t know i was creating a life raft when i made this blog. but looking back, i can see it so clearly now: i was a girl who needed a safe place to feel everything. to be too much, too emotional, too ambitious, too dreamy. irl, i felt like i was being graded for everything, my appearance, my intelligence, my tone of voice, even the way i sat in a chair. everything had to be curated and clean and perfect.

but on here? on tumblr? i could fall apart in lowercase.

i could write things like “i feel like a forgotten ballerina in a dusty theater” and no one would ask me if i was okay. they’d just reblog it with “me too.” and somehow, that felt more healing than any conversation i’d ever had.

✿

girlblogging didn’t just save my life. it gave me one.

a life where i could romanticize my flashcards, where healing could look like claw clips and classical music and drinking water in a wine glass. a life where i could turn loneliness into poetry and ambition into art. a life where i wasn’t just surviving... i was curating, creating, soft-launching a girl i had always dreamed of being.

i started girlblogging when i didn’t have the words for what i was feeling. but now i know, it was grief. it was burnout. it was self-abandonment. and slowly, one pink post-it thought at a time, i started writing my way back to myself.

✿

when people ask what girlblogging even is, i just smile. because it’s not something you can explain in one sentence. it’s something you feel.

it’s the way you post blurry photos of your eyeliner because it makes you feel powerful. it’s the way you build entire personalities out of fictional girls like spencer hastings, wonyoung, cher horowitz, and elle woods. it’s the way you turn your trauma into templates and your survival into routines. it’s how we whisper “you’re not alone” to each other through digital scraps of diaries, gifs, playlists, and checklists titled ✧ how to feel like yourself again.

girlblogging is archiving your girlhood in real-time. and i think that’s the most radical thing we’ve ever done.

✿

i’ve met girls here who are quiet geniuses. girls who write like moonlight. girls who study like the world is ending. girls who’ve taught me how to rest, how to flirt with life again, how to turn breakdowns into soft resets. girls who made me feel seen in a way real life never did.

and the best part? they’re just like me. just like you. we’re all here, in this glittery corner of the internet, building worlds from our bedrooms, lighting candles for each other, sending each other healing in the form of moodboards and poetry and routines.

this is a community of unspoken survival. we never say it directly. we just post something beautiful and hope someone else recognizes the ache behind it.

and we do. every time.

✿

so this is my love letter. to you. to the girlbloggers. to the dreamers who stayed up late to make a new aesthetic header even though they had homework. to the girls who reblogged posts about self-worth while silently trying to believe them. to the ones who took notes like it was an artform. to the ones who healed in lowercase and sparkles. to the ones who are still learning how to love themselves in soft, sustainable ways.

you saved me. girlblogging saved me. you taught me how to live again.

and i just want to say... whatever you’re going through, you’re not weird for needing this space. you’re not cringey for making everything an aesthetic. you’re not “too much” for feeling everything at once.

you’re just a girl in the middle of becoming. and that’s a sacred thing.

never let the world convince you that softness isn’t powerful. it is. it always has been.

✿

so keep posting your little poems and guides. keep updating your theme at 1am. keep reblogging things that feel like you. because maybe girlblogging isn’t about being seen. maybe it’s about seeing yourself for the first time in forever.

and maybe that’s enough.

tributed to all the girlblogging community on tumblr + these amazing creators/girlbloggers:

@prettieinpink

@honeytonedhottie

@b3byd0ll

@thegirlingold

@dollywons

@agirlwithglam

@cantmakeitonmyown

@bunnysdollette

@maxiglow

@malusokay

@girljournal

@bloomzone

@4theitgirls

@milkoomi

@realprissygirl

~ mindy ♡

[xazse]

HEYY GOING FERAL OVER LOSER GOJO❤❤❤❤❤❤ can you write more loser gojo pookie? Where reader is like ignoring him cuz she needs to focus on her studies and didn't have time for toru to give him that sweet relief and when he can't take it anymore he comes to her whiny and all needy. So reader stops her studying and rides gojo out?? And he's a total mess underneath, moaning, whimpering, and him digging his nails on readers back and reader is like disgusted and starts to regret riding him but keeps riding him anyways?? Lol idk. Just loser toru makes me go feral.

(Feel free to ignore this z!❤ ily n ur writings especially loser toru you inspire me to also write smut but i suck at writing lol and fear that if I do it would be so shitty n I don't want ppl to judge me lol. I love you, take care of urself z!

♡´･ᴗ･`♡)

(P.s. I'm actually obsessed with ur writings 😍)

More loser!gojo x female!reader

Notes: I know you submitted this awhile ago but omg this was tew hot to let go, thank you for your sweet words I love that you love my writing.

Don’t be afraid to start writing I was as well but I simply threw something out and it got love and that made me want to continue writing, you might not get a lot of love the first few posts but eventually you’ll have dedicated fans who’ll love anything you post!!

Annoying… that’s all that filters through your head as Satoru rambles about whatever the hell he’s been talking about for the past hour, you zoned out the minute Digimon came out of his mouth and that was within the first minute!

Everytime you attempted to let him know that you had a pretty big test coming up and needed the silence and solitude he would promptly shut up for a good ten minutes then start up his motor mouth, how was someone who was top of all his classes not pick up on simple social cues!?! It drove you insane when he did things like this.

Drowning out his voice was nearly impossible with the loud boom that came from his vocal cords when he’d get excited about a certain something. Regardless you know Suguru is too busy to keep him occupied so you’re the next best thing. You press your pen to your paper and focus… focus and even more focusing.

But Satoru is needy, extremely needy.

He doesn’t like being ignored so he does his next tactic by being in your space, he pulls up a stool next to you and hovers over your shoulder, leaning down to look at what you were writing, he even goes as far as to correct a mistake you had made during his endless torture of a mouth.

You’re about to light him on fire but notice his fingers trailing lightly up and down your side, fingers sticking and popping your tank-top, he’s obviously not even looking at the paper anymore but instead down at the flimsy material you call coverage, oh…

You hadn’t even realized how long it had been since that last time you had sex with Toru, he looks so lost with those hazy blue eyes that require attention, he’s probably been touching his poor cock just off pure flashbacks, you feel bad for the man: but not really, you’re curious as to how long it’ll take him to finally break and ask you.

You wanted to play and mess with him for a little longer but not even five minutes pass before he’s guiding your hand to his erect cock, it doesn’t take much to get him aroused so you’d bet he’s been like this for a while. He leans his head down to rest in the crook of your neck, hiding his reddened face.

“You’ve been… ignoring me.” He whispers more to himself than you, the way he drags it out makes it come out as desperation on his tongue.

“I’ve been busy Toru, you know that.” You bring yourself to your feet, sliding your chair into your desk and making your way to the bed. His eyes follow your figure and they land on you roughly patting the bed prompting him to slip in front of you, seated nice and pretty.

“Well? Take it off, all of it.” Snapping at him gets him to start undoing his belt but of course he’s clumsy and unorganized so it takes him a while.

He’s completely nude and sitting at the top of your bed, relaxing against your lush fluffy pillows. His cock hasn’t calmed down at all, still an angry red crying for your soft hands around it, you give him the gift of jerking him a few times, his sensitive dick reacting quickly along with his body thrusting forward.

Within a few seconds precum has started leaking and pooling inbetween your fingers, it’s gross really. You’re thinking about just getting him off, washing your hands and going back to your studies but something sinister grows in your belly, it’s been a while since you’ve had some so why not jump at this opportunity.

First before you even think of connecting with Satoru for the first time in a while you have him beg for it, beg for your cunt around his nasty cock. Just the pathetic excuse of a man he is, the pleas roll off his tongue with ease, he starts cruising low on his tongue, even telling you how much he loves you and how pretty you are.

You think you’ve collected enough of his juices, the loud squelches every drag of his cock is more than enough proof.

Riding his cock is an entirely different story, he’s sat up, face drowned in your chest as he cries out even more pleas.

“Feel’s so goodd” he slurs out as best as he can but the clench of your pussy doesn’t help at all, it’s wet and obscene the way your juices mix with his, a nasty concoction being made. You bury your fingers in his hair pulling him out of your chest every now and then to stare at his ruined snotty face, he’s crying just like the baby he is. The things your pussy does to him make him not himself, the way your walls fit so snuggly around him, or the way you press your hips against his drives him mad.

You bounce on his cock purely without his help, his stamina clearly not being all there he’s practically being used as a sex toy, and you make sure to tell him that, that’s all he is to you, something for your pussy to get off with. Of course he nods along and confirms everything that comes out your mouth, yes he’s a disgusting loser, yes he doesn’t deserve pussy this good, and yes he’ll buy you whatever bag is trending right now.

His sharp untrimmed nails dig into your back, Satoru is so clearly a bitch in heat, what kind of man is the one leaving marks in the woman’s back?

You’re not able to think about the nails not when you feel something leaking down your chest: his drool, you’re about to get off him and leave him high and dry but the way he whines for you, cries out your name has you second guessing.

So you continue riding and chasing your own high, he can cum as many times as he wants but you aren’t through yet, not even when hes flopping on the bed, spent and exhausted are you stopping, you chase that spark that sits and festers up.

[kaysdelights]

when you're forced to marry an alien himbo | 🔞

words: 5004 fem reader x male main character w / au's: alien!au, himbo alien, arranged marriage, getting off in front of him summary: you're a brand new bride to a himbo virgin alien warrior that is obsessed with making you happy:) a/n: i told myself i wouldn't repost ALL of my shitty stories again for the millionth time while i figure out what i wanna do with my life BUT i desperately wanna get inspiration for this AU again because it was SO FUN TO WRITE! so im posting it again and also i need to tell myself i can do whatever i want to be happy D': okay love you <3 there is another part to this hehe also this has nothing to do with the other alien au i posted recently... i was just in a mood late last year writing about hot aliens lol

“You might want to have a seat when I tell you this, bestie.” You hear the impending doom in the tone of her voice coming in clearly through the speaker of your phone. “You’re an alien bride.” 

As if things couldn’t get any shittier for you. 

You got fired from your job because you were running late due to your car breaking down. You couldn’t afford to fix the part on your car because your bank account was overdraft due to your A/C breaking the week before. But it’s not like you could have even paid for the A/C when your boyfriend (now ex) broke up with you, drained your account for all he could, and took off with your sister to Vegas. Now you’re an alien bride thanks to the leaders of earth making a deal with the alien’s that they would protect all humans from the other invasive species of the universe if they send mate’s for the aliens in return. 

“Or, is it an alien's bride? Are you an alien bride if you’re human and you’re marrying the alien? Or, like, are you the alien’s bride because you’re the alien’s? You belong to the alien. The alien’s woman? Either way… that’s you, girl.”

The sound of your best friend rambling because she’s scared shitless for you barely snaps you out of your daze. 

“Is he rich, at least?” You sigh into the speaker. What’s one more weird and oddly specific thing that could go wrong? Just add it to the list. Alien, or maybe alien’s, bride? Check! “Because that would solve half my problems, Sera, and honestly when you’re only adding one problem back in, it evens out. Girl math.”

“Listen, you didn’t hear it from me-” But, you did. Sera works for the earth-intergalactic species representatives resources department. This is the only reason you’re finding out about this now. Normally people are just snatched up from their homes to go off and breed ginormous alien babies. Or, at the very least, marry an alien. You aren’t too sure on the specifics of what happens after that, but you have always been a little curious… “Your alien is a total hottie.” 

“What are you insinuating?” You gasp, part offended and part imagining how hot your alien husband-to-be actually is. “I just go up there and let this alien have his way with me to completely destroy me? I heard they’re not gentle! They’re mean and rough and ugly. So, really, how hot could he be?”

“You’ve never even seen one of them before!” She begins to whisper, as if someone is coming closer that could hear and potentially get her fired, or worse. “Look, you’re one overdraft fee away from homelessness. Don’t look at this as a bad thing. You’ve got no choice.”

You know she’s right. What other choice do you have? 

You’re beamed up to the alien spaceship that hovers earth the following morning. Literally. Beamed up in a blink of an eye. One minute you’re on earth, the next you’re surrounded by cold, steel walls in a circular room with two bags of your things and your cat, Jellybean. Jellybean hisses at thin air as he looks around, clinging to your shirt like it's his lifeline. His orange fur begins to fly when you try to soothe him, all before a sliding door opening to the right, and in walks the dreamiest, most charming, hunkiest man that ever hunked. 

Was this your alien husband-to-be? God, you hoped so. You were going to end it all if you haven’t even left earth yet, knowing this divine specimen exists and you couldn’t have a chance with him.

He clears his voice, a nervous smile on his lips, before he tells you his name. “I’m your husband.” 

Relief floods you. She was right. He is hot. Beyond hot. Your knees quiver as he steps closer, heart racing. As he walks into the yellow cast of the light overhead, you notice his brown, military style uniform, matching cap on his head, and black boots. Of course, all the aliens are trained soldiers well respected across galaxies for their skills in combat. It’s why earth so happily accepted their protection. They needed to remain safe, and the aliens needed mates. 

Jellybean hisses again to pull you away from the thoughts roaming. He looks down at the cat, then back to you. You expect him to be rude, mean even, maybe make an insulting comment, but he only smiles. 

“Would you like to see our living quarters? Let your friend get something to eat and drink while we settle in?”

“S-Sure.” Okay, you weren’t expecting that. Aren’t these aliens supposed to be mean? Horrid? Rough? Terrible? Ugly?! So far he was none of these things. He doesn’t even have a problem with Jellybean. Your ex hated Jellybean, but to be fair Jellybean hated him, too. 

God, speaking of, has it really been that long since you’ve been laid that you’re getting all hot and bothered over this alien just for being nice and not minding your cat? He leads you down corridors of metal until you’re suddenly thrust into a bustling living area full of other aliens and humans, lounges, TVs, little food carts with any option of burger, chicken wing, or pizza you could imagine. You name it, it was offered in those delicious smelling stands, though you wonder what kind of meat they used. Alien technologies are clearly far more advanced. Even their fauna was beautiful and ethereal looking, sparkling off the synthetic sun overhead while the koi fish in the ponds around them swam gracefully.

Though food and decor didn’t keep your attention for long. A couple you walk past looks as lovey-dovey in love as one could be. He’s much larger than her as she snuggles into his side while the two read the intergalactic news articles in the morning paper. She leans up and gives him a kiss on his cheek. As if she just couldn’t help herself, and you really can’t blame her either when you notice all of the aliens are pretty hot.

Not as hot as your alien, of course. There’s no alien like your husband. 

“Um, husband?” You shuffle your feet quickly to reach his side, grabbing onto his arm with the hand that isn’t holding Jellybean. 

“Yes, wife?” A shiver races down your spine at him calling you wife. God, were you really about to fall head over heels for an alien? The odds seemed likely. At this point, what did you have to lose? You only had everything to gain. Like a super hot, super attention and sweet alien husband who was no doubt packing downstairs. 

“Where exactly are we staying aboard this massive ship?” The alien spaceship was big enough to serve as a warning to the other space travelers to stay away, but also big enough to host every trained soldier from their home planet. 

“Just down here,” he says, leading you out of the living area down a more lively looking hallway with plants and pictures of army captains. Then he stops down another hallway in front of a door seconds before it slides to the right. “Right in here.” He carries your two bags through the threshold into the most normal looking foyer you have ever seen. Ahead are even a set of stairs made from hardwood floor. To the right, a kitchen. To the left, a living room. A house that jumped straight out of a magazine. You expected the alien spaceship to look like something from Star Trek, and part of it does, but some parts…

“This looks so…”

“Human?”

“Yes!” He chuckles at that, setting your things down while you let Jellybean  out of your arms to go sniff everything. “Why?”

“To make our mates more comfortable. To feel more like home.”

You can’t help your frown. “What if we don’t want it to feel that way?” Your voice is a whisper as you take in the surroundings. You’ve never lived anywhere this nice. It’s way too suburban, picket fence, three kids and a dog for you. 

“If the living arrangement is not to your standards, we can make changes.” There’s a frown on his face now. He actually looks disappointed you don’t seem happy. You definitely hate that look.

“It’s great! No worries!” You offer him the biggest smile you can muster, watching his grin return. “So, shall we get started?” you ask, beginning to take off your coat considering shoes were already left at the entrance. The coat falls to the floor before you begin unbuttoning your jeans.

“Wh-what are you doing?” He blinks a few times before turning his head from you. “If you needed to get changed, I could have stepped away.” He won’t look at you, so you stop fidgeting with your jeans. 

“Changed? No, I meant sex and alien babies.” He snaps his head at your words. “Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

“You’re here to be my wife.”

“Yeah… which means sex and then having alien babies. Right?” 

He looks confused. Now you feel heat rushing to your cheeks. You quickly pick your coat from the floor, covering yourself to not feel as exposed from your embarrassment. Not like it would help. He’s already eyed you up and down and back again at the mere mention of sex. 

“I’m… not sure.” He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were told marrying a human would give us strength, power. That what we receive from our mate would make us nearly invincible.”

Your jaw hangs open. “Excuse me?” You blink, taking a step toward him. “What the fuck are you saying?”

He gulps, not bothering to meet your eyes due to him cowering like you’re a foot taller than him. To be fair, you do have an intimidating gaze when things start to get complicated.

“Being with a human means being powerful,” he repeats, though it doesn’t make an ounce more sense. “We were told our humans would teach us what we needed to know to be successful lovers.”

You choke on your own spit from the words, coughing. “So being a good lover makes you more powerful?” You shake your head. “Being with me… being a good lover… makes you more powerful?” You’re squinting at him, no longer frustrated, but curious if he’s saying what you think he’s saying. If so, you have one hot himbo virgin on your hands and he’s in dire need of a sex lesson from you. 

“Yes, that’s it.” He nods, finally looking you in the eyes. 

“Well, you know what? My life sucks so what the hell? Whatever it is, alien husband, I’m going to make you more powerful! And you know what else? My life could still suck but at least I don’t have to go to work anymore and have Creepy Andy stare at my tits all day.” 

He frowns, anger spreading in his features. The shift in his demeanor is so sudden, it catches you off guard. “Is this Creepy Andy a problem?”

Oh… you like that. This alien is awakening something in you that makes you… horny? Scared? Maybe both. He’s big, and dangerous, and from another planet and it kind of turns you on he is willing to do, well whatever he would do to Creepy Andy if you said yes. No human man has ever made you feel this way. This stirring of excitement and adrenaline mixed with fear of the unknown washing over you as he looks at you like he would eat you up and worship you. Of course, what’s his has been threatened. From his tone, his posture, his words, you realize he’s a territorial man. So your hot himbo virgin alien is the jealous, protective type. Somehow you find him even more attractive.

“Not anymore,” you tell him, sighing, pouting, earning a little more of his attention which you realize you actually adore in the moment. He steps closer, placing hands on your arms. “I mean, it got pretty bad there for a while. He was always trying to flirt, and make weird comments about me, and just be creepy, you know?”

Okay, you didn’t have to go into detail, but to watch your new alien husband get worked up over another man’s comments about your body does something to your confidence. This alien has claimed you for his keeping, and it’s clear no one else should dare to even look at you or this alien super soldier will not be so nice.

“Where can one find this Creepy Andy?”

His question has you bursting into giggles. “Don’t worry about it.” You reach to pat him on the chest, feeling the hard muscle underneath. “It’s not something I have to worry about anymore.” 

You pull away to go get Jellybean settled in while he takes your things upstairs. After a while of soothing Jellybean and coaxing him out of his hiding place under one of the lounges in the living room so he would eat something, your husband comes downstairs to offer you a cooked meal.

“You cook?”

“Sometimes.” His sheepish grin has butterflies swarming your stomach. How can he be so hot, and intimidating, yet cute? You follow him into the kitchen with the standard fridge and oven, with a sink and dishwasher close by. Looks just like something you would see on earth, if it weren’t for the unique gadgets and interesting trinkets here and there. You assume they are alien created, and you’re curious how they work.

You guess a lesson on alien tools will have to be another day as he gets to work creating you a meal that smells delicious. He tells you it’s some sort of delicacy where he’s from, but you don’t question it. You haven’t eaten all day, too nervous about meeting him. So you take a bite, and to your surprise, it’s not half bad. There’s a few flavors you recognize in the dish, what look to be like noodles, and some kind of meat. You don’t ask the questions you normally would. You don’t want to spoil it if this is what you have to live with. 

“Would you like to join me while I wash up?” he asks while taking the plates away to place them in the dishwasher. A man who cooks and cleans up? You’ve died and gone to heaven. 

“Wash up? As in… shower?”

“Shower, bathe, whatever you wish to do.”

It’s hard to turn him down when he’s being so generous. “S-Sure.” Though, you are a little nervous. It’s been so long since you’ve even seen anyone in their underwear. Better to go ahead and get the awkwardness out of the way. This is your husband, after all. 

“I would love a bath. My muscles feel so tense from being nervous and I think I sweated so much from the anticipation of meeting you I would really like to wash up.”

He’s smiling at your rambling. Okay, you’re a lot nervous. Not that you don’t have confidence around men. You do and you enjoy taking charge and demanding what you want, but this is no ordinary man. This man is gorgeous, understanding, sweet, and kind. From out of this world. This man could have been written by a woman, maybe mother nature herself, and that’s what is making you so nervous. Why does he seem so perfect? You were so convinced the aliens were mean, and rough, and ugly, but he’s shown you the opposite. 

“Come with me,” is all he says before you’re following him up the stairs, down the hall into a room that looks more alien than human. The door slides to the ride to reveal marble steps leading to a dais filled with water. The platform sits low as a soft hum emits from the inviting bathing pool, lights glowing all around in alien markings you can’t decipher. 

“This is simply gorgeous,” you sigh, taking in the purple and blue fauna all around the room. Steam rolls off the water, shimmering beneath the glowing markings. 

“I’m happy it pleases you, I spent a while setting it up for you,” your big alien husband says, his tone giving him away that he could be blushing. “This is where I can bathe you every night while worshipping your body in any way you see fit. It is one of the more intimate ways we can bond so you can share your gift with me, so I feared I might be rushing things, but I admit, I was excited to show you.” 

You’re nearly brought to tears from the way he speaks to you as well as this steamy, inviting bathing pool he’s brought you to. Earth men could never. 

“Thank you,” you whisper a second before jumping into him. Your arms wrap around his neck while his hands pull you in closer. “No one has ever been this nice to me or done something so sweet.” He took you away from at least half your problems, doesn’t mind your cat, gave you a cozy, comfortable house to live in, cooked for you, built your own personal, lavish bathing pool, and wants to give you orgasms every night. Could your life get any better? You might have just fallen in love. It’s not too soon if he’s an alien, right? 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, pulling away. “I just wanted to show you tonight, and if all we do is admire one another in our flesh then that’s okay with me.”

Your heart swells. Could your husband get any sweeter? “No, believe me, I want to.” Suddenly, you’re not feeling so shy. The confidence has returned in full force as you take your coat off once again, allowing it to fall to the floor.

“Well,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding your eyes. “If you’re sure you’re comfortable…”

The mood shifts suddenly. You picked up on the tone of his voice, the uncertainty there. 

“Hey, are you alright?” You stop in the middle of unbuttoning your jeans once again, stepping to him to look into his eyes from below. 

“I just…” He lets out a breath and your heart sinks. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, either,” you remind him, reaching to give his hand a squeeze. “I’ll admit, this whole situation is bananas, and the fact that I have a husband who is an alien is wild to me, but we don’t have to rush anything just because that’s what we’re supposed to do.”

He looks into your eyes, the subtlest of wrinkles between his brows. “It’s just… my whole life I was trained to be a soldier. I’ve spent well over twenty of your earth years testing my combat skills, my war knowledge, my stamina and wit and endurance. It wasn’t until our last years in training did they talk about our need for a human mate from earth. I… I want to be a good mate to you, a good husband, because it’s important to both of our species survival, but I don’t know how.” 

Tears finally do begin to well behind your lids as he speaks. The familiar tightness tugs behind your eyes, heart breaking into pieces. You only thought about how the situation makes you feel, not how your new alien husband would feel. You feel a little sick at the thought of disregarding him just because he’s not human. Of course he has feelings and boundaries. 

“I’m sorry,” you exhale, shaking your head. His expression turns into confusion, brow wrinkling and lips parted. “I guess I’m just used to the men I’ve been with and their ability to only speak with their dicks. This is the most adult conversation I’ve ever had. I don’t know how many times I can say this, but earth men could never!” 

He chuckles as you speak, happy to see his smile return since he’s unbelievably beautiful when he does so. “I like the way you talk. It’s funny.”

“Funny?” You raise a brow, but you can’t stop yourself from grinning. 

“It makes me happy and I just want to keep smiling.”

Oh… he thinks you’re cute. Your stomach flip flops just the same as your heart. 

“Why don’t we start as slow as both of us need to.” You step away from him, gesturing toward the bathing pool. “Let’s just bathe tonight.” 

He agrees and you both begin to take your clothes off. There’s hesitation in every motion and he can’t stop stealing glances at you. Your jeans slide to the floor, his shirt follows. Piece by piece until you’re both naked before one another. His eyes travel down your body, taking in every enticing curve, every dip, every expanse of skin until he’s gulping. You take him in as well, the muscles twitching beneath your gaze, the smooth skin, the fact that his cock is half hard and growing as he looks at you. A big, thick, delicious looking cock that you aren’t sure how is going to fit inside of you, but God do you want to try. 

You don’t want to stare for too long because you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. If he was written by a woman, he was built by a God. It’s hard to pull your eyes away, but you finally manage to make your way to the edge of the steamy pool. The water is crystal clear, noticing glowing markings on the bottom and sides of the pool. The blue, shimmery light guides you to step down into the water, taking each step slow until you’re submerged up to your ribs. 

“How does it feel?” His voice behind you earns your attention. You turn to face him, watching as he follows your steps into the pool. The water comes to his waist as the two of you slowly dance around one another, gliding in the water as the heat relaxes your body. 

“Feels amazing. Like I’m being massaged all over. And what’s that smell?”

“Honey and rose. Comes from the water. The massage feeling is intentional due to the currents created from the vibrations in the walls.”

So that’s where the hum comes from. Interesting. “This is too cool, honestly.” You begin laughing, then he joins in. As if neither of you can believe the situation. All you can do is laugh. 

Until his smile fades and the mood shifts. “Can I see you?” he asks, and at first you’re confused, until his eyes sweep down your body. 

“Didn’t you see when we undressed?”

“I want to see all of it,” is all he says, eyes traveling down once again, and landing on the little V between your thighs. Your heart skips a beat. There’s no way you can tell him no. Not when he looks like he wants to eat you like his favorite dessert, he just may be a little confused about what toppings he wants. You’re willing to show him as you back up to the closest step to hoist yourself up onto the ledge of the bathing pool. His eyes are glued to you as you part your legs for him, giving him the perfect view of your pussy. 

He licks his lips, eyes darkening. The mood has shifted entirely. There’s a heaviness between the two of you now. One of longing and desire. He may not know all the intricacies of sex, but it’s clear he wants to. 

His exhale is heavy before he speaks. “Please, teach me.” He huffs again, like he’s struggling with holding himself together. “Teach me what I can do to make you feel good. 

You bite your lip for a second. “They didn’t prepare you for anything?”

“Not much. We got most of our knowledge from hearsay, though the basics were taught.” He takes another deep breath. “We expect our partners to teach us, that way their needs are met. It’s important to me for you to be pleasured properly. So, please, I’m not asking you to give me a lesson, I’m asking what makes you feel good…”

You inhale a sharp breath. The last thing you want to do is take things too far if he isn’t comfortable. Though, now you’re wondering if he just isn’t comfortable because he doesn’t want to let you down. That’s why it’s so important to him for you to show him.

So your hand falls between your thighs to begin stroking the soft skin of your pussy. Feather light strokes earn his attention quickly, watching so you only play for a few seconds. 

“If it makes you feel better,” you begin, middle finger finding your clit to begin teasing yourself there, “I’ve never done this with anyone before.” His eyes remain trained between your thighs, watching your finger softly circle your clit. 

“You’ve never touched yourself in front of someone?” he asks, and you bite your lip while shaking your head. A grin forms on his lips. “I’m your first?” 

You nod, then sigh when you dip your hand lower, finger easing inside of yourself to feel how wet you’ve become. Then you trace a line back to your clit, beginning to rub in slow circles once again. 

“I’m getting so wet already,” you whisper as he takes a step closer. “It must really turn me on when you watch me.” You don’t consider what you tell him dirty talk. It’s only the truth. You’ve never been watched like this. He takes another step toward you, and another, until he’s pressing his palms to the water’s edge near each of your thighs. 

“I hear it’s a good thing,” he says, looking between your pussy being pleasured and your head tossed back with lips parted. “If you get wet for me, it means you are enjoying yourself, yes?”

“God, yes…” Your fingers dip again, easing inside of you as your hips begin to roll against your hand. 

“Have you ever gotten this wet for anyone else?” he asks as his hand lazily falls onto your thigh, rubbing circles with his thumb. The added attention, even if so innocent and curious, adds to the pleasure, jolts of electricity surging from where he's touched you. 

“I don’t think so,” you tell him in a raspy breath, and once again, it’s the truth. He’s a jealous alien, so he needs reassurance. You feel yourself dripping onto the edge of the pool. No one’s ever made you this hot just by watching you. Normally you have to work hard to get yourself close, but you feel yourself on the edge of bliss within minutes. Slowing down, you bring yourself back in, wanting more than anything to make this moment last between the two of you. 

“Good,” he groans, and it nearly brings you right back to the precipice of your orgasm. “I want to be the only one that gets to see you like this. Touching yourself. Dripping wet for me.”

“Yes!” you cry out, falling back to lean on one hand as he grips your thighs, parting them wider for him to see. The other hand continues to work your clit in messy, quick circles. Your breaths deepen as soft moans escape your lips. You’re getting close to the edge again just from the way he watches you touch yourself. 

“The noises you make are making my cock ache, baby,” he nearly growls, suddenly full of sexual frustration, but he keeps it together. Warmth floods your body from the pet name. It’s never sounded so good coming from anyone else’s mouth. “Does it feel that good, or do you just enjoy me watching you touch yourself that much?”

“Both,” you whimper seconds before the pleasure is bursting from between your thighs. You couldn’t hold yourself off any longer, warmth surging through your body as the bliss takes hold. You cry out for him, reaching to wrap an arm around his neck and pull his body close as you ride out the pleasure. He takes hold of you, wrapping you up in his embrace until you’re coming down and catching your breath. 

Panting, shaking, he holds you against his naked body for what feels like an eternity. He strokes your hair and back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. 

When you pull away, you look him in the eyes, then your gaze falls to his mouth. “Will you kiss me?” you ask, and a darkness ignites in his eyes, the question fueling his evident desire for you. He leans in, pressing his lips to your own. Softly at first, just to feel each other’s skin, then he leans in further. He takes hold of you and the moment, slipping his tongue past your lips to play, to tease. You can’t help but moan against him, becoming lost in the very thing you swore was going to be terrible. 

He finally pulls away from you to begin tending to you as he would if he were really bathing you. He washes your body with the softest cloth and the same smelling gel from a little vial he had prepared. While he washes you, he explores your body, taking his time to go over every inch until you begin to feel worked up again.

When you’re both clean, he helps you out of the pool to dry you off. You giggle at the ticklish spots and he laughs at your giggling. He already has a cozy looking pajama set prepared on the bed which you will share with him when he takes you to the bedroom. 

When you’re dressed for bed, you snuggle between the sheets and he pulls you as close as he can to his body. 

“Good night, wife,” he whispers, placing a kiss against your temple.

“Good night, alien husband,” you reply, smiling to yourself since it seems, not half, but all of your problems have disappeared because of him. 

[vellihor]

unspoken. chapter 2.

cw: sylus x non-mc reader, idiots in love, mute reader, knives, blood, violence, gore, trauma, angst, fluff, reader is painfully oblivious! (in the beginning at least), SLOW BURN, intentional lowercase, inspiration from og LADS lore but may contain altered versions :)

word count -> 2056

italics mean reader’s thoughts

bold italics are sound effects

quotes are for phone texts

“normal text in quotes are speech”

“italicised text in quotes are signed speech”

author's note: well, i didn't expect this to get the love it has. thank you guys!

< previous chapter next chapter >

mephisto sits on your window sill, projecting the surveillance video of the guest room. miss hunter cuffed to the bed post, wary and antsy. sylus still hasn’t explained his reason for bringing her here. something about this situation unsettled you and you had no idea why. you took the liberty of moving her into the guest room after sylus recovered. you know what? i don’t care anymore. call me petty. if he didn’t want me knowing, i shall stay ignorant. whatever happens is none of my business.

you picked up your leather jacket and waved mephisto to follow you. stopping in front of the guest room, you gesture for mephisto to keep up the surveillance on miss hunter. heading to the garage, you run into the twins. you try to walk past them when luke speaks. “are you hunting blanco today?” you sigh and nod your head. “im going now” as the door to the garage opens. “oh, nuh-uh we are going with you.” you shrug as you walk over to your bike.

peeling down the highway, the comm buzzes with sylus’ voice. “come back now.” you turn your head and see the twins looking at you in their mustang, shrugging to say they don’t know what its about either. he hasn’t spoken to me since his gunshot wound and now he wants to order me around. disobey a direct order or postpone the mission. sighing, you motion for the twins to turn around.

-

striding through the doors with the twins flanking you, you were greeted by miss hunter wandering the hallways. the three of you stop in your tracks. there’s no way she could have gotten out by herself. which means sylus freed her. you feel the twins bristle and stiffen, ready for anything. miss hunter finally notices she isn’t alone and warily approaches. “hi, um where is the exit? i’ve been looking for about an hour now…” you stare at her, emotionless and unmoving. she looks at you, getting increasingly nervous every passing second of silence. this is a hunter?

caw. you hear mephisto before he lands on your shoulder. cawing frantically as if to complain about miss hunter who is now hurling insults at mephisto. “is that your crow? he wouldn’t stop following me. watching me. wouldn’t help me get out either. i-” you hold up your hand to stop her, mephisto now nuzzling your cheek. nobody disrespects mephisto like that. you watch as she swallows the rest of her sentence. you jerk your head at the twins and walk past her, heading to sylus’ office. she tries to follow but the twins distracted her. “miss hunter, do you want a tour of the base? come with us. this is kieran, i’m luke! we’re twins, if it wasn’t obvious already…”

pushing open the mahogany doors of sylus’ office, you are greeted with sylus looking out the window. you stop short of his desk, waiting for him to address you. he turns to you and you realise he has an expression you have never seen before but its gone in the blink of an eye. you come to a startling realisation. she’s his soulmate. a strange ache roots itself in your chest, gripping so tightly you almost suffocate. thankfully, the twins save you yet again, bursting into the office with mephisto. sylus breaks the silence, addressing the twins and you. “i plan on keeping her at the base until further notice. blanco can wait. this is not a discussion. you are dismissed.” you blink once. twice. did he- did he call us back just for this? the twins slink out of the room in obedience. you stay firmly rooted to the plush carpet. sylus raises his brow.

you aborted my mission for this?

sigh. “i need you to calm her. she’s way too antsy and wary of me” he explains, visibly holding back. scoff. two can play at that game.

wouldn’t luke and kieran be better? at least they can talk.

“kitten, just try.” his tone almost pleading. you press your lips into a thin line before nodding stiffly and heading out of the office.

-

you sit in your room, wondering what you could even do for miss hunter. you recall how she wrapped her hands around her body as she was wandering the hallways. maybe she’s cold. why would i care? a pause. shOw SoMe kINdnEsS. only because she’s sylus’ soulmate. you grumble and push yourself off the couch to grab a winter blanket and a fluffy jacket.

stopping in front of the guest room, you hear her voice clearly on the other side. “how long is he going to keep me here? this place is huge and nobody would tell me ANYTHING. the lady wasn’t saying anything, which was creepy as fuck by the way and very scary. she scares me more than sylus. if anything, i thought she would understand me as a woman. though, the twins are friendly at least… but they still work for sylus. you do too but who cares? you’re a robot crow and i’m a prisoner here. just great.”

knock. knock. you hear her footsteps shuffle towards the door. when the door swings open, you see the shock on her face. speak of the devil, i guess. you show her the blanket and jacket you brought and walk into the room. you set the items down on her bed and the idiot rushes you. dashing towards you, going for a choke. you grab her hand and flip her onto the bed. she scrambles off the bed on the opposite side. you make it a point to keep your face as neutral as possible, letting her size you up. at some point, she looks away and speaks up. “why are you here? to kill me?” her tone dripping with venom but you see it in the way her hand shakes. she’s scared. you sigh and move to the couch near the window.

i thought you might need a jacket. also, can’t have you dying here. bad omen.

as you show your phone screen to her, a flash of confusion and realisation found their way across her face. “you- you’re mute?” she stutters then gasps. “you are silent blade! i’m sorry i, uh, was hostile but you can’t blame me though-” you stop her rambling and gesture that its okay. she pauses and gives you a tentative look. after a moment, her hands move. “thank you.” you are caught off guard. how naive can she be? i just gave her a blanket and a jacket.

i don’t expect you to trust him immediately. but he would never hurt you.

you see the conflicting emotions and thoughts in her expressions. wearing her emotions on her sleeve. she’s still so naively trusting, its fucking unbelievable. you make a move to stand up and was halfway to the door when she grabs your wrist. “where… can i find you?” you hesitate before pointing at mephisto.

stalking down the hall, you decide she’s too infuriatingly naive and not worth aborting the mission over. sylus can play house with his soulmate. i have better things to do.

-

“you two entertain and watch miss hunter. i’m going after blanco.” you tell the twins in the kitchen. “uh didn’t boss say the mission was off? its pouring outside too.” kieran asks. “also they left about ten minutes ago” luke offered. “even better. anyways, two of you are enough to keep up with miss hunter. he doesn’t need the three of us to look after one hunter. don’t tell him i’m out. i’ll be back soon.”

weaving through traffic on the highway, you spot the suv you were tracking. following it at a distance, you noticed it had about five plain-sight cars as its escort detail. heavy protection huh? i’m going to enjoy taking you down. word is you are price’s supplier. let’s see how much you’ve got.

parking behind a warehouse, you slipped in through the gap in the doors, cloaked in your evol. amateurs. you are stunned when you find yourself in a warehouse full of protocores. no. these are modified protocores. this is bigger than we realised. shelves and shelves of protocores that your intel never detailed. sylus would be happy if i seized these tonight. you approach a shelf with a pulsing purple and red protocore, reaching out to touch it. big mistake. searing pain shot through your hand and spread throughout your body like a flame. you tried to drop the protocore but your fingers stayed attached to it. you drop to the floor jerking as the waves of pain crashed into your body. a dart hits you in your thigh and your evol fades, leaving you exposed. the last thing you know, a bag is put over your head. i’m so fucked.

-

as you wake, you find yourself in a glass cell with white padded floors. you look up to see a lab of sorts and a man staring at you. you sit up and look around the cell.

“don’t bother. you only come out when we decide you can. very smart contraption this one.” we? the man smiles and steps closer to the cell. you subconsciously back away. “oh. where are my manners? i am oliver humphrey. but you will know me as your maker soon enough.” you didn’t like the sound of that. he picks up a paper from the table. “mute since 16? can’t have that, can we? so i took the liberty of fixing that for you. you are welcome.” you recoil from his words. nobody had been able to heal your vocal chords, said they were too far damaged to be repaired. seeing your confusion and disbelief, oliver picks up a vial of blue liquid. “its all thanks to this serum. it heals basically everything under the sun. though i have to say, you have had the most successful recovery from it.” setting down the vial, he turns to you. “now, let’s try your voice. i’m sure you have missed it.” he beams and clasps his hands in anticipation. great, a yapper. i’m captured and am a science experiment now. even if it was true, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. you stare blankly at him, offering no reaction or emotions.

“well, this is normal. after all, seven years is a long time. you will have time to practice.” he shuffles back to the front of the cell, studying you. “is there anything different? i mean it would be better if it came from you. or i could wait for the bloodwork to come back! oh the possibilities are endless! oliver you are a genius. an absolute gem!” you close your eyes and reach for your evol. you find the familiar cooling sensation draping over you as invisibility cloaks you once again. at least its not an evol restricting cell. things could be worse. then you feel an foreign tug, insistent. trying to get your attention. you reach for it. it was different. colder, freezing almost. you open your eyes and see purple tendrils swirling around your forearm, coiling and twisting. like snakes. you try to inflict it on the man in front of you. he stands there, unfazed. “oh, no no. like i said, this cell is a genius contraption. you can use your evol all you want. its useless. just like an evol restricting cell but i would say better. it’s a false sense of hope, don’t you think so?” he chuckles. “at least i know the evol infusion worked!” he giggled. “now, let’s test them shall we?” he presses a button on the console and the door behind you opens to reveal blanco in chains. you look back at oliver. “what? weren’t you hunting him? come on, try your new evol! i’m sure you are as curious as me to see what it does.”

you hesitate but your evol betrays your mind, lashing out at blanco. blanco’s eyes widen and he drops to the floor. “no no no, please no. HAVE MERCY! PLEASE NO!” you see his eyes glaze over, as if he’s seeing something else. “please… not my daughter… please i’ll do anything for you. please…” his chest wracked with the sobs that come out. you feel a cold sense of dread in your chest.

you really have a second evol.

< previous chapter next chapter >

taglist: @animegamerfox @justpassingdontworry @loreleis-world

[tiredela]

twink rebirth 😔😩🪱

[lowkeyerror]

My Wife, My Everything

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Notes: Requested, established relationship, Rio in the coven, fluff, wedding

Summary: It's been over 300 years it might be time to put a ring on it.

An: 🫣 hey... how yall doing? It's nearly 3 months since my last post, it's also 3am. The inspiration came and died and then i got scared to go the app 🫣 idk if I'm back, but hey

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

It just made sense. That’s what you told yourself when you decided to propose to Agatha. She hadn’t hinted at wanting to get married or pressured you into it, but it had been years. Hundreds of years, that you had been committed to each other. You’d been married over and over if common law had anything to say about it.

You were in the backyard of your house late on night. Simply going down memory lane with each other. Sharing stories and laughter easily. Agatha was looking out at the sky while you were looking at her. The ring box flat in your pocket.

“We should get married,” you had said casually.

“Is this you asking me?” Agatha had an amused tone in her voice.

“Give me second.”

It’s not graceful as you get out of your chair. Her eyes follow you as you get down on one knee. Your hand finds one of hers.

“Are you-?”

She watches carefully as you pull out the ring box from your pocket. It opens, and inside is one of the most beautiful gems Agatha has laid her eyes on. The central diamond sparkles something fierce while the band also gleams.

“I think it’s fair to say that I’ve already made the decision to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s nearly been 3 centuries that we’ve been together.  Which perhaps makes this very long overdue, but neither of us are too keen on good timing. I don’t want to ramble too much. I did have all these things I wanted to say and express, but I think in the simplest terms, it’s just that I’d love to marry you.”

Agatha had tears welling in her eyes, she wiped them away dramatically, “I mean you could ramble a little.”

You roll your eyes but begin speaking nonetheless, “We never really talked about marriage so it never really crossed my mind. Recently though, I’ve been wondering, why not? Why not add, my wife into the vocabulary of all the other things I call you? It’s a new age, it’s perfectly legal. I decided a long time that I wanted forever with you and I'd like to think you want forever with me. This ring is just me doubling down on something I already believe in, us.”

She takes your face in her hands, “You’re taking my last name.”

You surge forward, lips pressing against her’s. Her soft palms feel warm against your face. You melt like it’s the first time you kissed her.

You pull away first a giggle escapes your lips, “I figured that much.”

She pecks your lips once more, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Wedding planning wasn’t something you and Agatha were necessarily good at. However, your coven was more than capable of handling the special day. It wasn’t going to be anything extravagant, just a backyard affair with your closest friends.

Rio handled the flowers, Jen and Billy worked on the set up, Alice was preparing the music, and Lilia would be officiating.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you look at yourself in your wedding attire.

The classic white color with accents of purple had you smiling.

“About time any longer and I would’ve stolen her back from you,” Rio approaches you from behind.

“Very funny Vidal,” you say dryly.

She turns you to her straightening out your clothes a bit, and fixing a loose strand of your hair. She smiles at you brightly, “There, now you look a little more ready to marry the love of your life.”

“Thank you, Rio. For all your help,” you get sappy with her.

In classic fashion she rolls her eyes, “Don’t go all soft on me. I just want to see my girls happy. Now get out there and make it official after 300 years.”

You go out first, standing to the right of Lilia as your other friends looked on. You couldn't stop the smile on your face waiting for Agatha to walk down the aisle.

Alice begins playing the classic wedding song. Your posture straightens a bit. When you see Agatha in her dress for the first time it knocks the air out of your lungs.

You don’t fight the tears that spill from your eyes. How could you? She was stunning possibly even more than the day you met her.

When she’s directly in front of you, you reach for her hands and she takes yours.

Lilia properly starts the ceremony and when she gets to the vows you’re prepared, but Agatha wants to go first.

“I never thought that someone like me could be afforded a happy ending. The life I lived is far from innocent and pure. It had been an uphill battle for as long as I could remember. Then you came into my life and did something that I didn’t think was possible. You loved me. Despite all of my… flaws, despite my reputation, despite my stubbornness, you loved me. There’s not a second that goes by that I don’t feel your loved wrapped around me. Something like a warm hug shielding me from a snowstorm. It doesn’t seem like enough, but from you it is. I vow to be that for you until my last breath because for over 300 years you’ve been saving me from freezing me to death."

It takes everything in you to keep from sobbing during her voes, your speech forgotten in your brain. You look into her eyes when it’s your turn, speaking from your heart.

“When I proposed I said I didn’t want to ramble, because if I started, I’d never stop. There’s nothing that I don’t love about you Agatha. I love when you scowl at the kids at the mall, I love when you use magic for mundane things like turning the lights on, I love when you hum to yourself while you work, I love when you yell at me for not wearing my glasses. You say that I’ve been saving you, but love, you’ve been saving my ass since the day we met. You quite literally saved me from those hunters, you took me in when you didn’t have to. When everyone was saying it was against your character. Maybe I saved your from freezing, but you’ve saved me from burning myself into the ground. I don’t have anything new to promise you after over 300 years. All I have is the same thing you’ve had since the beginning; my everything.”

There’s not a dry eye in the audience as you two stand across from each other. Tear streaks running down your faces. Even Lilia has to wipe her eyes.

“If anyone has a reason that these two shouldn’t be married, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Rio slowly pretends to raise her hand before Jen smacks her in the back of the head. It earns a chuckle from the audience, everyone knowing it was a joke. It was needed after such intense vows.

 “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you wife and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”

Neither of you hesitated. Though you had an audience there was no use in trying to hold back the passion. The vows had charged the moment. With rings on your fingers and tears on your face, you melted into each other.

Applause and boisterous cheers rang out when you parted. When you looked into her eyes it’s as if she was the only person there.

“I love you, my gorgeous, powerful, and brilliant wife,” you can’t help but smile while saying it.

Agatha lets out an endearing laugh, “I love you too. My wife, my everything.”

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

naming rights

madney/bucktommy, post 8x15, 1k ao3 link TBA, i got this out in an hour or so and need it to sit for a day before i edit

inspired by all the naming-kids-after-the-dead posting (and this post by @beanarie in particular, for one specific line). as someone named after a dead grandparent myself i think some of y’all are overestimating how heavily it weighs on the soul, but i acknowledge that this shit hits different in fiction.

.

The odd mood doesn’t really register for Buck at first. And even then, once he notices the tension in Maddie’s shoulders, how Chimney’s a beat late to cracking a joke Buck doesn’t get, he credits the mood to Tommy’s presence. This is, after all, the first time he’s brought Tommy to the Buckley-Han household since they agreed to start again, to take this seriously. It annoys him a little, but it’s not like he doesn’t get it. Maddie and Chimney saw him at his lowest, missing Tommy. If they want to hold a bit of a grudge, that’s their business.

And then Chimney blurts out, “Buck, if you want dibs, just say the word.”

Buck blinks, looking down at the plate of cheddar herb biscuits he’s been hovering over. There are five left. It’s not exactly a dibs-worthy scenario. “What?”

Maddie sets a hand on Chimney’s shoulder, letting out a strained little laugh at the defeated look on his face. “We were… talking about names, last week,” she says, “and it occurred to us that there might be a name you would like to… reserve. For future use.”

It hits like a punch to the solar plexus, heart-stopping, the way reminders of Bobby always do. Buck makes himself breathe slow and even, and then the implications of the offer are a follow-up punch to the gut. He gasps, helpless. “Wha—Chim, he died for y—” Chimney winces, and Buck wants to smack himself. Stupid, thoughtless—like he needs that reminder! “W-what I mean is, I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m asking if you want me to anyway.” Chim shrugs, a sad little smile on his face. “Not to brag, but I’ve lost a lot of loved ones in my time, Buck. Plenty of people I could memorialize in a name.” He leans into Maddie’s side, looking fondly at her. “Then again, Jee-Yun’s already named for my mom. Maybe it’s time we honor someone Maddie lost.”

It takes Buck a second. Daniel. Oh, jeez.

For a moment, he thinks about it.

But just for a moment.

Buck shakes his head. “Mom and Dad—”

“—can deal with it,” Maddie insists.

Buck smiles—he’d love to see her say that to their faces—but doubles down. “Do you really want to risk it, though? Another kid they can’t help but treat differently?” He sure doesn’t want to have to see that. Even though they’d be able to tell his nephew why Grandma wants to run away and cry when she says his name, he knows from experience how little difference having an explanation makes.

Maddie winces, and he knows she gets it.

“No,” Buck says, firmer now, “if you guys want to name your kid after Bobby, you should do it. You have my blessing, or whatever.”

The tension drops out of the room so abruptly Buck feels stupid for failing to notice it sooner. Maddie smiles, relieved, and Chimney says a solemn, quiet word of thanks, and he feels like such a heel for considering any other answer for even a second.

“Besides,” Buck jokes, fiddling with a biscuit, “it’s not like I even—I-I mean, who knows if I’ll… if I’ll ever.” He stops, the unfairness of it all strangling his voice, making his heart stall out in his chest.

Because even if he does, someday. Whoever, however, it doesn’t matter—a name is the most substantial thing he can give them of Bobby. And that’s nothing, it’s just a word, a pair of sounds. Two syllables. Compared to everything he should be able to give—!

Tommy gently extracting the crushed biscuit from Buck’s hand snaps him back to reality. “Hey,” he says, just as gently, wrapping his hands around Buck’s.

“Hey. Sorry about—” Buck cuts himself off at the familiar look this gets him. He sighs. “I have nothing to apologize for, I know.”

“Good,” Tommy says. He glances between Maddie and Chimney, stricken, and Buck, surprised by his grief yet again. “Not that anyone asked, but my two cents? I don’t see why anyone needs to declare dibs here.” He squeezes Buck’s hand, a move Buck has come to recognize as a sign of an incoming anecdote that means more to Tommy than he’ll let on.

Buck gives Tommy his full attention.

Tommy averts his eyes.

“Like, my cousin’s wife? Her family is huge, but you can tell which is the firstborn kid in each household because they all have basically the same name. Marianne, Marion, Marvin (middle name Andrew), Marybeth (middle name Ann)… all after their shared grandma, who died twenty years before any of them were born.” Tommy shrugs. “Sure, it gets a little confusing when they’re all in the same place and you’re trying to get one’s attention, but… I don’t know, I think it’s kind of beautiful? That woman was so loved, you can see her impact on a whole generation.”

He meets Buck’s eyes at last, and it’s almost unbearable how earnest Tommy looks as he asks, “Why shouldn’t Bobby get as many namesakes as he has people who love him?”

Buck blinks. Looks at Maddie and Chimney, who barely share half a glance before they’re nodding at him.

Buck smiles, kisses Tommy, wipes tears from the corners of both their eyes with his free hand, and turns back to Maddie and Chimney. “So what were you thinking, Robert Daniel?”

Maddie shakes her head. “I thought about it, but I don’t want Jee-Yun feeling like the odd one out. So I went looking, and there are a couple Korean names that start with Bo…”

As she goes on, listing names and their pros and cons, her husband watching with hearts in his eyes, Buck leans closer to Tommy. “So what name are you considering, then?” he murmurs. “You have something already picked out that goes nicely with Robert?”

Buck doesn’t take his eyes off Maddie, doesn’t let go of either of Tommy’s hands. They’re taking this seriously, now, or at least that’s what they said. If Tommy meant it, if he means it, he can answer this question without flinching.

All the same, Buck’s readied himself for a neutral-at-best reaction.

He’s entirely unprepared for Tommy to immediately respond, “Nah. It’s kinda old-fashioned, but I’ve always liked the name Roberta.” And he hums, a little off-key, the first line of a song that Buck’s heard a dozen times or more, in the background of quiet, comfortable dinners at Tommy’s place.

Buck grins, his heart starting to race.