#and that’s not as interesting as making him bad at things and wondering if he pulls through.

[trashytracktales]

My love….i need some ANGST. Like make me cry….then make me wet 😱😅

IM SORRY ITS BEEN ONR OF THOSE DAYS and your posts always make the day better.

Final call | LN⁴

📞 summary ──── Lando thought that ending things was the right decision. But he never really let go. When one final, desperate call pulls her back into his orbit, old wounds resurface, anger and longing collide, and the lines between love and heartbreak blur.

📞 pairing ──── Lando Norris x (she/her) ex!reader

📞 rating ──── explicit

📞 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, mentions of drinking, Lando struggling with withdrawals from his usual life, drunken texts, heavy angst and arguments, swearing, heartbreak, power struggles between both characters, smut, fingering with teasing and edging, unprotected sex, praise, desperation, overwhelming pleasure leading to emotional vulnerability, begging, multiple orgasms, post-sex tenderness, crying (I need to touch some grass fr fr).

📞 word count ──── 12.8k

📞 date ──── Mar. 30, 2025

📞 a/n ──── Been working on this for over a month now. It feels like a fever dream, I have no words. Enjoy whatever this is and I apologize in advance 🤧

IT IS A random Saturday night during the winter break, and Lando would rather stay home. But he’s spent the last two months buried in the same routine; rinse and repeat. It’s been easier that way, keeping himself too busy to think, and too exhausted to feel anything else.

This time around, his friends have been quite insistent, pushing him to get out of his self-imposed isolation.

“Come on, mate,” said Max, his frustration evident in every word he uttered, even through the speaker, “One night won’t kill you. Everyone is expecting you to be there.”

“Why would they?” asked Lando, not particularly interested in Max’s answer.

“Because I told them you’ll come. Now, don’t make me a liar, and get your athletic physique up. I’ll get to yours in five.”

Lando tried to argue at first, but Max wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, eventually, after what felt like ages of back-and-forth, he caved, mostly out of morbid curiosity.

Now, standing in the dimly lit bar, surrounded by laughter and music, he wonders why he agreed, after all. When he’s not in the mood to party or to be around people in general, everything is suddenly way too loud, too annoying, and nothing satisfies him. The air is thick with a weird combination between spilled liquor and various perfumes, adding to his irritation.

Avoiding to make a scene, Lando shifts awkwardly, nursing a drink, half-listening to whatever story Connor is animatedly telling. He feels bad when he realizes that he hasn’t seen most of his friends since the breakup, but he knows they’ve only been giving him the space he needed, waiting for him to bounce back.

But Lando hasn’t. He’s just gotten better at pretending things are going the right way. Fake it until you make it, or whatever.

“Landooo,” Max says suddenly, nudging him out of his thoughts. “Look who I ran into!”

Lando turns and his eyes lock on her, her alluring presence catching him off guard.

“This is Eva,” Max continues, “An old friend of mine.”

He can’t help but think how effortlessly beautiful she is, all bright eyes and easy smiles, with the kind of confidence that makes people gravitate toward her instinctively.

“Hey,” the girl says, offering him a playful smirk. “I was starting to think you were just a figment of Max’s imagination.”

Lando forces a chuckle. “Yeah, well. I haven’t been… around much.”

Eva tilts her head, taking him in. “That’s a vague answer.”

Max claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “He’s just being mysterious. It’s part of his charm, you’ll see.”

Lando rolls his eyes, but plays along. He knows what Max is doing, but he doesn’t call him out on it.

Because maybe Max is right. Maybe he should try.

And so he does.

He engages in conversation, letting himself slip into the rhythm of it. Eva is funny and easy to talk to. She makes it effortless, steering their interaction in a way that keeps his mind from wandering. As the night progresses, they end up dancing, and hands are suddenly everywhere while the music envelops them like a protective dome.

At some point, he offers to buy her another drink, and she smiles, nodding at Lando’s initiative.

“I’d like that,” she admits, her eyes sparkling under her eyelashes.

They weave through the crowd toward the bar, and as they wait, she leans in a little closer. It’s subtle at first — a touch to his shoulder when she laughs, then her fingers grazing his bicep. Lando notices it, but he doesn’t react. Not until he feels her fingertips brush against his hand. At that, he looks down and sees the way her small hand lingers against his, making his chest tighten.

She’s watching him with anticipation in her expression, waiting for him to do something. Anything. To respond, to take her hand in his, to let this moment be what it’s supposed to be.

Lando closes his eyes for a fraction. Then he pulls his hand away. Eva’s face doesn’t fall, but something shifts in her eyes; the spark goes away, being replaced by something Lando can’t quite decipher. Confusion, perhaps? Understanding, maybe? Pity, for sure.

She nods, taking a step back, putting distance between them. “Right,” her voice is light, but unbothered. “Cheers for the drink, Lando. I should get back to my friends.”

Lando swallows, guilt gnawing at him. “Eva, it’s not that I don’t—”

She stops him with a tiny smile hanging in the corner of her mouth. “Don’t have to explain yourself to me, darling. It was fun meeting you, hope to see you around. Have a nice night.”

And with that, she’s gone.

He watches her disappear into the crowd, debating going after her or scanning the place to find someone else.

Finally, Lando turns back to the bar, giving his head a little shake.

Well, that went well.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go and signals for another. The liquid burns his throat, but it’s still not enough. He needs more, now that he’s alone. Just for tonight.

As Max said, it won’t kill him.

A few minutes later, Lando returns to his people with another drink in hand. He looks much more relaxed, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s still there, somewhere, lost among the lonely nights spent in his apartment, buried under the lies he told his friends just to be left alone.

Max spots him first and frowns, “Mate, where’s Eva?”

Lando shrugs, “I think she didn’t like my bucket hat.”

Max squints in his direction, clearly unimpressed. “You didn’t even try, did you?”

He did, but won’t bother explaining that to Max. It’s not the time nor the place and, taking a slow sip of his new drink, Lando doesn’t answer, ending the conversation there.

HIS PLACE IS drenched in darkness, exactly how he left it, when Lando stumbles in. He kicks off his shoes haphazardly, muttering a curse as one skids across the floor.

So, Max’s plan hadn’t helped; nothing ever does. He had laughed at all the right moments, sipped at overpriced drinks, and told himself he was having fun. But the ride home had been silent, his thoughts crashing against him like a lost boat against the waves in the middle of a storm.

His friend offered to stay over, but didn’t insist when Lando told him he was okay; two months of pretending he was.

Two months of convincing himself he made the right choice, that he needed space to figure out who he was outside of them. He told himself he needed to be alone and focus on his work, because the aftertaste of the last season still lingers. He wants to see his dream manifesting before his eyes, and he knows that comes with a set of sacrifices. He is ready, but how far is he willing to go? What else is he willing to give up?

Because all he’s done in her absence is slowly descending into madness.

With a defeated sigh, Lando collapses onto the couch. His head falls back against the cushions, just as his phone starts buzzing into his pocket. He doesn’t need to check it to know it isn’t her. She hasn’t reached out since the day she walked away, her face crumpling in defeat as she whispered, I can’t keep fighting for something you clearly don’t want.

The memory of her face still haunts him, because he knows now, just as he knew then, that he should have fought harder. He wishes he had at least tried. Although he also knows it wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, because the mental state he was in at the time would’ve made everything worse for both of them.

Without thinking too much of it, his thumb finds her little icon, and before he can stop himself, Lando starts typing.

10:24 PM: Hey, you up?

10:24 PM: Sorry.

10:26 PM: Can we talk?

10:30 PM: You ever think about us?

10:35 PM: Forget I said anything.

10:39 PM: No, actually, don’t. You were everything. You ARE everything.

10:39 PM: I may be a little bit drunk, but I fucking miss you, baby…

10:41 PM: I don’t miss you because I’m drunk BTW. I just miss you.

10:41 PM: All the time.

10:45 PM: Was I ever enough for you? Like, in general… do you think we could’ve made it work?

10:47 PM: God, I hate you for making me question myself like this.

10:58 PM: I don’t hate you. I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you.

11:59 PM: Remember when we went to Lake Como and got lost trying to find that little café? I think about that all the time. It started raining, and we both got sick, then we stayed in bed for a week.

11:08 PM: Are you happy?

11:10 PM: Please, say something.

11:10 PM: I know I ended this, but don’t ignore me.

11:10 PM: Please…

On the other side of the city, she’s sitting across from a man who could be plucked from a brochure for Monaco’s elite. His posture oozes confidence and he’s immaculate, from the tailored suit to his charm that has her smiling politely but distantly. He’s nothing like Lando, and she noticed that from the first date. That’s the reason why she agreed to go out again. And again.

Now, she’s four dates in, and she tries to convince herself she could get used to seeing this man as something more. But it’s not that easy when all he talks about is crypto currency and boats.

Suddenly, her phone starts buzzing, a succession of vibrations that she tries to ignore at first.

Once.

Twice.

Three-four-five-six-seven times.

When it keeps going, she excuses herself to glance at the screen, and her stomach twists as she sees his name. What freaks her out at first is that only now she realizes that she never changed his contact name, and LANDO ♥︎ now occupies both the entire size of her screen and her entire mind.

“Is everything okay?” her date asks, his voice cutting through her haze.

She blinks, confused, “I’m sorry, yeah,” she says, a wave of heat crawling up her chest and neck. “I forgot to put it on silent.”

A deep ache settles in between her lungs as she touches the icon to silent her phone. She wishes she could do that to her brain right now, because all of a sudden, her entire world starts spinning faster.

It’s the first time he’s reached out since he ended things. For her, this is monumental. But she shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even be tempted to read whatever nonsense he keeps typing out. But then another message comes through, begging her not to ignore him, and something about the desperation in the rapid notifications makes her break.

“Excuse me,” the girl says quickly, pushing her chair back as she gets up, ready to head towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

Somehow, she knew the quiet won’t last forever, but she kept hoping that Lando was happy, even without her. She hated him for a few hours after he broke up with her, but all the hatred faded away the next morning, when she woke up in an empty bed, trying her best to understand his decision.

She did, eventually. And she accepted it. More than that, she respected it, because she knew that Lando would do the same for her.

Rage.

She put in so much work, and now it’s all for nothing.

She exhales heavily, gripping the edge of the sink before finally, finally unlocking her phone, not so surprised to see more texts flooding the screen.

11:12 PM: I just wanna talk, I swear.

11:12 PM: Can I call you?

11:12 PM: Just once, please.

11:13 PM: I miss your voice.

Her heart breaks a little, but before she can overthink it, she presses that call button herself, and Lando picks up on the first ring. There’s silence at first. Nothing but his uneven breathing and the faint hum of the muted background noise.

Then, she hears his voice, rough and slightly slurred, “You called.”

She closes her eyes, trying her best to control her trembling hands. “Only to tell you to stop texting me, Lando. I am busy.”

A pause. Then a slow, shaky inhale, followed by Lando’s curiosity, “It’s almost midnight on a Saturday night, how busy are—” he stops himself as if realizing something obvious, his next words dripping in disappointment, “Oh, you’re busy,” he continues, but this time his voice changes to nonchalance. “What am I interrupting?”

She presses her lips in a thin line, bringing her fingers to her temple. “None of—”

“Are you with someone?”

Her throat tightens. “None of your business,” she finally manages to say.

His heavy breath crackles through the speaker. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t deny it. Just exhales slowly, wishing she would disintegrate into thin air before the conversation gets to an end.

To break her silence, Lando makes a noise, something caught between a bitter laugh and a sigh. “How boring is he? Be honest.”

The girl blinks, letting out a dry laugh. “Excuse me?”

“The guy you’re with,” says Lando, “How boring is he? Does he talk about taxes and golf? I bet he fucking sucks at golf.”

“Lando, how drunk—”

“Does he make you laugh?” his voice drops, softer now, but unsure. “Like I used to? God, I miss your laugh.”

She grips the sink tighter, warning him, “Stop that.”

Silence.

Then, in true Lando fashion, he blurts out something completely ridiculous, “And I miss you.”

Her stomach flips. Painfully.

He shouldn’t have this right. He broke up with her. He was the one who argued in detail why they should break up and stay that way. Him. But hearing his voice again, after all this time, she realizes how easy it is to fall back into it. Into everything they had.

“I do,” Lando insists, “I really fucking miss you, baby. Do you miss me?”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

Yes.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to break. “No,” she ends up saying.

“No,” he echoes. And for once, he sounds completely sober.

She swallows hard, forcing her voice to stay steady as she repeats, “I am busy. Goodbye, Lando.”

And before he can say anything else, before she lets herself feel too much and tell him the truth, she hangs up. With a heavy heart, she presses the phone against her chest, eyes shut, trying to breathe through the emotions crashing over her.

Breaking up with someone when you still love them is like throwing yourself into a bottomless pit. You don’t know when or if the fall will ever end, you have no idea whether or not you’ll be alone on the other side if it does end, and you certainly don’t know if you’ll make it there alive. They had their problems, of course. Everybody does. But for the first time in their relationship, Lando’s goals didn’t include her, and she had to make peace with it.

Inhaling deeply, she looks back at her reflection then she steels herself, smoothing her dress, and wiping at the corners of her eyes.

THE SECOND SHE hangs up, her words brand themselves into his brain, and for a while, he’s terrified that he’ll go mad, because they won’t stop replaying in his head like a broken record.

Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando.

Goodbye.

The finality of it slams into him, sucking the air from his lungs, and all the light from his eyes.

He can’t do anything but stand there, phone still pressed to his ear, as if maybe she’ll change her mind and call back. As if this is just a silly test, some cruel joke played by the universe to see how much more he can take before he completely breaks.

To his horror, the line stays dead, and the realization settles in too quickly for him to process, a dull ache spreading through his chest like poison ivy.

She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t soften, didn’t give him anything to hold onto. And maybe it’s better this way, but how easy is it to close the door on someone like that?

For the past two months, he told himself that if he ever needed her — really needed her — she’d be there for him. Because he knows her, and he knows that no matter how much time passed, no matter how many miles stretched between them, she’d still be his person.

But now, the truth is staring Lando in the face. And it looks like him. She’s gone for good, and he has no one to blame but himself.

His jaw clenches, his hold tightening around the phone so hard he might break it. The room feels too big, too empty, too goddamn quiet to the point it gets too much. With an angry exhale, Lando hurls his phone across the room, watching it smashing against the wall before clattering to the floor, the sound slicing through his ears like a gunshot.

With a deep sigh, he drags his hands down his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he can claw the frustration out of his body.

What did you expect? he asks himself. Then, he laughs. A dry laugh, deprived of real amusement.

At that time, space was what he needed, but she was never something Lando needed to escape. She was his anchor. His safe place. And now, she’s out with some other guy, probably smiling in that adorable way she does when she’s trying to be polite but isn’t actually interested.

Or maybe she is interested. Maybe she is moving on.

The thought nearly guts him.

Pushed by fear from behind, Lando forces himself to move, pacing the the living room while he runs a hand through his hair, irritation simmering beneath his skin like an annoying itch he can’t scratch. His heart is racing, thoughts spiraling faster than he can control. The only time he felt like this before was when his car slipped from his grasp back in 2021 at Spa. He knew he had to brace for impact, and knew his time was limited to do so. The difference now is that he can’t even brace himself, because the impact already took him by surprise.

This can’t be it.

After a moment, he crosses the room and picks up his phone. It has a little crack across the screen, but it’s still functional and, in his foolishness, he takes it as a sign to start typing again.

11:59 PM: Fuck your goodbye. You’re really just going to pretend like I don’t exist?

11:59 PM: After everything?

12:01 AM: Such a fucking liar.

12:01 AM: You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything. That you don’t miss me at all.

12:04 AM: I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, alright? But I swear to god, I never stopped caring about you.

12:04 AM: Not for a second.

12:07 AM: It’s so stupid, but tell me to move on, and I will.

12:08 AM: Tell me you don’t love me anymore, and I’ll leave you alone.

12:48 AM: Please, don’t leave me like this…

12:48 AM: We can find a way, I know we can.

12:53 AM: No one will ever know you like I do, you know that, right?

12:53 AM: He doesn’t know how you hum when you’re nervous or how you always steal the blanket in your sleep, does he?

01:23 AM: Got it.

01:23 AM: If you ever meant what we promised, just know that this is my final call.

The moment he sends the last text, Lando knows he’s got only one chance to make it right. And maybe he took it too far this time, but he’s also at peace, knowing he did everything he could to catch her attention.

Their worst fight ever, before breaking up, nearly ended them right there and then. They were on the verge of walking away, but when all the anger settled and the silence stretched between them, they both realized neither wanted to lose the other. So, they needed a way to say it. A final chance to make things right.

A final call.

A desperate ‘I need you’. No games, no pretending. If one of them said it, the other showed up, no questions asked.

But the seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes turn into his darkest hour.

HER KNUCKLES ALMOST leave marks against Lando’s door from how aggressively she’s knocking. She is relentless, angry, and insistent, like she wants to break through it at all costs.

Behind the door, Lando frowns, pushing himself off the couch where he’d been slumped, after the realization hit him. But when he swings it open, his heart nearly flatlines.

She’s standing there, chest heaving and eyes wild with fury, with her tears still fresh on her face. Before he can say a word, she pushes him hard, forcing him a step back as she storms inside. The door slams shut behind her, the sound ringing through the silence of his empty apartment.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Lando?” her voice cracks, her chin trembling under the weight of her furious words. “Are you actually serious?”

Lando barely has time to react before she shoves him again, her palms pressing into his chest with all the force her adrenaline generates.

He stumbles back, blinking at her in shock.

“You’re such a coward!” she yells, “This is so unfair, you know?” her voice wavers, but her anger doesn’t falter. “You have no right to do this to me. None.”

Lando swallows hard, his mind scrambling to catch up. But too much is happening too quickly, and he doesn’t get the chance, before she interrupts him right when he’s about to speak.

“No. You’ve said enough, now I’m talking,” her breath is ragged while pointing a finger at her chest, her whole body shaking with rage as she glares up at him. “You don’t get to pull me in just to push me away. Again and again. You don’t get to decide when you love me and when you need space. And you sure as hell don’t get to use your last call just to make me drop everything for you. Because of course I will, and you know it!” she says, laughing at herself in disbelief. “That’s so fucking selfish, especially when I know you don’t even mean it, and you’re just too fucking pressed that I’m moving on without you.”

His stomach twists. “I do mean it.”

“Oh, really? Then why do you do this?” she asks, her voice breaking as she shoves him again, weaker this time. “Why? One second, you’re in love with me, and the next, you want to be left alone. And now you’re dragging me back in like I don’t have a choice, like I don’t have a life outside of you.”

Lando flinches, guilt settling deep in his bones. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You don’t know what you want,” she accuses, her voice trembling in frustration. “Because if you did, you’d know how ridiculous you’re being right now. You can’t do this to people who love you, Lando. You can’t just… fuck with my peace like this just because you’ve had a rough night. I’ve had plenty of those myself!” she loses it, turning around only to take a break from seeing his face.

Her words hit Lando like a freight train, but she doesn’t even realize what she’s just said. She’s too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions, too exhausted from holding herself together. But Lando heard her loud and clear: she still loves him.

He takes a step toward her, thinking that she’s done with pushing, but when she suddenly turns around, she starts hitting his chest again, enough to pour out all the anger, all the irritation, and all the heartbreak she’s been carrying like rocks in her pockets.

Lando just stands there, letting her, because he knows he deserves it.

Finally, she lets out a shaky breath, her hands falling limply against him. Her forehead presses into his chest as the fight drains from her completely, and a sob wracks through her. Instinctively, Lando’s arms move on their own, pulling her into his tight embrace.

He wraps himself around her, his grip firm but careful, like she might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. Her tears soak into his shirt, and for the first time in months, the floor stopped moving under his feet, and Lando can breathe again.

They stay like that for a long time. No more words. No more yelling. Just the sound of their breathing, and their hearts beating in sync. Lando’s hand is gently moving up and down her back, and she hates how safe she feels with his scent enveloping her from every direction.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually, she sniffles and pulls away just enough to wipe her cheeks.

Her fingers brush lightly against his damp shirt, letting out out a humorless laugh. “I probably ruined your stupid shirt. There’s make-up all over. Sorry.”

Lando shakes his head, his hands still resting on her waist. “That’s okay.”

She scoffs, stepping back to free herself from his embrace. Next time she looks up at him, her eyes are still glassy, but there’s something softer in them now. Then, quietly, she says, “He was boring, by the way.”

She walks past him without another word, heading straight for the couch, just like she did a thousand times before.

Lando turns to follow her, his mind slowly starting to catch up.

She’s here.

She came.

He hesitates for a moment before he enters her personal space again, watching as she sinks into the couch, exhaling silently as if she’s trying to steady herself. She rubs the mascara smudges beneath her eyes, and the sight twists something deep in his chest, realizing that he did this to her. Again. And he hates it. Hates knowing that he’s the reason she looks so lost, with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Hates that she showed up at his door furious, but now she just looks tired. Most likely of him. Of their situation. Of running in circles that he’s designing with the sole purpose of torturing her.

Still, as Lando lowers himself onto the couch beside her, a strange sense of normalcy settles over him. They’ve sat like this countless times before, curled up together watching movies, falling asleep tangled in each other, making love, and sharing lazy conversations over takeout. He can still picture her lying here in one of his hoodies, laughing at some stupid joke he made, eyes bright and full of adoration. But tonight, the space between them is foreign, like a chasm neither of them knows how to cross.

He exhales, raking a hand through his curls. At least, her words sobered him up, his thoughts clearer than they’ve been in months.

“I met someone tonight,” Lando’s voice cuts through the silence.

Her heart drops in her stomach, but she turns her head to look at him. Her expression is unreadable, however, Lando can see the way her fingers tighten on her thighs, like she’s bracing herself.

He swallows. “If you need a reason why, this is it. Max introduced me to her,” his tone is quieter now, a bit uncertain. “I think he was trying to… I don’t know. Set me up, maybe.”

She nods once, a short, clipped motion. “And?”

“I tried,” he admits. “I really did. She was nice. We had a few drinks together.” Lando huffs out something that’s almost a laugh but lacks any real amusement. “I even thought that maybe it could work out. I hoped it would work out.”

She doesn’t say anything, but looks at him with empty eyes and dry lips.

Lando sighs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “But then she tried to hold my hand and…”

A beat of silence.

Another deep sigh.

He lifts his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye before continuing, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend,” he adds, voice faint, like the confession is physically weighing on him. “It felt so wrong.”

She turns her face away, staring at the opposite wall, her jaw clenched. She understands him, of course she does. Because that’s exactly what she was doing before her phone was flooded with his texts — pretending. Faking it. Settling for something that, deep down, was so utterly wrong.

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He watches her profile, trying his best to understand what’s going on inside her head, what she’s thinking, and if she’s warring with her own heart, just like he did for the past two months.

Finally, Lando leans back against the couch. His fingers drum restlessly against his knee when he starts speaking again, “Do you like him?”

She stiffens. “What?”

“The guy you were with tonight,” he says, studying her closely. “Do you like him?”

The girl rolls her eyes, pressing her lips together. “You are so incredibly stupid, Lando.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I still want to hear you saying it.”

She hesitates, “I don’t know. He’s nice.”

It’s Lando’s turn to roll his eyes now, “Nice.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Yeah, nice. Like the girl you met? What is wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. But when she keeps staring, he forces himself to continue, picking at the lint on his pants, only to avoid her piercing eyes. “It’s just… you never went for nice.”

Her expression flickers between annoyance and something else he can’t quite name.

“You don’t know me like that anymore,” she warns him.

Lando lets out a quiet breath, “People don’t change that easily,” he says it like he talks from experience. “I’d still be able to recognize you blindfolded.”

His words almost knock the wind out of her. She tilts her chin up, trying to hold onto her anger, but it’s slipping through her fingers like sand. Especially when he speaks so soflty, no bitter trace behind his voice. It’s just a fact.

“I don’t know about that,” she whispers.

“I do,” he says, getting closer to her side of the couch.

She takes a breath in, exhaling slowly. “You walked away, Lando. It was your choice. What changed?”

Instead of looking back at her, Lando’s picking now at the skin of his thumb with his nail, until he feels the blood under his fingertip. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“For who exactly?”

His chest tightens. “It was for you too,” he says in a defensive tone. “I couldn’t be what you needed. It took me years to finally be competitive, and I barely had time to breathe outside work, let alone be someone you could rely on. There was so much noise around me, I just couldn’t put you in second.”

She shakes her head, her expression caught between irritation and heartbreak. “You didn’t have to change anything for my comfort. I know what racing means to you. Knowing you were there was enough for me.”

He swallows, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs. “Not enough. I didn’t want to drag you down.”

Her lips part, a flash of disbelief crossing her face. “Do you even hear yourself?” she gestures wildly, “You were never dragging me down. I was so happy for you, Lando. Still am,” she blinks rapidly, trying to push down the emotion rising in her throat. “But you decided I was an inconvenience.”

Lando closes his eyes briefly, his fingers curling into fists. He knows she’s right. He knows. But back then, he had convinced himself that letting her go was the only way to keep her from ending up hating him. Now, she’s standing next to him, looking at him like she doesn’t know whether she wants to scream or sob.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he can say. And then, “I just... missed you.”

Out of instinct, she makes herself smaller on the couch, raising her knees to her chest.

“I tried to act like I didn’t, but I was miserable,” Lando adds, “Everywhere I went, I was looking for you. Waiting for you.”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head again. “Spare me, won’t you?”

“I’m not saying this to change your mind,” he defends himself quickly. “I just need you to know. Because it was eating me alive.”

Her arms loosen around herself, her posture softening just a fraction. “Do you think I wasn’t miserable too?” her voice cracks on the last word. “You said I was pretending you didn’t exist. Do you really think I just walked away and simply forgot about you?”

Lando stares at her, taking in the way her lower lip trembles, the way her eyes are shining with new, unshed tears.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Stupid, stupid,” she repeats.

She’s still mad at him. But she aches to be closer, to touch him, to bury her face in his chest and just breathe him in. Just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend that everything is okay again.

Cautious, Lando lifts a hand like he’s giving her time to pull away. But when she doesn’t, his fingers brush against her hair, gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch is light, barely there, but it still gives her chills. Then, without thinking too much of it, she leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

A tear slips down her cheek, and before she can wipe it away, Lando’s thumb does.

“I’m sorry.”

She lets out a quiet sob, and that’s all it takes for Lando to pull her into his arms without hesitation. She melts against him, fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, pressing her face back against his chest as she lets more tears out.

Lando buries his face in her hair, whispering all over again, as if that will make her believe him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears are threatening his eyes too, but he closes them before they can escape.

He feels the warmth of her breath against his collarbone and, once again, he’s terrified. He would rather her push him away, rather her scream at him, tell him she hates him, hurt him back. Because all this silence is unbearable. It swallows him whole, and tells him everything he’s too afraid to admit: that he drained her, emptied her out until there was nothing left to give.

He’s about to apologize again, but then he feels it in the way her fingers, still curled into the fabric of his shirt, twitch slightly, and the weight of her head is pressing deeper into his chest — she fell asleep. As soon as things went quiet, she slipped under, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the time of night and everything to do with him.

A lump forms in his throat as he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. He shifts carefully, moving just enough to lean back fully, making sure she’s as comfortable as possible. But unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come easy for him.

HER PALM RESTS against his cheek, the heat of his skin seeping into hers. Every exhale of hers tickles his jaw, and it feels like muscle memory, the way her body molds into his, the way he instinctively holds onto her even in sleep.

Lando doesn’t stir. He never does. He’s always been the type to sleep through anything — alarms, thunderstorms, and morning light flooding the room. Even now, he’s dead to the world, his lips slightly parted, his arm wrapped lazily around her waist.

But his phone vibrates on the coffee table, and that’s what wakes her up, the sound cutting through the stillness. She barely registers it at first, burying her face against his chest, but when it buzzes again and again, she groans softly.

Disoriented, her breath deepens as she takes in her surroundings: the familiar scent, the heavy weight of Lando’s arm, the warmth of his body against hers. And then, all of it crashes down on her. Last night. Every whispered apology, every push, every tear, every way she let herself slip back into him like she never left.

Suddenly, a wave of panic wakes her up for good and, covering her mouth with a trembling hand, she tries to muffle the sob that threatens to escape. She can’t cry again; she’s way too exhausted for that. But her body betrays her, stiffening next to him as his weight becomes suffocating.

Luckily, the continuous buzzing takes her out of it and, reluctantly, she finally reaches for Lando’s phone. The screen lights up with a crack across it, and lots of notifications. It’s 1:04 PM, and a text from an unsaved number catches her attention first:

Hey, Lando ;) This is Eva. Max gave me your number, said you weren’t feeling well last night. I’d like to see you again tonight if...

The rest of the message is cut off by the lock screen, so she lets the phone drop back against the glass of the table, swallowing past the tightness in her throat and slowly turns onto her side, facing him. Lando looks so peaceful like this. His curls are messy, his face slack with sleep, no frown decorating the smooth skin of his forehead. His eyebrows are a little fuzzy, so she gently styles them back into shape with her thumb.

She missed their lazy mornings more than anything. The way the concept of time never seemed to exist when they were wrapped up in each other, away from anything that could potentially come in between them.

Her hand is still weak as she presses her palm to Lando’s chest. His heartbeat thrums beneath her fingertips, steady, warm, alive. That’s why she came here in the first place: for him. And in the clear daylight, she realizes that the familiarity between them can’t be reversed. Last night was a lot, but she can’t let herself fall into it again, no matter how badly her body wants to stay curled into him.

She brings the same palm to her chest then, trying to put some distance, but Lando stirs instinctively. His arm pulls at her waist, his fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress, unwilling to let her go even in the hazy blur of waking up.

His body recognizes hers before his mind does; the warmth, the normalcy of having her there. Then, reality creeps in, dragging him back into consciousness. And with it comes the dull ache pressing against the inside of his skull, the dryness in his throat, the remnants of last night staining his entire body with exhaustion, guilt, and shame.

“I feel like shit,” he speaks against her shoulder, voice raspy from sleep. His head is pounding, his stomach unsettled, but her scent is the only thing guiding him to something steady. He breathes it in, eyes still closed, and continues, “I need a greasy burger for breakfast.”

“It’s past one,” she says quietly.

Lando groans, rolling onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes. He can feel her presence, but even though her body is so close to his, he starts to feel the tension. The distance. He realizes it the second she moves again, getting in a sitting position, ready to leave the bed. Leave him.

Lando’s eyes snap open, desperate to catch a glimpse of her, even as the sunlight nearly blinds him. Her hair is messy, hands resting against her lap. Her dress is all wrinckled and drapes over her frame, making her look small in a way that destroys him. Like she doesn’t belong to this moment, like she’s already halfway out the door.

“I should go,” she says the words that he was so afraid of, and it feels like a knife to his ribs.

“You should stay,” he insists. “We can get something to eat, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

She presses a palm against her forehead, realizing the gravity of the situation. Giving him false hope won’t help anyone.

“No, thank you. Falling asleep was already bad enough.”

Lando clears his throat before speaking again, slightly unsure, “Was it, though?” he asks and, in return, she shoots him a warning look. “I know, I’m sorry.”

However, she’s no longer angry with him. She exhausted the last of her strength last night, and now all that’s left is the bitter taste of what could have been.

“Is that the only thing you’ll say now?”

He licks his lips, throat still dry as if he drank sand. “Yes. Until you forgive me.”

It was meant to be lighthearted, a little joke, and a weak attempt at softening the weight pressing down on both of them. Based on past experiences, she always forgave him. So why should now be any different, right? But when she doesn’t react, when the silence only thickens, he realizes how fucking stupid that was.

She blinks once, twice. Her gaze flickers away, “Your final call,” she says quietly, “Did you do it because of that girl? You got scared because you liked her more than you thought you could?”

Lando’s heart stalls for a second, caught off guard by her inquire. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I mean, I was scared. But not of her,” he stops, thinking of it. The frown comes back, and it looks like the thought gives him a headache. “I was scared of falling back into something I couldn’t fix. Still am. You and me… we’re not easy, you know?” he lets out a small, bitter laugh, almost self-deprecating. “We’ve never been easy. And I’m just so tired of fucking things up.”

She doesn’t think much about her actions lately. She wasn’t thinking last night when she left her date in a rush, and she certainly isn’t thinking now, as she turns her body to face him.

“I don’t understand you anymore, Lando. The only thing I do understand is that you pushed me away just so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. Because you couldn’t handle me, is that right?”

Lando winces. The weight of her words hit him harder than any punch. “No, it’s not right. I just didn’t know how to fix… me,” he says it for the first time out loud, his voice breaking on the last part; surprisingly, it’s not making him as uncomfortable as he thought it would. “I didn’t want to lose you. Not like that.”

She scoffs, “And now what? You think one drunken night is enough to put you on the right track? You think you know what you want just because you’re afraid of losing something that’s no longer yours anyway?” the girl asks, watching as his facial expression changing in pain. “I’m sorry, Lando. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I need answers.”

His voice is barely a whisper as he replies, “The only answer I can give you is that I didn’t know how to be what you needed at the time. Is that so hard to believe?”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away. “It is,” she agrees, “Because you never asked me what I needed. Not once. You just did what was best for you. And now…,” her voice trails off before moving her eyes on a random point on the floor, “You’re not showing me anything. You can say that all you want, but how do I know you won’t push me away again? I need to know you’re here, that you’re really here.”

Lando reaches for her then, almost instinctively, his hands determined as he cups her face. “I am here,” he whispers, leaning in, his breath shaky against her skin. “You’re just too stubborn to let me back in. And I get why,” he rushes to say as he feels her tensing under his touch. “But, please. Let me fix us. Please.”

Neither of them speak for a while after that. She’s so close to him now, she can hear both of their heartbeats, the weight of every single second hanging between them like lead from a strand of hair.

She is hesitant, but she pulls him in first, her lips barely brushing over his. Even though it’s a featherlight touch, her close proximity ignites something highly flammable in Lando. He stills, his breath caught in his throat, his hands curling into fists as if holding himself back, too afraid to take it any further too fast.

Just as he leans in, just as he starts to close the little gap, slowly, she pulls away. The loss of her, even for a second, makes his patience snap and, without giving her the chance to build another wall between them, he reaches out, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her back to him, this time with purpose.

She doesn’t resist — can’t, really.

His forehead presses against hers and neither of them move, trapped in the space between knowing and doing. His grip tightens against her jaw, thumb stroking over the edge of her cheek, his breath hot against her parted lips. The weight of everything that’s been left unsaid lingers in the air, and it’s suffocating. She exhales shakily, closing her eyes for a moment, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, feeling the way it pounds beneath her touch. And then, as if her body betrays every ounce of hesitation in her mind, she fists his shirt and pulls him back against her.

They crash together, and the world tilts within a second.

Their lips meet in a clash of want and desperation that knows no border of sanity. His hands are suddenly everywhere, cradling her face, threading through her hair, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. She presses into him, her nails scraping against the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him like she’s afraid he’ll slip away any minute. Like he’s going to change his mind again, and tell her to leave, because he needs to be alone.

But he won’t. He never will again. The taste of her floods his senses, familiar and intoxicating, making his body buzz with excitement as he deepens the kiss. He breathes her in, trying to make up for every second he’s spent without her.

She wants him, and she’s aware that things could go exponentially wrong after this, but she’s already broke the rules the moment she crossed his threshold last night. She shifts against him, pressing closer, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest. He stirs slightly, humming, his arms automatically locking around her, helping her sit on his lap.

Her lips brush against his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat. She’s barely even touching him, but she knows he feels it, because she hears the way his breathing stutters, the slight twitch of his fingers against her hip. She smiles, shifting again, innocent, except not at all, because her thigh suddenly drags over his, pressing just enough to feel the growing heat between them.

Lando lets out a sleepy grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “What the hell are you doing?” his aroused voice is exactly how she remembers, rough and deep, and able to send shivers down her spine.

She hums, pressing another kiss to his collarbone. “Nothing.”

Lando chuckles, his hand sliding to grab her waist, fingers lazy but firm. “No, I think you’re doing something.”

And, whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause to think.

She lets out a dry laugh, edged with sadness and a hint of accusation, “Always making me ache, aren’t you?” she asks, pressing her lips against his ear, while positioning herself above him, helping Lando get rid of his shirt. Soon enough, her fingers are dragging down his stomach, nails grazing lightly at his abs. “It’s like it turns you on to see me in pain, isn’t it?” the girl sighs, brushing her hips against his in a way that makes him curse under his breath.

His fingers dig more into her waist, his patience thinning by the second. “You know that’s not true,” his voice sounds so angelic, that she actually believes him for a second because of it. “I’m sorry you can’t trust me anymore. But there’s nothing I hate more than to see you hurting because of me.”

She nods, giving him the impression that his words have the power to make her weak. In reality, she’s just curious to find out how sorry he really is.

“You’ve said that about a hundred times already,” the girl reminds him, “How bad, though?” she tries to push the limits, mostly to see if there are any, the words slipping from her lips like something delicate and filthy all at once. “Bad enough that you’ll drunk text me again? To see if I come running to you? Again? To say you’re sorry a hundred more times, hoping I’ll let you fuck me in whatever position you want, for as long as you want just because I feel for your sorry ass?”

His nostrils flare as he exhales in disapproval, “Stop that shit.”

“Why?” her voice sounds overly seductive, but somehow, he knows it’s just a trap. “Isn’t sex your answer to everything?”

There you go.

Lando’s jaw tenses as the words continue to leave her mouth, unforgiving, each one winding around his self-control like a vice. His fingers twitch on her waist, the weight of her straddling him making it impossible to think straight. She knows exactly what she’s doing, pushing, teasing and testing the waters of his restraint.

And fuck, it’s working.

Her dress has ridden up her thighs higher, exposing smooth, warm skin that begs to be touched, and his hands find their way there without permission, fingertips pressing into her like he wants to make sure he’s not just dreaming, and she’s actually there.

“Not trying to fuck my way back to you, if that’s what you mean,” Lando disagrees just as he lets his fingers drift higher, watching the way her breath becomes more uneven. “But won’t back down if it works, either. So what does that say about you? That we’re just the same?”

She puffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. Just a lot of tension, coiled so tight between them that something is bound to snap. Soon.

“We’re so not,” she argues, tilting her head slightly, her lips so close to his that he can taste her breath. “I actually have the balls to stay when things get tough.”

Her unfiltered comment it’s all it takes.

Lando moves in a blur, gripping her hips and flipping them over in one swift motion, pressing her into the couch as a surprised gasp leaves her lips. He hovers over her, his body fitting perfectly between her open thighs, hands braced on either side of her head. The sudden shift has her looking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, and chest heaving in anticipation.

In this position, Lando looks at her like he’s trying to figure out what to do to her, aware that the changing in dynamics favors him. His hands find the hem of her dress, fingertips teasing the edge as he watches her reaction, giving her a chance to stop him — or to take back her words, whichever comes first. But she does neither. Instead, she lifts her hips, a silent plea, and that’s all the permission that Lando needs.

He peels the fabric up, savoring the way her body is revealed inch by inch. His mouth finds the newly exposed skin along her ribs with the speed of a man starved, trailing open-mouthed kisses up her torso, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. Lando can feel her shiver beneath him, her fingers tangling into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a string of sweet noises out of him.

“I won’t be able to stop if we—” he murmurs against her skin, a last sliver of hesitation buried underneath all the want.

She cuts him off by cupping his jaw, guiding his face up so he has no choice but to look at her. “I won’t ask you to,” she assures him, lifting her hips up once more to meet his, feeling how hard he is against her. The contact is like a drug she’s been deprived of for too long, and now that she has access to him again, her mouth starts moving before wiring to the rational side of her brain, “I wanna do laundry together later.”

Despite what he’s just said, Lando does stop, watching her intently. Because he knows that she means more than just laundry. For starters, it means she’s staying. It means she’s letting him try. It means the weight in his chest that’s been suffocating him for weeks finally lifts, replaced by something warm yet fragile, something he doesn’t dare break this time.

He has to swallow past the ache before pressing himself against her, letting her scent wrap around him like the most familiar kind of comfort.

“Yeah?” he finally whispers, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever weak truce they’ve found between them.

She nods, a real smile appearing on her face, the first one in months, “Yeah,” she parrots, which urges Lando to plant another kiss on her lips, lazier this time. And she welcomes him.

Gradually, his grip consolidates around her, his teeth catching her bottom lip, and suddenly, the slow morning is anything but. Now he’s wired, wide awake, and so fucking hard.

Her hands work fast, pushing at the waistband of his pants with an urgency that makes Lando’s pulse hammer in his throat. He moves enough to help her, and then the fabric is gone, pooling somewhere on the floor, next to her dress and panties.

The feeling of skin on skin has the power to set him on fire, every inch of him hypersensitive as she drags her fingers down his stomach, nails scratching lightly against the ridges of muscle before wrapping around him for just a second, only to say hi. His breath catches, head tipping forward before he forces himself to look down at her.

“You’re a menace,” Lando points out. His voice is thick with desire as he rolls his hips against her once her hands move around his neck, dragging his length along the soft skin of her inner thigh, brushing lightly where she needs him most. He feels her shiver, her nails digging into his back for a fraction of a second before she exhales a breathy laugh.

“I had to adapt,” she says, her voice saccharine, but teasing, fingers biting into his shoulder blades.

“I can see that,” his tone is rough, but there’s something playful underneath it. He continues to move, this time with more intention, the tip of his cock catching against her slick heat.

She bites her lip, her free hand reaching up to pull him down on her and crash their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, too desperate to be anything but raw. He groans into her mouth, their breaths blending together, and she takes the moment to wrap her legs around his waist, locking him against her completely, the heat ever-growing.

The easiest thing in the world for Lando is to get lost in her warmth, her scent and the way his skin vibrates with every touch of her delicate palm.

The hardest thing in the world for Lando is to stop when every nerve in his body screams for more, just to make sure she wants this as much as he does, even though it risks snapping her back to reason, forcing her to push him away all over again.

“If you don’t—”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

With that, his hand is already in motion, dragging down her stomach, pushing between her thighs. He finds her soaked, warm, and slick against his fingertips, and it makes him want to howl, knowing that he still has the same effect on her; if anything, the time spent apart only made her miss his touch more.

“Shit,” he slurs, pressing two fingers against her clit, moving them in torturous circles. “Missed seeing you this needy in the morning.”

She hums, thighs twitching. “Techincally, it’s not morning anymore.”

Lando shakes his head in disbelief, “That smart mouth,” his fingers slip lower, teasing at her entrance but never pushing in, just pressing there, feeling the way she opens up for him.

For a moment, his fingers stay right there to tease her, barely giving what she wants, what she’s silently begging for with the way her hips roll forward. Agonizingly slow, he pushes in, finding her so ready for him and so fucking tight, that Lando swears he could lose his mind just from feeling her in his hands.

The girl huffs out a breath, her frustration evident as she glares up at him, “Lando.”

“Yes, love?” he uses his fingers to press further just a little more, but never enough, feeling her walls hugging him impatiently.

She bites her lip, a flush creeping down her neck, and he knows she hates the way he’s making her ask for it.

Her voice is sharper next time she speaks, “You win. Now stop being a dick.”

Lando smirks, dipping down to press a kiss to her shoulder, dragging his teeth along her skin before pulling back to look at her. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, fingers curling lightly inside her pussy, enough to make her whimper. “I kinda like seeing you like this.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but it’s ruined by the way she starts panting when he finally, finally, glides his fingers in and out, her body agreeing with everything he has to offer. His thumb presses against her clit, rubbing her wetness against it as he watches her fall apart, her hands clinging onto him for support.

“Fuck,” she cries, head tipping back, and Lando swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Yeah, fuck,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth, and then her jaw. Her back arches instantly, a moan spilling from her lips as her nails dig into his arms, while he’s going faster, agonizingly so, dragging his fingers in and out, feeling how her body fights to keep him in. “This what you needed?”

She quickly turns her head from side to side, fingernails scratching along the skin his shoulders. “More,” she whispers, already out of breath. “Wanna feel you.”

Lando pulls his fingers out, watching the way her slick clings to them in the rich color of the afternoon light. He blows out the breath of air he was holding, trapping her thighs in his grasp as he lines himself up, the tip of his cock dragging through the wetness pooling between her legs.

“Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what you get, baby. Wanna see you drip on it,” he muses, pressing just barely inside before pulling back out, coating himself in her slick. “See how much you missed me.”

She whines, hips jerking up.

The grin on Lando’s face widens. “There you go, you beauty.”

She meets his eyes, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from his kisses. Seeing her like that, squirming under him, throws Lando into a spiral. For now, he has no idea where this moment will take them. All he knows is that he wants to make the most of it, to memorize her body lines and the sound of her moans, because once the haze fades and clarity takes its place, anything is possible.

And that terrifies him.

Sinking into her feels like homecoming, and the sweet stretch is making both of them whine in unison, cling onto each other. He swears under his breath as her walls constrict around his length, her mouth falling open in a breathy gasp.

“Holy shit.”

She’s so full of him, just like she wanted, the feeling even better than she remembers.

Lando presses a kiss to her jaw, his hands holding her waist tight enough to leave faint marks behind. “Not letting you go ever again,” he says with his lips glued to her skin like he’s in a trance, voice strained as he fights to keep control of his own body.

She nods, barely able to realize what’s she agreeing on, mind buzzing with thoughts of him, him, only him. “Promise?”

Lando sighs, pulling out slowly, almost all the way before sinking back in. The sound alone — that lazy, wet, messy drag of his cock leaving her, again and again — enough to turn him into a savage man. He watches, entranced, as the evidence of how much she wants him spills down her slit, glistening and painting her inner thighs.

In answer to her plea, Lando links his pinky finger with hers, his hand covering hers entirely. “Promise you, baby. You’re fucking unreal,” he rasps.

Waiting for her was pure torture, but the thought that this can be over before it even properly begins, forces him to still inside her then pull out entirely, his cock, flushed and soaked, resting against her thigh, leaving more of their mess behind. He grips the base, stroking himself once, careful, watching as her empty cunt clenches in his absence, her body desperate to be filled again.

“I’m so glad I got drunk,” says Lando, tracing his fingertips through the wetness between her legs. He presses a long finger back inside her, for his own pleasure, only to feel how impatient she is.

She cries out, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching off the couch. “Yeah, me too,” she blinks up to him, her sincerity spurring Lando on.

He adds another finger as a reward, fucking into her deeper, his other hand stroking his cock in time with her gasps.

“We were always gonna end up here, weren’t we?” asks Lando, his hand working her faster now, watching as she writhes beneath him.

She lets out a choked moan, but can’t answer, too busy rolling her hips against his movements.

“Me, apologizing,” Lando continues, sounding so out of breath, “While you moan my name. Like always, is that right?”

“Lan,” she warns.

“Juuust like that. Look at you,” he chuckles, watching the way her body responds, getting covered in a sweaty layer of goosebumps, and the way her thighs tremble. “As desperate as ever.”

She whimpers, pushing up onto her elbows, dazed and itching to see what he’s doing to her. And the sight makes her pulse race: Lando between her legs, his fingers moving inside her, fucking her with a contrasting gentle force, while his other hand works over his cock, slick and hard, ready to stretch her all over again.

His eyes flick up to hers, dark and hungry, lips parted as he watches her descending into despair, slowly but surely. He drags his fingers out, just to press them back in, firmly, watching her body tense, making her whine louder.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he praises, voice subdued and teasing. “Feel it,” his strokes on himself grow lazier, drawing out the moment. “Feel me.”

She nods frantically, her thighs so close to give up from so much shaking. “Not… enough.”

Lando mewls, biting his lip as he watches her squirm, his patience hanging by a thread. “No?” he asks amused, pulling his fingers out and lining himself up again. “Let’s do something about it then. Show you how sorry I am, hm?”

He pushes back inside without any warning in one fluid motion, and the sensation wrecks both of them at the same time. She’s always so fucking tight, but soaked enough that there’s no resistance, just the messy slide of him stretching her open with every inch.

“Shit,” his voice is barely a sound, more like a guttural groan as he bottoms out, his hands finding their way back home, on her hips.

The heat of her, the way she pulses around him, has his heart racing relentlessly, and their sounds fill the living room every time they move together. Lando grits his teeth, withdrawing just halfway before thrusting back in, harder each time.

She gasps, her body craving him, like she can’t get enough. “More.”

He snarls, pace picking up, his hips snapping against hers, skin meeting skin in a rhythm that’s almost punishing. “More?” Lando asks in amazement, “You fucking take everything I give you, and you still want more?”

She nods, dragging her hands down his back, nails leaving marks that burn, but it only spurs him on, thankful she gives him something he could feel for hours after they’re done.

“Always more,” she whimpers, legs wrapping weakly around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she yammers. “Feels so. Good,” she chokes on the last word, lifting her hips in desperation.

Lando is close to sobbing at this point, slamming into her, his control unraveling by the second. “Good girl. Gonna make you come so fucking hard you’ll feel me every time you blink.”

Her whines break into cries as he fucks her harder, each thrust hitting the exact spot inside her where she needs him most. His hand slips between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing her in messy circles, just to see her fall prey to the pleasure that only he can give her.

“Yes,” she nods, her body keep moving on its own to meet his. “Yes, I’m so close. Don’t stop!”

He is far too hypnotized by the way she loses it under him, demanding more and more with each passing second. Lando’s hands move then to encircle her waist, squeezing gently before sliding higher up her ribs, and finally to her breasts. They don’t rest there for too long, though, as she grabs his wrists and moves them around her neck, pulling his face right above hers. Her legs tighten tighter around him, and her palm cups his ass cheeks, pressing him deeper into her.

“That bad?” he asks her, and all she can do is nod again, speechless. “Come on, then. Wanna feel you drench my—"

Lando can’t even finish his sentence as her moans get louder, a blinding pleasure tearing through her in waves, over and over again, too intense to hold back. She cries out, back arching, body shaking she squirts, soaking both of them.

“Ah, shit. Shit shit shit!” Lando’s voice is wrecked, his hips stuttering as he watches her welcoming the euphoria.

The sight, the feel of her pulsing around him, squeezing him so tight has the power to destroy him. He barely manages a few more thrusts before he breaks, burying himself deep, groaning as he spills inside her, warmth flooding her walls. His body shudders against hers, muscles tensing, pleasure rolling through him in waves just as endless as hers. His hands are holding on to her like she’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And right now, she is.

For them, the time stops. They just breathe each other in, their bodies locked together, still vibrating. He can feel everything, from the soft rise and fall of her chest to the tiny aftershocks still making her pussy throb around him, pulling him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt. It makes Lando gasp softly, dragging his lips lazily over her jaw.

His fingers brush along her side once they manage to catch their breaths. “You okay?” Lando’s voice is low, lightly dipped in concern at her sudden silence.

She nods weakly, eyes snapping open, a satisfied little hum escaping her lips. “Okay,” she breathes out, lovingly tracing her fingers along his spine.

Lando smiles mischievously, “Okay.”

Before she can register what he’s doing, he grabs one of her legs and pulls it up, resting it over his shoulder, changing the angle entirely.

“The fuck?” her inquire is startled, but it quickly turns into something else the moment he starts moving, the new position making everything tighter, deeper. Heaven.

His grin is downright devilish. “Not done,” he informs her matter-of-factlty.

To that, Lando’s hands settle firmly back on her hips, pinning her in place before he draws back and thrusts into her measured at first, the kind of stroke that leaves her breathless.

Somehow, the finish line turns into a brand new start, and all she can do is brace for it.

“Oh, my—Lando!” her stomach twists, fingers grasping at nothing, forced to cling to the cushions because she can’t reach him like this. The position keeps her wide open for him, helpless, unable to do anything but take it.

Lando hums, his grip tightening. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Spread wider for me,” he instructs. “Can you give me one more?”

She whimpers, barely able to think, let alone answer, as he starts pounding into her, his rhythm relentless. Every thrust knocks the breath from her lungs, her body struggling to keep up with the sheer intensity of it, but somehow excited and so willing to push the limits.

“Please,” it’s both a cry and a plea, but she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for.

“Obsessed with those pretty noises. Just take it, baby,” he breathes, driving into her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

His grip shifts then, spreading her even wider, forcing her open until there’s nowhere for her to run. His pace slows just for a fraction, not out of mercy, but because he wants to feel every inch of her hugging him, wants her to feel how deep he is, how there’s no part of her he isn’t claiming.

And then he sees it.

Right there, in the soft plane of her lower stomach. Every time he pushes in, there’s a faint, tantalizing bulge, proof of just how deep he goes; his brain short-circuits. The sight of it has him helpless, hunger twisting tight in his gut, making his cock twitch inside her.

“Fucking hell,” his voice is nothing but raw, shattered arousal. He can’t help himself, instinctively bringing his wide palm to press down on it, applying the slightest pressure, feeling himself inside her from the outside.

“Fuck’s sake, Lando,” her moans turn high, her body jerking as if there is no such thing as too much pleasure.

“You feel that, baby?” Lando’s eyes are wild, rolling his hips a bit slower now, pushing so far inside her that she swears she can feel him in her throat. “Feel how fucking deep I am?”

She nods, tears beading in the corners of her eyes, her hands clawing harder at the sheets because it’s too much.

His forehead falls forward, resting on hers. “Forgive me.”

A simple — yet not really — plea, wrapped in something devastatingly tender. It makes her stomach flip, makes her heart ache in a way that feels too big for her body. She clenches around him involuntarily, and he groans, his grip on her hips tightening.

Her leg slides down his waist, hands instantly flying around his back, pulling him impossibly closer, her lips brushing against his jaw as she nods. “Please, Lando…”

“I need you,” he says, “Need you by my side when I win. Need you by my side when I fuck up. When I’m flying so high it feels like I’ll never come down.”

The sweat blends with the smell and the desperation behind his confession, and somehow, the moment feels endless, even though both of them know it quickly approaches the end.

“Need you when it gets too loud, when I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just noise. Need you when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. Just… need my pretty girl that knows me better than anyone,” he praises, pressing his palm firmer against her stomach, feeling the way she squeezes him from the inside. “Need to fuck you like this every day, baby. To be the one that drives you mad. Please. Please, forgive me.”

His words send a shockwave through her, a moan ripping from her throat. Lando hisses, thrusting deep again, watching the way his cock bulges against his palm, and the way her body welcomes him with no resistance.

He is right there, balancing on the knife’s edge of pleasure, and it’s almost infuriating. His whole body shakes with the effort of holding back, but he can’t tear his eyes away from where they’re joined. The sight has his stomach tensing, his cock throbbing inside her. The slick glide, the way she clenches around him every time he grinds in deep, and the way her body drags him back in with every pull out it’s fucking unbearable.

“Baby, I can’t—” she drags him deeper into the heat of her release, her weak arms pulling him impossibly closer as if she’ll disintegrate without him.

That does it for Lando, shattering whatever control he has left. His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic as the pressure in his spine explodes.

“Fuck” he groans as his release bursts inside her, hot and thick, flooding her walls. His hips jerk against her as wave after wave crashes through him, his cock pulsing with every sharp, overwhelming aftershock.

But even as his body shudders with euphoria, even as his breath stutters against her throat, his hips keep moving.

“I’m sorry. So fucking sorry,” he rasps, pressing into her with hard grinds, still spilling inside her, his body demanding more. “Fucking hell, I can’t stop.”

She gasps, over-sensitive but still achingly wet for him, her body responding to every push, every deep roll of his hips.

“I know, I know,” she says, wrapping herself around him.

“Yes? Just a little more,” he begs, “Please, just let me feel you a little longer.”

His movements slow eventually, each thrust turning sluggish, drawn out, until he can’t physically move anymore. The last of his pleasure drains from him, leaving his body heavy, and utterly spent. Finally, he collapses on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing ragged, skin covered in a generous layer of sweat. His natural scent sends her home in an instant, and all she wants right now is for time to freeze in place.

She doesn’t say anything, just exhales softly and presses a kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, her lips brushing over his damp skin. She moves tenderly, kissing his jaw, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. He’s still inside her, still holding onto her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

People talk about the quiet before the storm, but the quiet after is much more terrifying. It gives you time to see the destruction it left behind, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. She has always hated feeling powerless, and it’s only when she tilts her head, pressing her lips to his forehead, that she feels it. A warm, wet drop against her collarbone. Then another.

Her fingers still where they were stroking through his curls. “Lando?” she whispers, pulling back just enough to look at him, hoping that her suspicions will not come true. But that’s when she sees the raw emotion in his eyes, the way his brows are furrowed, the silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

He looks almost startled, like he hadn’t even realized he was crying. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his lips parting slightly as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

She cups his face instinctively, her thumb catching a tear before it can fall, just like he did last night. “Lan…” she speaks a bit louder this time, “Look at me.”

He shakes his head in response, his hands gripping her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear again, this time for more than two months.

Lando presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, feeling more tears running down his cheeks, “Tell me it’s not too late for us,” he pleads, pulling back to finally meet her gaze. “Tell me I haven’t fucked this up beyond repair.”

Beneath the surface, the pain still lingers. But much deeper down, their bond is still knotted tightly, and even though the rope is taut, ready to snap at any small gust of wind, the fact that she’s still in his arms is enough for the rope to become the binder that holds them together. She can’t name the feeling without giving him everything all at once. Instead, she just brushes her nose against his.

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[tuiccim]

A Little Jelly(fish)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1768

Warnings: Fluff

Summary: Your hobby attracts the attention of a handsome super soldier.

A/N: Special thanks to my hype princess & beta reader @whisperlullaby.

Sitting in the common room, you were so close to finishing the crochet project you had undertaken. It would hopefully turn into a large, stuffed jellyfish for a friend's baby shower gift. The baby's bedroom was under the sea themed, and you hoped your homemade creation would be a fun addition. Now, you were working on crocheting the frilly tentacles and attaching them. It was a quiet day and you were enjoying a bit of calm with just some quiet piano music playing as you moved the hook. 

"Whatcha got there?"

You jump at the sound and then turn with an embarrassed little laugh to face Bucky, "You startled me. I was in my own little world."

"Sorry, doll," he smiles with just a hint of mischief in his eyes. 

"Mm-hm," you smirk. "It's a gift for a friend's baby shower. It'll hopefully turn into a jellyfish. Their room is ocean themed." You felt a little sheepish as you explained. You don't know Bucky well and try to hide your surprise when he sits next to you. 

"That's really cool of you to make a gift. I'd be curious to see it when it's done," he says.

"Thanks for saying that. I was kinda wondering if it might seem cheap or stupid to make the gift. I'll make sure to show it to you before I wrap it up,"

"When's the party?" Bucky fiddles with the end of the tentacle you're working on. 

"Two weeks," you answer before laughing, "I actually have this baby shower, another one a few weeks after, and two weddings in the next two months. I'm gonna go broke if I don't make at least one of the gifts."

"Are you going to make another one for the other baby shower?" Bucky asks as he watches your hands. 

"No, it's more of a sprinkle than a shower. It's their third baby so we're just doing diapers and wipes for gifts," you explain. 

"Wow, three," Bucky's eyebrows rise. 

"Yeah, it's a lot but they're great parents. Do you have any hobbies?" You feel inexplicably self-conscious talking about babies and attempt to change the subject. 

"Yeah. I like to read, work on my bike. I build models sometimes," he shrugs. 

"What kind of models? Like cars or planes?" You ask. 

"Uh, sometimes," he scratches his neck as if embarrassed, "Spaceships more often." His cheeks tint a little pink. 

"That's cool. I love space. I'm always so interested when NASA releases new photos and information about the universe. I especially like the pictures of the nebulas. There's an abstract beauty to them," you smile at him. 

"Exactly. I'm always interested when they find new planets or stars. Black holes," Bucky says excitedly. 

"It's so vast. I wonder if one day we’ll see a planet with satellites and space debris. A world similar to ours. I mean, we know there’s life out there now but I’m still curious to see if we ever find one. I’m sorry. I sound crazy.”

“Not at all. I agree with you,” Bucky launches into some of the things he got to see in Wakanda that fascinated him and you ended up talking with him for over an hour before it was time for you to go. With another promise to show him the finished product, you head out to your meeting. 

–

Several days later, you timidly knock on Bucky’s door. You had the crocheted jellyfish in hand to show him. You heard what sounded like a minor tussle behind the door and leaned closer to listen. 

“Oh, no, you don’t! You can’t get away from me that easily,” Bucky’s voice can be heard before a sudden bump against the door had you jumping back. “Damn cat!” He growls aggravatedly before opening the door while rubbing his chest as if injured. When he looks up, surprise registers and he straightens quickly, “Oh, hi.”

“Uh, hey. Is- is this a bad time?” You ask with concern. 

 “Fine. Great. What, uh, brings you by?” He smiles nervously. 

You hold up the jellyfish awkwardly, “I finished it. Um…”

“Oh my god, it’s so cute! Look at it,” Bucky smiles brightly as he holds his hands out. You readily hand over the stuffed animal, “I made it so it can be hung up until the baby is a little older.”

“That’s such a good idea. I’m so impressed,” he enthuses. 

“Oh, thank you,” you smile pleased but slightly embarrassed. “It really wasn’t that difficult-Ow!” You look down to find a beautiful cat swatting at the jellyfish’s dangly legs. Unfortunately, her last swipe went right across your leg leaving three thin lines of blood. 

“No! Alpine, no!” Bucky swoops down to pick up the cat but then ends up comically holding the jellyfish as far as possible from the flailing cat determined to capture the legs.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing as you retrieve the jellyfish and quickly stuff it into your bag. The cat, apparently named Alpine, calmed as it realized playtime was over. Though she did look aggrieved at losing the new toy. “Well, hello, I usually request that drawing blood waits until the second meeting but I guess you’re more of a draw blood first, ask questions later, cat, huh?”

“I’m so sorry! I was just trying to clip her nails before you knocked. Let me get you a bandage,” he turns away and you can hear him whisper to the cat, “You are in SO much trouble.”

You giggle to yourself at the adorable display and then straighten your face quickly as he makes his way back with a cloth and bandage in hand. You reach for them but he pulls back. 

“Here, let me,” he reaches down. 

“Really, it’s nothing. I can do it. Thank you,” you reassure him. 

“I’m sorry. Do you want to come in?” Bucky gestures to the interior. 

“No, thank you. I was just stopping by to show you now that I’m finished. I should be going,” you smile as you take the bandage from his hand. “See you later.”

“Thanks for showing me, doll. Bye,” Bucky watches as you leave but then shakes himself and closes the door quickly. 

–

You berate yourself with each stitch you make of the silly project you had set for yourself. As the hook moves quickly in your hand, you tell yourself how pathetic this little crush on Bucky is and that making a stupid crocheted present for his cat is an act of desperation he would immediately see through. But your hands just kept making the necessary loops. 

After your little encounter with Alpine you had decided that making her a catnip stuffed jellyfish would be a great way to use up some of your scrap yarn. It would be a smaller version of the one you had made and wonky looking from all the different yarns but you were sure it would make the cat happy. Even if it made you look like an idiot. 

When it was finished, it sat on your desk and mocked you for not dropping it off. You were nervous and felt stupid for even making it. What if he hated it? Worse, what if Alpine hated it? What if he figured out your motive? Did he already know about your schoolgirl crush? He would probably see right through this gesture and you’d never be able to face him again. 

You should just take it to him and say ‘Here is my desperate attempt to get you to talk to me because I think you’re amazing’ and then you could just die from the embarrassment and not have to worry about it anymore. You shake your head at the stupid thought. You considered finding a gift bag but felt that was too formal for the simple gift. Instead you grabbed it so it’s very presence would no longer send you into your own head. You doggedly march to Bucky’s door and then knock gently. As soon as the door opens, your mind goes completely blank and you just stare at him.  

“Hi. What’s going on, doll?” Bucky’s brow furrows as he studies you.

“Uh, I, um, hi. I’m sorry. I, um, I,” clamping your mouth shut, you close your eyes, take a deep breath and start again, “I made this for Alpine.” You hold out the crocheted jellyfish with a smile pasted on. You felt like an idiot. 

Bucky looks down at the colorful cat-sized toy and smiles broadly, “This is amazing, doll! Let’s find her.” 

Before you realize what’s happening, Bucky grabs your hand and pulls you along behind him until he locates the cat. She was laid in a sliver of sunlight on the floor making her white fur look luminous. At his approach, Alpine lifts her head and within seconds of him jiggling the toy above her, is on her feet and batting at it. As soon as she catches it and manages to wrestle it away from Bucky, she takes a long sniff at the toy and then rolls her body over and around it. 

“I think she likes it,” Bucky smiles at you. 

“I’m so glad. I thought she might be a little jelly that the first one wasn’t for her, so I…” you shrug. 

“Alpine, were you a little jelly you didn’t have a jelly?” He laughs. “That was really sweet of you to do that for her. Thanks,” he gives the hand he’s still holding a squeeze.

“Of course. I figured it would be a good way to use up some old yarn,” you nod and wonder if you should keep holding his hand or let go. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” he says sheepishly as he lets go of your hand. 

“Oh, I didn’t mind. Anyway, I just thought I’d bring it by,” you fidget with your hands and turn for the door, “So-”

“Would you like to go out to dinner?” Bucky interrupts. 

“Wh-what?” You stammer. 

“Like on a date? With me?” Bucky raises his brows hopefully. 

“Um, yeah, I’d like that,”  you smile, trying to hold in the surge of giddiness that washes over you. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask you that for weeks,” he confesses with a sigh of relief.

“Really?” You ask. 

“You didn’t know? I figured I’d made an idiot of myself trying to get opportunities to talk to you. I was worried you’d think I was a menace,” he blushes.

“I’d never think that of you.”

“Are you free tonight? I admit, I’ll be a little jelly if you’re not,” Bucky grins. 

“No need to be jelly. I’m all yours,” you smile.

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

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[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

"Refusal"

[Spencer Reid x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Warnings: Fluff, public displays of affection, mild teasing

Summary: Two years after meeting Spencer in a bookstore, you find yourselves back where it all began—only this time, he’s far less interested in the books and far more interested in you.

Word Count: 726 words

A/N: Based on the poem 'Refusal' by Maya Angelou for the same reasons as my ressler fic!

Kissing him was just about what you needed in life. Kissing him in the bookstore where you first met him, that was something else.

It was two years ago when you stumbled into Spencer Reid in The Book Brook, two years ago when you fell in love with Spencer.

You remembered the way his fingers had hovered over the spines, his brow furrowed as if the shelf itself had personally offended him by not containing the exact edition he wanted—it was close enough.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his muttering was adorable.

"No, that’s the 1992 reprint, the footnotes are condensed—"

You cleared your throat. "You look like you’re losing a battle."

He startled, blinking at you like he hadn’t expected another human to acknowledge his existence. "I—uh. Just. The 1987 edition of The Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics has a misprint in the third chapter, and this store claims to carry rare academic texts, but—"

"You’re that kind of reader," you said, grinning. "The ‘I need the exact version or my soul will wither’ type."

He frowned. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"It’s endearing." You held up your own book—Still I Rise. "I’m more of a ‘as long as the words are there, I’ll make it work’ person."

Spencer’s eyes flicked to the cover, then back to your face. "Maya Angelou."

"You know her?"

"‘You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes,’" he had recited softly, "‘you may kill me with your hatefulness, but still, like air, I’ll rise.’"

Now, pressed between the poetry shelves and the warmth of his body, you couldn’t help but smile against his lips.

"Spence..." You pulled away with a quiet laugh as he tried to chase your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist. "We should not be doing this here."

His eyes flickered between yours. "Why not?"

"Because," you whispered, "we’re in public."

Spencer huffed, but his lips twitched. "The chances of anyone even noticing—"

You pressed a finger to his mouth. "You’re an FBI agent, not a highschool kid trying to get lucky."

He nipped at your fingertip, grinning when you yelped. "I am lucky. And I like kissing you here."

"You’re impossible."

"And yet," he murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, "you love me anyway."

You did. God, you did.

"You know," he mused, his breath warm against your neck, "Angelou once said that love recognizes no barriers."

You smirked. "Is that your way of justifying making out in public?"

Spencer laughed. "It’s my way of saying I missed you this week."

Your chest tightened. He’d been away on a case for five days, and though he’d called every night, hearing his voice through the phone wasn’t the same as having him here—solid and real and yours.

"I missed you too."

His thumb brushed your cheek, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought about you every day. Wondered what you were reading, if you were drinking that awful lavender tea you love, if you—" He hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. "If you missed me half as much as I missed you."

You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling. "More."

Spencer exhaled, his forehead resting against yours. "Good."

A store employee—a lanky teenager with a name tag that read Ethan—stood a few feet away, pointedly examining a shelf. "Uh. Just letting you know that, uh…" He gestured vaguely toward the security camera in the corner. "Management kind of frowns on… activities in the aisles."

Spencer’s ears turned pink. "Right. Sorry."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "We’ll behave."

Ethan nodded, already backing away. "Cool. Just… maybe save it for the parking lot or something."

The second he was out of earshot, you dissolved into quiet giggles, pressing your face into Spencer’s shoulder.

Spencer groaned, but his arms tightened around you. "I blame you."

"Me?"

"You’re the one who kissed me first."

You pulled back, mock-offended. "That is a lie."

His grin was unrepentant. "Selective memory, then."

You swatted his chest, but he caught your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Come on," he murmured, tugging you toward the door. "Before we get banned from our own love story’s setting."

The evening air was crisp as you stepped outside, the streetlights casting a golden glow over the sidewalk. Spencer didn’t let go of your hand.

"Where to now, Dr. Reid?" you teased.

He hummed, pretending to consider. "Dinner. Then home. Then—" His voice dropped. "I’ll recite all of Angelou’s poetry to you. If you want."

You squeezed his hand, your heart impossibly full. "I want."

[nikkeora]

It's 2 a.m. and you're sitting in some dingy bar in the bad side of town, hand covering your fifth? drink of the night.

It's a little hole in the wall no one really knows but always stumbles into whenever they need it. You’ve only been in here twice before. The bartender is an older woman with not much makeup save for a dark brownish rouge on her lips. She’s nice enough, though. She gave you a bowl of cheap candy after your third drink.

Your eyes fall on the man on the far side of the counter. He's almost impossible to miss, what with being one of the three other people there, but he's also massive, which doesn't really help him blend into the shadows of the corner he's sitting in. His hair's in need of a trim, a little shaggy in some parts and almost covering his eyes, but it's clean and fluffy in a way that makes you want to run your hand through it. He's in a hoodie that's a little oversized even for him. Prime estate for any girl/boyfriend.

You've been staring a little too long, though. Seemingly feeling your gaze, his eyes flick up, meeting yours through the white strands in the way. He looks tired. Not too tired to send a glare your way, though.

But he’s pretty, so you decide he’s interesting.

Taking your glass and your candy, you walk the long, wobbly journey to his end of the table. The bartender keeps an eye on you, probably deciding to cut you off for the night. Bummer. In hindsight though, she probably should have done that a while ago. The hangover’s going to kill you tomorrow.

The man doesn’t acknowledge you when you sit down on the stool next to him. He doesn’t bat an eye when you keep staring either.

You scrunch your nose a little when the smell hits. “You smoke?”

You wonder if he’s just going to keep ignoring you when he shifts a little, angling himself away from you. “..go away.”

You rest your hand on your palm, taking a candy from your bowl and sliding it towards him. “It’s bad for you, y’know.”

“I don’t care. Go away.”

“Sweet things help.”

“Leave me alone.”

His voice is deep, but not in an ‘I chain smoke every day’ kind of way. Puberty must’ve hit like a bitch. A social smoker then, maybe. He doesn’t seem the social type though.

You sigh, taking a piece of candy for yourself. Your friends are social smokers. Well, ex-friends, but that sounds kinda silly. It’s a little melted and it sticks to your teeth and tastes like fruit flavored plastic. You shrug and enjoy it anyway.

You can feel him watching you out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to be left alone, you’re not that oblivious. The alcohol in your system makes you bolder, though. And apparently makes your stranger danger alarm go away, because you suddenly realize you’re sitting next to a grown ass man you don’t even know, and who’s twice the size of any guy you’ve seen around. Normal you would have left the bar as soon as he walked in. It’s Gotham, after all. Never too safe.

“…how many of those have you had?” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you go to answer but have to finish chewing first. You’d apparently stopped when you drifted off.

“Like… at least two,” you shrug, glancing at the small bowl. It had been nearly full when the bartender had given it to you. Now it’s just about half empty. “Yep. Definitely at least two.”

He looks at you like you’re stupid. Rude. “..I can see that.”

“Your hair’s white.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Stressed much?”

Again, no answer.

“I am.” Your arms are crossed in the table now, and you lay your head on top. “Wanna know why?”

“No.”

“I cut off all my friends.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean ‘no, I don’t care.’”

“They were real toxic.”

“Okay.”

“Shoulda done it sooner.”

“Sure.”

You grab another candy. His eyebrows raise the slightest bit.

“Those are bad for you.” He says, a little gruffly.

“So’s smoking.”

“That’s different.”

“I’ll stop these when you stop smoking.”

“It’s different.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and you get a clear look at his eyes for the first time. They’re such a pretty green. Or maybe blue. What was the color… teal? Cyan? Either way, they’re pretty. You tell him so.

“You’re pretty.” Your words come out a little dazed. You swear his eyes are glowing in the dim light.

He frowns at your words, gaze a little sharper now. “I’m not.”

Well that’s just ridiculous. “You are.”

“Stop it.”

“Is this some toxic masculinity thing?”

“Shut up.”

“But-”

“I’m not pretty,” he grits out. There’s a finality in his voice that makes you hesitant to push. You notice him looking down at his hands, closed around his nearly untouched glass of whiskey. Not much of a drinker usually, then? Must’ve had a bad day. You also notice the scars littering his skin. His knuckles are the worst, but that’s really only because they’re cut and bruised, not fully healed like the backs of his hands.

“..you fight much?” You ask, a little quieter now. His fingers twitch, like he’s trying not to pull the sleeves of his hoodie up to cover the entirety of his hands.

“What’s it to you?”

“I fought too.”

“With your friends?”

You can’t help but smile at that. “So you were listening.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Sure.” You’re silent for a moment before you down the rest of your own drink, squinting at the bitter burn at the back of your tongue. “..yeah. With my friends. Lotta screaming. My throat hurts..” you pause, “..alcohol probably isn’t helping.”

He’s looking at you. “…no.”

“No as in ‘I don’t care’?”

He shakes his head. You swear there’s almost a smile ln his lips. It’s probably your alcohol-ridden brain seeing things where they aren’t. “No as in, ‘no, alcohol probably isn’t helping.’”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I have common sense.”

“Do you, though?”

“You calling me dumb?”

“I’m calling you drunk.”

You giggle. “Maybe.”

“No, not ‘maybe’,” he rolls his eyes again, glancing at the bartender when she comes over to take your empty glass. “Jess is cutting you off.”

So her name is Jess. You squint at her as she puts your glass in the sink. Suits her.

You reach for another piece of candy when he takes the bowl away from you. “I’m cutting you off, too.”

You groan. “But why though..”

“You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“So give it back.”

“No.” So bossy.

You glare at him. Some of his hair falls back in front of his eyes. “..you need a trim.”

His eyebrows rise, caught a little off guard. “..haven’t had the time.”

“Can I do it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re drunk.”

“What if I wasn’t?”

“I still don’t trust you with scissors near me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know you,” he pauses, considering the half-empty bowl he’s keeping away from your reach. A weird but somehow generic name is printed on each candy. No ingredients, though, just flimsy plastic. “And because you eat Gotham store-brand candy by the handful… god, what’s in these?”

He looks at the bartender - Jess - with an almost disappointed look. “Really, Jess? You couldn’t even get the good knockoffs?”

“It was on clearance,” Jess drawls, unbothered.

“You do know me, though,” you murmur, head resting on your arms again. The man shakes his head slightly.

“I don’t even know your name.” Okay, fair point.

You give him your name. “What’s yours?”

There’s a minute before he answers. You can tell he’s contemplating just leaving right then. You’re getting a little too close for comfort. You don’t want him to leave. Your eyes shift to look at the table instead.

“…Jason.”

“Jason,” you hum. It suits him.

There’s really nothing to do here anymore. You’ve been cut off from the two things that gave you purpose here. “What am I supposed to do now?”

He shrugs. As if he’s not part of the reason there’s nothing to do now. “Go home.”

Your expression darkens at that, and you muffle a groan by now lying face-down on the table. It’s not sticky, thankfully. That’s really all you can ask of a place like this. “I can’t.”

Jason frowns. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“The friends I cut off were also my roommates..” Bit of a stupid decision on your part.

“That was dumb.”

“Yes, Jason, I know. Thank you.” You sigh. There’s definitely going to be a shit ton of glitter in all your stuff by the time you get back home. You don’t have the strength to deal with that today. Evil little fuckers.

You’re busy trying to remember if there’s a motel around you can actually trust when it happens. Maybe you looked a little too miserable to ignore. Jason, after a couple minutes of seemingly endless self conflict, blurts out,

“You could crash at mine.”

…

Um…

I mean, yeah, sure. Why the fuck not at this point, right?

“Um… thanks, but, I don’t know..” you decline once to be polite. And also because holy shit, some guy - very pretty guy, but still some random guy - just offered for you to sleep at his place. You’re not getting murdered, right? He’s been nice(ish) up to this point, but…

Jason, apparently also utterly confused on why he’s offering in the first place, adds, “we have a guest room. Probably a lot cleaner than any motel within walking distance.”

“We?”

“My roommate.”

“Oh.”

You sigh again. Thinking too hard about this is starting to make your brain hurt. And you really don’t want to go back home.

The bartender comes over to take the candy bowl. You wave her over, leaning over a little to talk ‘discreetly’.

“You know this guy?” You ask, tossing what your drunk mind thinks is an inconspicuous glance at Jason.

She shrugs. “Yeah. For a while.”

“So he’s safe?”

She raises an eyebrow. “..safe as it gets around here.”

She shakes her head at the skeptical look you give her. “I’ve known him since he was little. He’s a good kid.”

Alright. Good enough.

You turn back to Jason. “..Mind if I sleep over?”

He shakes his head, leaving a twenty under his still mostly full glass and sliding off his stool. He’s even bigger standing up. What did his parents feed him?

You pay your tab and follow behind him, stumbling occasionally. It’s cold when you get out of the bar, you’re sure it has to be, because your breath fogs up the slightest bit. You should be shivering with how thin your shirt is, and you’d neglected to grab a jacket when you’d stormed out of your apartment, but the drinks you’ve had dulls the sense. Your cheeks are warm enough you’re sure there’s a very noticeable blush there.

You stumble on the crumbly pavement, hand instinctively reaching out to grab Jason’s arm to keep yourself from falling. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away. You hold onto his sleeve for the rest of the walk.

He’s nice. Just.. nice. While it may be a catch all phrase to describe someone who doesn’t have much else going for them, it’s also often overlooked hw difficult it is to find someone who’s just nice (in a non-creepy way) in a place like Gotham, and especially Crime Alley. Just look at the name.

He finds somewhere clean-ish for you to sit when you’re feeling a little dizzy and entertains your little detours, like stopping at some random convenience store to fill a random cat food bowl on the street because there’s a little left at the bottom, “and that means something’s eating out of it. It’s probably hungry now.”

When you get to his place, you tentatively step inside, looking around but not really taking in much. You’re not comfortable showering here so you just decide to sleep in your outside clothes. Not the most comfortable thing either, but it’s not long to fall asleep after your head hits the pillow, so you don’t have to think about it much.

Vaguely, you feel something soft being haphazardly pulled over your head.

It barely feels like you’ve blinked when the sun peeks through the blinds, dark circles and a pounding headache keeping you company as you groan, trying to make sense of the world again.

You’re in a strange bed. You reach up to rub the sleep out of your eyes when you realize you can’t.

Looking down, there’s a hoodie pulled over the thin top you wore out last night. It’s on in a weird way that you’re technically wearing it, but your arms are stuck inside the torso and not in the sleeves. It smells faintly of cotton, the brownish paper of books and Irish Spring. There’s also the smallest hint of cheap gas station cologne. It’s not bad, but it doesn’t quite fit in with the rest.

You opt to keep it on since it’s chilly. Pushing your arms out the sleeves, you try to stand up from the bed and immediately sit back down, the headache worse with the sudden movement. Your muscles aren’t much better either, some screaming in protest since you slept positioned like a crumpled piece of paper in the night. Taking a moment to recover, that’s when you notice the cup of water and a packet of pills on the bedside table.

Taking the necessary amount, you feel a little heat in your cheeks. The alcohol must not have completely worn off yet.

You sit there a minute before trying to get up again. Success. You reach the door and are just about to turn the handle when you hear voices outside.

“-can’t believe you brought a girl home-”

“She needed a place to crash. That’s it.”

“And you gave her my hoodie!”

“It’s my hoodie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was it meticulously stashed in your closet?”

“No.”

“No! Because it was in mine, and therefore, is mine.”

“You can have it back when she goes home.”

“I want it now..”

“There’s like half a dozen more in the closet. Pick one.”

It’s then that you decide to open the door. It didn’t sound like they were stopping any time soon. Plus, you needed something hot in your system right that minute or you were definitely going to throw up everywhere.

You recognize Jason, but the other man - a ginger in a tank top, well-built but not massive like the former - is new, and he stares at you for a solid minute like you’re an alien creature.

“…hi?” You mumble awkwardly, not really knowing what to say. It’s the first time you’ve been taken to a stranger’s place drunk, with nothing but literal sleep happening after.

“Hey,” Surprisingly, the ginger is the one to move first. He gives you a toothy grin, holding out his hand. Jason pushes it away, but it persists. “I’m Roy.”

You take his hand after a second. “y/n.”

Your eyes flicker over to Jason, who’s already staring at you. He looks a little softer here than at the bar, the natural coming through the small living room window makes him look a little less weary. Or maybe he just had a good night’s sleep. Are the circles under his eyes lighter?

“So…” you start, feeling a little uncomfortably warm under his gaze. “Thank you.. for everything.”

You’re expecting him to kick you out. After all, letting you sleep here in the first place must’ve been an impulsive decision made under the influence of alcohol and pity - god, why had you told him so much?

It’s another minute or something of staring before Roy ‘subtly’ elbows him, apparently bringing Jason back online.

“..can I take you out for breakfast?”

bruce / dick / tim

[croquettish]

Ohohohohohoho this is a WONDERFUL addition, BLESS YOU for this!!! I love those little physical details so much. Like I know we're all just 🔍 over here looking at the tiniest thing but the game packs in so many tiny subtle things that it makes it impossible not to assume that this stuff was intentional, esp for a cinematic moment like that which was so important too... 😭

As for Henry's awareness of his feelings, I 100% agree with you. In fact, there are several hints throughout KCD2 that Henry is well aware of the fact that same-gender attraction exists (and has the option of acting on his own same-gender attraction). We also get a tiny hint in the Amorous Adventures of Sir Hans Capon that Henry does find Hans attractive:

Mind you, this is said after Hans breaks out from an allergic reaction and Henry has to pass a check to convince him of this, but HENRY DIDN'T HAVE TO SAY IT THAT WAY!!!! Good lord, Henry!!!

But let's assume that this was subconscious and Henry was unaware of his attraction at this point, we get so many indications of Henry's Awareness of queerness in the sequel:

When he learns the legend surrounding Brunswick's armor, Henry is told:

And he has the option of saying he doesn't understand, but he also very much has the option of saying that YEAH, he gets it!

Later on, Henry encounters a blatantly gay man (Black Bartosch) and even has the chance to accept his advances:

To add to all this, Henry has the opportunity to meet a gay man who was more or less run out of Troskowitz in the Best For Last quest, Herbalist Barnaby. He specifically mentions that the guy who figured out that he was gay viewed gay men as animals.

If he hadn't beaten them all up after, they would have killed him.

Henry can tell him that this was TMI for him but he can't tell him that those fucks weren't wrong, that they should have killed him.

And even after Henry reassures him, Barnaby explains that he's the only one who thinks that. Perhaps in his life overall! There's a good chance that Barnaby (unlike Henry) never found anyone to even be with, let alone anyone who is like him.

Go back and tell him you're bi, Henry!!!!!

Barnaby even tells him that this treatment does bother him, being stuck in that hut and being treated like an outcast and a freak, but it's fine enough so long as no one is burning his home down.

Unless Henry really plays stupid and plugs his ears at every mention of anything gay or goes out of his way to willfully avoid that stuff... by the time that things start heating up with Hans he's going to know not only that this is something that can and does happen, that he might well be interested in such things, and also that there can be serious consequences if those things are acted on (and, in Barnaby's case, even if they're not acted on!).

So in light of all of that perspective and knowledge that Henry goes in with, it makes sense that he would worry about what would happen if he acted on his feelings (which often comes with consequences for him). Even with all the little hints from Hans along the way in their romance it must have been impossible not to go "no, that's probably just my imagination, no there's no way he meant it like that" because Henry has so much proof that Hans is THE STRAIGHTEST MAN POSSIBLE, PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE GAY MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN, HENRY, and also that if he was gay it could be real, real, REAL bad for both of them, but especially for Hans 😭

Why Henry pushes Hans away at first

I keep thinking about Henry pushing Hans away after he kisses him and why he might do that. After much rumination I think I might have figured it out (though anyone is welcome to chime in with their own ideas!!!).

Apologies in advance-- this got quite long, as it analyzes Henry's view of Hans' romantic behavior through both games and the DLCs (expect spoilers).

ETA: I've expounded a bit on all of this here and here as well!

Henry, better than just about anyone, knows that Hans is a massive flirt.

In Next to Godliness, Hans justifies his desire to go to the bathhouse by mentioning Klara and how pretty she is:

Upon arriving at the bathhouse, Henry learns that Hans hired a bathhouse wench and did his best to undress her via dice before failing and thus recruiting Henry into it.

Zdena tells Henry that Hans regularly goes about such behavior there, so much so that the other girls there are used to it:

We get other little nudge nudge wink winks from Hans who is very determined to show off his masculinity and just how straight he is:

At this point Klara enters the picture, and we learn due to the events that follow that she's the one woman at the bathhouse who doesn't act as a sex worker there in any capacity. Henry would most likely take notice of the fact that the one woman who doesn't let Hans have what he wants is also the one that he likes best.

He then declares that Klara deserves flowers and asks Henry to get her some. Now, if that ain't blurring the lines already...

Fast-forward to The Amorous Adventures of Sir Hans Capon when Hans declares passionate love of a woman he barely knows but who he again insists is different from other women:

He insists that secret courtship is all the rage right now in France and as a result he just has to get in on that trend. Nothing about this sounds sincere to Henry, but Hans is very insistent that no, she's the one! There's no station but the heart! So much so that he wants to gift her his great-grandmother's necklace.

When Henry delivers the necklace, Hans informs him that he already knew of this happening after the fact on account of his spies having informed him of this already.

He insists that he wants her feelings to grow naturally and that he's not planning on doing all of this too fast:

Henry is to get him a potion that'll guarantee his success because Karolina is just that worthy of his affections. He further insists that even if that potion makes every woman faint at his feet, he's only interested in one.

Things don't go entirely according to plan and quite frankly, a lot of this could be seen through the gayest lens possible, but at one point while headed to the rendezvous point, Hans asks Henry about his conquests, prompting Henry to have the option to deflect. Hans surely has had so many more conquests than he, after all!

Wow! Hans must be very invested in this!

Along the way to Karolina's house they come across another, and Hans makes this comment, which might have tipped Henry off to a certain extent (if he hadn't been already tbh) just how in love Hans really is:

So... what you're saying, Hans, is that if she was available, we'd be doing this same song and dance with her?

Huh!

Things go... uniquely over at Karolina's house with Henry feeding him lines of poetry from a bush (to varying degrees of success), and we're treated to these lovely line from Hans:

Depending on which lines Henry fed him, the quest can either end successfully or not. If it is successful, Henry checks on him again the next morning and asks him how things went. He declares:

Well! That sure sounds promising. And so magnanimous of you, Henry! He asks when Hans will see her again and is told the following:

Henry is, understandably, baffled at this.

Hans insists that he had good reason for just ditching the love of his life, namely the fact that she turned out to be illiterate:

Personally, the Hansry shipper in me absolutely thrives at this because oh, Henry is worthy of his poetry? He's giving bawdy poetry to Henry? This could not possibly gayer! (said tam from the past, who had not yet experienced just how gay KCD2 would get)

(Mind you, the poetry is fucking godawful, as we later see again in KCD2 when he actually does write poetry about Henry.)

We fast-forward again.

After their breakup in KCD2, Henry finds him again at the wedding (if not sooner), at one point having what looks like a date with a woman he has given another affectionate nickname:

And then keeps flirting with this girl right in front of Henry's salad after a bit more drama:

As soon as Henry leaves, he goes back to his date.

In other words, Henry knows Hans. He has had his number since early in the first game.

In his eyes, based on the knowledge he has, Hans is an incorrigible flirt who doesn't take love seriously whatsoever. As my gf pointed out, this vibe of "love? I never knew love till now!" [five minutes later] "love? I never knew love till—" can be VERY indicative of queerness. Of course you haven't found the right girl because you're not looking for a girl at all!

Even in his godawful poetry in the second game, Hans admits that

He's a flirt, he sleeps around a lot, he claims that any given woman is the love of his life one moment before being discarded the next...

To Henry, this could easily look like something Hans did on impulse and based only on the fear of losing Henry. Something he didn't mean. Something that could fuck up both of their lives just because of one of Hans' whims. Worse yet, what if he did it just because he was horny and wanted to let off some steam in light of all the anxiety surrounding the circumstances of that moment?

Knowing Hans, he could have kissed him for so many reasons that aren't just that he wanted to kiss Henry because he's hopelessly in love with him.

So Henry pushes him away (for his own good, most likely), walks away, and then--

Hears how genuinely distraught Hans sounds. If his Amorous Adventure with Karolina fails, he knows what Hans sounds like if he's rejected. And it's sure as shit not like this. Things like that usually just don't seem to affect him at all, rolling off him like water off a duck's back.

He expected Hans to brush this off and for him to move on more or less instantly. To scoff at Henry's rejection.

But he doesn't.

And faced with a remorseful and distraught-sounding Hans, he locks the door and turns around. Doesn't even hesitate for one second longer.

[hobivore]

Transient | LMH

— Lee Minho x reader (f)

Growing up in the casino business, you—now standing at the head of your family’s imperium—know all the tricks of the trade. Rule number one: don’t gamble. It would be such an easy rule to follow if it weren’t for your company’s most trusted lawyer, Minho Lee, who loves nothing more than to raise the stakes.

AU/Trope: lawyer!au, smut (minors DNI)

Warnings: sub!minho, rope bondage, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), impact play (face slapping), wax play, knife play, one small drop of blood, choking, spitting, light cockstepping, no aftercare, power dynamics, complicated ‘relationship’ (two people using each other because they’re bad at feelings)

WC: 4.8k

A/N: This piece was originally uploaded to my old sideblog linoguistics and written for the s! week sub!skz event by @skzseasons​, check them out for more. Many thanks to the wonderful @hesperantha for beta reading. ILY!

© hobivore Reposts, translations and modifications are not allowed. All events and characters are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

— SKZ masterlist | Ask box

“Will that be all, boss?” 

Boss. The word ricochets against his teeth and rolls off his tongue like a caged bird set free. Only Minho Lee could make a title sound like that: like a prayer, a taunt, a pet name, a challenge.

The tilt of his head tells you he already knows this isn’t all. Of course he knows; it’s nearing 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, and you wouldn’t have him come over to your apartment only to deliver you the most recent news on the acquisition of Full House Entertainment. Sure, it’s an important step for your company, but acting the herald is way below his pay grade.

No—Minho is here for something else entirely, and his feigned innocence is all part of this cat and mouse game the two of you have been playing for years now. 

He waits for your answer, shoulders straight, something subversive to the set of his mouth. You let your gaze travel down his figure, stretching out the silence until it thickens the air with tension. Your fingers play with the silver necklace around your neck, lingering on the edge of your collarbone, and he swallows. 

You suppress a chuckle at the familiar, telltale sign betraying him. In a way, you and Minho have grown into your roles in the company alongside each other. It had been your father who had hired him—although he probably wouldn’t have, had he known the man would end up in his daughter’s bed—when Minho was fresh out of law school, stiff-collared, hungry, ready to take on the world. 

To Minho’s credit, he remains still, and when your eyes meet his again you see a hint of that same fervour behind them. But rather than a spark of wildfire, it’s the burning of a furnace; calculated and controlled, white-hot. 

“Drink?” you inquire, more command than question, walking towards the cabinet and opening a whiskey decanter. He follows your movements, watching closely. Even when you turn around to pick up a glass you know his gaze never travels below your shoulders. His self-restraint is admirable. 

“Tell me,” you hand him his drink and he takes it, clinking the edge of the glass against yours. “What do you think of Nick Blake?” 

Minho narrows his eyes. “He’s a fool.”

Nick Blake is the current chief financial officer of Full House Entertainment. You’ve been told that although he may be new to the position, he shows promise, so you tilt your head in interest at Minho’s response.

“I’ve heard other things.” 

Minho swirls the liquor around in his glass and shrugs. “Whoever you heard that from is wrong. You should’ve asked me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his brusque tone. Few men would have the guts to say something like that to your face—or behind your back, for that matter. But Minho has never been anything but forthright with you, quickly becoming one of your most trusted employees. And he knows it; knows he can get away with a lot more than the average member of your staff. 

You decide to challenge him, to push back a little and see if he stands his ground. “Last time I checked, this was my company. I’m perfectly capable of deciding who to seek out for counsel.”

“It is. You are. But none of us benefit from mistakes. I don’t trust him.” 

You sigh. Ever since you took over from your father the company has grown explosively. The profits are great, but with diverse lines of business comes an increased difficulty in oversight. You find yourself needing to rely on others more and more—something you don’t particularly like. 

“So you think I should fire him?”

Minho takes a swig of his whiskey, eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know, aren’t you the boss?” he retorts, defiant, one brow raised. 

You snort—an ungraceful sound—and he grins. You put your glass down on the cabinet and give him a small nod. “Thank you for your honesty. I will reconsider Blake’s position.”

A silence falls between the two of you, not unwelcome, some of the earlier tension permeating the air again as your eyes fix on the curve of his cupid’s bow. The anticipation feels familiar in a way that puts you at ease, makes you relax. 

Minho is not the type for small talk and useless chatter. It's one of the things you like about him; he's astute and straight to the point. He doesn't waste your time. 

And unlike most others he doesn't try to flatter you. It's a welcome change from the sycophants that come with your position. Instead, Minho has always relied on his wits and his sharp tongue. Navigated his way through the muddy water of rules and regulations until he knew them like the back of his hand. Knew how to bend them and how to break them. 

There was a certain softness to him at first, back then; but much like you, he’s always been quick to adapt, quick to change. 

You don’t pry into his personal life. You don’t ask and you don’t care. Just like you don’t care how he gets things done as long as he does them—because you know he always delivers, one way or another. He doesn’t keep to his luxurious office, preferring the grimy underbellies of your casinos instead, not afraid of getting his hands dirty. 

Still, it’s all too easy to picture him as a deer-eyed, grubby-kneed kid, growing up watching the same programs on TV as you did. Fast-paced animations, colourful heroes saving people and serving justice. And then, later, the hours spent behind stacks of books, in courtrooms, for a good cause, only to end up here—

But Minho isn’t innocent. Every move and every choice he makes is deliberate. He, like no other, knows the world isn’t black and white. He wades through the grey fog, always mindful of the lines he should not cross.

It seems you are his only exception.

There’s an irony to it, its taste bittersweet on his tongue every time you kiss. An acidity to the both of you circling each other as you take his glass, your fingertips brushing against his skin. 

“What do you want?” you ask, putting his drink down next to yours. You wait for him to say the word, confirming that he wants this as much as you do.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and it’s out of line, teetering on the edge of mockery if it wasn’t for the honesty in his eyes. His long lashes caress his cheeks when he blinks, twice. “Venom.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word hangs in the air between you, followed by his look of surprise when the flat of your hand connects with his cheek. The expression lasts only a second, quickly overtaken by something darker as his skin flushes pink. 

“I asked you a question.” You step closer, grabbing his jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of his cheeks, distorting his grin. “Answer me.”

It’s a deflection, an attempt to steer away from his admission, and it works: the immediate effect it has on him, how it makes his pupils dilate and his breath hitch in his throat. 

“Please,” he says, barely audible, mouth forced into a pout by your hold on him, “make it hurt.”

His words trickle down your skin like molasses and settle deep in your belly. You press your lips against his, tasting the rich, smoky flavour of the alcohol you’ve been raised on, coupled with that sweet taste that’s so unmistakably him— 

Minho lets out a sudden moan as you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and you swallow the sound, letting go of his face, not missing the way he sways into you as you lean back and tap one finger on his suit jacket. “Follow me.”

There’s a shift in the air as you enter your bedroom, a place he’s seen countless of times—a privilege reserved to only a handful of your lovers. You can feel his presence behind you, heat radiating off him in waves, feeding your own excitement. 

“Take off your clothes,” you instruct, walking towards a large wooden chest beside the bed, “and get on your knees.”

When you turn back around, a long piece of red rope in your hands, you’re surprised to see him kneeling on the thick rug already. His eyes are trained on the floor and his clothes lay next to him, neatly folded.  

“Someone’s eager tonight,” you smile and grab a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his face upwards. 

“Just making it easy for you,” he grins, “for now.” 

You tighten your grip and he shivers at the pinpricks of pain tickling his scalp. “You’ve always liked to play with fire.”  

He tilts his head, as much as your hand allows. “A man can hope.” 

You crouch down in front of him, noses almost touching, catching his half-lidded stare. “Show me you deserve it.” 

Rising to your feet again, you instruct: “Arms in position.” He puts them behind his back, forearms parallel to each other, fingers grazing his elbows. 

You carefully wrap the rope around his forearms, then twice around his chest, right above the pectoral muscle. Putting your hand in his, you ask him to squeeze it. “Good?” 

He confirms, voice low, and you bring the rope together at the back to tie it to the loop on his wrists, locking the box tie with a sturdy knot so his upper arms are confined against his body. Your fingers adjust the hemp where needed, your own body remembering the familiar motions. You wrap the leftover rope around his torso, this time just below his pectorals, across the sternum, and fasten it at the back. 

You check his range of motion one more time before stepping in front of him, admiring your handiwork. His arms are pulled back, chest rising and falling steadily, pushed forward by the rope. The red hemp forms a striking contrast to his skin and when your fingers skim the side of his shoulder he shivers, the muscles in his thighs tensing. 

With a pleased hum you notice his responsiveness to your touch. Your gaze drops down to where his cock hangs between his legs, already half-hard. The sight of him on his knees, wrapped up and presented to you like an offering, sends a lick of heat down your spine and you fight the urge to reach out and touch him again—there’s a time and place for your own desire, and it will have to wait for now. 

You walk back to the chest and take out a bottle of massage oil and a silk sash, sifting through the chest’s contents until you find a small white box holding a collection of candles: massage candles, coloured soy flakes, and plain white paraffin candles. You know Minho prefers the latter, their heat more intense, the hot wax contrasting the colder air in the room. For a moment you consider starting with the massage candles just to rile him up, to have him writhing in his restraints and begging for more—but tonight’s not a night for such patience. 

You take the necessary precautions for his safety and return with the items, displaying them on the carpet in front of him. 

He watches you pour some of the oil on your hands and tilts his chin towards the candles. “Looks like it’s my lucky day today.” 

“Don’t be so sure of that.” You kneel down in front of him and smooth one hand over his chest. “I haven’t started yet.” 

Expertly, you massage the liquid into his skin, enjoying the warmth of his body underneath your fingers. When his chest and stomach glisten in the muted lighting you move behind him, lathering his shoulders with copious amounts of oil. Minho’s silent except for the occasional sharp inhale when you graze your nails over his skin, the subtle scent of sandalwood filling the air. 

“You’re sensitive today,” you murmur as you trail your fingertips down his nape, gooseflesh erupting in their wake. 

“It’s—it’s been a while,” he groans, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip when you press your front against his back, reaching around to rake your nails over his chest. “I’ve been away for a long time.”

You ignore the implications of his words—you know he could have anyone he wants, anytime, anywhere—before they can unravel the frayed edges of your chest, forcing yourself to focus on the sharp press of your nails. 

“Good,” your breath ghosts the shell of his ear as he shifts under your rough touch, “more fun for me.”

You stand up and move to face him again, tutting when you notice he’s closed his legs a little, looking for some friction on his aching cock. You nudge one thigh with the toe of your shoe. “Keep them spread.” 

He obliges, albeit reluctantly, and you bend down to adjust the ropes around his torso a bit, making sure to linger in front of his face. His eyelids flutter, gaze briefly flicking up to your chest, and you chuckle. 

“Like what you see?” 

“Always,” he says, amused, despite his impuissance. “I told you I’ve missed you.” 

You smile at his words, their intent unmistakeable this time. And it’d be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy this, this back-and-forth between the two of you, even though you know he doesn’t mean half of what he says; weaponises his words and uses them to try and get a rise out of you. He’s a lawyer, after all. A good one. 

And all good lawyers lie. 

“Don’t make me hit you again.” You give the ropes a last tug, straightening your back. 

“Now that—” Minho shakes the hair out of his eyes, looking up at you, “—that would be a real shame.” 

“Absolutely,” you confirm, picking up the black sash, mirroring his smirk. “You’d like that way too much. Besides,” you tie the fabric around his head, “you haven’t earned the right to look at me just yet.” 

Minho opens his mouth, witty response dying on his tongue as your oil-slick palm, unseen, wraps around his cock. “Fuck—” he curses, and you squeeze him, once, before removing your hand again. He groans. “That’s not fair.” 

You bring your face next to his, lips brushing his cheekbone. “Nothing in this world is fair, Minho. You of all people ought to know that.”

Crossing the room, you grab the dressing table chair and put it down in front of him. His shoulders tense at the sudden sound; it’s the only reaction he shows, putting on a false display of nonchalance as you sit down and light a candle.

At first glance he does appear at ease, but you notice the small signs of tension: the quickening rise and fall of his chest, the tautness in his shoulders, the tremble that runs down his body at the soft click of the lighter. His head is slightly cocked, turned towards you, trying to catch any sounds you might make when you dribble some wax on your own arm to test the heat. 

When the first drop hits his skin he hisses sharply, wax trickling down his chest. You know it doesn’t hurt when drizzled from this height, not really, a mild sting at most—but being blindfolded and unable to anticipate your next move is enough to have him on edge. 

You pour the hot wax on his shoulders, his chest, his arms. The room is quiet as you work in silence, adjusting the heat and intensity by moving the candle closer or farther away from his skin. He bites back a whimper as some of it drips on a nipple, trying to stay focused, trying to predict your next move.

But when you press the sole of your shoe against his neglected cock he whines—loudly—and you laugh. You keep it there, the pressure not enough to satisfy him, and he shifts uneasily under your touch. 

“What do you want?” You feign innocence, voice flat and uninterested. 

“Please—” he begs, hoarse, “—more.” 

“Go on then. Move.” You dribble the hot wax on his upper thigh, close to your foot. He groans in response and rocks his hips, reluctant at first, almost shy, giving in with a choked-off sound. He’s more frantic now: previous restraint gone, the rope spanning taut across his chest, his knees digging into the carpet. 

Minho tends to be quiet, holds back his moans as if he’s afraid they’d escape the room. But you know his cursing is only a preamble so you aim to draw out every sound. To coax them from his lips until he can’t keep them caged behind his teeth any longer. 

“Look at you,” you muse, in awe of the vision of him, “such a desperate mess.” 

It’s a sight few people get to see: Minho Lee bound and covered in wax, quickly cooling, hardening into white strands of pearls on his skin. Your foot is pressing his cock against his lower abdomen, precum wetting the red sole, his thighs trembling with exertion as he ruts against it. 

You squeeze your own thighs together in an attempt to find some relief and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips you can’t help but lean in, blowing out the candle and crashing your mouth against his, taking him by surprise. The kiss is messy, feverish; all tongue and teeth as you nip at his lips, a hand tangling in his hair. 

He objects, a faint whine, when you pull back and take your foot off his cock. “You did so well,” your voice sounds breathy as you untie the sash, steadying your wobbly, eager fingers, “you deserve a reward.”

Minho blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the light, pupils still blown wide and unfocussed. 

“But you’ll have to get it yourself.” 

You hike your dress up, spreading your legs, inviting, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your soaked panties. 

“What are you waiting for?” you bait, enjoying the brief, rare glimpse of bewilderment flickering across his face before he collects his bearings and shuffles closer on his knees, until he is mere inches away from your clothed core. 

Minho closes his eyes, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he leans forward. His skin is still covered in dried wax, which has started to flake, but he doesn’t seem to care—too preoccupied with pushing his face into the black lace at the apex of your thighs. 

When he flattens his tongue against the fabric it’s you who has to suppress a moan, nerves set alight with every nudge of his nose.

“Ugh—this—” as expected, it doesn’t take long for him to get frustrated with the barrier keeping him from tasting you properly, “—is supposed to be a reward?”

You grab his hair, tugging at it sharply, noticing the way he hisses in response. “Don’t get greedy now, Minho.” Your index traces the edge of his jaw before giving him a gentle smack on the cheek. It’s nowhere near firm enough to be satisfying, only serving to fuel his impatience. “I can leave you here and go back to my other employees, if that’s what you prefer. Or we can continue like this.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s nothing to him if it isn’t a competition, a dispute, always and everywhere—in the courthouse, at the office, in your bed. You know he would’ve lost interest long ago if you hadn’t met him with the same fervour. 

His jaw ticks, determined, and he sits up, taking the hem of your panties between his teeth. You lift your hips so he can pull them down your legs, clumsily yet insistent, until they gather around your ankles. You lift one foot out of the fabric but before you can move the other leg Minho is already back, his face between your thighs.

When his mouth connects with your core he exhales, mumbling, “Fucking finally,” cutting off your reply with the plush of his lips wrapped around your clit. You can feel them curl against your skin at your jumbled words, warning him, a hand tangled into his hair as you hold him impossibly closer. 

It’s a little embarrassing how fast the knot in your stomach tightens, only to be unravelled again by the expert teasing of his tongue. “Fuck—Minho—” you gasp, and he pulls back slightly, slowing down his motions until you can feel your high ebb away, just out of reach. 

You groan. “Stop teasing.” 

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through your body, and you shiver. “Am I not good enough?” He leans back and looks up at you, eyes glinting. “Maybe you should go back to your other employees instead, then.”

His smile is a little crooked, and he tongues the inside of his cheek, as if he’s waiting for you to make a move. Expecting you to lash out or press your heel against his cock, anything—

You won’t give him the satisfaction. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bend down until your face is in front of his. “Miller is more than capable.” 

His expression falters for a second, morphing into something unreadable before he puts his carefully crafted mask back into place. “M—”

You cut him off with the press of your fingers against his lips. “Open.”

He obliges, eyes falling shut as you grab his tongue between your thumb and index and spit on it, coating your fingers in the mixture of saliva and arousal and spreading it over his already saturated face. 

“Go on, Minho Lee,” you tap his bottom lip, ignoring his protest as your fingers leave his mouth, “show me that tongue is good for anything other than fucking the law over.” 

This time he doesn’t have to be told twice, working a steady rhythm, paying close attention to the sound of your moans and the involuntary shaking of your legs. 

He revels in it: on his knees, restrained, driving you to the edge and turning you into a whimpering mess. It’s a small price to pay for the pleasure that crests over you in waves, the soft strokes of his tongue bringing you down from your high. 

Through the distorted blur, stars behind your eyelids, you see his face, still covered in a mixture of arousal and spit. A pleased smile pulls at the corners of his lips and you suddenly feel exposed despite his state of undress.

Rising to your feet, you pull your dress down and flatten the fabric with your hands, eyeing the way he tries to adjust his arms within his confines. “Let me clean you up and get these ropes off.”

You retrieve a stainless steel knife from the chest, kneeling down in front of him and carefully chipping away at the dried wax on his shoulders. It peels right off, the scent of sandalwood filling your nose once more now you’re in such close proximity to him. It’s mixed with something sharper, something you’ve come to associate with him—intimately familiar, a scent you could pick out in any room.

The blade drags across his collarbone and he shifts on his knees. “Don’t move,” you warn, enthralled by the gooseflesh erupting in the wake of the cold metal. A few inches higher, there’s the steady beat of his pulse, pressing against the steel. 

“I could kill you.”

The laugh he lets out is soft but complacent, a low rumble deep in his chest. “You won’t. I’m too good at my job.” 

There’s a sharp pang behind your breastbone. Does this count as work for him, too? When you call him late at night, is there ever a part of him that doesn’t want you? 

“Men can be replaced.” 

He turns his face towards you, the curl of his lips turning treacherous. “You like me too much.” 

It’s cocky, smug, and you hate it—hate how it’s the truth. In moments like these you wonder if he knows how much power he holds over you, and not for the first time tonight you’re thankful for the pokerface you were taught to wear. 

You press the tip of the knife into the hollow above his clavicle, a red drop blooming underneath the steel. “For a man so meticulous you’re pretty reckless sometimes.” 

If he felt the small cut he doesn’t show it, tilting his head towards the floor instead, angling it away from the sharp metal. “If it isn’t for me, it’s for this ridiculous pristine rug. I know it was a gift from your father. I’ll live.” 

It’s there, as always, woven between the threads of light-hearted banter and off-handed sarcastic remarks; something that shouldn’t exist between the two of you, something that has no place in your world: trust. Even if it exists only in these rare moments—fleeting, transient, a gossamer thread.

You shake your head and straighten your back, stepping behind him, worried he’d be able to hear your heart hammering against your ribs. Sometimes it feels as if he can see right through you—it makes you nervous, kept on tenterhooks, your intricate house of cards threatening to collapse. 

Busying yourself with prying the last bits of wax off his skin instead, your other hand traverses over his chest and shoulders, feeling the ridges and dips of sinewy muscle underneath. He leans into your touch and heat courses through your body as your own desire flares up again. You untie him and help him to his feet, his fingertips leaving scorching marks on your skin as you realise it’s the first time they’ve touched you tonight, a promise for more. 

You swallow thickly. “Get on the bed.” There’s an urgency to your voice that wasn’t there before, and you’re thankful he holds his snarky retort and clambers onto the bed without a word, back against the soft mattress. 

When you finally sink down on his cock it takes you all your effort not to moan loudly, hissing through clenched teeth. He’s right—it has been long, too long, and the slight burn as he bottoms out only fuels your arousal. 

The tips of his fingers caress your knees, but you allow him, too preoccupied with rolling your hips just right so his cock brushes against that sensitive spot every time you push yourself back on his thighs. 

His half-lidded gaze travels over your body and you put your hands on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you set an unrelenting pace. His jaw slackens at a particular motion of your hips so you repeat it, bending down to capture his mouth with your own, the faint taste of your own arousal still lingering on his tongue.

“Ah—please,” his brow furrows as if he’s in pain, pleasure overwhelming his senses. “Please let me fuck you.” His hands hover above your thighs, waiting, desperation lacing his voice at the thought of your refusal. 

Your fingers graze the edge of his jaw, almost tender—wandering down to his throat, wrapping around it, as you squeeze and tell him, “Then fuck me.”

Minho plants his feet on the bed and grabs ahold of your waist, nearly toppling you over if it wasn’t for the hand around his neck holding you up. You let yourself collapse against his shoulder, his pulse quickening underneath your fingertips as his thrusts become frantic, chasing the high you’ve been withholding from him all night. 

He mutters your name into your skin, a Judas kiss, and you feel your body react, disloyal—clenching around his cock, limbs leaden and heavy. Your fingers slip into his mouth, mind buzzing, a half-hearted attempt to stop his perjury. 

It’s sanctimonious, though, when you fall apart around him with his name on your lips. He follows suit when you tell him to, hips stuttering before stilling underneath you. There’s a drawn-out silence, only filled by your laboured breaths. Your dress is a welcome barrier between your bodies as his hands fall away from your waist, reluctant, and you resist the urge to hold him, moving off the bed. 

You watch him go through the motions you know by heart: bending down to retrieve his pants from the pile of clothes on the floor first, faint imprints of rope still lingering on his skin.

“Stay,” you say, and this time you hope it doesn’t sound like an order, “finish your drink first. You have a long trip back to Oklahoma ahead of you.”

He turns around, wearing that smile he’s mastered for your clients in court, and you already know the answer before it has left his mouth. The familiar words erode all the nights spent together until they slip through your fingers like sand. 

“Whatever you want, boss.”

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story please reblog, leave a comment, tell a friend, send me a pigeon, launch a mars rover. Your encouragement fuels my inner writer cryptid 👾

[asheyxash]

ever heard of taking a break?

pairing: producer jihoon x reader troupe: already lovers genre(s): est. relationship, slight angst if you really really squint, fluff warning(s): like one f word in the whole thing word count: ~1.6k summary: taking care of a sick jihoon who refuses to blatantly admit he's caught a nasty cold when he's dying and struggling to breathe is not going to be easy, but you'll do anything for him, even if it means getting sick.

wanted to write this because i think jihoon is the type of person who would insist he's fine when he's not and also i MIGHT be getting sick so yeah, just a quick one that took me only 25 minutes HAHA :D

work all mine, no reposting without creds, no stealing of published work, copyrighted:D

pt 1 of jihoon short series, read pt 2, "love is the best medicine" here!

you panicked as you came from the nearby pharmacy, holding a bag full of healthy food and medicine, ready to play nurse to your sick boyfriend, only to be greeted by an empty house. jihoon had obviously gone to his studio even after claiming he would be at home lying in bed, resting. you sighed, knowing he was stubborn like that. like, if it was you, not that you wanted to be sick or anything, but if you just so happened to be down with something, you'd jump at the perfect opportunity to skip out on work, and here you had your boyfriend insisting he could go to work, yeah sure he could, with a massive headache and a 39 degree fever from this morning before you left to buy stuff, you wondered just how much progress he had made. grabbing your things, you rushed out to the hybe building, one hand full of bags for him and the other with your phone.

knocking on the door to universe factory, none other than his studio, you heard the faint sound of someone sniffling. "ji?" you whispered softly, as you heard the sound of the door click before it opened. "oh, babe, hi. what are you doing here?" his raspy voice gave everything away as you smirked, "i should be asking you that question. go home, you're obviously sick." he rolled his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve, "i'm fine." his congested voice did not sound, "fine" but you followed him in anyway, shutting the door gently behind you. "hoon, have you listened to yourself? you sound like a dying cockroach." you crossed your arms as he shrugged, "an interesting way to put it , but it's just a little cold. i'll be fine." "whatever, at least eat your medicine and maybe i don't know, rest or something? ever heard of taking a break?" you shoved the bag of medicine into his arms as he hesitantly took it from you. you sighed, rubbing your temples, "baby, i know you don't want to, but it's for your own good." his voice sounded terrible as he went into a sudden coughing fit, making you grimace in sympathy from just how horrible they sounded. this time, you knew it was a bad cold and there was no way you were letting him off. "lee jihoon." uh oh, the full name was out as he glanced up at you, looking sheepish. "eat and i expect you to rest. you need a break." you glared at him, your voice firm and stern as he gulped, pinching forward with a sneeze, making you narrow your eyes as if to prove your point. seeing how he wasn't budging, you smacked his thigh, "hoon, i'm serious. i'm here to take care of you, okay?" your voice softens, "you're not feeling well, i can tell. you really need to rest so why don't you take your medicine and we can go home?" jihoon groaned, "y/n, you know i love you, but i have so much to do, at least let me finish". he paused, his breath hitching as you handed him a tissue. he sniffled after blowing his nose, clearing his throat. "sorry, i said, at least let me finish writing the verses for this new song. please?"

how could you say no to him? you caved in, your tone steady, "fine, but eat your medicine first, you have a max of thirty minutes, and then we're out of here, do you hear me?"

"loud and clear." jihoon's words were so soft as you took out the medicine and spoon fed him. his whines and protests didn't stop you as you watched him like a hawk, making sure he wasn't overworking himself under your watchful eye. your gaze was fixed on the clock and him, as he worked, the endless typing on the keyboard representing every second that ticked by. you were almost certain he had struck up a higher fever, as you saw him delete and rewrite yet another sentence. okay, that was it. his fever was too high, he was probably delirious, and there was no way he was getting anything done.

you stood up, walking forward to his computer and before he could say anything, you used your hands to block his screen. "hey babe, i'm nearly done..." jihoon stopped himself with the urge to sneeze again as you pat him back softly. he sniffled, looking at you as you snapped, your words harsher than intended, "hoon, i swear, save everything. we are going home right now." you immediately regretted your sharp tongue as you pecked him on the cheek, pulling him close to you, "sorry for raising my voice, i didn't mean to get mad. i'm just frustrated you are pushing yourself when your face is plae white and you look like you might collapse of air any second so for the sake of you and me, let's go home now, okay?" to your surprise, jihoon immediately pushed you away gently as he took off his headset,. "okay, okay, but maybe not plant your lips on me when i'm sick? i don't want you to get whatever i'm battling right no....now", he sneezed in the middle of his words, for like the thirtieth time of the day as you clung onto him even more. "i don't care if i get sick, you're my priority, and besides, my immune system is strong as shit." you then flexed your muscles, kissing him on the lips, catching him by surprise.

"babe!" he lets his lips off yours as you giggle, practically dragging his ass out the door. you hung onto his arm as the both of you walked to your car, him practically wheezing and coughing the whole way. in the car, you put your hand on his forehead and immediately retracted it, "gee ji, i bet you can cook a whole ass egg on that forehead! you're burning up!" he shot you an incredulous look as you playfully flicked his forehead, mocking his words in his voice, "i'm fine"!" he huffed and gave you a pout, but when he groaned probably from his fever, your smile dropped at the sight of just how bad a cold had hit him. usually your boyfriend could get through being sick within two days, drinking loads of water and like one pill, but this time round, he was definitely suffering. as the two of you reached back to your house, you ordered him to go to the bed and lie down, and that tone in your voice made jihoon know you weren't joking. reluctantly, he trudged his way up the stairs, you were following behind him. at the last step, he stumbled slightly and alarmed, your fast reaction managed to hold him tight by the waist. "jihoon, bed, now." you pointed at the bed who looked welcoming, as jihoon's face grew red.

"i'll be up there with you shortly, let me just cook you some chicken soup first. go sleep if you can okay? get as much rest because i don't think you're fine." you then shooed him off, planting a quick kiss on his lips making him blush before skipping down to the kitchen to whip up something for your sick boyfriend. usually jihoon would complain, talk back, but this time he just listened, too tired to even speak as his body dived onto the bed under the covers. his body gave in, and when you came back up with the food, medicine, and a glass of water all prepared for him, you smiled to yourself at the sight of your boyfriend sprawled on the bed, hugging your favourite rabbit pillow like it was you. he was mumbling something in his sleep, which made you frown. as you stepped nearer him, you could hear him repeatedly muttering things like, "how did i manage to pull the world's most perfect girl? how is y/n so caring? how did the universe land me with such an amazing girlfriend? i love y/n so, so much. she can control me all day." his words melted your heart, your smile growing wider than ever before as you set the items down on the nightstand. you took a towel and wet it with cold water, before placing it down on jihoon's forehead, hoping it would lower his fever as you snuggled in beside him.

your arms were wrapped around his as you softly planted a rain of kisses on his face, before whispering, "i love you jihoon, a lot." somehow, it was as if your voice was a key to wake him up as he blinked his eyes open slowly, before looking left and right, as if in disbelief you were cuddled in right next to him. slowly, realisation hit that you were there, ruffling and playing with his hair as his weak voice made you notice he was awake, "y/n...i love you too, so much. thank you for taking care of me." you winked at him, leaning in for a kiss as he looked skeptical, "okay, but don't blame me if you get sick."

"nonsense hoon, i never get sick, i told you my immune system is strong as fuck." you waved him off, kissing him anyway, your hands wrapped around his face as you continued, "you know, i've never seen anyone who wants to work when they can call a sick day."

"maybe because i'm actually fine." he replied cheekily, although you knew he secretly adored all the attention he was getting from you. "yeah yeah whatever workaholic, ever heard of taking a break?" the both of you giggled as you hugged each other to sleep. as the two of you dozed off, you gave him one more kiss, before going into your land of dreams.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

This just come to me when i play the en tapis rouge event.

In one of the scene when we meet eric in the event, Vil said he never get bullied when his main memory after his ob is him getting bullied.

Is it just him, didn't see it as a bullying issues cause he can fight back/because he thought it childish, in denial or he just doesn't want to be seen as someone weak in front of his junior? Cause i have heard that in some country/school, if they found out you were bullied it means you're weak and knowing NRC students prone to violence and bullying each other, being bullied may also be seen as label of weak students(may also associate with Ighnihyde since not many can fight back the bully like savanaclaw).

Or maybe this is so his father didn't worry? He did mention he and eric aren't always being together that much and when they did they do health and beauty related. So maybe Vil himself lied to Eric about his school life's and if he ever asked to bring friend maybe he said that his genuine friend(the other is just school friends or acquaintance) is only jack which make the lie more believable. So Eric may or may not know about it and Vil never tell him about it cause he didn't want to make him worried(this actually also make me think because of Eric being genuine happy seeing Vil's "school friends")

So far in the story and vignettes, we never heard bad memories of Vil and Jack together regarding the bullying pass the line of "they think you're a genuine bad person and want to beat you up". Like we never heard if it only physical bullying or also done another kind of bullying we see in drama and anime.

So i was wonder if it only just because Vil can fight back & he genuine didn't see it, he is in denial, he doesn't want to be as weak or he doesn't want to make Eric worry.

I wouldn’t say that the scene of Vil being bullied is the “main” memory after his OB 🤔 It’s more like… something that contributes to the overall pressure to perform/to be a certain way and feeds Vil’s need for public validation. After all, we also see film staff commenting on Vil’s professionalism (which isn’t necessarily bullying), as well as positive comments and encouragement from Eric. (I have an analysis on Vil’s motivations in book 5 if you’re interested in the topic!) We don’t know how truly common this bullying from Vil’s peers was outside of this one instance. Maybe it actually wasn’t common at all, since I don’t recall any other examples being mentioned.

I don’t see a reason why it can’t be a combination of all of those things instead of just one of them? The only one I would perhaps exclude is Vil being in denial. He doesn’t seem to be rejecting any of the bullying or critique he receives. Rather, even as a child, Vil is fixating on them far too much and equating his self-worth to the opinion of others. If he denied that he was bullied at all, then he wouldn’t place as much value as he does on what they say, he wouldn’t be pushing himself to work as hard has he does to “prove them wrong”.

As I mentioned in the analysis linked above, Vil had to mature extremely fast due to being a child star and seeking to make a name for himself without the publicity boost from his already famous father. You have to be tough to deal with the barrage of criticism coming at you from both the entertainment industry and the public, as well as know how to properly conduct yourself in work settings + with fans. He cannot show weakness, and doesn’t become comfortable being more childish and vulnerable (via giggling or laughing naturally) until late book 6.

Vil is capable of fighting if things escalate. Maybe he feels more secure in stating he isn’t bullied because (as Grim points out), Vil is perfectly capable of defending himself or exacting revenge on those who challenge or offend him. Again, this is a means of showing his own strength and independence—a continued and learned pattern.

The mindset of “I have to be strong” is further enabled by Night Raven College. The (unofficial) tradition/rule at the school is “the weak obey the strong […] losers don’t get to have a say.” Vil projects an air of superiority not only because he is in a position of power, but because he could easily take students in combat, and the social culture of NRC promotes this way of thinking and resolving disputes. Only the victors get what they want—as well as the respect and the obedience of the losers. We’ve seen Vil successfully pull this off in many other instances: book 5 with Ace/Deuce/Epel, Beans Day with Savanaclaw mob students, book 6 with Idia, and more. He was already steadfast before enrolling, but at NRC, the behavior is perpetuated and this serves Vil well.

Side note (since the ask seems to have implied Ignihyde is often the victim of bullying whereas Savanaclaw, who are physically strong, dominate)!! I think you’re thinking of physical acts of bullying and strength—which, don’t get me wrong, are valid—but I think shows of power and bully aren’t limited to just that. Octavinelle and Scarabia, for example, can be extremely catty and snide. Furthermore, there’s magical strength and skills to account for, as well as other forms of bullying: financial, verbal, emotional/psychological, cyber (which I’m sure Ignihyde mobs excel at, if Idia’s Dorm Uniform vignettes are of any indication).

Vil had always been strong, but that strength has essentially become diamond armor after years and years in entertainment and studying at NRC, a place which enables his attitude. The fact that Vil denies being bullied in front of his father may just be a consequence of all that previous experience with his armor on. He’s so used to it, it’s insignificant to him now.

I also get the sense that Vil wants to be seem as mature and grown-up to his dad. For example, Vil speaks somewhat formally to Eric, referring to him as “Producer” and gently scolding him for taking the time off of work to eat with him. (Him wanting to find success in entertainment without his father’s name getting involved also plays into this.) The other half of it seems to be that Eric himself expresses worry about his son’s social life. He mentions that he often had to pull Vil out of school for various gigs, meaning that Vil was not able to be around kids his age too much. This is why he’s so happy to finally have the chance to meet some of Vil’s NRC chums. If Vil intends to reassure him show that he is capable of standing on his own, then naturally that would come with reassuring his father that no one is being nasty to him. (Besides, even if they are, he is perfectly equipped to handle them.)

Last thing I want to comment on is Vil’s friendship with Jack. I have to wonder how significant this actually is…? Because Jack was mentioned in Vil’s post-OB flashback—but this friendship is rarely ever mentioned outside of like a few throwaway voice lines where the two mention working out together??? Like, Vil and Jack don’t seem very close. I believe part of this is because Vil was usually away for work obligations + to travel with Eric and one of them (honestly forgot which one) moved away at some point. Did they reconnect at NRC, or were they just always in touch anyway…?

It doesn’t seem like Vil even talks to his dad about Jack; Jack was not brought up in their conversations. This is strange because this clearly was not the case for other hometown events; Marja seemed to have heard of us before we arrived in Harveston, and Dylla was VERY familiar with Yuu, Ace, and Deuce via phone calls with her son. Yet Eric shows ho similar familiarity with Jack…? Weird, maybe he and Vil aren’t that close after all?

But yeah!! 😅 Overall, I definitely think it’s a combination of factors that just continue to feed into one another. This has convinced Vil that he has to perpetually have this image of being strong, mature, and cool—even to his own family.

[mariacallous]

Sharing this because of interest and not because of agreement

Chris Murphy, the junior senator from Connecticut, hardly exudes the energy on the stump of the leading populist progressives in his party, Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. He is preternaturally calm, and, when he says that his “hair is on fire” about the Trump Administration’s destruction of public norms and the rule of law, it is not initially convincing. And yet, in recent months, Murphy has tirelessly argued—on television, on TikTok, on The New Yorker Radio Hour—that unless the Democratic Party broadens its coalition with a primarily populist economic message and takes risks to oppose the destruction of democratic institutions, it will fail to mobilize popular support, continue to lose elections, and squander (as in Hungary, Turkey, and beyond) democracy itself.

Murphy, who is fifty-one, was a wunderkind, winning election to the House at thirty-three and to the Senate before his fortieth birthday. He argues not only that Donald Trump and the MAGA movement are threatening myriad institutions and making them bow to executive power but that the midterm elections of 2026 might be rendered undemocratic through the erosion of the infrastructure necessary for opposition to exist. And Trump, or a member of his family, may well be in position to take the White House two years later. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Senator, I wonder if we could try to define the crisis that we’re in. I’m of the opinion that the Trump Administration is intent on creating an American-style authoritarian situation. Do you agree with me?

I do. Long ago, the Republican Party decided that they cared more about power than they did democracy. That’s what January 6th was all about—regardless of who won the election, they wanted to make sure that their person was in charge. They believe, and have long believed, that the Democratic Party progressives are an existential threat to the country, and thus any means justifies the end—which is making sure that a Democrat never again wins a national election. So, this seems pretty purposeful and transparent—this decision to rig the rules of democracy so that you still hold elections, but the minority party, the opposition party, is rendered just weak enough, and the rules are tilted toward the majority party just enough, so that Donald Trump and Republicans and the Trump family rule forever. And, of course, this is not an unfamiliar system. This is Hungary, this is Turkey, this is Serbia. There are plenty of countries, all around the world, that hold elections—it’s just that one party continues to win. And that is, I think, the very concrete, very transparent plan that Trump and his White House are implementing right now.

Why do your Republican colleagues put up with this? Do they fess up to it when you talk to them in private?

They do not fess up to the plan behind closed doors. They are living in a self-created delusion. Most of them will tell you that it’s not as bad as you think. Yes, Donald Trump is acting in a way that previous Presidents have not, but we will still have a free and fair election; what he’s doing is not enough to topple essential democratic norms.

They are, of course, also deeply scared of him. They have worked very hard to become United States senators. You’ve sacrificed a lot to get to this point, and you don’t want to stop being a United States senator once you’ve gotten here. And for Republicans, the only thing that keeps you a United States senator is staying on Donald Trump’s good side.

I have to ask you why. Is the job so great—is being called “senator” by young staffers so great—if you have to give up and cede your principles?

Of course not. Of course not. And maybe this interacts with the third thing Republicans will tell you, which is, “Hey, listen, I’m trying to make this better.” Republicans in the mold of John Thune—and I’m not saying that he personally has said this to me, but people in his mold will say, “Well, if I cross Donald Trump, I’ll get replaced by somebody infinitely worse. And I can try to work behind the scenes to make this better.”

So, what’s the difference at this point?

Well, I’m telling you how they rationalize it. I’m not defending it. Of course, it is all treachery to lie down with Donald Trump, who is actively trying to destroy our democracy.

And then the majority of Republicans in Congress are fully on board with the idea that the rules should be rigged so that Democrats never rule again. There is just an exhaustion with democracy among a lot of Republicans.

This has only been going on for a couple of months—the Administration began January 20th, and it’s quite different from the first term. How bad is this, and where is it going, in your estimation?

I mean, it can be true that some of the orthodoxy of the left put us in the position of being unelectable. It is also true that the bureaucracy inside the federal government, the state governments, and local governments has become so big and cumbersome as to make it impossible to get things done in this country. But that is not mutually exclusive with the belief that we have months—not a year—before our democracy is rendered so damaged that it can’t be repaired.

I do think that over the last four years, those surrounding Donald Trump put together a pretty thoughtful plan to destroy democracy and the rule of law, and you are seeing it being implemented. Just in the last week—and you and others have covered this well—the assault has been trained on academia, institutions of higher education, and the legal community, the biggest law firms in this country. In democracy after democracy, those two institutions—higher education and the legal profession—are, in many ways, the foundation that undergirds the rule of law. Those are the places where people think about the rule of law, protect it, warn when it is being undermined. The legal profession is the place where people contest efforts to try to destroy the rule of law. And so it is not coincidental that Trump is trying to force both higher education and the legal profession to capitulate to him, and to commit, often through very explicit bilateral agreements—for the most important institutions—to essentially quelling protest.

And, of course, what the Administration is doing by taking on these very high-profile institutions is sending a warning to other law firms and to other colleges: if you take us on—if you file lawsuits against the Administration, if you support Democrats, if you allow for campus-wide protests against our priorities—you’ll be next. And so what will happen here—what inevitably happens in every democracy in which this tactic is tried—is that the Administration won’t have to go after every institution or every firm, because most of them will just decide in advance to stay out of the way. When students are filing a petition for a massive protest against a Trump Administration policy, they may just find it much harder to be able to exercise free speech on campus.

This is how democracy dies. Everybody just gets scared. You make a few examples, and everyone else just decides to comply.

That brings us to the real crux of our conversation today—the Democratic Party. What is the Democratic Party going to do about it? Every indicator that I see, in terms of public-opinion polls, shows widespread dissatisfaction with the Democratic Party. What are the Democrats going to do in a concerted way in the Senate and the House?

First, I do think there is a vast overestimation of the power that Democrats have. We are in the minority in the House and the Senate. We don’t have the Presidency. There are some people out there who think we should just be able to stop this. And the fact of the matter is that we don’t have an army, and thus we are relying on public mobilization and the courts.

Second, I do think that there’s an element out there that doesn’t actually want to have the really hard conversation about why we lost. I mean, people knew who this guy was. He said he was going to be a dictator on Day One. He told you he was going to pardon the January 6th protesters. He still won.

People thought he was fooling around.

Nah. I mean, that might be true, but I don’t know that that’s the whole story. I think we’re a pretty broken brand right now, and some of the people on the left don’t want to go through that hard rewrite of what the Democratic Party stands for.

What’s at the core of the brokenness, if we can be specific?

Well, we have become the status-quo party, and so we have reverted to defending democracy instead of explaining how we are going to break it down and reform it. We have not been a pugilistically populist party, where we name the people who have power and we build very easy-to-understand solutions about how to transfer power to people who don’t have it. And then we’re a pretty judgmental party, filled with a dozen litmus tests. We don’t let you in unless you agree with us on everything, kind of—from gender rights to reproductive rights to gun control to climate.

We’ve got to be a party that invites people in as long as they agree with us on the basic economic message, and build our party with a little bit more acceptance of people who have diverging views on social and cultural issues.

How would that conversation and that process come about, among the Democrats?

Well, I think first is making the decision that economics is the tentpole. And populist economics. That means that you are going to have a party that, frankly, sounds a little bit more like Bernie Sanders or Elizabeth Warren. You are talking about billionaires and corporate power. You are proposing really easy-to-understand ideas on how to shift that power—whether it be a cap on rent increases, or a massive increase in the minimum wage, or the regulation of every single drug price, not just the ten highest-priced drugs. And then it is just making that decision to go out and ask people to come into the coalition who might not be with us on issues that I care about, like guns, and to nominate candidates that signal that the Party is a big tent—people who are populist economically, but may not line up with us on all the social and cultural stuff.

Can you explain the split we’re seeing between Democratic senior leadership and more junior members of the Party?

I don’t know that it really breaks down along generational lines, but I can explain what the basic argument is right now. Is this a normal moment, where you can just keep on punching Donald Trump, and pushing down his approval ratings, and eventually win the 2026 election, and set up a potential win in 2028? Or is there a pretty good chance that we’re not going to have a free election in 2026?

You believe that’s a possibility?

A hundred per cent. Every single day, I think the chances are growing that we will not have a free and fair election in 2026.

What does that look like?

It may not even be that the mechanics of the election are rigged. I’m not suggesting that there will be election officials out there stuffing ballots. What I’m talking about is that the opposition—the infrastructure necessary for an opposition to win—will have been destroyed. No lawyers will represent us. They will take down ActBlue, which is our primary means of raising small-dollar contributions. They will threaten activists with violence, so no one will show up to our rallies and to our door-knock events. This is what happens in lots of democracies around the world; the opposition is just kept so weak that they can’t win. That’s what I worry about being the landscape as we approach 2026. And, if you believe that, then everything you do right now has to be in service of stopping that kind of weakening or destruction of democracy.

So, to me, the essential difference in the Party right now is that some people think that that has a very low likelihood, and so we should just engage in normal politics—try to become more popular than Republicans. And people like me believe that it won’t matter if we’re more popular than them, because the rules won’t allow us to run a fair election; and so everything we are doing right now, both inside the Capitol and outside the Capitol, should be geared toward trying to make Republicans stop this assault on the rule of law and democratic norms.

Do you think it’s possible that Donald Trump wants to stay in office past 2028? How would he do it?

I think it’s absolutely possible. People very close to him are saying that it’s already a foregone conclusion. If he breaks the Supreme Court and breaks the Constitution and pays no consequence for it, we could ultimately be living in a situation in which the President just declares that he will stay in office. He could also hand power to a relative—maybe Donald Trump doesn’t run, but a Trump family member runs and the Trump family just stays in power. I think all of those things are possible.

The Democrats ran, in no small measure, on the preservation of democracy, and that failed. Why do you have any confidence that the public would mobilize for democracy in the future, if not now?

The public was not convinced by our argument, in 2024, because we were shilling for the existing version of democracy—which is deeply corrupt, which does not work. When I got into politics twenty-five years ago, something like campaign-finance reform, government reform, democracy reform, was a top-three issue for Democrats. It was something we talked about every single day. Somewhere along the line that stopped; somewhere along the line we stopped talking about reforming democracy. So it became easy for voters to just believe that we were all corrupt, and that neither Republicans nor Democrats were actually sincere in fixing what was wrong with democracy.

Trump is giving us this opportunity—because this is the most corrupt White House in the history of the country—to run on an anti-corruption message. But we will only win if we actually run an anti-corruption platform. And so, for me, the two things that matter most are populist economics and government reform. If Democrats run on cleaning up Washington with real, actual plans—to, for instance, get private money completely out of politics; to pass the STOCK Act, to make sure that not a single person inside government can use insider information to trade to benefit them financially—and we run on populist economics, I think that’s a winner, and it’s a way for people to stand up and support democracy, but only a reformed version of democracy.

You mentioned corruption, and we now have a situation where members of the Trump family earn tremendous fees from foreign governments. Seems to me that that’s a colossal form of corruption, and it’s not something we don’t know about. It’s published all the time, and then it falls into a black hole. Why?

Trump has been so public about his corruption that it ends up being normalized. If it were so corrupt, why would you do it in public? It must not be corrupt if you’re doing it in public. We’re used to corruption being done in secret. We’re used to there being a sort of shamefulness about it. And so it is interesting that his boasting of his corruption ends in people believing that he might not be corrupt.

I’m just shocked that the Trump meme coin isn’t, like, the only thing that we’re talking about. It’s probably the most massive corruption scandal in the history of the country. You literally have an—I guess—legal, open channel for private donations to the President and his family in exchange for favors. And we just think that it’s part of Trump’s right to do business in the White House. It’s gross. It’s disgusting. It’s deeply immoral. And the fact that we didn’t talk about that every hour of every day, once he released that coin, was kind of a signal to the country that we weren’t going to take the corruption seriously.

Senator Murphy, is Chuck Schumer the right leader for the Democratic Party in the Senate for this moment?

He can be. Listen, it’s not easy to be leader of this party. There are diverse views inside the caucus, and the whole caucus has to make up their mind that we are going to start fighting, that we are not just going to do business as usual. The State of the Union was an interesting moment. We could have engaged in an extraordinary act of protest: we could have chosen, as a party, to not go; to decide that we were not going to legitimize this President, this level of corruption, and the amount of lying in the State of the Union speech, by not showing up.

Did that conversation take place among the caucus?

I mean—it was judged, I think, too extraordinary and too risky a tactic.

Were you for it?

I chose not to go, and I certainly made the case that we should at least consider not going as an option.

Chuck Schumer’s argument about voting the way he did on the continuing resolution was that, if you shut down the government, it gives the Trump Administration carte blanche, for a potentially boundless period of time, to do whatever they like in terms of shutting down agencies—not that they’re not doing it to a great degree now, but that it would be open season. The opposing point of view—let them do it, let them own it—seemed to Schumer a gamble that one couldn’t take.

He has a compelling argument. It does feel odd for Democrats to protest Republicans shutting down the government by shutting down the government. And it is also true that the President would have extraordinary powers during a shutdown.

I came to a different conclusion. I thought that the public would actually blame Republicans for the shutdown of the government, because they saw them shutting down the government. But it is true that voting no on the continuing resolution would’ve been a big risk for Democrats. Not showing up for the State of the Union would’ve been a big risk for Democrats. Both could have backfired.

But we need to be engaged in risk-tolerant behavior right now. Because ultimately, the only way to save the democracy is for there to be a national public mobilization—of not thousands, not tens of thousands, but hundreds of thousands of people—when the five-alarm fire happens. If the public doesn’t see us taking risks—tactical risks, daily risks—then they are not going to take what will be a risk on their part, standing up to a repressive regime where it’s clear that the government is willing to make you pay a personal price if you exercise your voice.

This is in line with what you said to Jon Stewart recently. You said, “I don’t think you can ask the people of this country to do these exceptional things that are going to be necessary to save our democracy if we are not willing to take risks”—meaning yourselves. What kind of risks should you and your colleagues be taking right now going forward?

In the Senate, the minority has power—you cannot proceed to any legislation without the consent of the minority. Now, we have regularly been providing the votes to the Republican majority to move forward legislation that they care about, including the continuing resolution. We could choose not to do that. We could say to Republicans: Unless you work with us on some targeted measures to prevent the destruction of our democracy, we are not going to continue to pretend like it’s business as usual. We could make that decision as a party. Now, that would mean that occasionally Democrats would need to vote no on legislation that, on the merits, they may support. But, if you think that democracy is the No. 1, No. 2, and No. 3 story, then you have to act like it, and you need to show that you’re willing to take a political risk, like voting against an otherwise popular bill in order to increase and create leverage to try to save the democracy.

You mentioned the possibility of public involvement, public demonstrations, people out on the street. What would bring them there?

Well, there aren’t daily political rallies happening in the country. But anytime you set one up now, you’re seeing not thousands of people, but tens of thousands of people attending. You saw what happened with Bernie and A.O.C. over the weekend.

I think they reached thirty thousand at one of the rallies.

And Senator [Richard] Blumenthal, my colleague in Connecticut, was telling me that he went to this tiny, last-minute Tesla protest at a dealership in Milford, Connecticut, and there were six hundred people who essentially shut down Route 1 in Connecticut. People are ready to mobilize. We just haven’t been organized enough to give them those opportunities. And this speaks to the actual need of the Democratic Party right now. We have to be better when it comes to our tactics inside Washington, but we actually have to build a political infrastructure that can plug people in. And that’s what we’ve been really terrible at doing over the years. The Republicans have a permanent political infrastructure—mobilizing, legal, messaging, intellectual. The Democrats have a very thin permanent infrastructure.

So how do you go about winning back voters who don’t agree with you on some of what you say are orthodoxies, without ceding ground on things that you believe in?

I think about a really transparent ask of people, which is to say: we want you to work with us because you believe the minimum wage should be ten dollars higher. You believe that corporate power has become so consolidated as to become an evil. And we’re willing to hear you out, we’re willing to listen to you about your concerns, about how far our party has moved on guns or climate or cultural and social issues. To just have a little bit less judgment when it comes to the non-economic issues. I think that that builds a bigger coalition.

I get that. But, if you read Martin Luther King’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” or “Why We Can’t Wait,” he is addressing centrist, or center-left, clergy and activists who are always counselling him: You have to wait a little longer. It’s not time yet. And I think a lot of people, a lot of groups—and the most obvious one that Trump took advantage of in his ads were trans people—want their rights, want respect, and they want to be able to exist in the world as easily as you and me. Are we asking them to wait?

No. Listen, we’re trying to win power so we can protect those people. We just aren’t going to be able to protect them if—

If we mention them.

No. If we don’t build coalitions that allow us to win elections. Listen, one of my colleagues, [Georgia Senator] Jon Ossoff, gave a great speech over the weekend. He talked, in the meat of his speech, about the trans community, as I do, and said, “Listen, don’t let the right blame your problems on trans kids or on immigrants. Your problems are created by a fundamental corruption inside government. Your problems are created by a government that prioritizes the billionaires and rigs the rules against you.” That is a message that can win. So I don’t think you run away from your defense of those communities. You talk about those communities in the context of a message that is anchored in fighting concentrated economic power, and fighting the billionaire class that is taking over our government.

Senator, you’ve been on TV a lot lately. You’ve been out there quite a lot. Are you in the process of asserting yourself for national office?

No. And to the extent that my messaging has broken through a little bit more than others, I ascribe to the fact that there is not actually a personal motive attached to it. Sometimes, even if you’re not saying it out loud, people can kind of tell when you’re putting yourself out there for personal political gain. I actually believe that there is a good chance that we are not going to have an election in which people can make an actual choice in 2026. My hair is on fire about it. So to the extent that people are picking up what I’m putting down, I think it’s because they see that I am motivated—first, second, and third—by my fear that we are going to sleepwalk through the transition of our country from a democracy to an autocracy.

And you believe that’s what we’re doing right now?

I think we are at risk of sleepwalking through this transition. We desperately want to believe that we can play politics as normal because it’s uncomfortable—really uncomfortable—to play politics as not normal. It involves taking really big risks. And, of course, you just want to wake up and believe that you live in a country where people wouldn’t make a conscious choice to move away from democratic norms. But while some people are being hoodwinked into being along for that ride, others are making the conscious choice because our democracy has been so broken for so long.

So, yes, I believe that there is a chance that we miss this moment. We just wake up one day and we are no longer in a democracy, which is why I think we have to start acting more urgently right now.

And is it like the boiling of a frog? Or is there a more immediate flash point, when you know that you’ve passed the point of no return?

No, I think it’s like the boiling of a frog. We believe that there are these Reichstag moments, but there normally aren’t. Normally, you just lose an election, and then you lose another election, and then another one. And you start to look around and say, wait a second. I don’t think the minority party can ever win again.

[vesna-v-irkutske]

What do you think Artyom and Nikita (mostly Nikita) would think of their "fans" ?

Oh, Artyom likes having "fans". Knowing that someone is interested in him, and someone sees him as something more, tries to understand him, shows him sympathy, must stroke his ego. Although Daphne said somewhere that he was still kind of shocked by it, that he didn't understand it. Two things can be true at once.

May 22, 2023. "Vlada, hi. Got the letter on May 5th. • To be honest, it's an interesting admission — the interest in Nikita's and my philosophy... O_O I'm being completely serious: this is the first time I've seen something like this. I'm very flattered. =)"

June 26, 2023. "The reaction to the sudden popularity was calm. Although I was wildly freaking surprised. But at the same time, remained calm =D"

Although I bet he'd have cringed at some stuff and tried his best to ignore it and focus on something else.

January 6, 2024. "How I feel about trolls on the internet. I don't give a hoot about the internet and everyone who lives in it =) I hardly ever go there, so I don't come into contact with trolls."

As for Nikita, it's hard to say. Back then, he wanted attention and recognition. I'm sure both of them had fun playing Among Us in real life. Law enforcement officials said that they kind of liked talking about their crimes, that someone listened to them, paid attention to everything they said. They got what they wanted: attention and being treated seriously. They posed a real threat, they felt powerful, they were capable of changing lives.

Later, I think, the shame and realization woke up. Half a year after their arrest, Nikita said that he no longer needed all this, and that he felt ashamed. In November 2012, he said, "I feel sick/bad when I think about what I have done."

In June or early July 2012, Nikita gave an interview to a newspaper: — Why is Anoufriev supported on social media, but you don't have any fans? Is he more ideological? — I don't really care about this idea at all.

What I'm trying to say is that Nikita only talked to his mom and gave interviews to a couple of newspapers and journalists because they asked him, not because he was particularly eager for it. In short, he wasn't looking for contact. Just like his whole life before that. So I think he didn't even know about his "fans", or he wasn't very interested. Who knows exactly why there's not a single letter from Nikita from prison. He had no one to write to but his family. And I'm not really sure if someone else knew his address to write to him. Besides, he was a very closed-off, anxious and depressed person, I doubt that he wanted to communicate with strangers. Who knows what they might have written to him? All kinds of threats and insults? He knew it himself.

I think he'd have distanced himself from it all and disappeared into the shadows. At the same time, I'm not denying the possibility that he would be interested if he found out about the "fans". Just a sizeable maybe. But I think that he, just like Artyom, would be extremely surprised, confused and wouldn't understand this. Maybe he wouldn't necessarily have thought anything about their "fans". Maybe he'd have thought it was weird. Perhaps he'd constantly wonder why people were interested in him, if there was any catch in it, if they were actully laughing at him? Maybe he wouldn't really care.

But he'd totally be weirded the fuck out because of some of you, especially if it had to do with his looks and something romantic/sexual in general.

Of course, he knew about TCC, but he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of that interest. And I think he'd have been very distant with his "fans". He was never a talker, and even less with a bunch of different people. Maybe, by some miracle, he'd have managed to make a couple of friends (hopefully better than those he had before, just someone nice and compassionate instead of someone interested in very dark stuff; however, Nikita was very deeply convinced that he was nothing good, and that he didn't deserve anything good; besides, all these positive and pacifistic things were alien to his mentally ill, disappointed in the world, people and himself brain; there's comfort in suffering and misery, if it's something you've been used to since an early age, because it's familiar, and getting better requires a desire to change, effort and energy, which depressed people have very little of). Anyway, who knows how it'd have affected him. Don't encourage mentally ill person's bad tendencies.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Give me a Reason: Chapter 22 - Footage you Probably Should've Looked at Earlier.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57309457/chapters/165119842

Uzi sighed as she rested her head on her hand, she was nearly begging for this day to be over already- even though it had just begun.

“Hey Uzi!” N greeted as her sat right beside her in thier shared English class, smiling, as per usual, as big as physically possible without being creepy. He grabbed out a folder and the book that was mandatory for them to read. “H-Have you seen…?”

“Yup. How’d you see it?”

“Some girl named Rebecca showed me.” He explained, looking to the side as if the wall was suddenly interesting. “She was acting really weird about it…”

Uzi’s hand suddenly balled into a fist as the recalled the name, She was in the grade underneath them, held back similarly to Uzi but not for the same, completely bogus reason, no. Rebecca was held back for sleeping with the principals son.

She had a reputation to begin with, being from out of town, where she bragged about having a boyfriend from her old school that was “super hot”. Before a month later she was caught making out with another classmate in the janitors closet, which of course created a buzz around her for a bit. A buzz that unfortunately, gave her a taste of attention that spiraled into- what she was known for now; stealing other peoples boyfriend’s.

It kinda made Uzi want to laugh. If she wasn’t disgusted at the thought Rebecca was only interested because she thought N was taken, or because he was new, it could of been a mix of both honestly. There were plenty of reasons to be interested in N that weren’t so damn shallow!

…Wait what?

“Not to tell ya what to do, but I wouldn’t get too close to her.” She found herself saying. “She’s trying to make you her next victim.”

“Victim?” N cocked his head to the side, leaning in slightly into her personal space as his eyes followed the English teacher to her desk

“Boyfriend.” She explained quickly, in a near whisper before the teacher obsessed with silence sushed the room.

“Good morning everyone.” She announced to the class, before they began the mind-numbing task of reading ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. Perhaps it would have been slightly less if she hadn’t already read the stupid thing-

N however was still reeling from this information. Blinking as he stared blankly at the same page. Someone was interested in him? Romantically? That had never happened before.

Granted he was mostly homeschooled, so it would have been weird if it had.

His brow furrowed as he thought about it. Uzi spoke about her like she was bad news, and he trusted her judgement on most things, she’d lived here all her life after all! And they were freinds! So wouldn’t just lie to him.

Still, it did make him curious. He wasn’t interested in a ‘relationship’. He didn’t know Rebecca, she was pretty sure, but… most people were, but how fun would she be to be around? Would he be able to hold long conversations with her?

Would she want to get her hands dirty when He and Uzi went on another ‘field trip?’ Would they even get along? Probably not…

Maybe he’d ask around.

…

Lunch came quickly, which was good because Uzi was starving, she hadn’t had breakfast that morning since her dad had left early for work; so she near rushed to the lunch line and- meatloaf.

She despaired, she was wondering why the line was so short today.

The fucking meatloaf was barely that, it was ground meat, burned, and then covered in what was probably ketchup. served with corn and green beans mixed together in a bowl and a small oatmeal cookie, she grabbed a juice and dumped the garbage into the bin, aside from the cookie and the drink, which were both pre-packaged and therefore couldn’t give her food poisoning.

She ripped open the cookie package and popped the pastry in her mouth, it realistically served only to make her hungrier, but whatever. N took his usual space next to her, being silent as he observed her taking her time with the smallest cookie of all time, trying to make it last. “That bad?”

“I’m not eating unseasoned ground meat no matter how much ketchup they try to save it with.” She replied bitterly. “I understand budget but salt packets are like 90 cents.”

He chuckled. “Well, I hope you’ll like pork dumplings better.” And sat a brand new purple lunchbox in front of her, N had doodled a bat with her name above it in black sharpie. She stared at it incredulously. “W-what?”

“Tessa packed you lunch! She pretty much adopted you, she told me to tell you not to resist.” He laughed as he sat down and opened his own lunchbox, where a bowl of dumplings slathered in gravy rested, along with an apple and a bowl of rice.

Uzi stared at the internals of his lunchbox, looked at her half-empty juice and tentatively opened the one given to her. It was the same meal, portioned the same, though instead of an apple there was a whole, peeled peach.

She blinked again. “And what other perks are there to being adopted by your sister?” She asked plainly.

“Hmmm… Unconditional Love?” He suggested, popping a dumpling in his mouth with a plastic fork.

“Ew.”

He chortled. “Free checkups at the clinic aaaand being sent outdated memes.”

“Huh.” She took a bite of a dumpling and her taste buds were sent to nirvana. “Mmmmm… I surrender.”

He laughed hard at that. “Apparently the way to your heart is food.”

“Absolutely.” She agreed without a moment’s hesitation. “Fuck this so good…” She murmured with her eyes closed. “She needs to like… open a restaurant, she’s wasted on being a nurse for this shit-ass town.”

“She likes helping people. I think that’s why she chose to go to medical school instead of culinary school.” He shrugged, “And I like it here! It’s quiet, and pretty! And I met you! That’s not bad!”

She felt the blush rising to her face as she looked away from him to hide it. “Y-yeah.”

…

Uzi sighed as she sat down at home, her chair spinning as she threw her weight on it. Salem looked up from his nap on the bed for only a moment, dissinterest plastered all over his furry face before he curled back up to resume his nap.

Today had been weird.

The video circulating around was it’s own nightmare and a half, she’d heard about her and her ‘new boyfriend’ in pretty much every classroom , hall and school lunch table. She was half-sure she’d hear about it on the damn moon.

The fact N had seen it too had mortified her, but the fact he seemed mostly unaffected by it helped ease her anxiety about it. Of course he wouldn’t let himself be effected by silly things such as the words of other people-

Then there was the lunch that she absolutely devoured before returning the lunchbox to be refilled for next time, she wasn’t sure why they bothered getting her her own lunchbox if she couldn’t actually take it home; maybe it was just easier for her to portion it out.

She shook her head, feeling her head getting fuzzier and fuzzier the more she thought about it.

Before she knew it, she was lighting up a blunt and taking a rip.

She sighed as the fuzz in her head was replaced with wonderful emptiness, a small, blissed smile appearing on her face as she leaned back in her chair, creating a ring of smoke in the air as she breathed out.

With her head now devoid of pesky thoughts. She decided it was a great time to edit the footage from thier last excursion so that they could post it to the blog.

The footage was clear and stable, which filled her with a (dulled) sense of pride at her camerawork, and the smile got bigger when N’s goofy smile and wave appeared on camera during their intro.

His hair was so fluffy…

As the footage kept going, she cut out long periods of silence or moments of shaky footage when she momentarily lost her footing or had to climb over a log. Then the moment where she pointed the camera down the old mineshaft arrived and she near choked on air.

Far down the shaft, further then the human eye could reasonably pick up there was a soft, faded white figure, short-ish, and blurry enough she couldn’t make out any features, but there it was, plain as day. The figure was just standing politely, with it’s arms looking to be tucked in front of it.

She paused the video and stared.

Before screaming at the top of her lungs. “HOLY SHIT!”

[hms-no-fun]

you're one of the handful critics whose taste I trust fully. like if you say something is good then I will typically move from "oh I should get around to that" to "that's a Scheduled Event now" so like. I appreciate that.

also do you see yourself as a Critic? or does that role mean something different to you?

thank you! i used to be EXTREMELY opposed to the idea of being called a critic. i hated critics as a teen because i thought they were mean assholes who just wanted to make other people feel bad for liking stuff. i loved movies and watched all kinds of movies and very very rarely found myself hating anything i watched.

of course it turned out this was because i was young, and when you're young you don't have context for anything. the older you get and the more life you live (not necessarily synonymous ideas!), the better able you are to contextualize a work. as you live through elections and see your cool friends become conservatives and etc etc you get better at reading art because art is a mirror. when you're young even a shallow mirror reflects everything and that's an amazing and wonderful feeling. but age brings depth to your life, and makes it harder to see as much of yourself in shallow mirrors. and if your job is to write about movies, it's really easy to develop resentments for the samey hall of mirrors that is the american film industry.

i don't necessarily think of myself as a critic, but i'll often describe myself that way for convenience. i mean, i am a critic. i went to film school for media studies and i've been making video essays for almost a decade. maybe my youthful resentment for critics came because people often told me i was a critic, on account of me being extremely opinionated about movies very early on (consequences of having a dad who took me to see the blair witch project when i was ten). i was always like, no, a critic is someone who says "this movie IS bad" in an objective sense, but i say "I THINK this movie is bad" because everyone has different opinions!!!

i still mostly hold that perspective tbh? i just stopped giving a shit so much about hurting people's feelings by saying an opinion too loud. back in the day i had a professor who was also my boss on a couple film sets, he was a gaffer which is the guy who takes the artistic direction from the cinematographer and translates that into concrete step-by-step equipment demands for grips and electricians to fulfill. he watched every movie and always had such interesting things to say about them. i considered this guy my mentor, i hung out in his office all the time and i admired his perspective so much. at one point on set i asked him what it is he looks for movies, how is it he seems incapable of truly hating anything. he asked for time to think about it, and came back after lunch with an answer: essentially, "i look for that one thing that works. something i've never seen, some interesting idea or play of light or shot composition. even the worst movies, often especially the worst movies, are capable of expanding your idea of film is capable of."

that's been pretty much my polestar ever since. i came up in an era of youtube that was all about hyperbolically tearing shit down, and even as i found it entertaining that was never really the kind of analysis i wanted to do. i think it's very easy to be mean off the cuff and a lot harder to take something for what it is and try to see something redemptive within it. like it sucks but even the worst marvel slop has its moments, and that's the evidence that cinema isn't dead. i enjoy searching for meaning in these reflections and articulating them. art is so much more fun when you play with it instead of against it. but then, that's just, like, my opinion, man

[uniquexusposts]

I’m not usually like this | L. Stroll (2)

Summary: Lance was working in a cafe and a new girl walked in. He didn't thank the waiter. Instead of ignoring it, she had the audacity to call him out and throw sarcasm at him like they had known each other for years. Part: 2/? A/N: This will be a small series of a few chapters! Inspiration: alijhali on TikTok

Part 1

The café was busier than usual when Y/n stopped by the next time, but that didn’t stop her from making a bold decision. There were plenty of open tables, seats available near the windows, and even a cosy spot tucked away in the corner. But she wasn’t in the mood to overthink things. In fact, she was in her ‘fuck it’ era, and the idea of sitting anywhere else didn’t interest her. So, without hesitation, she slid into the seat across from Lance Stroll. Again.

Lance only looked up from his laptop for a second, just long enough to acknowledge her presence with a fleeting glance before his focus returned to the screen. There was no grumpy scowl this time, no sharp inhale of annoyance. He didn’t protest or make any sarcastic remarks. Instead, he simply continued working, fingers moving steadily over the keyboard, jaw relaxed, shoulders not as tense as before.

Y/N picked up on the difference almost immediately. He was more aware of his surroundings today, more present, yet still reserved. She could sense it. But she didn’t say anything, didn’t tease him about it, yet. Instead, she pulled out her own laptop and settled in, mirroring his quiet determination as they worked in silence.

Minutes passed. Then half an hour. The hum of the café surrounded them, the occasional burst of laughter or clinking of cups breaking the steady rhythm of their typing. It was a strange kind of companionship; one that required no words, just a shared space and an unspoken understanding that neither of them were in the mood to entertain small talk. At least, not yet.

Then, the moment happened.

Lance’s coffee arrived, placed gently on the table by the waiter. This time, instead of ignoring the interaction, Lance tilted his head up and said, “Thank you.”

The words were spoken smoothly, deliberately, in a way that ensured Y/N would notice.

And she did.

Her fingers paused on her keyboard. She kept her expression neutral, as if she hadn’t caught it. But then, after a beat, she let herself react just a little; her lips curling into a small, teasing smile, eyebrows lifting slightly in amusement.

Lance caught the expression immediately. A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, as if he had been waiting for that reaction. It was subtle, not obvious, but she knew exactly what he was doing.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Y/n said dryly, finally breaking the silence between them.

Lance huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “You make it sound like I’ve never thanked anyone before.”

“Well, based on our last meeting, it was looking a little questionable.”

He gave her a side glance, taking a slow sip of his coffee before setting it back down. “I was having a bad day.”

“And today?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

He shrugged. “Less bad.”

Y/n smirked, satisfied with that answer. “Good to know you’re capable of basic manners, though.”

Lance rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “Should I be worried that you’re keeping track of my thank-yous?”

“I just find it interesting,” she said, leaning back slightly. “You’re obviously a civilised guy. So, what, do you just pick and choose when to be polite?”

Lance exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Like I said, bad day.”

Y/n hummed, pretending to consider his answer. “Do you, by any chance, think you’re cool for being all mysterious and brooding?”

That caught him off guard. His brows furrowed slightly as he studied her. “What?”

She shrugged. “Just wondering.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “And if I say no?”

“Then I would say you’re probably lying.”

Lance let out a short laugh, shaking his head again. He leaned back slightly, regarding her with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Do you always analyse strangers?”

“Only the ones who don’t say thank you to waiters,” she replied smoothly.

Lance sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

There was another beat of silence, this one less heavy, more charged with something unspoken. It was like they were testing each other, pushing just enough without crossing a line. Y/n could tell Lance wasn’t as grumpy today, but he was still reserved, still keeping something to himself. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind her company anymore. If anything, he seemed to welcome the distraction.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet. “Have you worked in a café or something?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “What makes you ask?”

He gestured vaguely toward her. “You seem very invested in proper café etiquette.”

She chuckled. “Fair enough. And yeah, I have.”

Lance nodded, as if that answer made perfect sense. “Explains a lot.”

She smirked. “Oh? And what does it explain, exactly?”

“That you’re a little too passionate about people saying ‘thank you’ when they get their coffee.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “It’s the bare minimum, really.”

“I’m aware,” he said, lifting his cup slightly. “Which is why I made sure you heard me say it this time.”

She shot him a knowing look. “And yet, you act like you don’t care what I think.”

Lance held her gaze for a moment, then smirked. “I don’t.”

Y/n laughed again, this time genuinely entertained. “Sure, Lance. Whatever you say.”

The conversation drifted after that, returning to the comfortable silence they had settled into before. They weren’t exactly friends, far from that, but something had shifted between them. The teasing was still there, the subtle challenge in every remark, but the hostility from their first encounter had faded.

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria @maryvibess @ironmaiden1313 @sltwins @heart-trees @npcmia @llando4norris

[what-if-i-like-my-mechs-older]

Orion figured it would be best to do his work with Megatron, he wanted to spend some time in his presence, the sound of that rasping voice.

After all it had been a while since they'd just been on their own together, the last time ended with them being intimate and no doubt it would again.

For all of Megatron's actions he'd noticed that the Decepticon Leader wanted attention to, surprisingly it was Starscream he didn't see much of and he couldn't help but wonder if the seeker wasn't interested or he had a different Prime in his sights.

Obviously he wouldn't just be like

'Oh hey Megatron, what's Optimus like?'

Somehow he had a feeling Megatron would definitely get pissy and say

'What? I'm not good enough for you!'

He made a face like this =m= and decided it would not be worth the hassle.

So instead chose to think of more pleasant things like Megatron's voice...and the voice of the mech whose designation or visage he did not know, his ear finals twitched at the thought of them both telling him they knew how to put an Elite guard in his place.

No, he needed to behave, be sensible, they were letting him wander here and share their rations, the very least he could do was make himself useful.

Getting up he checked himself in the mirror, daring to keep his mask open, though at the first sign of judgement of his fangs it was going to snap shut.

Huh now that he thought about it, the bath had been taken out to, he glanced down at the floor , walking out his room maybe he could find scratch marks where it'd been hauled to, but alas nothing.

As his focus has been on the floor he walked into a Con he'd seen around but didn't know his name.

"Hey Prime , look where you're going would ya!"

Orion stopped and stared at him, trying to see if there was anything visually similar about him to any Mech he knew...

"Uhh I'm sorry, I was distracted, say , what's your name?"

"What they don't have a Blitzwing where you're from!?"

"Wait you're Blitzwing! Where's your accent! Well non American accent as for some reason most of us miraculously seem to have them."

(Ha I'm so funny 😒 🤔 😊)

Orion exclaimed, grabbing him by the head and pulling him in closer

"Doesn't your face have three different ones?"

Blitzwing pulled the mechs hands from his face, he wasn't too annoyed, after all from the sounds of it his counter part was so vastly different that he was unrecognisable in this Universe.

"Explain what you mean by accent and faces."

He returned, folding his arms, absolutely expecting an explanation and oh he got one.

After Orion had explained the split personality and German accent, Blitzwings arms hung by his side as he expelled a sigh with puffed cheeks.

"Well that's certainly a lot to take in, I can understand why you didn't know who I am...so moving on from that revelation, I hear you like older mechs, you uh wanna stop by my quarters some time."

"How old we talking here?"

Orion responded giving him a look over, he wasn't half bad but a good age difference would definitely be a bonus.

"Oh way before the war old."

Orion arched a brow and leaned an arm on the wall

"So you really are an older frame type, I may just take you up on that offer Blitzy, perhaps in a day or so, don't worry, I'll find you."

He placed a kiss to his forehead and smiled

"But for now, would you be so kind as to direct me to Lord Megatron, I have data work to do."

The first thing Blitzwing thought to himself was

'CRAP, I HAVE TO CLEAN MY ROOM.'

He kept his composure and gave a leering smile

"I look forward to it, as for Megatron he's down the hall third door after you take a left."

"Thank you, you've been a great help."

Placing a hand on Blitzwings cheek he gave him the softest of kisses before departing.

The triple changer let out a dreamy sound, oh so that's what Astrotrain had meant when he said there was something about Optimus that just made you feel giddy.

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[transfemstarscream]

have not watched transformers: one, but from what i've seen so far proves my point about transformers: animated having the only good sentinel prime in any transformers media ever.

[sharonccrter]

So I actually sat down to watch the BBC special of TT Boybands Forever cause I was really interested after the way Robbie talked about Gary being stitched up and also I just love watching this kinda stuff just finished the Boyzone Documentary. Let's just say I have thoughts - I'm going to put them in the tags (and I had a lot of thoughts). I'd say it's worth watching yourself and making your own opinion.