#between me and the 'real' world left to build or burn down i think for some of us the deck is stacked and were fucked from the beginning

[syrecjh]

─★🪐 ̟ !!⋆⭒Battlefield Proposal

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader

The sky is broken.

Gray clouds hang heavy above the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a city center. The wind carries smoke, ash, and the faint smell of ozone from quirk discharge. A building groans as it finally gives in to the damage and collapses with a hollow, gut-punching thud. Somewhere behind you, a car alarm cries weakly into the void like a heartbeat trying to outlive a flatline.

You press your palm to your side where your suit is ripped, warm blood sticking through your gloves. It hurts to breathe. It hurts more to stop.

“Oi,” Katsuki barks, his voice rough like gravel chewed up by flame. He’s just ahead, chest heaving, the angles of his jaw lit by orange flame. There’s soot smeared on his cheek, a shallow cut above his brow, and something in his eyes that makes the marrow in your bones tremble.

“Keep movin’. We ain’t stoppin’ here.”

But he does stop.

Right there—between a fallen traffic light and a crater still sizzling with leftover energy. Sirens echo in the distance. The city's on its knees. And so is he.

You freeze.

“Katsuki?” you rasp. “What the hell are you—?”

His knee hits concrete like a thunderclap. Not from weakness. From intention.

You stare. Time slows.

“Shut up.” His voice is hoarse, heavy with dust and emotion. “Just—fuckin’ shut up a second.”

He’s kneeling, knee pressed into cracked concrete, and his hand is trembling—not from fear of dying, but from the terrifying possibility of never saying what he needs to say.

“There’s no time,” you whisper, throat closing, heart hammering in your ears.

“Exactly.” He looks up at you, raw and real and bleeding from a cut above his brow. “That’s why I’m doin’ this now.”

“No,” you whisper, already shaking your head, blood rushing in your ears. “You’re not—you’re not doing this now.”

His fingers fumble into the blackened edge of his gear—past the broken clips, the dust, the cracked metal—and pull something out. Small. Circular. Bent just slightly from the blast. A ring.

You blink like it’ll disappear if you look too hard.

“I ain’t got another fuckin’ minute to waste,” he growls, voice trembling in a way his hands never did in battle. “Been carryin’ this around like an idiot waitin’ for some perfect time.”

You can’t speak. The air’s too thick. Or maybe your chest is too full.

"And you think this is perfect?"

“No but now look where we are,” he huffs, looking at you like you’re the only steady thing left in this crumbling universe. “If one of us doesn’t make it outta this—shit, if you don’t, if I don't—I need you to know.”

“To know what?” your voice cracks like glass.

He meets your gaze. Fierce. Honest. Like war and worship all at once.

“That you’re it. You always fuckin’ were.”

Your knees give out. You’re on the ground before you realize it, crouched in front of him, tears streaking down your dirt-stained face.

“I’m not saying yes because I think we’re dying,” you whisper, clutching the ring like it’s a lifeline.

“I know.”

“I’m saying yes because I wanted to say it since last winter, and I was just scared and stupid and—”

He leans in. Foreheads collide, noses bump. The kiss is quick, fiery, unfinished.

“Then let’s make it out,” he says. “You and me. Together. Always.”

The wind howls again, shaking windows still barely hanging on. But inside this ruin, in the firelit silence between you both, something whole is born.

Hope.

He slides the ring into your ring finger. His fingers linger there, pressed to your heart. Like a vow.

And then the moment’s gone—because the city rumbles again, and reality snaps its jaws back open.

But you run differently now. You fight harder.

Because the ring is in your finger, warm from his hand. Because your blood runs next to his now—not just in battle, but in promise.

A battlefield proposal.

Born in fire. Held in grit.

And if you survive?

God help the world.

You’ll burn it down together in love.

And one day—when the dust has settled, and the skies have cleared—you'll tell the story of how love asked for forever at the edge of the end.

[bruhstories]

guilt

summary: you're looking for an end to your misery and guilt, but find healing instead. pairing: dante sparda x succubus!reader | game-oriented warnings: reader has a death wish and suffers from meltdowns, unprotected p in v, fighting sex?? swearing, descriptions of reader's demonic form, afab!reader, fighting for dominance, slightly sub!reader, some aftercare w/c: 5.1k

a/n: aight, here it is! i hope y'all don't mind a bit of build up lol

You were created with one purpose to fulfil — weaken humanity.

And you did. For centuries, you crept into the dreams of soldiers, doctors, priests, kings, disturbing their peace with your beauty, syphoning their life force with your body. You ruined marriages, impaired armies, even, all in the name of the King of the Underworld. But not without guilt.

See, when Mundus selected you for his demonic crusade, he overlooked one particular flaw that you managed to hide quite well — compassion. Not that you were the first demon to give a shit about humans, but you were one of the few who experienced shame so strong that you considered death to be a form of penance.

Only, death wouldn't have brought humanity any benefit. So, you ran away, slipped through a gate between the worlds and hid away for decades, until you were sure no demon was looking for you anymore. Inspired by Sparda's selflessness, you picked up odd jobs, helping the humans you once actively tried to destroy. You were a village teacher who disappeared, a military nurse who died on the battlefield, a firefighter who burned, a police officer who got shot — even if a body was never found — all while battling your own demons.

When you were born, you were born with a weakness, an insatiable, aching hunger for sex, an urge you needed to suppress and control. And it consumed you, like lava flowing through your veins that burned holes through your skin. Some days were easier. Others weren't, because when it rained, it poured, and you locked yourself inside of your bathroom, submerged in ice cold water just to stop the impulses from taking over. Your body, your real, demonic body, decorated with blood red scales, and a serpentine tail to match, with horns and slitted pupils, were harder to control when the urges hit, and you felt bad lying to your boss when you called in sick.

Because of your abstinence, the carnal cravings became frequent, more violent than ever before, and you knew the only way to go back to normal was to give in to them every once in a while, but you couldn't. You couldn't break the humans that took you in when you needed them the most. There were only two options left — to die, or to fuck.

You met with Enzo at the Bull's Eye Bar, hood over your head to hide the horns, gloves to hide the talons. You didn't take your sunglasses off, not wanting to scare the one man that knew the truth about you. He sat down next to you, but you quickly moved away, leaving one barstool between the two of you. The last thing you wanted was to rampage through the bar and kill him.

"I'm not afraid of you, kid. It's just a bad day." He tried to comfort you, but you shook your head.

"I think my time's up, Enzo." Your voice was meek and raspy.

"Don't be dramatic! Buy me a drink and let's talk about it."

You smiled at his optimism (and opportunism), accidentally flashing your fangs, and while you could tell Enzo was taken aback by them, he didn't leave. So, you bought him a drink and talked about it.

"I don't think I can take it anymore. Just being here makes me want to... jump your bones." You cringed at your own words.

"Who would've thought I still got it at my age?"

"It's not funny. You know that would kill you."

"I know." Enzo sighed. "Listen, I know a guy-"

"No. Absolutely not." You shook your head and sat up ready to leave.

"Sit down, girl. I'm not finished." He grabbed the glass full of ice-cold water that you ordered and splashed you with it.

"Why on Earth did you do that?" You froze, shocked by Enzo's behaviour.

"To cool you off. Did it work?"

"I- well- yeah, actually." You felt your body temperature go down.

"Good, now listen."

It was a stupid idea, but it was an idea nonetheless, better than the one you had, anyway. The red neon sign in front of you almost blinded your eyes, particularly the silhouette of the girl, but you walked closer to the building and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, you decided to push open the door, letting yourself in. Your heels clicked on the wooden floor as you wearily approached the front desk, with nothing but a rotary phone and the photo of a beautiful woman on it.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Your voice echoed in the building, and you didn't dare to stray away from the desk.

"Shop's... closed."

Turning on your heels, you looked to your left to see a man with wet white hair sticking to his cheekbones, wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers, beads of water dripping down his bare chest. God, he was stunning, and it did little to help your condition.

"I'm sorry, but I really need your help." You could barely breathe. "Enzo sent me."

"Still, shop's closed." He shrugged and walked past you towards the stairs. Underneath the landing was a white fridge, and the man opened it and grabbed himself a beer.

"Please, you're a devil hunter. Dante, right?"

"That I am."

"Good, because I need you to hunt one for me. Please." You begged him again, and after a few sips from his drink and careful consideration, he sat in his chair, feet propped on the antique desk.

"Alright, I'll bite. What am I hunting?"

You sighed, pulling down your hood and removing your sunglasses while your heart beats quickened.

"Me."

He paused drinking, blue eyes staring at you, and even though he was trying to hide it, you could tell he'd never seen the type of demon you were before. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you unbuttoned your trench coat, letting it fall down and pool at your feet, then took off the gloves. With each article of clothing you peeled off, more of your demonic nature was left exposed, but you had enough humanity in you to not strip all of your clothes. You wanted to die with dignity.

"Please be quick." Squeezing your eyes shut, you felt hot tears roll down your cheeks. You didn't want to die, not really, but you would be doing humans a favour if you did.

"Save your tears. Devils don't cry."

Dante was harsh with his words, but he was right — you didn't deserve that, you weren't human. But then, why were you afraid? Why did you feel centuries of guilt haunting you in your last moments? Why could you see the face of every man and woman you tormented in their sleep whenever you closed your eyes? Was that not human enough?

"I'm sorry, I can't help it." You said, eyes still shut and your fingers tugging at the hem of your dress.

"What kind of demon are you?" He asked, and you sighed.

"What difference does it make? You kill all kinds of demons, don't you?"

"Just curious." Dante nonchalantly said.

You opened your eyes, slitted pupils following him through the room. Was he stalling? Was he even the man Enzo recommended? You were hoping for a quick, clean death, not an interrogation.

"I'm the worst kind." You said, praying it would irk him, make Dante want to kill you faster. "The cowardly kind. The kind that shows up in your dreams and torments you, sucks the life out of you for sustenance, that makes men lose their minds. Not blood and gore, but pleasure and pain. And I am begging you to end my life."

"Why?"

"Why does it fucking matter?" Your voice lost its sweetness, now dark and low. "What matters is I hurt people, lots of people." You dropped down on your knees, lifting your dress inch by inch. "And I wanted to be like him, like Sparda, wanted to be good!" Your sharp talons clawed at the skin on your cheeks, leaving burning marks under them. "But I can't fight it anymore, it's eating me alive! Please, Dante, please do something!"

You were hysterical at that point, sobbing, screaming in pain, dripping with sweat. Dante found your eyes — full of both lust and grief — and your body shook spasmodically, like you were possessed by yourself.  Your hips rolled, thighs squeezed together while you tore the collar of your dress, wriggling, writhing in pain. So much pain. That was your penance.

He was genuinely shocked by the conflict within you, the battle you fought for God knows how long, and he could tell you regretted it. In fact, Dante pitied you.

"Kill me, kill me-" You choked on your words, throwing yourself at his feet. "Please, please, please-"

"I'm not gonna kill you." Dante stepped back, then crouched next to you, one hand placed on your shoulder.

You flinched and hissed at the man, his touch sending a wave of heat through your body, but you propped yourself on your elbows and pushed yourself back, as far away from him as possible, crawling into a corner. There was very little sanity left in your brain, and you eyed the door — you had to run again, or else you could have hurt him. Leaping towards the door, you found yourself caught by his arms, and he overpowered you with ease, holding you while you tried to fight him.

"Let me go!" Your fists slammed against his bare chest. "Please, I need to go, need to feed, need to fuck-"

Agony. You were in agony. Dante swept you off your feet, knocking the wind out of you as he threw you on his shoulder to carry you. You tried to put up a fight, tried to wrestle out of his grasp, but he was much, much stronger. Almost like he wasn't human at all. Dante practically dragged you to the bathroom, forcing you into the bathtub, despite your protests. But he was doing you a favour, really.

The cold water snapped you back to reality, even if it was momentary, and your convulsing body relaxed. Your breathing and heart beats slowed down, and you sighed, watching the tub fill with water. Dante opened the window, and the cool late-night breeze tickled your skin.

"How did you know about the temperature?" You whispered, too ashamed to even look at him.

"Hell's cold. Thought you might be homesick." Dante leaned against the edge of the bathtub and you snorted at his remark. "You got a name?"

"Y/N."

"Your real name." He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm trying to forget it. Trying to die, too, but you're making it harder." You scoffed.

"Oh, yeah, not happening." Dante turned the tap off. "Enzo knows about you." It wasn't a question at all.

"Yeah, he believed I could change. So did I, but I guess I'm a demon through and through. Any reason why you didn't shoot me on the spot?"

"Eeeh." He shrugged. "Guess I saw potential in you. You're pretty weak, though."

"Gee, thanks, Dante." Your finger tapped on the surface of the water, creating small ripples.

"No, that's a good thing. It means I don't need to tie you up while I figure out a solution." He rubbed his chin, and your eyes followed his hand, stopping on his white stubble. Shit, he was a little too handsome for his own good.

"Not to be rude, but are you out of your mind? There is no solution, only death."

"But you don't want to die."

You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Of course you didn't. But what choice did you have?

"How long until your next... meltdown?"

"I don't know, a week? Two? They're becoming more frequent and less... bearable." You shivered, and Dante stepped away to bring you a towel.

"Anything else I need to know?" He helped you stand up in the tub.

"This is awkward, and contradictory, but feeding helps me regain control."

"Feeding?" He rose a brow.

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"You do, and I don't wanna say it." You snatched the towel from him and dabbed it on your skin.

"The first step is acceptance. Don't be a prude, it doesn't suit you." Dante closed the window while you stepped out of the bathtub, water dripping down the tiled floor.

"What, are you a psychiatrist? Fine, it's sex! I need to have sex!" You said that a bit too loudly. "There, happy?"

"Well, it definitely makes it easier." He closed the gap between the two of you, backing you up into the bathroom corner.

"You're crazy. It'll kill you."

He laughed. Dante full on laughed in your face while you stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Believe me, it'll take more than that to kill me, princess. But, by all means, if you have a better idea, spit it out."

"I can't, I'm not ready." You shook your head.

"Bold of you to say that. You know, considering you're a sex demon and all." Dante's harsh observation stung you, and again, tears fell.

"You're an asshole." You whimpered like a wounded dog. "A first-class asshole. You don't even know how hurtful that was. You don't even know me."

"Am I wrong?"

"Yes! Yes, you are! I have to kill to survive. Do you know how fucked up that is? I can't believe Enzo sent me here. I'm leaving." You pushed him away with all the strength you could muster and opened the bathroom door.

"If you leave, you'll end up hurting someone. Or yourself." Dante said, and you froze.

Maybe he was right, maybe he could help. He did overpower you, and humans couldn't really do that. You spent too much time away from Hell to keep up to date with the news, but you heard rumours of half-demons. Sparda's offsprings in particular.

"Who are you?" You turned to look at him.

"Just someone who's not so different from you. Stay and find out. Or leave, and I'll have to hunt you."

He knew how to bargain.

"Can I at least have some dry clothes?"

His shirt was big on you, swallowing your entire body in it, but it was comfortable, and most importantly, dry. Dante offered you a beer, but you politely declined — alcohol riled you up. He offered you a spare room in his strange shop, and you locked yourself inside of it, refusing to sleep. Your hunger wasn't just physical — it transcended into the realm of dreams, and you didn't want to torment the man who wanted to help you. But he was kind enough not to pressure you into sleeping with him, even if deep down you knew that was the only way to keep you sane.

When you were mentally stable, Dante taught you how to shoot and fight, and when you lost the plot, he forced you into the bathroom, hosing you down with ice cold water. When he left for missions, you begged him to chain you up and lock you in your room, and when he came back, he brought you back to reality. But it was becoming worse than ever. The weeks between your outbursts turned into days, and you were harder to handle each time. Still, Dante didn't even try to convince you to give in. If anything, he admired your stubbornness.

It was late at night when the devil hunter came back from his mission, and the first thing he did was to run upstairs and check on you. Dante turned around on the hallway, stopping when he saw the door to your room wide open and empty. The chains that were supposed to bound you while he was gone were broken, making him think that it wasn't you that somehow escaped, but that someone, or something, broke in. A quick scan around the room and Dante concluded that there was no sign of trespassing — the window of your room was locked from the inside, and so was the front door. Nothing was different, not even the claw marks on the floor.

He frantically checked every room upstairs, calling out your name, asking where you were, but before he went downstairs, Dante stopped at the top of the staircase. He didn't check his bedroom.

His hand hovered over the doorknob and he slowly turned it, quietly pushing it open. Even with the lights off, Dante knew you were there, the outline of your body barely visible in the dim moonlight. He flicked the light switch, and there you were, sprawled on his bed in a torn shirt that left very little to his imagination. But something wasn't right. You weren't tormented by that insatiable hunger, weren't convulsing, you just looked at him through thick lashes with those slitted pupils that he came to both love and hate.

"You're here." Dante tilted his head, one hand close to his gun. Just in case.

"I am." You purred, rolling on your side, your serpentine tail coiling around your ankle.

"Why are you in my room?"

"I was drawn to it. Well, to your scent." You simply shrugged, and he couldn't understand why you were so calm, so docile. Unless...

"Have you fed?" Dante stepped closer, gun now in his hand.

"Mmm, wouldn't you like to know?" You flashed your fangs and fixed him with your eyes, like a viper assessing its prey. "What are you gonna do, shoot me?"

Damn it. You really had to go and fuck everything up. But when he took another step, he could hear, no, feel your heart thumping against your ribcage, too fast for how calm you were trying to appear. Then he saw the beads of sweat on your skin, and the claw marks on your neck, the hair strands clinging to your talons, the wound on your lower lip, and the tears welling up in your eyes. He saw how you hurt yourself for fear of hurting others.

"For a demon, you're a pretty horrible liar." He tossed his gun on the table next to his bed, and you wailed in pain, unable to pretend anymore.

You understood two things in the months you spent with Dante: that he wasn't fully human, and that he wasn't going to give up on you. Yet it didn't make yielding any easier. The last time you fed was at least a century ago. Even if Dante did let you feed off of him, there was no guarantee it would help since, well, he wasn't fully human. But he wasn't going to kill you, and you were running out of self-control.

Fuck.

"Let's get you in the bathtub." Dante's voice was gentler than ever.

"No."

"No? Y/N, I'm not gonna shoot you, that's final."

"I don't... I don't want you to shoot me." You sighed, chewing on your lower lip.

He didn't say anything, and instead waited for you to speak.

"Are you sure it won't kill you?"

"Positive." He nodded.

"Fine. Just know it won't be like with a human."

"What, are you gonna crawl on the ceiling or something?" Dante joked, but the look on your face told him you didn't find it amusing.

"I don't know, I can't remember what it's like."

Oh, you poor thing. He couldn't imagine going through centuries without feeling a touch, a kiss, even a hug. Not that he got laid often — women were drawn to him until he opened his dumb mouth, but it was their loss.

"It's alright, I'll take care of you if you'll let me." Dante promised, and you believed him.

Whether it was your desperation or his confidence, you didn't know, but you truly believed that he could help. You just really hoped he wouldn't fucking die in the process.

"Please." The word was quiet, weak, but full of desire. "I don't know how long until I fully lose it, Dante."

In the blink of an eye, he stood beside the bed, again proving that he wasn't human, and you slowly gained courage. Maybe it would be okay, maybe you would be okay. Your body reacted when you felt his presence, kneeling on the mattress to be at his level. Locking eyes, you swallowed the lump in your throat and placed your hands on his shoulders. He felt like fire under your fingertips, and it made you want to rip open his shirt, which you tried, but Dante wrapped his fingers around your wrists, holding them in place.

"Down, girl."

"I can't, I'm starving."

"I know." He pressed his lips onto your knuckles, so gentle that you thought you might spontaneously combust. "But you need to take it slowly. Don't let it control you."

You nodded, albeit the heat and pain between your legs killing you, and tried to calmly unbutton his shirt when he released your wrists. Your hands trembled, failing miserably with the first button, and while Dante pitied you, he refused to give you a hand. It was tough love, but it was necessary.

"Please, Dante, please help me, please fuck me, pleasepleaseplease-" Your incoherent babbling tempted him, it truly did, but it felt wrong. It felt like he would be taking advantage of your weakness. Men would have walked on corpses to hear a beautiful woman beg like that, and they would have been persuaded in a split second.

But Dante wasn't a normal man. You asked for help, and he would do just that, but not how you wanted. He placed two fingers onto your luscious lips, silencing your devilish tongue, and it worked, because you stopped and stared at him.

"You need to calm down." He said, and you nodded before opening your mouth to suck on his digits. "Not like that." Dante sighed, the leather trousers now very uncomfortable on him.

He didn't tell you to stop, though, because having something to suck on helped you focus on unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. God, you were something else, something equally beautiful and grotesque — a demon with a human heart.

His shirt fell on the floor, and Dante finally pulled his fingers out of your mouth. Your hands rushed to his belt, only for him to swat them away, telling you to relax, to enjoy the moment, but how could you enjoy it when your skin itched with impatience, while he had the patience of a saint?

"I need you, Dante, please. Have I not been good?" The pain in your voice mixed with the sorrowful look in your eyes had him weak, but he remained focused.

"So good." He growled, slowly losing his cool. There was demon blood inside of him, too, after all. "But I need you to stay calm, yeah? Can you do that for me?"

Another reluctant nod, even if you flesh was burning and your heart was racing. Taking a deep breath in, you dragged your sharp claws down Dante's chest, down his abdomen, past his V-line, and only then did he let you unbuckle his belt. You violently pulled it away, tossing it somewhere on the bed, and he grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back and holding it in place.

"I'm gonna kiss you now, and you're going to behave."

"Can't promise that." You scoffed at his demand.

He didn't quip back, but instead pressed his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger greater than yours, a kiss so sloppy and wet that you thought it was his first time. It wasn't, he was just that needy, and you kissed him back, looping your arms around his neck, moving closer to him until he almost lost his balance. When he pulled away, you whimpered, pathetically begging him to kiss you again, to touch you, to fuck you, the sound of his zipper shutting you up.

"Fuck this." Dante pushed you onto the mattress so hard you bounced back. "Can't hold back anymore."

The grin on your lips should've been a red flag, but he didn't care anymore. His thick, hard cock sprung out of his boxers and you instinctively spread your legs, only for him to grab your ankles and pull you closer, earning a giggle from you.

The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance, and Dante groaned when he felt how impossibly wet you were. He really wanted to take his time with you, but he was still a man, and you were a succubus. It was never going to be slow and steady. He pushed past your slick, velvety folds, not giving you any time to adjust to his girth because you took him so well.

You arched your back when he bottomed out, power coursing through your veins as you regained life strength, and he was still alive. For now. His first thrusts were brutal, full of lust, rage, love and hatred, and you bucked your hips, brain and body overwhelmed by the sudden strength inside of you.

"Thank you, thank you!" You cried out, latching your arms behind his shoulders. "Fuck, I've never felt so good!" Your sobs echoed in his bedroom, and with the newfound strength, you managed to hook one leg around Dante's thigh, pushing him on his back.

The mattress dipped under his weight, his hands roaming all over your body to rip the already torn dress off of you. You frantically bounced up and down his cock, palms on his chest to support yourself. He let you have your fun, let you ride him as he took in your beauty, but Dante wasn't in the mood to submit. Not after the months of torture you made him go through. With a supernatural force, he sent you flying across the room, and you hissed when your shoulder blades hit the wall that cracked behind you.

Dante leaped towards you, pinning your hands above your head while you wriggled and fought against his restraint. You got a taste of power and needed more, and he was about to give it to you, but not before crushing your lips under his, reminding you that you were not in charge. Yet, you didn't want to take the hint, and instead coiled your tail around his ankle, yanking it until Dante lost balance and let go of your wrists.

What was supposed to help you turned into a battle for dominance, both with Dante and with yourself, because deep down you knew that you should've yielded, but it wasn't in your nature to submit. You slipped away from him, but he was quicker, grabbing your arm and turning you around, his chest pressed against your back. Dante held you despite your protests, before slowly bringing you down to the floor, on your knees.

"Relax-"

"Don't wanna relax-" You snarled, convulsing under his arms. "Wanna, oh-"

The words melted in your mouth when he slammed his cock back into you, painstakingly slowly rolling his hips while your eyes filled up with tears of ecstasy. You never submitted, always dominated, but the way Dante pushed your head down and fucked you felt so good that you couldn't help but lift your ass up for him to take you however he pleased.

"See? That's much better, isn't it?" He fucking cooed at you, and you sobbed.

"Yes! Yes, yes, oh, God, yes!" You cried out when the tip of his cock bullied your cervix, stretching your sore cunt out. "More, please! I need more!"

"Greedy girl." Dante's fingers bruised your hips, gripping them so tightly you thought he might rip your flesh off.

The power that seeped into your veins was minuscule compared to the the new sensation that you felt — addiction. You became addicted to him, to his touch and his scent, to his cock, like it healed something within you, like you didn't live to suck the life out of humans anymore, but to be with him and only him.

It seemed as though Dante fucked you eternally, and your once insatiable hunger disappeared with each thrust, replaced by pure bliss. Your arms wobbled under the pressure and pleasure, and you bucked your hips against his, chanting his name like a prayer.

"I'm close! Dante, I'm gonna cum!"

"You poor thing." He whispered with a hint of pity in his voice while brutally slamming into you. "When was the last time you came?"

"Never did, no man could make me cum! No one fucked me like you do!"

And Dante believed you. He believed every single word that came out of your sinful mouth, because you came to him looking to put an end to all the misery you caused through sheer sacrifice. You were desperate, and desperation made you honest.

Like clay in his nimble hands, you let yourself be sculpted and shaped by Dante into something else, something new, something better. Oddly enough, he felt the same, as though all his life he'd been navigating through a long, dark tunnel, and he finally found the light at the end.

You came undone on his cock with only his name spilling from your lips, waves of both pleasure and power coursing through your quivering body. When your arms and knees gave in and you almost hit the floor, Dante caught you, one arm around your waist to bring you closer to him. His hips stuttered while he held you, fucking you until your cunt felt hot and sticky with his cum. Slowly and carefully, Dante pulled out, and without a word, he picked you up, carrying you to the en-suite bathroom while you buried your nose in the crook of his neck.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was gentler than ever before as he placed you in the bathtub.

"Like I can live another century without going batshit crazy." You sighed, catching his wrist in your hands. "Thank you. I know you were probably disgusted by me the whole time. I'll leave as soon as I wash myself."

"Actually," Dante tilted his head, a grin spread across his lips, "I was hoping you'd stay."

He wished he could frame the priceless look on your face, with your dishevelled hair, mouth agape and glossy eyes.

"Why?"

"Think about it." Dante turned the tap on, kneeling by the bathtub. "You said you wanna help humanity, didn't you?" He asked, and you nodded. "Great. Then what better way of helping it than by hunting demons? You can already shoot, I made sure of that, and you can definitely put up a fight. Learned that the hard way."

Your eyes darted to the water flowing from the tap, pondering his suggestion. Could it be? Have you found a purpose for yourself? One that didn't involve faking your death or disappearing from villages? One that allowed you to be yourself, without hiding your true nature? One where you didn't have to be so alone?

"I'd like that."

"Good." Dante's fingers brushed through your hair. "And I'll personally make sure you're not going batshit crazy."

"Gee, I'm beginning to think you actually enjoyed that."

"I reserve the right to neither confirm, nor deny."

[endless-ineffabilities]

be young, be dope, be proud

dynasty heir Aemond x heiress reader

a/n: randomly and carelessly drafted after a night out, so don't even ask me what this is. title obvi from Lana. also, I feel like the setting here is an acquired taste. so, enjoy? 💁🏼‍♀️🤍

themes/warnings: spoiled rich assholes, New York/modern references, language, clichés galore, Targs are like the Kennedys if that whole family was pure evil and Rep, SMUT, angst between brats who clearly want each other, also—you're kind of a hypocrite

main masterlist

The estate reeks with old money: marble columns, ancestral portraits, and a long dining table loaded with crystal and silver. Chandeliers try to warm the place, but it's all cold opulence. Outside, the gardens are cut and tamed to show that even nature has a price.

Your father always brings the family along to stately dinners up there in Westchester, with the usual crowd in attendance—the Targaryens, the Velaryons, the Lannisters—the whole lot.

Between them, they could probably purchase every building in Manhattan without creating a single dent in the bank.

Hell, maybe they already have. Generational wealth truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

You've tried to distance yourself from it. From people whose words drip poisoned honey and condescension. Being waited on like new order royalty.

But who are you to talk, when your father's lineage traces back to the fucking Mayflower? You and them are one and the same—filthy rich and borderline insane.

It is nearly impossible to maintain a steady sense of self, to have ample room for personal growth, when everything, every single thing, is handed to you on a silver platter. There is no tension there, no struggle, no need to exert any effort.

Failed your courses? Your father donates a building to the university. Aemond gets several DUIs? His great-uncle is a Supreme Court Justice. Aegon nearly burns his friend's house down while throwing a bacchanal-themed party? Let's just say that friend is grounded. For a week. Oh, the horror. Their family had many other estates, in many other places anyway.

When there are no real repercussions to your actions, you will feel like you can do just about whatever you want.

Burn the world down, for all you care. You can just buy a new, better one.

Granted, not everyone in your circle is an entitled egotist. There's Helaena, who strangely enough, does not possess a single self-important bone in her body, unlike her aforementioned brothers. Jace, who spends most of his time getting involved in political activism, for the side that his magnate grandfather Viserys steadfastly opposes.

You'd always sit beside either of them in these dinners, for the sake of your sanity. Unfortunately, Aemond and Aegon are never far. Especially Aemond—who occassionally stares you down as he sits across the table. Aegon, seated to his left, whistles at you. "Hey. Hey so... are you still slumming it with the art crowd?"

"I'm sorry?" You narrow your eyes at him. He didn't even say hello or mind if I cut in? as Jace was telling you about attending the DNC rally.

Aemond watches you again, so closely it raises goosebumps along your arms. He's been stealing glances at you ever since you arrived with your family. And you've been openly shooting glares at him when you sense it. Him and that steely one-eyed gaze of his always gets under your skin.

Aegon sneers, and you think how it's so in character of him. "You still live in Brooklyn? Cosplaying as a normie?"

"Fuck off, Aegon."

You've been living in Brooklyn for the past year, trying to finish up your Masters from Barnard. You would never hear the end of how this is the most redundant and useless thing, especially from people like Aegon. It does seem contrived, daddy's little heiress playing at being a scholar at Columbia, but at least you are doing something.

Besides, you have no desire to take over your family's empire. If anything, you want to branch out, maybe take on Jace's proposal on starting a charity foundation together.

"Aegon! Do you know how messed up that sounds?" Jace comes to your rescue, but you know it'll be for nought. Aegon's brain is too warped, too silver-spoonfed, to recognise his folly. You used to feel sympathy for the guy—this life is all he's ever known, and it isn't as if the adults around him ever set a good example, so can you blame him?

Used to. Now, he just annoys you. You grew up the same, but you are not like him, aren't you? So did Hel and Jace. So did Aemond. And Aemond, while still an asshole, is at least someone you can tolerate. He's vicious when it comes to his ambition, but he's genuinely smart.

He's cold and aloof, but he is also capable of tenderness.

You would never readily admit to anyone how you know this about him.

And he's staring you down, once again. You immediately know it's him when you feel someone nudge your shin under the table.

You eye him warily. What do you want?

He raises his eyebrows. Nothing. Just missed you.

At least that's what you're picking up from him. Why wouldn't he miss you? You're probably the best thing in his life right now. He should be so grateful you're still giving him the time of day, especially after everything he's done.

Aemond nods ever so subtly, the gesture meant for only you. You already know what he's getting at, but you don't feel like caving just yet.

It's another long moment of tuning in and out of your conversation with Jace, but Aemond's unspoken question lingers. When you deign to look at him again, he tilts his head to the side. Let's go.

He knows to leave first, and he stands and excuses himself from the table. Barely anyone gives him any mind, the adults debating passionately at the farther end.

You wait one whole minute, your heels tapping impatiently under the table. Then you follow suit.

"I need some air. Might have a smoke or something," you mumble to Jace. He wouldn't want to tag along, the scrunch of his face revealing how much he loathes the habit.

"Just the one," he tuts, raising a finger.

You roll your eyes fondly. "Okay, dad."

Aemond has just lit a cigarette when he hears you come in. The door to the private library lets out a tiny creak then shuts without a sound. He faces the window, his back to you. But he knows it's you. He can almost hear the derision in your exhale. A hint of your unmistakeable Guerlain scent is present in the room.

When you draw closer, he sees the ghost of your reflection on the glass, a mirage perched atop his shoulder. He thinks of the age-old visual of having an angel and a devil on either side. You would be the angel, and the devil... would probably be his own self.

The side he fights to keep buried. He knows you see it, and hate it, but you want him anyway. You let him have you anyway. And these stolen moments with you are the only times when he is truly free.

Without a word, he offers a cigarette to you, his hand moving with a smooth, practiced form that makes it feel like he's not just offering you a smoke but issuing a silent challenge. He lifts his lighter, an intricate, expensive thing engraved with his family crest, flicking it open with a soft metallic click, then holding the flame steady as you lean in.

He can't help but admire how beautiful you are as the glow illuminates your face.

"Do you ever get bored?" you sneer, folding your arms as you lean against a shelf. "Sitting there all night with that smug, 'yes, I agree with all of this' look while your family drones on about the 'sanctity of tradition.' Like a good little heir."

Aemond raises an eyebrow, barely looking up from his cigarette as he takes a drag. You sure have a habit of getting right down to business. "Funny," he replies smoothly. "For someone who 'hates' tradition, you play the part of Daddy's obedient little princess pretty well. I saw you batting your eyes at every gray-haired councilman at that table."

"Oh, please." You roll your eyes, heat flaring in your cheeks, though whether from anger or the way his gaze always seems to pin you in place, despite your best efforts, you can't say. "I'm not doing it because I like it. I don't sit there pretending I'm better than the rest of the world."

"You don't?" He cocks his head, his lips quirking into a wry, infuriating smirk. "Could've fooled me, princess. All I ever hear from you in these dinners are 'Oh, absolutely' and 'Oh, that's so interesting'—like you'd just die if they didn't think you cared."

"Wow, okay, says the guy who spent twenty minutes nodding along while they debated the tax breaks for HNWIs. Planning to cut yourself some more slack there, hotshot?" You take a quick, sharp puff, the smoke billowing out of your lips as you continue your tirade. "You're a damn statue, Aemond. Most of the time, you don't even say a word, and yet somehow you sit there looking like everyone should be grateful you graced them with your presence."

He takes a step closer, and his voice drops. This is something only you can do—you get to him, you hit him where it matters. Or, you're the only one he allows the privilege of doing so. "And you hate it, don't you? You hate that I don't care what they think. That I'm not actually here to impress anyone."

Your laugh comes out bitter. "Please. You don't care because you're so convinced they already think you're perfect. You don't have to impress anyone because you're Aemond Targaryen, right? The perfect heir to a glowing legacy."

"Better that than playing the poor, tortured rebel." He's so close you can count the facets of the sapphire in his socket, a dangerous gleam flashing behind them—another outlandish, excessive thing only a billionaire's son would think to do. "At least I'm not pretending I want to burn it all down while running around in the same circles as everyone else. Tell me, do you actually care about the policies Jacaerys painstakingly explains to you? Or is it all just for show?"

"You don't know me, Aemond."

"Oh, but I do. In fact, I think I'm the only one who knows the real you."

You clench your jaw, craning your neck up to look at him. How ironic that he literally has to look down on you too. "Unlike you, I actually feel something about all this. You sit there like you're above it all, and it's pathetic."

"Pathetic?" He lets out a low, humorless laugh. "You want to talk about pathetic? The only thing pathetic is you standing there acting like a revolutionary when you're just like the rest of us."

"At least I want to get out. At least I want to make a goddamn difference and—"

"Then do it," he says, his tone mocking, as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your face. "Get out. Run off, make your big escape. Show everyone how different and special you are, princess."

"Oh, right," you shoot back, trying to regain some of your moxie after his unexpected retort. "And leave you to taint my image after then?"

He scoffs, the gesture dismissive, almost cruel. "You wouldn't be here if you actually had the guts to go through with it."

Aemond may be a pretentious asshole, but he's right, and you know it. "You know what, Aemond? What if... I tell you that I like it. The power, the status, all of it. Is that what you want to hear?"

He smirks. "You'd be adrift without it. You'd be lost without all this to complain about." His gaze drops to your mouth, as if he could already guess exactly how a rendezvous like this is going to end.

How it always ends.

You feel your breath hitch, your pulse racing even as you grit your teeth against the draw of him.

"Don't look at me like that," you snap, trying to keep the upper hand. You should leave. You know this, know you should storm out and leave him here with that damn arrogant smirk on his face.

Call it a truce, and do it all over again next time.

"What's wrong? Afraid you'll do something you'll regret?"

The challenge in his tone has you seething, heat blazing up your neck. "You're insufferable, you know that?” You try to sound as furious as you feel, but your voice wavers, and the corner of his mouth tilts in a dark, smug smile.

"Then leave, princess." His eyes flash, daring you, mocking you, yet he doesn't move back. "Go on. Show me that strength you keep talking about."

The words are meant to push you away, to test how much you can take, but they do something else instead. They push you over the edge, sending you surging forward before you even know what you're doing, fisting the front of his pristine shirt and yanking him down to you.

Your mouth meets his, all anger and fire, biting at his lips as he smirks against you, welcoming the aggression. His hands find your waist, pawing at your gown, pushing you back until you stumble against the bookshelf.

You try to hold onto the anger, to use it to keep yourself in control, but the way he kisses you—rough, possessive, familiar, with a hunger that seems to match yours—makes it impossible. His hands slip to your hips, fingers digging into you with a desire that you both pretend doesn't exist anywhere but here, in the dark corners of your little meeting places.

"Stop," you gasp for breath, pulling away for just a second, trying to steady yourself, but he follows, his mouth trailing down your jaw to your neck, biting down just enough to make you groan.

His fingers slip beneath the slit of your dress, finding bare skin. "Then tell me you don't want this."

Your head tilts back involuntarily, the blissed hitches in your breath becoming frequent. You should tell him to stop, but the words never come, not with his fingers tracing up your thigh, the pressure of his lean body against yours, the electric shiver that races through you as his mouth tongue dances with your own.

You give in, letting your anger melt into something messier, something that's been building between you both for so long you don't know how to unravel it. Your hands move to his white-blonde hair, pulling him closer. His hand slips higher, while the other is braced against the bookshelf behind you.

There's nothing careful about it—gone are the dynasty heirs who are unfailingly curated and perfect and genteel in the public eye. It's all frantic, hands grabbing, mouths clashing, neither of you willing to let the other take control but both of you giving in to the heat. He yanks your dress up, lifting you and positioning himself between your legs, his breathing rough as he makes quick work of his belt. Then he lets his trousers and underwear drop halfway down his thighs, and his cock springs free, pressing on the draped material of your gown, which you hurriedly bunch to the side.

It's like a sick power play when he takes two fingers and plunges them past your soaked entrance, right to his knuckles. All without breaking eye contact.

But neither has the upper hand. You and Aemond are one and the same.

"Seems like you're ready for me, princess."

"Mhmm, aghh—" He hooks his fingers inside you, hitting that damned spot. "Just fuck me already."

And when he does, his cock practically propping you up against the bookshelf, it's fast, chaotic, your movements nothing short of needy and desperate, as if you're both trying to prove something to the other. You don't care about the priceless first-edition books that rattle precariously behind you, nor about the way his fingers dig into your flesh that guarantee bruises that will show tomorrow. Right now, you're past caring, past pretending that you actually ever cared about anyone but yourself.

And maybe... Aemond.

His groans come out unrestrained against your neck, his tongue flicking over the droplets of sweat, as if he can't bear you being any less than perfect.

Only he can taint you, only he can see you broken in and fucked out like this, your lipstick smeared to the side of your mouth. That same shade of rouge littering his cheek, his jaw, the collar of his shirt.

No words are exchanged, as if they've been used up in your twisted version of foreplay from earlier.

All he offers is, "Fuck, baby, I'm close," as his hips continue in its assault, his hands buried in the softness of your arse, keeping you in place.

"So am I," you counter.

He falls apart inside you, his cock sputtering while lodged deep in your clenched walls. The near-animalistic growl he lets out brings you to your climax, your forehead falling against his as your entire body is rendered limp in his arms.

When you finally pull away, flushed, your heart still racing, he looks at you with that same arrogant smirk, and you can't help but feel the distaste rising back up.

"Still think I don't know you?" he murmurs, smug satisfaction written all over his face.

You glare at him, pulling your dress back down, refusing to let him have the last word even as his expression uncharacteristically softens as he gazes at you, making you want to pull him close and kiss him again. Gentler, this time.

"This can't happen again," you force out your usual lie.

"That's what you said last time, princess."

Vhagar taglist: @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @joyismm @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @all-for-aemond @alokaaaaa @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk @inesdiary96 @weirdblob21 @lonelyladyghost @tssf-imagines @nurtargaryen @paula-lkr @queenofshinigamis @breezyjin @empfm @amanda08319 @unrealwinchester @optimizche @seamaiden @spoffyos @subliiminals @believeinthefireflies95 @ex0tic-vgh @anukulee @mrsmunson-harrington @romyfe06

[radioactive-mouse]

i keep thinking about like. how the brutality levels vary between seasons and how secret life is the natural culmination of everything these people have been through and the watchers pushing everything to extremes. i’m going to try to articulate how crazy this makes me

3rd Life: god. 3rd life was a clear cut war. we haven’t seen a season since where nearly everyone has such an intense devotion to their chosen faction. the fact that there’s no precedent that they’re coming back next season, the fact that as far as they know, dying means staying dead, makes just how much they’re willing to go down with the ship that much more heartbreaking. grian ended the season exactly how it was played by damn near everyone else— i love you, i would do anything for you, i would rather die than keep going without you. the season of widows.

Last Life: and then they come back. and then ending things isn’t an option. and all of a sudden it’s not a war, it’s a death match, and damn is the competition is vicious. deaths are more often than not a vague, impersonal thing— not get away from my king, my husband, my charge— just the flash of a knife and a quick sorry, just playing the game! if 3rd life told you to hold the ones you love close, defend them to your last breath, last life urges you to burn that love out of your chest entirely.

Double Life: but everything slows down eventually. no more dying for the one you love— just learning to live with them. double life is about knowing that when you die, you will go together, hand and hand into the dark. a soap opera, the players joke. a small kindness, the universe replies. again, pearl wins the same way everyone else lost— no, not yet, please, just give us a little longer together, i’m not ready, i’m so sorry—

Limited Life: but the clock, unyielding, ticks ever onward. and god, everyone is starting to feel it. that sick, nauseating feeling of dread creeping up on them: what if it never ends? what if this is it, this is all that’s left for us— tearing each other apart over and over and over again, and for what? for a show? to feed those hungry things lurking in the dark? we’ll give them a show. bombs rain from the sky, the world shaking under the weight of it. there isn’t a thing left by the end that’s not rubble. we’re all doomed! the players cry, laughing with nothing but nihilistic, unrestrained joy. none of it matters! we come back again, and again, and again, have a little fun with it! light the fuse, collateral be damned. when death means so little, what’s the point in pretending they don’t take a little joy in it? we settle this like grian and scar before us, scott jokes, armor and weapons tossed to the side. are you insane? martyn thinks, remembering the hollow look that would wash over grian’s face when he thought no one was watching. it ruined him. it will not ruin me. this is a death match for a reason.

Secret Life: and here it is. the natural conclusion. this season is candy colored, the map dotted with cute pink houses and silly builds, the players all running around doing these ridiculous tasks. it’s so easy to forget how bloody this season was. unclosing wounds, bruises that don’t fade, the sting of fire or falling from a simple misstep. the hurt never goes away, but it gets easier to ignore— distract yourself with something silly to pass the time: spyglasses and frogs and the ugliest house you’ve ever seen and matching leather jackets and the doghouse and the relationSHIP and a weird tunnel full of doors and secret soulmates and god it’s almost, almost, enough to forget how much it all aches, how much the grief weighs on you, how many times someone you love has died, sometimes to your own blade. almost none of the grudges you hold are real by now, not really. not when you’re going to live and die with these people for as long as the hungry, many-eyed things delight in your suffering. you love each other, in the strangest way— sure you’ve all killed and betrayed each other in a thousand different ways, but at the end of the day, they’re all you have. clinging to each other in the face of the vast, unknowable horrors that drive you to slash each other to pieces. it’s still a game, after all. they’ve gotta figure out how to be good sports about it eventually.

[deergravity]

Seeing as my internal rewards system has moved on to 'trans fiction' from 'queer horror audio drama podcast' I thought I should do a little roundup of everything I listened to the past few months.

A rough ranking:

Malevolent. Just squeaking into the top spot here based on 1) technical prowess (iykyk) 2) compelling characters and story and 3) they are my blorbos your honor!!! Mind boggling that Harlan Guthrie has so much chemistry with himself.

The Silt Verses. Only topped by Malevolent bc season 1 is not as polished, but it really doesn't matter. Top tier characters, amazing worldbuilding, intricate plotting and it had something to SAY about the casual violence of systems, the nature of hope, the complexity of being human in a world that tries to make us inhuman. Also, it doesn't rely on some thin recording contrivance (a framing device that has its place) and instead truly takes the mantle of audio drama without apology.

The White Vault. On the topic of framing devices, TWV has a very cool take on found footage recordings. A group of [researchers/archeologists] are sent to investigate a remote site in [Svalbard/Patagonia] and the podcast is structured as a documentarian presenting the notes, recordings and diary entries in a reconstructed timeline. My favorite element is that many of the characters don't make their notes in English, so the segments will often open with the VA speaking German, Spanish, Mandarin, Icelandic, Russian, etc etc before fading into the translation. There are miniseries between the seasons available on their patreon and they were so worth the $10 I paid to access them for a month. Reveals are slow, but worthwhile, and the mythology built for the show is highly original and intriguing.

Deviser. A one season contained story from Harlan Guthrie of Malevolent. Scifi, psychological, lots of wet awful body horror. If you're a fan of Harlan wimpering into a mic, you'll love this one.

WOE.BEGONE. Long, ongoing, and so so so far from the original premise it's hilarious, I'm ranking this higher than it maybe deserves for two factors 1) the creator and the VAs are clearly having a blast and 2) it's riding the line of taking itself serious despite a premise that invites irony poisoning without becoming too wrapped up in itself. It's fun, I think, that keeps w.bg strong.

The Magnus Archives. Should this be one up? Probably. But everyone bloody well knows tma by this point, it's good, great even! Beyoncé of horror podcasts.

I Am In Eskew. Only knocked down due to the actually godawful sound quality. Truly unsettling stories though (the one with the building architect haunts me) and a surprisingly realistic conclusion. You can see the bones of The Silt Verses here, from the same creative team.

The Magnus Protocol. Everything above this is there due to originality. As a sequel series, TMAGP will always suffer in that measure. However, I like our new cast and I do love an alternate reality. Curious to see where season 2 takes us. I'd like to kill Mr Bonzo in a fire.

The Inexplicables. Another one season story, this time from Rusty Quill, with really fun, flawed characters and no recording framing device!

Wolf 359. Storywise, great! Characters, excellent! Kicking it way to the bottom bc they just would NOT STOP referencing H***y P****r. Yes, Doug's characterization hangs on excessive reference humor, but that was one well I wish they'd left alone.

Red Valley. Knocked for HP references too (come ON british podcasters, do better) but more importantly for veering WAY WAY WAY WAY WAY too close to real life in season 3 onward. I was here for a horror sci fi story about cryogenics, not to listen to my worst climate disaster fears brought to life via hearing rich old sods try to buy their way out of consequences while the world burns and eco terrorism escalates. Too real. Not bad storytelling, just very much not fulfilling my escapism needs.

It's kinda crazy to me that anytime I mention this genre to normies in my life they say, "oh, like true crime podcasts?" And then I die inside. No dude, like radio drama. Like War of the Worlds.

Anyway, I'm off to get even less relatable by reading a zillion niche trans novels (hello Welcome to Dorley Hall, aka, what if there really was a 'trans cult' force femming dudes to undermine their masculinity? It's amazing how much yarn we can make by subverting the cis gaze.)

[itsnesss]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 | robby keene × fem!reader

summary | on your first day back at school, robby returns after a long absence, and you feel an undeniable tension when you see him

warnings | smut, explicit content, fingering, p in v, semi-public

word count | 1.9 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

Today is the first day back to school, and Robby's first day back after so much time. You've heard rumors, and although you haven't seen him yet, you feel like his return is somehow going to change something. When you see him appear in the hallway, something in the air shifts. He walks with a tense confidence, as if he's unsure if he fits in here after everything that's happened. But he undoubtedly draws attention.

And for some reason, you can't stop staring at him.

Since Robby left, the school has been in a forced calm, but seeing him now, so close, so real, makes the air feel dense. Something inside you, something you've kept hidden, begins to stir. You have a strange feeling in your stomach, as if a piece of ice was thrown at you that slowly begins to melt.

When his eyes meet yours, everything around you stops. The buzz of the hallway, the whispers of the students, become irrelevant. All you can see is him, walking toward you, slowly getting closer. A brush of his gaze makes you feel so exposed, but at the same time, so alive.

He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the warmth of his body, as if the space between you has been reduced to nothing. He looks at you for a moment, a small smile on his lips, but there's something behind it you can't name. Then his gaze briefly lowers, scanning you up and down, in such a blatant way it almost burns.

“You look... different,” he says softly, but with a weight to his words that you can’t quite place. There’s something in his look that makes you feel exposed, as if he's reading every thought passing through your head. “Sexy,” he adds with a slight smile, and that word, said with such confidence, makes your heart race.

Your face flushes, but instead of looking away, you hold his gaze. You’re not sure if what you just heard makes you feel nervous or excited. Maybe a little bit of both. But what’s certain is that you can’t stop feeling drawn to him, to the way he looks at you, to the way his words make you feel like you’re about to break apart.

Before you can respond, Robby takes another step closer. The proximity of his body sends a spark through you, a tension so palpable that it feels like the air between you is charged with electricity. You remain silent, unsure of what to do, but he seems to know exactly what he wants.

“Let’s step outside for a moment,” he says, and although you know the school isn’t empty enough to escape everyone’s eyes, the idea of being alone with him calls to you more than it should. Without thinking too much about it, you follow his lead as he guides you down the hallway, toward a less crowded part of the building. The sound of his footsteps behind you makes it feel like you're being drawn to an unknown but exciting destination.

Finally, you reach a small room, a janitor’s closet. It’s a tight space, filled with cleaning products and cluttered shelves. The door closes behind you with a soft thud, and the outside world seems to fade away. All that’s left is him and you.

Robby steps closer, and before you can say anything, he takes you by the waist, pulling you toward him with a gentleness that contrasts with the intensity in his eyes. His gaze sparkles with a mix of desire and something deeper. “I never imagined we’d end up like this,” he whispers, his voice low and laden with intent.

The feel of his body against yours makes it hard to breathe. But you don’t want to pull away, not now. Without saying anything more, Robby kisses you. A soft kiss at first, almost as if he’s testing your reactions, but as soon as you run your hands across his chest, the kiss deepens, becoming more urgent.

Every touch of his hands, every brush of his body against yours, makes you feel more than nervous. You feel alive, completely consumed by the intensity of this moment, by the way Robby is making you feel so desired. His lips part from yours briefly, and he looks at you with that expression that makes you think this is only the beginning of what’s happening between you two.

“I want you,” he says, almost breathless. His voice sounds deep, full of the same intensity with which he looks at you. You have no words to respond. Instead, you kiss him again, harder, more desperate.

Each movement feels like an explosion of heat. Robby's hands roam your body with a determination that leaves you speechless, but you feel as if you can't stop, as if you were so captivated by his presence that all that matters is continuing to feel that electrifying connection between you both.

His fingers slide under the top of your blouse, finding the clasp of your bra.

He unbuttons it with surprising speed, and his fingers glide over your breasts with a tenderness that makes you want to scream. Everything around you begins to blur, and the only reality is him, the way you feel him so close to you. Robby's fingers caress every part of your breasts, gentle at first but increasingly urgent. Each caress makes you gasp, and your hands seek out his torso, yearning to feel his skin under your fingers.

But Robby won't let you go. His gaze meets yours, and he sees something that makes you understand he has plans for you. His fingers trace your ribs until they reach your back, where the curve of your hips draws him closer to you. He slips his hand under your short skirt, and you can't help but feel a slight surprise when you feel his fingers on your smooth skin. "I want to see you naked," he whispers, his warm breath against your lips.

That shouldn't make you feel nervous, but it's the first time you're doing it in that place, where someone could walk in. However, you know you can't stop him. You can't stop Robby. You don't want to stop him.

Without saying a word, you pull down your skirt and take off your blouse. The bra falls to your side. Robby's gaze fixes on your bare breasts, and you can see the need in his eyes. It is not a lewd or vulgar gaze. It's a gaze full of desire. Of adoration. It's as if in that moment, only you existed.

"I can see you have some nice panties," he says, slipping his hand under your panties and caressing your thighs. "But I would prefer to take them off you".

Her voice sounds so soft that it makes you want to let her do whatever she wants. The connection between the two of you is so strong at this moment that everything seems possible. "Hmmm..." he says, kissing your neck and tracing it with his tongue. "I think we should start here".

Before you have time to respond, Robby takes your panties and pulls them down to your ankles, completely removing them. You are naked in front of him.

His fingers feel soft on your skin, but his touch is urgent. All the tension that was in the air becomes palpable in his caresses, in the way his gaze travels over your body. You feel exposed, but not in a dangerous way. You feel as if you were made for him, as if your body had been specially designed for him.

"You have a beautiful body," he whispers in your ear, his lips brushing your skin with an erotic softness that makes you feel like you're going to crumble in his arms. "I want to explore it all."

The need in his voice is like a heartbeat in the air. A heartbeat that makes you feel so alive that you want to do anything possible just to keep feeling. But there's only one thing you can do: follow it.

Robby's hand finds your sex. His fingers graze your vagina with a softness and slowness that makes you feel the need for something more. Something that only he can give you. But Robby doesn't stop there. No. His fingers search for your clitoris, finding it with such surprising skill that it makes you want it to never stop. Everything becomes a whirlwind of feelings, emotions, and sensations. Each touch of his fingers is like receiving a jolt. An orgasm forming in your gut, waiting to explode.

But you can't, not yet. Not yet.

"I want to see you do it," says Robby, his voice so deep that it makes you feel excited in a way you never have before. "I want to see you arching in my arms".

Before responding, you feel Robby caressing you with one hand. His fingers touch you gently but with a need that feels so real. And his eyes, his eyes look at you as if you were the only one who existed, as if you were the only person that mattered in the world.

"Please," you say in whispers, trying to explain yourself. You can't, you can't explain yourself better, because every part of you feels so swept away by this moment. You can't speak, you can't think. The only thing you can do is feel. Feel their body against yours. Feeling their caresses so soft that they make you want more.

"What?" says Robby in a playful tone, inserting one of his fingers into your sex with an almost painful gentleness. You knot up inside, but you can't stop him. You don't want to stop it. "What do you want?" he asks, but you know he knows.

And you have no words to answer him. The only thing you can do is whisper his name, let his caresses make you arch in his arms.

"Come here," Robby says softly, pulling you towards him. His fingers caress your sex, finding your clitoris in a way that makes you want to scream. His hand moves quickly and softly at the same time, and you know this won't last long.

With a stifled scream, you melt in his arms, the sensation of this orgasm so intense that it makes you tremble. Your body arches in his arms, your legs feel weak, but Robby holds you. He holds you with a security that makes you feel protected, safe in his arms.

The room fades away, the room becomes irrelevant. There is no school, there are no problems, there is no future. The only thing that exists is him. It's your body against his. It's the need you feel every time you see him. And in this moment, the need becomes real. It becomes something you can touch. Something you can feel.

Something that is so strong that you can't do anything but succumb. Succumb to the intensity of the situation.

Succumb to him. Before Robby.

"I want more," says Robby in your ear. His words are like a breath of warm wind, so soft yet so strong at the same time. "I want to feel you inside me".

And you know you want the same thing. You want to feel his body against yours in the deepest way possible. You want to feel him inside you. You want him to feel you.

You see him take out a silver envelope before lowering his pants and boxers, the erection makes you feel a throb in your pussy. The need becomes so real that you feel suffocated, as if you can't breathe.

Robby looks at you, his eyes scanning your body with such gentleness that it sends a shiver down your spine. He puts on the condom and takes you by the waist. You see him coming towards you, his lips kissing you with a need so real that it makes you want to feel his erection inside you.

Without words, Robby lifts you up. His fingers trace your pussy, preparing you for him. And when you feel ready, you see him push. You feel it inside you.

The first touch is like an explosion, a clash of sensations so intense that it makes you want to gasp. But Robby is patient. His movements are slow, inserting and withdrawing with an exquisite softness that makes you feel as if the whole world is spinning around you.

The room is silent. You can't hear anything. There are no whispers, there are no footsteps. The school has disappeared, and only the two of them remain.

"I love feeling you like this," says Robby, his fingers tracing your breasts as he moves inside you. "I love how you feel, how you bite your lip as if you can't speak".

"I do it because I can't talk" you whisper between gasps. "I do it because... because this is...".

"Intense" says Robby, kissing you in such a deep way that it makes you forget there isn't a camera in this place. —Intense—says Robby, kissing you in such a deep way that it makes you forget there's no camera in this place. "This is incredible. I am in love with this. Of you".

Robby's words make you feel a heartbeat in your chest. His fingers cradle your hips, moving at a rhythm that makes you want to explode, to feel his semen inside you, to feel like you are one with him.

The room begins to blur, Robby's eyes meet yours. His pupils dilate, his lips part from yours. You feel that he is about to come. You feel it.

"Do it," you whisper in his ear. "Do it, please".

"Mmm, yes" says Robby with a moan, pushing one last time inside you before he comes.

They try to catch their breath, and for a moment, the silence of the room is the only thing that can be heard. Their eyes meet yours, and you feel something you don't know what it is. Maybe a connection. Maybe an invisible bond that ties you to him.

"The return to school hasn't been so bad," says Robby, smiling. You also smile, the tension between the two of you easing.

"You should go if you don't want to miss the next class" you say while both of you adjust your clothes. Robby looks at you for a second, as if he doesn't know what to do.

"I'll do it," he says before kissing your lips one last time and leaving the room. You follow him several seconds later.

[gigiii1sblog]

IN THE GLOW OF HIS WINDOW 002

Warning: contains sexual content, angst, tension, fluff, dirty talk, unprotected sex.

Chapter two: The Line We Crossed.

Y/N POV: A couple days later

It happens in the laundry room.

Of all places.

Basement floor of our apartment building, cement walls, one flickering light, and a hum that sounds like the building itself is holding its breath.

I was just there for socks.

One load. In. Out. No eye contact. No smoke.

No him.

And then the door creaks open.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Slow.

I don’t look up right away. I know it’s him.

You can feel Chris before you see him.

Like a storm rolling in behind your spine.

I turn.

And there he is.

Gray hoodie and sweatpants.Hood up. Hands in the front pocket.

Expression unreadable, like always, but his eyes… oh, they see too much.

I straighten up, suddenly aware of how oversized my T-shirt is. How bare my legs are. How warm my face feels.

He walks up to me. Doesn’t speak.

Not yet.

Loads his laundry like he’s done it a million times. Slow. Calm. Silent.

And then—

“You knew I was watching.”

Just like that. No build-up. No mercy.

I freeze.

The washer keeps spinning like it’s none of our business.

“You looked back,” he adds, not turning. “Didn’t even flinch.”

I grip the edge of the dryer like it might anchor me to this universe.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t lie.”

He finally looks at me.

And I swear, there’s fire in those cold eyes.

“You stood there,” he says, voice low. “And you let me look.”

I don’t know what to say.

My mouth opens. Closes. I hate how breathless I feel.

“You could’ve shut the curtain,” he continues, stepping closer now. One slow step at a time, like he’s walking through water. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think you’d—”

“Want to?” His smile isn’t kind. “I did.”

My heart is crashing now. Loud enough I wonder if he hears it.

He’s standing inches from me. Taller. Shadowed. Smelling like weed and something darker, something that makes me want to lean in and run.

“You looked right at me,” he says. “Didn’t even cover yourself.”

I swallow. Hard. “And if I did?”

He leans down just slightly. Closer. Voice quiet.

“Then you’re not the girl I thought you were.”

I lift my chin.

“And what kind of girl did you think I was?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me. Like he’s reading something he can’t decide if he wants to keep or tear apart.

“The kind that writes about fire,” he says. “But doesn’t touch it.”

Then, his fingers brush mine. Barely. Light as air. But it hits like lightning.

“But maybe I was wrong.”

He turns, just like that. Drops a Tide pod into the washer. Hits start.

Like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just set me on fire with five sentences.

I leave my socks behind.

And all I can think about on the elevator ride up is this:

If I keep letting him look…

I might never stop burning.

CHRIS POV:

I swear I wasn’t going to.

Not tonight. Not ever.

But some things don’t care about rules.

Like fire.

Or girls who stand in windows like they’re daring you to lose control.

⸻

It’s late. Real late.

I should be asleep.

Matt is. Nick’s still out somewhere, probably drunk-texting exes and sending me memes I’ll never open.

But me? I’m pacing my room like I’m trying to wear the floor down.

She left her window cracked again.

Light on. Curtains half drawn.

Same soft glow. Same soft girl.

She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, scribbling into that notebook she always has like the world is too loud and she’s the only one writing it quieter.

She doesn’t know I’m watching.

Or maybe she does.

It doesn’t matter.

Because I’m done watching.

My hand’s on the window latch before I can stop myself.

It’s so quiet I can hear my own breath.

Hear the moment I lose the fight with myself.

I step out onto the balcony.

Hesitate once.

Just once.

Then I cross the three feet between her world and mine, climb up on the divider, and drop down like a secret.

Her window’s loose. I knew it would be.

She’s soft like that. Trusting. Open.

God, she shouldn’t be.

She shouldn’t let someone like me this close.

I tap twice.

She turns.

And when her eyes hit mine, wide, startled, waiting, I already know:

I’m not going back.

Y/N POV:

The second I open the window, I know I’m letting in more than him.

Chris doesn’t speak as he climbs through, slow and quiet like he’s been here before, even though we both know he hasn’t. He moves like a shadow, pulling the glass down behind him, and suddenly my room feels smaller. Thicker.

He straightens. Looks at me.

No smirk. No teasing. Just eyes, heavy lidded and impossible to read.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.

I nod. “Yea, you shouldn’t.”

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t leave.

Just watches me like I’m the one who climbed into his space.

“You keep your window cracked,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. “Why?”My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.”

He takes a step closer. The floor creaks.

“You do it for the air,” he says. “For the quiet. Or maybe…”

He tilts his head. His voice drops.

“Maybe you were waiting.”

I swallow hard. “Waiting for what?”

Another step.

He’s so close now I feel the heat of him, the scent of smoke and soap clinging to his hoodie. His eyes flick to my mouth. Back up.

“Me.”

The room is silent.

Except for the storm inside my chest.

“We don’t know each other,” I whisper.

Chris doesn’t blink. “So?”

“So this is…”

“Stupid?” he offers. “Dangerous?”

My voice is thin. “Yeah.”

He nods slowly.

Then lifts his hand, and for a second, I swear he’s going to touch me. But he doesn’t. His fingers hover near my face, like he’s memorizing the outline. The heat of him is dizzying.

“You feel it too,” he says.

Not a question.

I don’t answer.

Because yes.

Yes, I do.

I feel it in my ribs. In my knees. In the space between each breath like something waiting to happen.

Then, finally, his hand brushes my jaw. Soft. Careful. Reverent.

“You gonna stop me?” he murmurs.

I should.

I don’t.

I lean in the smallest inch.

And that’s all it takes.

He closes the space.

His mouth meets mine.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

It’s heat and want and silence finally breaking. His hand finds the back of my neck. Mine clutch his hoodie like I’ve been holding this in too long. His mouth is warm, rough, urgent, like this kiss has been waiting to happen in the shadows of every window and every stare.

We don’t come up for air.

Not until we have to.

When we finally break apart, we don’t speak.

We just stand there, breathing hard.

His forehead against mine.

And in the quiet, I realize:

I let him in.

Not just through the window.

Through everything.

He turns to leave.

And I feel it, the ache, the silence, the space he’s about to leave behind. The version of me that still hesitates. Still obeys.

But I don’t want her anymore.

So I step forward.

Fingers wrapping around his hoodie sleeve. Tugging.

A wordless plea.

He turns. Sees it in my eyes.

The heat. The fear. The choice I’ve already made.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“Don’t what?” His voice is thick, low, unsteady.

“Don’t leave.”

He stares at me for a second too long.

Then steps back in.

And everything shifts.

I kiss him first this time.

Hard. Desperate. A little clumsy, but full of need.

His hands are in my hair before I can breathe.

Mine are under his hoodie, pulling, tugging, aching to feel him.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to strip. Hoodie. Shirt. Gone.

His skin is warm, tense, solid.

And when his hands lift my shirt, he hesitates.

“You sure?”

My breath hitches. “Yes.”

He doesn’t just pull it over my head. He peels it away like it means something.

Like I do.

His mouth is everywhere, my jaw, my neck, the curve of my shoulder.

He touches me like he’s memorizing, claiming, worshipping.

Every brush of his hands makes my skin burn.

Every kiss makes me want more.

He lays me down on the bed, slow and careful, like I’m something fragile, but he’s not gentle. Not exactly. Not when his fingers trail down my stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Not when his mouth grazes the softest part of me, and he watches every sound I make like it’s a reward.

He takes his time.

Like he wants to.

Like he’s been waiting for this, too.

When he finally moves over me, breathless, his forehead resting against mine, it’s quiet.

Not awkward. Not scary. Just… real.

My body shakes, just a little.

Not from fear, but from knowing.

“I’ve never—” I start.

“I know,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I can tell.”

His voice drops, almost breaking. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he does.

Slow, deep, grounding.

His name on my lips before I even realize I’m saying it.

It hurts at first, tight, unfamiliar. But he waits. Breathes. Kisses. Whispers.

And when the pain fades, it’s replaced by heat. Pressure. Rhythm.

My hands cling to his shoulders. His fingers dig into the sheets beside my head. His pace is slow, but intense, every movement sending sparks through me.

Our bodies move like we’ve done this before. Like we were meant to.

Every time he pulls away, he comes back harder. Deeper. Until I can’t think. Until all I know is the sound of our breathing and the fire curling low in my stomach.

And when I finally fall apart beneath him, his name on my tongue, back arching, heart breaking in the best way, he follows.

His grip on me tightens. His breath stutters.

And then he collapses against me, chest heaving, heartbeat wild.

We lie there in the dark.

His hand resting over my stomach. Mine still tangled in his curls. Skin on skin. Nothing left to hide.

No words.

Just the quiet hum of something we can’t take back.

And deep in my chest, I know:

I gave myself to the boy I was never supposed to let in.

CHRIS POV:

She let me in.

And not just through the window.

Not just into her room, or her bed, or her body.

She let me into something I don’t deserve.

Something soft. Something unspoiled.

Something real.

And now I’m lying here, naked, sweating, heart still beating like I’m not used to feeling it, wondering what the hell I just did.

She’s asleep now.

Hair a mess across her pillow. Lips parted. Her body curled against mine like I’m safe.

I’m not.

I’m the wrong choice.

She doesn’t even know how wrong.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

I was just going to knock on the glass. Say something stupid. Look at her and leave before I got pulled in again.

But then she opened the window. And she looked at me like she wanted me. Like she saw through the hoodie, through the smoke, through the damage.

And when she kissed me?

Fuck.

She didn’t just kiss me.

She gave herself to me.

And I took it.

I took everything.

Her first time.

I knew it before she said a word.

The way she touched me, shy but certain. Brave. Trusting.

The way she looked up at me when I was inside her, eyes wide, lips trembling, like I was both the fire and the only place she could burn safely.

She let me see every part of her.

And I did everything I could not to break it.

Not to break her.

But now…

The room’s too quiet.

My thoughts too loud.

This isn’t just some hookup.

She’s not just some girl.

This is the kind of thing people stay for.

And I don’t stay.

I sit up slowly, trying not to wake her.

My clothes are scattered across the room. Her shirt’s tangled in the sheets. The smell of her is all over me, warm and soft and sweet like she pressed herself into my skin.

I look at her one more time.

She’s sleeping like someone who’s never been hurt.

Like she thinks I won’t be the one to do it.

And that’s the problem.

I slip out of the bed.

Pull my hoodie over my head. Find my shoes. Push the window up again, careful not to make a sound.

The night air hits me hard.

And as I step back onto my own balcony, I already know:

I’ll never forget how she looked under me.

How she said my name.

How she trusted me.

And I’ll never be able to give her what she thinks I can.

But I’ll come back.

Not because I should.

Because I won’t be able to stay away.

@izzylovesmatt @riggysworld @amiraisafreakokaysorry @ansteeze @pair-of-pantaloons @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3 @kalel2005 @sarahsturnn @teheabrams @needchrissturniolobad @my-world-is-poetry @sturniszn @slutforchrissturniolo2 @alinagrace11 @beardedbernard @matthewswifeyy @blindedheartp @crypticallycruelwarden @jaybirdie34 @courta13 @chriss-slutt @chrissturniolobendmeovernow

[pleasantinternetperson]

Okay so I just read Wereworld by Curtis Jobling after watching Wolf King on Netflix, because I found myself intrigued by the concept and heard that the books were for a more mature audience - and I have to day, after reading it, I do kinda wish that the show had leaned more towards the gritty, horror fantasy aspect of the books.

Look, I love me a good adaptation, especially for more underrated book series', but personally, I feel the show would've benefitted more narrtively and visually if it had been geared towards an older audience.

I really think it would've provided a really interesting dichotomy between Drew and his innocent, pure drive for peace for everyone living in Lyssia, and the violence that he has to endure and cause himself to get to that peace.

Because, give me Drew Ferran, young, Cold Coast sheperd boy who adores his mother and is best friends with his brother and loves his father even when he's a grouch, and is quite possibly one of the sweetest lads around, and watch him be faced with horrors of the world as all kinds of people try to tear him down for revenge against the father he never knew he had, and his lycanthropy making his life absolutely impossible.

Give me Drew Ferran stumbling into the Dyrewood with Mack Ferran's wolfshead blade still in his stomach as he reels from witnessing his mother murdered right in front of his eyes by a monster, and then having to live in the most inhospitable forest in the world for six months with nothing and no one to offer him a helping hand, as he's left to fend for himself, cold, alone and without his family, who hate him for thinking he murdered Tilly, and wondering what the hell he actually is when his hands become claws and his teeth feel too sharp in his mouth and he has to abandon his humanity to survive.

Like, I really would've loved to see glimpses of that struggle we see in the books as he tries to get by in the Dyrewood, and then finally meets Witley and Hogan. (Btw its so hilarious the way my guy is entirely oblivious to the fact that whitely is a girl until the very end of the book - peak comedy, 10/10, no notes)

Speaking on the visuals for a second, the show is absolutely stunning to looks at, and I really enjoyed the story book feel to the animation - but again, I feel like it was really lacking in showing how powerful the therianthropes really are by toning down the damage they can deal, because it does get pretty gorey in the books, considering Drew rips his own hand off at one point - badass behaviour from my baby boy I gotta say (don't come at me Drew is slowly becoming my new blorbo)

And my god, the final battle at the end of the first book is truly one of the most phenomenally frightening, high-stakes fight I've ever read, like I was genuinely at the edge of my seat wondering how the actual fuvk Drew was gonna get himself out of this one, and I think the show really puts itself at a disadvantage by not going all out with it - because can you imagine:

The courtyard is covered in fire, and it's casting the entire scene with a burning, orange glow, there's smoke everywhere , and Drew is stumbling back from the Rat King brothers, battered, bloody and bruised after watching another parent die in front of his eyes again, and now he has to fight these fuckers that have killed most of his family and made his life a living hell, with basically no energy, lycanthropy he can barely control, and a dream that it might all be better one day if he can get through this?

Chills. Literal chills.

I've got some criticisms on the book as a whole, but I think I'll go into them another time - but they're fantastic books with such insane lore and world building, it feels real, and that's such an important part of writing a good fantasy I feel like, because a lot of fantasy stories these days don't do much to flesh out the actual the world their characters are in, struggling to strike that balanceof narrative cohesion and having a world that feel livable for your characters to inhabit.

Overall, yeah - I think Wolf King is a good show, but it's really holding itself back from what it could be by being a show for younger kids, and I would really like to see it do well in the future regardless of what I think it could be doing better

[c4shm0neyxxx]

“No One Else” — Part 3: “Downhill Doesn’t Feel Like Falling”

Genre: Angst, dark romance, mutual obsession

Tone: Slow-burning surrender, dangerous comfort

⸻

You should’ve left.

You should’ve screamed. Slammed the door. Blocked his number. Told someone.

Instead, you let him in.

Not just into the building. Into your room. Into your space. Into that quiet, aching part of you that had grown used to his presence—his chaos—his control.

He didn’t smile when you opened the door.

He didn’t need to.

The moment you stepped aside, the silence between you both said everything.

You sat on the floor beside your bed. He followed, without a word. Shoulder to shoulder. Close, but not touching.

It was almost worse than touching.

“You scare me,” you whispered. The words burned your throat.

He didn’t flinch.

“Good,” he said again, voice low. “Then we’re still real.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him. His profile was all shadows and sharp lines. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at too long.

“You don’t scare me like a stranger does,” you said. “You scare me because… you feel like home sometimes. The kind of home that locks all the doors behind you.”

His eyes shifted toward yours. “I told you before. You make me worse.”

“And I told you,” you murmured, “you make it hard to breathe.”

Neither of you moved. But something between you did. A pull. A surrender. A sick kind of trust.

“Then don’t breathe,” he said. “Not if it means walking away from this.”

You should’ve fought it.

But your hand moved. Found his.

Not because you forgot what he’d done. What he could do. But because no one had ever made you feel so seen. Even when he hated your freedom, even when he tried to cage it—he saw you.

And you were so tired of feeling invisible everywhere else.

“I think I hate you sometimes,” you whispered.

He smiled. “That means it’s real.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. And he finally, finally breathed out like he’d been waiting hours for that single moment.

Like your head there was the missing piece in a puzzle made entirely of jagged edges.

“Promise me something,” you murmured.

His body tensed beneath you.

“Anything.”

“Don’t ever lie to me. Hurt me, break me, scare me—fine. But don’t pretend this is something sweet. Don’t call it love when it’s something darker.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then:

“I won’t lie. This isn’t sweet. It’s twisted. It’s wrong.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“But it’s ours.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in days… you slept.

Wrapped in danger. Wrapped in obsession. Wrapped in the one person you knew would burn down the world just to keep you for himself.

And part of you?

Part of you liked it.

[ayunas-tuna]

one for the money ━━ 3.7k ˚ series chp1

part of - 𝒪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺, 𝓣𝘸𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 ౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

summary - you just got out of a painful breakup and can’t stop crying. jungkook, the university's star athlete and ex to the girl who dumped him, catches you at your lowest and makes a wild offer: fake date each other to make your exes jealous. it sounds ridiculous but you’re desperate enough to say yes. the deal is made but neither of you likes how awkward and forced it already feels. and this is only the beginning.

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ౨ৎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚

the thing no one tells you about breakups is how quiet they are. no dramatic shouting, no stormy skies, no slamming doors. just a cold bench outside the humanities building, a sleeve soaked in snot and tears, and a phone screen lighting up with his name. over and over.

you didn’t look. not again. not when you already knew what it said. hey. i think we should see other people. as if you were a choice. as if you hadn’t spent over a year giving him every soft piece of yourself.

around you, campus was still alive. students rushing between classes, headphones in, laughing like the world hadn’t just ended. you blinked up at the sky, jaw clenched, trying to stop the burning behind your eyes, but it didn’t work. the tears came anyway. hot. stupid. relentless. you didn’t even notice the footsteps.

“uh…”

you froze.

you didn’t lift your head. didn’t say anything. maybe if you stayed perfectly still, whoever it was would walk away. but the footsteps stopped, and after a beat, the voice came again.

“are you… good?”

you sniffed. didn’t even bother looking. “do i sound good?”

a pause. then: “no. i mean, not like… bad. just, like, not okay. which is totally fair. um. shit.”

you finally glanced up.

jeon jungkook.

seriously?

he stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, wearing a half-zipped hoodie and gray sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d just left the gym. he looked like he had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. which would’ve been funny if you weren’t in the middle of crying your eyes out.

you wiped at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie and looked away. “it’s fine. you can go.”

he didn’t.

instead, he just… stayed.

“do you wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice softer now.

you shook your head. “not really.”

he nodded. “cool. i hate talking.”

the silence that followed wasn’t as awkward as it should’ve been. weirdly, it almost helped. like just knowing someone was there made it a little easier to breathe. you reached for your phone and shoved it into your pocket without checking it. another vibration buzzed through the fabric.

“was it… boyfriend stuff?” he asked carefully.

your throat tightened. you hated how saying it out loud made it feel real. “ex-boyfriend,” you muttered. “he broke up with me. in a text.”

jungkook winced. “ouch. that’s rough.”

“yeah. we were together for over a year. and now i’m apparently not worth a conversation. just a text. ‘we should see other people.’ like we were on the same page or something.”

your voice cracked at the end and you hated that. you felt stupid and raw and so small it made your skin crawl. but jungkook didn’t laugh. he didn’t act weird. he just sat down next to you on the bench like it was the most normal thing in the world.

you blinked. “what are you doing?”

“sitting.”

“why?”

“because crying alone outside the humanities building kinda sucks,” he said, shrugging. “and also… i get it.”

you turned your head to look at him. “you’ve been dumped?”

“hell yeah. last week. she sent me a voice note. sixty-two seconds of vague reasons and weird passive-aggressive energy.”

you blinked. “a voice note?”

“yeah,” he said, sighing. “said i wasn’t posting her enough. that i didn’t match her ‘soft aesthetic’ or whatever. i think it was mostly about how i didn’t repost her birthday collage.”

you snorted. “tragic.”

“i know, right?”

and just like that, something shifted. it was tiny, but it was there. a shared kind of pain. quiet, bitter, weirdly funny in the way only heartbreak can be when it’s still fresh.

“what did you do after?” you asked.

he tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. “ate a whole pizza, listened to the weeknd for like four hours, and considered deleting instagram. didn’t, though.”

“strong of you.”

he grinned. “thanks.”

you stared at your shoes for a second, then glanced at him again. you’d never really talked to jungkook before. he was always surrounded by people, laughing and flirting and being way too hot to exist on campus. but right now, sitting next to you on this shitty cold bench, he looked… normal.

and then he said it.

“you know, we could fake date.”

you blinked. “what?”

“fake date. just for a little bit. make our exes jealous. get people talking. help us both save face.”

you stared at him, genuinely unsure if he was joking. “are you serious?”

“yeah,” he said casually. “you want revenge. i want revenge. seems efficient.”

“you are out of your mind.”

he laughed. “maybe. but you’re still listening.”

you opened your mouth to argue. then closed it. then opened it again. “what would even be the point?”

“you show up to class with me. i show up to practice with you. maybe post a couple cute pictures. if we really commit, they’ll spiral. and even if they don’t, at least we don’t look pathetic.”

you raised an eyebrow. “so your solution to being dumped… is pretending to date someone you don’t even know?”

“i mean, you know my name. that’s a start.”

“jungkook, this is actually the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard.”

“and yet,” he said, a little grin tugging at his lips, “you haven’t said no.”

you hated that he was right. because deep down, the thought of your ex seeing you smile in a blurry photo next to jungkook’s annoyingly perfect face… didn’t sound so bad.

“no kissing,” you said.

“duh.”

“no feelings.”

“please.”

“and no couple hashtags or matching bios or weird pet names.”

he held a hand to his heart. “i promise not to call you ‘baby’ unless absolutely necessary.”

you rolled your eyes. “i’ll think about it.”

he leaned back against the bench, still grinning. “that’s basically a yes.”

you didn’t answer. just looked out across the quad again, the ache in your chest a little quieter now. it was stupid. probably a terrible idea. but after days of crying and overthinking and feeling like nothing…

you didn’t say yes that day. not officially. you just let him walk you to your next class and didn’t push his hand away when he held open the door. you were too emotionally wrecked to think clearly, too exhausted to ask why jungkook kept glancing over like he was checking to see if you were okay. you didn’t smile. you didn’t flirt. but when he said “text me if you change your mind,” and tapped his number into your phone without asking, you didn’t delete it either.

you went home. you cried again. and then you stared at his contact in your phone for way too long.

you didn’t text him. not until the next day.

and it was just one word.

okay.

fifteen seconds later, he sent back a thumbs up and a photo of a heart-shaped cake with “welcome to the club” written in pink icing. under that: we ride at dawn

you didn’t know what the hell you were signing up for. but your chest didn’t feel as heavy. not that day.

by monday, everyone on campus thought you and jungkook were a thing.

you’d barely agreed to the plan and already he was committed like it was a full-time job. he met you outside your lecture like it was natural, leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, black hoodie pulled over his head like he hadn’t slept. he gave you this casual little smirk and nodded toward the door.

“ready to ruin your ex’s week?”

you stared at him. “do i have a choice?”

“nope.”

he grabbed your hand before you could argue. not tight, not overly performative, just enough that you felt it. enough that your heart did something weird in your chest that you definitely ignored.

inside the lecture hall, you could feel the stares. eyes flicking toward you both, whispers under breath, someone literally gasping in the second row when jungkook dropped into the seat next to you and leaned in to say something about how hot it was inside.

he didn’t even say anything flirty. he just sat close and sipped your iced coffee like it was already his.

and that’s how it started.

no big announcement. no full plan. just… him beside you. walking you to class. tagging you in memes. sending you goodnight selfies with captions like sleep tight, fake gf. your ex saw it. obviously. people talk.

and jungkook made sure he saw more.

“you free after class?” he asked one afternoon, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, the air cool enough to make your breath fog a little.

“why?”

“impromptu photo op. we’re going for the 'soft campus couple' aesthetic. it’s important for believability.”

you narrowed your eyes. “this is really about your instagram, isn’t it.”

he grinned. “maybe a little.”

you ended up sitting with him under a tree behind the arts building, sharing a smoothie and pretending to laugh at something on his phone while he took sneaky candids. he picked the one where you were looking down and smiling, your hair falling over your face, and captioned it lucky me with a white heart.

the post got 472 likes in an hour.

your ex didn’t like it, but his new situationship blocked you on everything later that night, so. win.

“we’re literally evil,” you muttered the next day as you scrolled through your dms.

“evil’s fun,” jungkook said, throwing an arm over your shoulders as he walked you to class. “you’re just new to it.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t push him off.

and maybe that’s when things started to shift.

not in a huge way. not all at once. just little things.

like how he’d always buy an extra iced americano and wordlessly hand it to you. or how he’d lean in close to say something stupid and stay there just a second too long. or the way his thumb would brush against yours when he held your hand for “fake couple reasons” but didn’t let go even after no one was watching.

you didn’t talk about it.

you didn’t think about it either. not really. not until that wednesday afternoon when he looked at you during your stupid “pretend to be a couple at lunch” moment and said, completely unprompted,

“you’re actually kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”

you froze.

your heart jumped, and not in the soft warm way. it was more like a jolt. a reminder. that this wasn’t real. wasn’t supposed to be anything. and the worst part? he didn’t even say it in a flirty way. he just looked at you like he meant it and then went back to eating fries like it was normal.

you didn’t know what to do with that.

so you ignored it.

until it kept happening.

on friday, he grabbed your hand in the middle of a party.

you didn’t even see him coming. one second you were standing with some friends, sipping from a red cup and doing your best to seem chill and unbothered. the next, jungkook appeared out of nowhere, wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed your temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“sorry i’m late,” he murmured in your ear. “had to find parking.”

you blinked up at him. “we didn’t even come together.”

“don’t ruin the narrative,” he whispered, eyes glittering with mischief.

and then, because of course he did, he turned to your ex across the room and waved.

like. actually waved.

you nearly choked on your drink. “jungkook-”

“he’s looking,” he whispered again, lips brushing your ear. “act natural.”

so you did.

you slipped your hand into his. leaned your head against his shoulder. smiled at nothing. laughed at something he didn’t even say.

and when the music shifted and the lights dimmed and the room melted into bodies and noise, he pulled you into the corner and kept his hand on the small of your back like he’d always known you.

your heart beat a little too fast. not from the alcohol. not from the plan.

from him.

you didn’t say anything.

he didn’t either.

but when he leaned his forehead against yours and said, so quiet you almost missed it,

“you’re doing really good at pretending,”

you wondered for the first time if either of you were pretending at all.

the next few days were confusing in the way dreams are confusing. everything looked the same, felt mostly the same, but something had shifted under the surface and you couldn’t stop noticing it.

jungkook was still your fake boyfriend. technically. but now he was also the first person you thought to text when something funny happened. or when a song came on that made you feel a little too much. or when you caught your reflection and felt stupidly alone.

he didn’t make it weird. he just rolled with it. sent you memes. selfies with his hair a mess. weird voice notes of him singing off-key in the car. nothing serious. nothing loaded. but it made your chest feel weird anyway.

“how’s my fake girlfriend doing today?” he asked on tuesday, flopping down beside you on the library lawn like he belonged there.

you barely looked up from your notes. “emotionally unstable and caffeine dependent, as always.”

he smiled. “my dream girl.”

you nudged his knee with yours and tried not to react to how easy it felt now. how normal.

maybe that was the problem.

you were getting used to it. used to him. to the fake relationship that didn’t feel all that fake anymore.

by wednesday, you were spiraling in your own head. things were getting blurry. and when things got blurry, you ran.

so you did what you always did when your heart started acting up, you shut down. slowly, carefully, almost like you didn’t want him to notice. but of course he did.

you didn’t laugh as loud. didn’t text back as fast. didn’t let your hand linger in his when he reached for you in the hallway. you were still there. still playing the part. but it felt thinner now, like a wall you were trying to build before everything fell apart.

on thursday afternoon, it all caught up with you.

you were both sitting in the student center, pretending to do homework and mostly sharing a cookie that neither of you admitted you wanted first. the sun was slanting through the windows just right, making everything feel soft and slow.

he leaned back in his chair and said it so casually it almost didn’t register.

“so… are you mad at me or what?”

you blinked. “what?”

he tilted his head. his hair was a little messy, his sleeves pushed up. he looked so relaxed, like this wasn’t already making your lungs tighten.

“you’ve been weird,” he said simply. “distant.”

you turned back to your laptop. “i’ve just been busy.”

he didn’t push. didn’t sigh or roll his eyes. he just waited.

and when you didn’t say anything for a long time, he spoke again. quieter this time.

“you wanna talk about it?”

you closed your laptop slowly and looked at him.

“i think maybe we should chill with the fake dating stuff for a bit.”

his eyebrows twitched. “you mean… take a break?”

you hated how he said that. like it was real. like it actually hurt.

“not a break. just… i think it’s getting too close to real. and that’s not what we signed up for, right?”

he didn’t answer right away. just nodded, mouth tight like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

“you’re still my fake girlfriend though, yeah?” he said after a second. “you’re not firing me?”

you smiled, just a little. “no. you’re still on contract.”

“good,” he said. “because i make a damn good fake boyfriend. ask anyone.”

you let out a soft laugh. “seriously.”

his voice gentled. “i know. i get it. we can take it slow.”

and for once, he didn’t make it into a joke. he just leaned back again, his fingers tracing the edge of the table, and looked out the window like he needed a second.

you stared at him. tried to figure out what was going on behind his eyes. but he didn’t give anything away. he never did.

“thank you,” you said after a while.

“anytime.”

and that should’ve been the end of it. that should’ve been enough.

but that night, lying in bed with your phone screen glowing beside you, you stared at the last thing he texted you:

let me know when you’re ready to go back to full chaos. my fake boyfriend powers are ready.

and your heart did something it wasn’t supposed to do.

by friday, things had settled into a quieter rhythm.

not in a bad way, just different. you and jungkook still sat together in lectures, shared snacks between classes, and sometimes your knees would brush under the table. neither of you pulled away, but the urgency had softened. it felt like you were both giving each other space without saying it out loud.

maybe that was what you needed.

from crying on a bench to playing the part of a couple on campus, you’d forgotten how to sit still with your feelings. slowing down wasn’t a step back, it was a chance to breathe.

he never pushed you. when your hand slipped away, he didn’t ask why. when you sat a little further apart, he didn’t tease or complain. but he was still there. sending good luck texts before quizzes, sharing half his sandwich when you forgot yours, or texting dumb photos of his cat with silly captions that made you smile more than you expected.

one afternoon, as you both waited for the next class, he nudged you gently. “you doing okay?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

you looked at him, the weight of everything still there but a little lighter now. “yeah. better than i was.”

he smiled. real, not fake. and reached out to squeeze your hand once. just once.

“good,” he said.

you found yourself watching jungkook more than you expected. not in the “i’m crushing hard” kind of way, because you’d sworn off all that, but in a quieter way. like noticing the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed or the way he always tucked his hair behind his ear when he was thinking.

it was strange how someone you barely knew could start feeling so familiar. how the space beside you wasn’t empty anymore, even when you weren’t holding hands or pretending to be a couple for the camera.

one saturday, you met up at the campus coffee shop, not for any plan or social media stunt, just because jungkook said he needed to “study” and you needed an excuse to get out of your dorm.

you showed up fifteen minutes late and found him already there, laptop open, earbuds in. he looked up and grinned when he saw you, pulling one earbud out.

“fashionably late,” he teased.

you slid into the seat across from him, rubbing your hands around the warm mug of chai he’d ordered for you. “study mode?”

“barely,” he admitted, flashing you a crooked smile. “mostly just trying to survive midterms.”

you laughed softly, the sound catching you off guard. it felt easy to be around him, like you could almost forget this was all fake. almost.

for a while, you just sat there, sipping your drinks and stealing glances at each other. the noise of the busy coffee shop faded into the background, like you were in your own little bubble.

then jungkook shut his laptop with a snap.

“okay, serious question,” he said, leaning forward. “how long do you think we can keep this up?”

you blinked. “keep what up?”

“the fake thing. the pretending. the whole ‘we’re together to piss off our exes’ circus.”

you bit your lip, considering.

“i don’t know,” you said finally. “longer than i expected, honestly.”

he nodded, eyes darkening a little.

“me too.”

there was a pause.

“do you ever think about what comes next?” he asked quietly.

you swallowed, feeling the air grow thick.

“not really,” you admitted. “i’m scared. and honestly, it feels easier to just keep pretending than to deal with what ‘real’ might mean.”

he looked down at his hands, fingers tracing patterns on the table.

“yeah,” he said. “me too.”

you shared a look that didn’t need words.

later, when you walked out together under the early evening sky, the world suddenly felt colder and bigger and so full of things you weren’t ready to face.

“so,” jungkook said, breaking the silence. “should we try to keep this fake thing a little longer?”

you looked up at him, your breath visible in the chilly air.

“yeah,” you said softly. “i think we should.”

he smiled, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes your chest tighten.

“good. because i’m not done being your fake boyfriend.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled back.

“neither am i being your fake girlfriend.”

the days after that felt lighter. not perfect, but lighter. like the weight on your chest had loosened just enough for you to breathe without thinking about it every second.

jungkook kept showing up in those small ways, the text at noon to check if you’d eaten, the way he always remembered your coffee order, the quiet way he waited for you after class without making it a thing.

one afternoon, you caught him staring at you during a lecture, and when your eyes met, he just smirked and mouthed, “fake couple.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

sometimes, when you weren’t looking, you caught yourself wondering if the line between fake and real was getting blurrier than it should.

but you pushed that thought away.

for now, it was enough to have him there, to have someone who understood the messy parts without needing explanations.

when you walked out of class one day, he grabbed your hand again.

not because it was part of the plan, but just because.

ribbon banner creds - @cursed-carmine

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, sexual assault, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 2]

(Chapter 28)

The Longest Reunion

The rhythmic thud of fists colliding with leather echoed down the empty hallway. Y/N followed the sound, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting long shadows against the metallic walls of the underground S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

She found him in the training room.

A graveyard of punching bags surrounded him, the remnants of past ones torn open and left scattered across the floor like casualties of war. Another bag swung violently from the impact of his blows, creaking on its chain as Steve threw punch after punch, his movements sharp, precise—relentless.

Y/N didn’t speak right away. She just stood there, watching.

His shoulders were rigid, his breath ragged. Sweat clung to the strands of his hair, his jaw clenched so tight she thought it might crack. He looked different now. Not just older, though time had barely touched him—hardened.

Finally, she stepped forward. “You know, at this rate, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s going to run out of bags.”

Steve stilled. His breathing was heavy, his hands still curled into fists. Slowly, he turned toward her.

For a moment, he just stared. Like she was something from a dream—something that couldn’t possibly be real.

Then his eyes softened, just barely. “You’re awake.”

Y/N swallowed, nodding. “Yeah.”

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly before running a hand through his damp hair. “Seventy years, Y/N. We were frozen in the ice for seventy years.”

She could hear the anger simmering beneath his voice, the frustration laced with grief. She understood.

Steve turned away, his muscles still tense. “Everything we knew, everything we fought for—it’s gone.” He threw another punch at the bag, making it swing violently. “The world kept moving without us. Peggy–”

Y/N flinched. She had expected that, but hearing it out loud felt like a fresh wound reopening. “Steve—”

“I don’t belong here.” His voice was sharp, bitter. “I wake up every day and I don’t recognize anything. Not the people, not the buildings, not the way the world works. And Peggy—” His breath hitched, and he stopped himself short. He pressed his lips together, his fists shaking. “She was supposed to be here. And she’s not.”

Y/N stepped closer, her voice gentle. “I know.”

Steve turned to her again, his blue eyes burning. “Do you?”

She didn’t falter. “Yeah, I do.”

Silence stretched between them. A long, heavy silence filled with everything left unsaid.

Then Steve sighed, some of the tension in his frame loosening. “I—” he hesitated. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Y/N offered a small, tired smile. “You didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but the moment was brief. His expression darkened again, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Bucky would’ve laughed at that.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. Her hand instinctively brushed over the dog tags in her pocket—the only piece of Bucky she had left.

She forced herself to smile. “Yeah. He would’ve.”

Steve didn’t notice the way her fingers curled around the metal. He didn’t ask if there was more she wasn’t saying. And she wasn’t about to tell him. Not yet.

Before either of them could say more, the door behind them creaked open.

“Good to see you two up and about.”

Nick Fury strolled into the room, his single eye scanning the scene—his usual air of authority unmistakable. He glanced at the wreckage of punching bags, then at the two super soldiers in front of him.

“You two have trouble sleeping?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Steve crossed his arms. “What do you want, Fury?”

Fury smirked slightly. “I have a mission to get you back in the world.” He stepped forward, reaching into his coat pocket. “To save it.”

He pulled out a thick, leather-bound book and handed it to Steve.

Steve frowned, flipping it open. His expression darkened immediately. “This is HYDRA’s secret weapon.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The pages were filled with detailed reports, old sketches, and classified notes about the Tesseract.

Fury nodded. “Howard Stark fished it out of the ocean while he was looking for you both. He believed it could be the key to unlimited, sustainable energy. Something the world sorely needs.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I’m guessing there’s a problem.”

Fury sighed. “It was stolen.”

“By who?” Steve asked, already bracing himself for the answer.

“He calls himself Loki.” Fury’s gaze flickered between them. “And he’s not from around here.”

Y/N inhaled sharply. A rush of images flashed through her mind—the way Schmidt had held the glowing cube, the visions that had burst through her head like a door slamming open.

Valhalla. Asgard. Gods.

Her stomach twisted violently.

“Y/N?” Steve’s voice pulled her out of it, his brows knitting together with concern.

She blinked, shaking her head slightly. “I’m fine.”

Fury studied her carefully, his gaze sharp. “There’s a lot we’ll have to bring you up to speed on if you’re in.”

Steve exhaled, glancing at Y/N before shaking his head slightly. “At this point, I doubt anything would surprise me.”

He turned and began packing up his gear, seeming disinterested in the conversation while Y/N remained still, her arms crossed, curiosity flickering in her expression.

Fury smirked knowingly. “Ten bucks says you’re wrong.”

He remained in place, watching as Steve slung his bag over his shoulder.

Then, as if sensing something unspoken, he shifted his focus to Y/N. “Is there anything about the Tesseract that we oughta know?”

Y/N stiffened.

Steve stopped abruptly, turning to her. He held her gaze for a long moment, as if silently asking for permission.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You should’ve left it in the ocean.”

And with that, he walked out.

[kathlare]

vicious

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: As Lando embarks on a road trip through the French countryside with Max and Pietra, an unexpected song disrupts his fragile sense of peace.

Wordcount: 1.4 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

August 16th 2022 - Somewhere around France

The sun was setting as they drove through the winding roads of the French countryside, the vibrant orange light casting long shadows across the landscape. Max was behind the wheel, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing from the speakers. Pietra, who sat in the passenger seat, had her hand resting on the radio dial, flipping through songs with a mix of enthusiasm and indecision. Lando leaned against the backseat, his eyes half-lidded, staring out of the window but not really seeing anything.

The car cruised smoothly along the road, the gentle hum of the engine almost lulling Lando into a sense of calm, though his mind was anything but. It had been a long road trip, a much-needed escape from the usual chaos of his life. Max and Pietra were chatting, lost in their own world, but Lando remained silent, his thoughts drifting between the road ahead and memories he didn’t want to revisit.

Pietra’s voice broke through the silence. —Ooh, I love this song!— she said, her excitement unmistakable as she cranked the volume up. Lando barely registered what was playing, but then he heard it—a familiar voice, smooth and intoxicating, cutting through the speakers like a knife. His stomach dropped.

It was Amelie.

The opening lines of Vicious rang out, and Lando stiffened in his seat. He immediately recognized her voice. His heart rate quickened, and a mix of annoyance and something else stirred inside him—something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t need to hear the rest of the song to know what it was about. He had heard enough of Amelie’s music since the release of her album. But hearing it now, in this context, felt like a punch in the gut.

Pietra hummed along, clearly oblivious to the tension building in the backseat. —I love this song, it’s so catchy, right?— she said, her eyes sparkling as she glanced over at Max.

Max, who had been tapping his fingers on the wheel, caught the shift in Lando’s demeanor out of the corner of his eye. He noticed how Lando’s posture had changed, his jaw tight and his eyes now fixed on the floor of the car. Max had known Lando for too long not to recognize the signs.

Lando’s grip on the armrest tightened, his fingers digging into the leather. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. The lyrics were brutal, raw, and they hit way too close to home. "Love me, then pretend you didn't." The words felt like they were aimed directly at him. "Crush my heart and wreck my image." It was clear. It was so clear. Amelie had written this song about him, about what had happened between them. About how he had left, how he had moved on so easily, how he had hurt her.

He clenched his fists, feeling the anger rise up in his chest. The memories came flooding back—everything that had happened between them, the mess of it all. The way she had pulled away, the way he had gotten frustrated, and how everything had just ended in a whirlwind of miscommunication and hurt.

Max’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, where he saw Lando’s eyes burning with something dark. He knew it wasn’t good. Lando had always been sensitive to anything related to Amelie, but hearing her music, hearing Vicious… it was a trigger.

Pietra, still lost in her own enjoyment, turned the volume up even higher, completely unaware of the storm brewing in the backseat. —I just think this song really captures that feeling of being let down, you know? It’s like, raw and real.— She smiled, turning to Max for affirmation.

Max's grip on the wheel tightened, his fingers flexing as he quickly glanced at Lando in the rearview mirror. He knew what was coming.

Lando’s body had gone rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. The muscles in his neck were tense, and his eyes, though fixed on the road ahead, were hollow—lost somewhere in the past. Max had seen this look before. It was the same one Lando had worn after Amelie had walked out of his life for good. The same one that had haunted him ever since.

The song was still playing, and Lando was barely holding it together. The lyrics, especially the ones that cut so close to the bone, were tearing through him like a slow-burning fire. "You're so vicious. Love me, then pretend you didn't." It was exactly what had happened, wasn’t it? She had let him in, she had let him love her, and then it all came crashing down.

Max let out a quiet breath and, sensing his best friend was on the verge of losing it, quickly reached over and turned the volume knob. The sudden silence in the car was deafening, but it was the only thing that could break the hold the song had on Lando.

Pietra frowned, glancing between Max and the backseat where Lando sat, his posture stiff, clearly uncomfortable. —Hey, I was really vibing to that. Why’d you turn it off?—

Max didn’t even look at her. His eyes were locked on Lando’s reflection in the rearview mirror, searching for any sign of a reaction. —Not in the mood. Just change the song, yeah?—

Pietra raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t push it further. She didn’t know the weight of the situation. She didn’t know the history that Max and Lando shared with Amelie. And for now, Max didn’t want her to.

She sighed and, with a flick of her wrist, began scrolling through the playlist again. Max’s focus remained on Lando, watching him out of the corner of his eye as the tension in the backseat lingered.

Lando sat back, rubbing his temples, trying to calm the storm in his mind. The memories of Amelie had always been there, lurking in the corners of his thoughts, but this song—he hadn’t been prepared for it. Hearing it, knowing it was about him, about their broken connection, made everything feel too raw. Too real.

He tried to focus on the passing landscape, on the blur of fields and trees outside the window, but it was impossible. His mind kept drifting back to that time. Back to when things were simpler. When it was just him and Amelie, playing video games, laughing, and talking about everything and nothing at all. Back to the nights they’d shared, to the first time they’d kissed.

And then it all went to shit. All of it.

Lando had never really understood what happened between them. It had felt so easy, so right, but the cracks had started showing. He’d pushed, she’d pulled away. She’d gotten busy with her career, and he’d… well, he’d gotten frustrated. And then there was the other girl. The one he had started talking to when Amelie couldn’t make time for him. Lusinha.

The memory of how everything ended made his stomach twist. It hadn’t just been a breakup. It had been a wreckage of everything they’d built. They hadn’t even been able to stay friends afterward. And now, hearing Amelie sing about how he had “wrecked her image,” it felt like a slap in the face. Like she had moved on—completely—while he was stuck, unable to shake the way she had made him feel.

Eventually, Pietra found another song, one that seemed more fitting for the mood of the car. She turned the volume up slightly, filling the space with light pop music, but it didn’t matter. Lando’s mind was still locked on Amelie, still haunted by that fucking song.

He couldn’t help it. He had tried to move on, he really had. He had done everything he could—focused on his career, stayed busy, even started dating someone else. But there was something about Amelie, something about the way she had slipped under his skin, that he just couldn’t shake.

Max could see it in his eyes. Lando wasn’t over her. Not by a long shot.

After a few minutes, Pietra turned to Max and asked, —So, how long are we going to keep driving before we stop for the night?—

Max glanced at the clock. —Couple more hours, I think. Should be at the Airbnb by midnight. We’ll get some sleep, and then we can go grab dinner tomorrow, yeah?—

Pietra nodded, stretching in her seat. —Sounds good to me. This trip is exactly what we needed.—

Lando didn’t respond. His eyes were on the horizon, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Instead, he was trapped in his own head, in the same place he had been for the last year—caught between the past and the present, between Amelie’s music and his unresolved feelings.

And as the car sped down the highway, Lando realized something that stung: He didn’t think he’d ever get over her.

[theroguequeen]

what I really liked about the fight between rhaenyra and daemon was how there were glimpses of their younger versions while showing that both have changed and that rhaenyra becomes more confident in herself.

Younger rhaenyra was trying to hold daemon close while deep down knowing that at that time he was not able to give her a stable relationship and older rhaenyra knows that she is still able to breathe and to function even when he is not there because she had to do it for years. Don't get me wrong, daemon loved rhaenyra back then, he always did but he struggled with his desires and wishes and everytime he would really have to commit to her he left, not because it was what he wanted to do but because not leaving would mean he would have to open up and I think most of the time it was easier for him to tell himself that the circumstances were just not right and that he maybe was scared of having something real to lose this time.

That man tried to escape, tried to drown the what if but still was haunted by it every day while rhaenyra feeled like he abdomend her all over again and tried to build something on her own, becoming a mother and stood up everytime she was pushed down. And with the time passing I think she was able to find some clarity for herself, becoming more confident in what she really wanted. After harwin death and the funeral she was very clear in her words to daemon and it was similar in the fight they had, she was straight forward and she was not afraid to speak up and show her anger and disappointment.

And even younger rhaenyra was not afraid to hold daemon accountable like she did when she came for the dragon egg or at the wedding night when she straight up was challenging daemon. Most people around daemon would never speak to him that way or dare to openly disagree with him but rhaenyra always knew how to approach him. Younger rhaenyra was already really direct and confronting and some of that was shining through when she said "you're pathetic" while still struggling with the memories of all the times daemon just left, abandoned her. Daemon on the other hand did leave after the fight but it's still different, not like when he was suddenly gone after the funeral or the times when left her in the brothel or at the wedding because this time he stayed long enough to really show what was going on in his mind and rhaenyra really hit his weak spot with questioning his loyalty and making clear that she is not trusting him fully even so I think that deep down she knows that he would never try to take her crown. She knows him like no one else does and she was clearly struggling with her memories of him leaving, of him not letting close enough to get behind the wall that he builds around him. This was not him leaving her and just going as far away as he can. He was leaving full of anger and grief and being hurt by her words but he straight up goes and gets his armor and doing everything he can to strengthen her claim. He is hurt and not able to verbally express all that his boiling inside him but he goes into action, fighting for his wife and family and in a way trying to show her with his actions what he right now can't show with his words: that he is worthy of her trust and that he would burn down the world for her. He is not abandoning her he is still there even if he is not right at her side and I would bet her words and her face are haunting him every minute of the day. Their fights were never about the love they have for each other. It was never a real question. It was always there.

This was a fight between two people who are deeply struggling to deal with the grief and the feeling of betrayal and daemon pushed this even more with the whole blood and cheese Desaster because he was so driven by the idea that if he does something quickly that maybe things would change and that he could do something to take some of rhaenyras pain. This fight was not a break up or cut to their bond. They were communicating and daemons does not do that often and you could still feel the love between them. Yes daemon was aggressive but still there was something soft in it when he touched her face and in the way the looked at each other. Daemon was desperately need to feel rhaenyra because he felt like she was slipping through his fingers and it seemed like he was fighting so hard with himself no to just kiss her or scream "Yes I know I fucked up but why don't you see how much i love you?"

Matt and emmas acting was absolutely phenomenal. And this is still daemon and rhaenyra and they were both in a way so vounerable and open and I would be more alarmed if they didn't had that fight because this showed they are still so connected with each other.

[sylusonychinus]

Before the Vows

It started with blood.

Not a metaphor—real blood, slick and warm and seeping between Sylus's fingers as he stumbled into her clinic after a gunfight. His usual guy had gone dark. Nezu was the backup’s backup. Untraceable. Quiet. Unaffiliated.

She didn’t ask who he was. But she knew.

Everyone in Linkon knew who he was.

The man who walked into her space that night was the most dangerous person in the city. Black jacket. Gloves off. Gun tucked under his arm. Wounded, but still standing. Still watching her like she was the only unknown in a city he had memorized.

“You going to stare at me or stitch me up?”

“You going to pass out or ruin my floors?”

That made him smirk.

He didn’t pass out. She patched him up. And when he left, she thought that was the end of it.

It never was.

They kept finding each other.

A call here. A knock at her door at 3AM. A familiar figure waiting outside her building, cigarette glowing in the dark.

And every time, it was the same: he was bruised, battered, unbreakable.

Except with her.

With her, he sat down. Let her touch him. Let her see the cracks in his armor.

He never said thank you. Not out loud.

But he started bringing her things—protective, annoying, thoughtful things.

A better security system. A phone with encryption. A pistol she refused to touch (and that he secretly knew she’d learn to use).

One day, she came home to find one of his men sitting in a car across the street.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she hissed at Sylus over the phone.

“Good,” he said. “He’s not a babysitter. He’s a shield.”

The first time she saw him kill someone—

It wasn’t planned. She had walked in on a job gone sideways. Gunfire. Screams. And Sylus—cold and efficient—putting a bullet between someone’s eyes before she could say his name.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t run.

He turned to her, face unreadable. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

That night, he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It was desperate.

Loving Sylus meant learning how to breathe around danger.

It meant canceled plans and shadowy meetings and half-spoken truths. But it also meant being the only person who saw him when the world only saw a monster.

He didn’t trust anyone.

But her? He trusted her with everything—his wounds, his fears, the rare nights he couldn’t sleep and would sit at the edge of her bed like he didn’t know how to stay.

And she let him. No questions. No pressure.

Just quiet. Just presence.

He never called her his girlfriend.

Not once.

Instead, he’d say things like:

“Don’t open the door unless it’s me.”

“Call if anything feels off.”

“Stay alive, Nezu.”

That was his version of I love you.

But one night, after a shootout left him rattled and silent, she touched his face and whispered, “I know you don’t say it. But I feel it. Every time you look at me like I’m the only thing that’s not chaos.”

He swallowed hard. Pressed his forehead to hers.

“Then know this,” he murmured. “If the whole damn city burned, I’d walk through the fire for you.”

The proposal came months later.

He had just come back from a near-fatal hit job. She was furious—yelling, shoving at his chest, demanding why he kept risking everything.

“You’re the most wanted man in Linkon. You think you’re invincible, but you’re not. What happens when you don’t make it back?”

And then he kissed her. Not hard this time—just soft. Tired. Real.

“I keep coming back because I don’t know how to be without you.”

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t have a speech.

He handed her a ring—simple, no frills, like him—and said:

“Say yes. Let me make you mine. Officially.”

And for once, Nezu couldn’t argue.

She didn’t want to.

The wedding wasn’t a fairytale.

There were guards. Guns. Backup plans.

It was held in a safehouse. Only those closest to them were allowed. A room lit with low lights and guarded windows. But in the middle of it all—Nezu in white, Sylus in black—they looked like something out of a dream Linkon wasn’t allowed to have.

He didn’t cry. But his voice caught when he said, “I never thought I’d get to keep anything good.”

She whispered, “You do. You get me.”

And they said their vows—not poetic, not perfect, but honest.

He vowed to protect her with everything he had. She vowed to love him even when the world called him a monster.

Before the twins, before Amelia, before Daniel and Shu…

There was this.

Two broken people standing at the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.

Not a white-picket-fence kind of love.

But one forged in fire, bulletproof and beating.

The kind of love only people like them could survive.

And the kind of love they’d never trade for anything else.

taglist: @nezuswritingdesk

[nabi-unveiled]

Why is Everyone Hating on Yotha?

Thanks to my "Yotha, you're pissing me off post" when I liveblogged P10ls the other night, I've had quite a few interesting DMs, anonymous messages, replies, and reblogs.

Enough so that I figure I'll just address it directly (Note: I don't mind the responses. It's just quicker this way 😂):

There are probably people that never liked Yotha. He has a strong personality that isn't everyone's cup of tea. That's not me. In fact, I wrote a post near the beginning of Faifa's arc about how glad I was they hadn't changed his characterization.

There are probably people who are angry at Yotha, because they just like Faifa better. That's not me. With the exception of his crappy dialogue in one episode, Yotha has been one of my faves (even if he is an ass to most people). I appreciate his "screw the world" attitude. I wish I had more of it. I actually didn't like Faifa prior to his arc (sorry Faifa lovers), and I've had to warm up to him (I'm on board now).

There are probably people that are completely ignoring Yotha's trauma or forget that really the whole family has issues. That's not me. The WHOLE family has problems. But to heal problems, you have to acknowledge there IS a problem. If Yotha, Newton and their dad never realize how much they're hurting Faifa, that behavior will continue. The fact that they actually don't KNOW they are hurting Faifa is a tragedy.

I don't think anyone believes that Yotha is "a villain" or is genuinely trying to cause Faifa harm. I certainly don't. The thought of Yotha as "a villain" when I'm also writing about the characters in Secret Relationships makes me laugh. What I do think and other people are probably anticipating as well is that there are still a few episodes left and angst has got to come from somewhere. (Maybe I'm wrong? PLEASE let me be wrong.) Seeing the progression of Faifa/Wine, that angst (if it comes) will be external. It's not uncommon in these types of narratives for the angst to come from well intentioned characters intervening in the love life of the main.

What IS true about my post?

Liveblogs are NOT meta.

For me they are typically half joke/half serious. They aren't legitimate analysis. They are a reaction to a character or event in real time with whatever emotional baggage I have at the moment. Just like real people - even ones you like - can tick you off, characters can too. You can like a character and still be mad at them in the moment.

I've raged at my faves a ton over the years, and I don't filter those reactions in a liveblog. Where would be the fun in that? I actually excused Yotha in the beginning and took it out on Gun initially during my live watch. I adore Beagle for the record.

Regardless of Yotha's (and Newton's) intentions, they left Faifa to wait at the airport for FIVE hours while he got increasingly panicked and worried. Even the fluffiest bunny of a character would need to apologize for that type of action, but there were no apologies. Since we didn't see/hear those conversations between Faifa and his brothers, there's no way to know whose fault it is that no apologies were given. Blame is just as likely to be on Faifa and his masking, or maybe Yotha did give a kind of "my bad" style apology when talking to Faifa. We don't know. Either way, it certainly didn't build good will towards Yotha in the moment. Faifa SHOULD be the one angry with his family, but he wasn't. I took it upon myself to be mad for him.

I'll also fully admit that I was in a "burn the world down" mood on Sunday night. It was a rough, emotional weekend. I was raging internally before I ever sat down to watch P10ls. If that means a fictional character took the brunt of my rage during a liveblog, so be it. It's not like Yotha actually cares about my opinions of him. We know he'd just flip me off.

[thesilverdiary]

Non Authorized Version

⤷ Summary: She saw his name again. 

Not in a headline. 

Not by accident. 

Poetic, in a cruel sort of way — he once rewrote her silence into absence: neat, forgettable, as if she’d chosen to vanish. 

Five years apart. 

One request. 

And a history that refuses to stay in past tense. 

Fourteen chapters. 

⤷ Author's note: Some ideas started taking shape in my mind a few months ago, and since then I’ve been drafting bits and pieces here and there… maybe I’m finally coming out of that writing block that tends to hover over anyone who loves telling stories — which, honestly, makes me happy. 

I’d been a bit tired of the endless PWP spiral (no shade, truly — important to say!), but I needed something with a little more tension. A bit of plot. A touch of pain. You know — joy. A story split between now and then.

⤷ Special warnings for this first chapter? Oh, hm, no. Just emotional tension, slow-burn energy, unresolved past, implied intimacy, and professional power dynamics. No smut yet. Silence does most of the talking. There’s a 10-year age gap.

Last but not least, if you want to, you can read this on Wattpad and AO3 as well. 

⤷ Words: 3,673. 

Chapter One | Some Roads Have No Exit

📍Vienna, Austria → Brackley, United Kingdom. 2025.  

It’s been five years since I left behind the near-ritualistic routine of attending Grands Prix in person. 

And ever since, I’ve been failing — stubbornly, I’ll admit — to rebuild the kind of sleep the experts call rest hygiene. 

I’ve tried. Really. 

Waking up early. Stretching before sunrise. Joining the 5AM club, with silent yoga and ceramic-mug coffee. 

Coffee only until two in the afternoon. Warm lightning in the evening. No screens after six — or at least, that’s the promise. 

Just not mine. 

My body still runs on the time zone of floodlit paddocks and red-eye flights. 

I belong to the afternoon. 

To the night, if possible. 

The kind of person whose brain only starts working once the rest of the world goes quiet. 

A night owl — the kind that sometimes mistakes being awake for being nostalgic. 

I’m not against healthy routines. Not at all. 

I understand the value of each carefully prescribed step: the afternoon coffee cut-off, the amber lights meant to trick the brain into thinking the day is winding down. 

The slow retreat from screens after six — not out of duty, but as a ritual. A silent agreement with the body: you can rest now. 

Some call it self-care. Others call it discipline. 

I call it trying. 

Because sometimes, it’s not about wanting. It’s about being able. 

You can’t always keep pace with the ideal internal clock imagined by people who sleep through the night and don’t hit snooze. 

There are days — and nights — when the only victory is not falling apart. 

Everyone has their own emotional time zone, their functional mess, their little negotiations. 

The notification came just before seven. An email. Scheduled, maybe. Or sent by someone who starts their day in overdrive. Who knows. Who hasn’t had a boss who confuses urgency with their own anxiety, anyway? 

Of course, there’s that polite trick of scheduling things for office hours — a veneer of normalcy. But sometimes the anxiety is so raw, so impatient, that it bulldozes right through the intent. And then the message just goes — unfiltered, unscheduled. As if handing off the task is enough to lighten the load. 

I got it. I swear I do. 

Outside, Vienna was still breathing in shades of blue. The city looked suspended — like it couldn’t decide whether to rise or ask for five more minutes. In the building across the street, a bathroom light flicked on and off in a hurry — a life waking up by instinct. Someone getting out of bed. Or someone who, like me, never really went to sleep. 

I prefer to believe in the first. It’s too early for other truths. 

I opened the news with no real hope for anything new. I read like someone who already knows the endings — but rereads them anyway. I mentally corrected headlines. Adjusted verb tenses. Swapped adjectives. A leftover habit from the days I believed fixing the sentence could also fix the feeling. 

I know better now. But I still try. 

I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt — oversized, blue, with tiny piling on the cuffs and a stubborn hole in the right sleeve. A kind of social armor. Not just comfort — a signal. A quiet message to the world, in case it asks: today, only gently. 

The dry buzz of my phone broke the silence. 

A notification. That kind of brief, polite vibration — impossible to ignore. The screen lit up. My eyes followed, reluctantly. 

“Confidential Project | Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.” 

I swiped the notification away, like sweeping something under the rug that you know you’ll trip over again. 

Pressed my forehead to the rim of my coffee mug. Closed my eyes. Breathed like I was trying to file away an entire thought in a single pause. Kept my face calm — not out of vanity, but habit. 

I didn’t open it. 

Not yet. 

I may not have figured out how to regulate my sleep, but I have learned — with some effort and a lot of mistakes — how to regulate curiosity. 

Also known as: anxiety. 

At least when it comes to certain things. 

And this… 

This was one of them. 

...

I got to the newsroom a little before nine, coat still zipped to my neck and eyes too dry to look just tired. The coffee in my hand was more about protocol than need — like holding it might help keep some structure intact. A scene worthy of those behind-the-scenes journalism films, except without the flawless wardrobe, without the soundtrack, and without the performative charm of the lead. 

Pre-season buzz had taken over everything: the screens, the fragmented conversations between coffee breaks, the story pitch spreadsheets. 

McLaren was starting strong. Mercedes promised consistency. And Red Bull — for the first time in years — seemed unsure of its own script. That alone was enough to spark every theory imaginable. 

I greeted people with a chin-nod here, a half-smile there. The mug in my hands was a shield — the perfect excuse not to linger in conversation. It was still early, but inside me it felt like noon. A whole day was already lived in silence — or maybe in delay. Like some part of me was spinning in a different clock. An older one. Louder. 

At my desk, I opened the team’s email, aligned three files on the screen, and took a deep breath. But the draft stared back at me like an impatient version of myself. The feature article was still raw, headlines unfinished, the opinion section waiting for edits. I tried to focus. Tried to write. 

Another Christian Horner interview was taking up too much space in the news cycle: 

"Full confidence in the RB21." 

"We're learning from early challenges." 

"Absolute focus on recovery." 

Words lined up like PR notes. Crisis script, recycled. 

McLaren was leading. Mercedes was threatening. And for the first time in years, Red Bull seemed lost inside its own narrative. 

No one in Formula 1 knows how to lose. 

They only know how to change the story. 

That’s when Maren appeared at the door. No knock. With the kind of subtlety only someone with big news and no intention of softening the blow can pull off. 

“You haven’t seen it yet?” she asked, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She wore that half-smile — part warning, part tease. 

“Seen what?” I asked, fingers still on the keyboard. 

She stepped closer, leaning against the doorframe like she had no plans to leave. 

“Wolff. He asked for you.” 

I turned my head slowly. 

“Asked how?” 

“Ghostwriter. Authorized biography. Set to release next year. There’s already a contract, a timeline, an international publisher. And he was specific: he wants you on the project.” 

I went still. Picked up my now-cold coffee again. My body quiet. 

Only my stomach reacted — that dry twist that comes when something brushes the past without asking permission. 

“He knows I was the one who approved that behind-the-scenes series on Mercedes?” I asked. “The column that ran when Hamilton announced he was leaving?” 

“He knows. It was translated, actually. And he still asked for you.” 

She didn’t smile. Just looked at me — like someone who already knew I’d say yes, even if I really wanted to say no. 

...

The email was still unopened, but it lingered — insistent. Hovering. As if it carried more than just text — like it was, in itself, a question. 

I kept telling myself it was just work. 

A professional offer. 

A chance to tell a relevant, respected story. 

But the truth was simpler. 

And harder to admit: 

If it had been anyone else’s name, I wouldn’t have hesitated. 

But with him… 

With him, the hesitation was already an answer. 

Someone once told me that if your “yes” isn’t immediate, it’s because deep down, you’re already leaning toward “no.” 

You just haven’t figured out how to say it yet. 

But there are exceptions to every rule. There always are. 

Dear Anneliese,  The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team is pleased to invite you to collaborate, as ghostwriter, on the official biography of Toto Wolff.  This project is more than a record of professional milestones. It is, above all, an attempt to understand the turning points, the quiet decisions, and the untold versions of a life lived under constant pressure — both on and off the track.  Your precise listening, contextual insight, and ability to name what so often goes unnoticed make you the natural choice to take on this mission. There’s something in your editorial perspective — in the way you organize the non-obvious — that we consider essential here.  We’re aware that projects of this magnitude require time, commitment, and a rare level of trust. That’s exactly why this invitation comes with the freedom to say no — but also with the hope that you’ll say yes.  The attached proposal outlines the preliminary details regarding schedule, confidentiality terms, and suggested editorial structure. We remain at your disposal for any questions.  Kind regards,  Special Projects Team  Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team 

I closed the laptop. 

Then opened it again. 

Then shut it once more. 

Several good years in journalism. 

Five covering motorsport. 

I’d covered everything from Sauber’s chaos to Red Bull’s golden years, from Grosjean’s crash to Vettel’s tearful farewell. I’m hereby announce my... It was a hell of a day this one. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to write from behind the curtain. 

I’d been there before — the voice arranging other people’s truths. 

The presence who caught what the subject was trying to forget. 

I’d built narratives with more delicacy than the truth deserved. 

Protected reputations between commas. 

Edited out the emotional excess of those desperate to seem untouchable. 

But this invitation was different. 

Because he wasn’t just another name. 

He was the name. 

The only one who, even after all this time, could still make my body hesitate. 

He’d always been good with words. 

Never hid in silence. 

Said what he thought — with conviction, without filter. Sometimes with precision. Sometimes with urgency. 

There was something raw in the way he shaped his sentences. 

As if feeling deeply was, in itself, proof of being right. 

Back then, I thought it was beautiful. 

But later, I learned: 

Intensity isn’t listening. 

And those who talk too much often hear no one. 

Not even Mercedes — with all their media machinery — could filter what he let slip. Sometimes it seemed like he used the truth as a tool — revealed just enough to appear transparent, never enough to be vulnerable. He wielded language like a thermometer: said what needed to be heard, even when it sounded spontaneous. And that’s when it got hardest to tell. 

Yes. 

No. 

Yes? 

Meanwhile, the old phrase pounded in my head: 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

And right now, the stopwatch was screaming. 

...

The newsroom was still murmuring the end of one of the last meetings when Adrian approached my door, his body slightly leaning forward, like someone who wants to come in without crossing a line.  

"Did you see the new piece about Ferrari's testing in Maranello?"  

His voice carried that spark only recent graduates still have — as if every new bit of information might rewrite the whole season.  

"They’re saying the car’s lighter, with much cleaner cornering response. It might just be hype... but it sounds promising."  

I nodded without taking my eyes off the screen.  

"Ferrari always sounds promising."  

"But this time..."  

He paused. Wanted to convince me. Hoped for some sign of validation — a look, a question, anything.  

"Leclerc said he’s never felt this much stability in the sims."  

I took a deep breath, removed my glasses, and let the silence stretch—just long enough to become heavy.  

"What's new isn’t always what matters, Adrian. Sometimes, it's what repeats that reveals the most."  

He frowned, like he couldn’t decide if that was criticism or café-philosophy.  

"I just wanted to know your bet," he said, with a smile that tried to stay light. "You’re usually right."  

"Bets are for people who still want to be surprised."  

I turned back to the draft. He didn’t push. Left slowly, almost disappointed.  

From across the newsroom, Jonas muttered without looking up:  

"She still bets. Just not out loud. Not anymore."  

I pretended I hadn’t heard.  

But I had.  

Later, in the hallway, Maren caught up with quick steps. She was holding her phone, brow slightly furrowed, like she’d read something she hadn’t yet decided was ridiculous or inevitable.  

"How many times did you open the email before you actually read it?"  

I gave a half-smile. Didn’t bother denying it.  

"A few."  

"I thought you’d ignore it."  

"So did I."  

She took a slow sip of her coffee.  

"Are you going to accept?"  

I nodded.  

"Even knowing how it ends?"  

"I don’t know how it ends."  

Not yet.  

She looked at me sideways — the kind of look that doesn’t judge. Just understands.  

"And you’ll be able to write it like nothing was left behind?"  

"I’ve never known how to write like that."  

She nodded once.  

"Then maybe it’ll work."  

We stood there in silence for a few more seconds. Lukewarm coffee, white walls, the kind of moment no one would remember.  

Except us.  

"Brave," she said.  

"Or stupid."  

"Sometimes, the only difference is who's watching."  

...

I looked out the window. Not even my late-night neighbor was awake.  

I packed around two a.m., when the city was already asleep and even the building’s usual noises had quieted. Everything felt suspended — a kind of pause I hesitated to disturb.  

I folded clothes like someone closing a book whose ending they already knew.  

Each fold was more about control than preparation.  

I chose neutral pieces, discreet. Tailored pants, three blouses that matched each other. No patterns, no textures that carried memories. Nothing he could recognize from afar. No scent that might suggest repetition.  

It was automatic. But not accidental.  

There was intention in every choice.  

As if clothing could serve as armor.  

As if the right fabric might stop something from returning — or escaping.  

I replied to the email before two-thirty. Few words. The right tone: formal, technical, politely receptive. Every punctuation mark measured. But the real answer had already come — in that moment when I opened the message and my body, without asking me first, reacted like something had finally clicked back into place.  

Or like I had never really left that place at all.  

At the bottom of my backpack, the old notebook.  

Black cover, frayed edges, loose elastic.  

The pages were full of loose phrases, bits of interviews, notes that never made it into any article.  

Things he said — not the official ones. The others.  

The ones that slipped out when he thought no one was listening.  

Words that never made the headlines, but never left me either.  

Some things we don’t publish. But we don’t erase them either.  

Along with the notebook, I packed the bracelet.  

Simple. No visible value. No shine. No signature.  

It didn’t stay out of sentiment or longing.  

It stayed because, out of everything I chose not to keep, it was the only thing that never asked to stay.  

And maybe that’s why it did.  

The airport was quiet, but not calm.  

People too sleepy to truly be there.  

A woman slept with her head on her suitcase. A teenager watched a video without headphones. Two executives debated franchise numbers like someone around them might care.  

No one did.  

Neither did I.  

At the gate, I felt that familiar pull in my stomach.  

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.  

Like I was going back to a place where I’d left a version of myself I hadn’t had the courage to retrieve — but that was now waiting for me.  

Right where I’d left her.  

The flight was silent. I chose the window seat.  

Refused the snack. Accepted the wine.  

The first questions started forming in my head. Structures, tones, narrative routes. But each one crumbled before it took shape.  

I typed notes into my phone. Deleted them before landing.  

I tried to remember what the book was supposed to be.  

Deleted that too.  

What remained, as always, was memory.  

Vienna, 2016.   The way he ran his fingers along my ribs, slowly, like retracing a familiar landscape that still knew how to give chills.   And for one full second — a second that still hasn’t ended —   he seemed to recognize me with a precision no one else ever had.  

Suzuka, 2019.   He spoke for twenty minutes without saying what actually mattered.   The abrupt exit. The way he turned away, like he’d forgotten something — but wouldn’t go back for it.  

It wasn’t about romance.  

Not passion either.  

It was about understanding.  

Like when he touched me, he grasped something I didn’t yet have a name for.  

And somehow, that alone was enough to throw me off balance.  

There were others.  

Men who tried. Who were kind. Present. Gentle.  

Some even made me laugh like that might be enough.  

But the body remembers.  

And memory doesn’t compare — it recognizes.  

There was something in his eyes — direct, unwavering — that no one else could replicate.  

And maybe a part of me never truly left either.  

That’s it: he’s an old language I still understand without needing translation.  

Even though I should’ve forgotten how to pronounce it by now.  

I landed in London shortly after nine.  

Took the train to Oxfordshire without saying a word.  

The team’s driver was waiting at the station.  

“Comfortable trip?” he asked.  

I nodded, like someone still arriving from a place they never actually left.  

And I watched the rest of the ride through the window.  

Brackley appeared just as I remembered: clean, efficient, gray. The kind of town built so that nothing stays out of place for too long.  

The Mercedes building looked almost exactly the same.  

The sleek facade reflected a dull sky across mirrored panels. The halls felt quieter than necessary — as if even sound had to be carefully engineered not to interfere.  

It was the architecture of precision: made to think fast, decide right, and fail as little as possible.  

A place where the past wasn’t welcome — only data.  

I walked in.  

I was greeted by a new staffer. Too young to have lived through any real comms crisis, with perfectly trimmed hair and that polite smile that never goes beneath the surface.  

He looked proud to deliver the message: “Mr. Wolff requested you personally, Miss Weiss. Directly.”  

It landed like an award announcement.  

I smiled back. Short. Just enough to end the moment before it lasted longer than it should’ve.  

The silence in the halls was as deliberate as everything else.  

White. Untouched. People-less. Even the doors opened with excessive care, like asking permission was part of the protocol.  

Boring.  

On the wall, a photo of Niki Lauda.  

Captured mid-track, mid-drive — no posing, no flair.  

His expression was restrained, his body leaning forward like the only thing that mattered was the next two seconds.  

No heroism. Just focus.  

The image of someone who survived his own story and kept moving like it didn’t cost him anything.  

I sat down and crossed my legs. Checked my phone.  

Maren had messaged:  

“If you disappear for more than 72 hours, I’m assuming you’ve been kidnapped. Want me to go over the contract?”  

I replied: “Yes. And if I vanish for more than 96, publish everything.”  

She answered with a bomb emoji.  

I smiled. Alone.  

Thank God for her. Thank God she exists in my life. 

I touched the bracelet on my wrist. The metal was cold.  

I looked at my reflection in the door glass. My eyes looked darker than yesterday. Or maybe just more awake.  

Then I realized:  

He doesn’t know.  

He doesn’t know I never stopped watching.  

Even from a distance. Even in silence.  

I saw everything.  

The pressers. The interviews.  

The way his voice dropped when he wanted to end a subject. The pause before denying something.  

The way he crossed his arms when he felt control slipping.  

The smiles that died before reaching his eyes.  

I didn’t speak.  

Didn’t send a message.  

Didn’t come back.  

But I saw.  

The silence between us wasn’t one-sided.  

It was a choice. A shared one.  

The door clicked open.  

Torger.  

He appeared in the doorway like someone who knows exactly the effect he has, even if he didn’t plan it.  

The same posture as always: grounded, unhurried, like every inch of him was aware of its own space.  

Dark suit perfectly tailored, tie centered, expression controlled.  

But the eyes... the eyes betrayed him before his voice did.  

It was in the details that everything slipped through.  

The quick scrunch of his nose.  

The slight raise of his left eyebrow — the one he pretended wasn’t a tell.  

The way he tugged at his shirt sleeve unnecessarily — small, but visible. Especially to me.  

He always did that when he was trying too hard to seem calm.  

The face was the same.  

But the eyes… had that old thing.   

Not tenderness. Not anger.

Familiarity.

And with it, a hint of something else — a flash of mischief, almost boyish, from someone who remembers more than he lets on. 

He looked at me like he was checking if a ghost still had a shadow.  

He stepped back half a pace, leaving space for me to enter. The gesture was reserved.  

But the look couldn’t hold the same control: there was a trace — almost imperceptible — of someone who’d waited too long for this moment to pretend it was just business.  

“Come in.”  

His voice was lower than I remembered.  

But still steady. Still his.  

And at that moment, it felt like everything after him had just been noise.  

And so, I went.  

Some roads have no exits.  

And others, we walk down knowing exactly where they end — but we go anyway.  

Because part of growing is learning that some pain isn’t meant to be avoided.  

It’s meant to be faced.  

Some roads we take knowing exactly how they end.  

And still, we go. 

Not out of hope.  

But because some things deserve a final sentence — whatever that may mean.  

...

Curious to know more? Dive into Chapter Two right here: 02 | We Met Before The Hello.