#do those count as answers to those questions

[quarterlifekitty]

first of all i love womens hockey, strong ladies slamming up on the glass, amazing.

i went to a pwhl game and a man with his like teenage daughter were next to me and THAT MFER LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE JOHN PRICE hat and blue eyes and beard and everything it was nuts. anyways john price is a hockey girl dad of a scary 13 year old who kept staring at me the whole game.

just needed people to knoww

(fuck that mans gorgeous irl)

also i love your writing. Thank u for sharing ur brain w the internet.

That makes me think like. Imagine being John’s neighbor. You haven’t spoken more than pleasantries to him, introduced yourself to him and his daughter, made small talk at block parties.

And one cold day after school, his daughter is sitting on the front steps shivering, because she forgot her house key. You don’t have a spare, and John won’t be home for hours— so you tell her to stay inside your place until then. You call John and leave a message to let him know.

She’s a little wary of you, which is good. It’s not like you’re a total stranger, but you’re also not necessarily trustworthy yet. She just parks herself on the couch and watches whatever you’d had on tv, a little awkward as she sips the cup of tea you’d made her so she could warm up.

She ends up getting kinda attached. You joke with her that you watch the show that’s on because of the hot guys in it, and she smiles. She’s at that age, but of course she doesn’t really want to talk about it with John. You remember being 13, and she likes talking to you. John comes by once he’s home, thanks you profusely and apologizes for having to take up so much of your day. You tell him it was no trouble at all, and that she’s welcome any time.

She ends up taking you up on your offer. Usually after school, when her dad is still at work. You just leave the door open. She asks you questions about boys, about makeup— things she’s a little curious about but her mother isn’t around to answer. You get invited to all of her hockey games, with John insisting you sit next to him (when he can make it, that is).

You do holiday baking with her. She invites you to her birthday dinner. You’re welcomed over to John’s for every Christmas and other holiday they can manage to throw together a little gathering for. You’re so focused on her that you completely miss how John stares at you every single time you’re with his daughter.

Such a natural with her— and he’s had such a hard time connecting with her now that she’s becoming a teen. They’ve always had hockey, but it’s hard for him to accept that she’s not a baby anymore (even thought she’ll always be his baby). She storms over to your place every time they fight, and he’s eternally grateful she has somewhere to go for comfort when he doesn’t understand her.

She’s over at yours so much that he thinks it might be easier if you just moved in. That it would be a big age gap, but his daughter might like to have a little sibling. That if anything ever happened to him he’d want you to have every right to look after her. If that’s what you wanted, anyways.

And he loves his girl more than anything in the world, but it hasn’t been easy. Between raising her and his work, he doesn’t hardly have any time for dating. Whenever he’s tried— his daughter had found a problem with whoever he’d brought home, and that had signaled the end. It was hard enough to find anyone interested in dating a single parent.

So when you’d moved in next door, he couldn’t help himself. You’re pretty, single. He can see you through his window almost any time he wants. You don’t close your curtains nearly as much as you should, either. He’s just a man, y’know?

So, yeah, he’s made himself cum thinking of you more times than he can count. And it only gets worse once he has those fleeting thoughts about you being a mother for his girl. Maybe a few more kids if he can manage to get a ring on your finger. Insane thought to have when he’s never even asked you out on a date.

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. | chapter 24

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 6.3k Summary: day 163 - continued.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - explicit smut, resolved sexual tension, oral (f!receiving), nipple play, body worship, fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, protected piv sex, angst, mentions of death, sensuality Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

I feel... you.

The answer to your question you’ve been asking the moment you opened your eyes.

The clarity you’ve sought ever since you locked eyes with the captain of the Scouts.

I remember you.

Levi kisses you like he knows you, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

His sturdy hands flutter in a flurry, touching every part of you like he wishes he could have it all.

Chilled palms cup your face, cradling your head as if it's the most precious thing they've ever touched, before sliding down your neck; to the slope of your shoulder, dipping down your sides — pulling you closer, closer, until you’re airborne.

You’re not afraid of falling.

Not with him.

Instinctually you jump, knowing he’ll catch you. 

Your thighs clench around his waist as one strong arm supports your weight, unwilling to compromise the position of his other hand. It remains on your cheek, cupping your face to hold your kisses steady.

As the man stumbles forward, you hear the abrupt slam of the wooden chair go flying across the room, skidding to its side on the floor. 

It’s loud.

(Surely someone downstairs will hear.)

Hange, Moblit, Erwin — in a best-case scenario, those who stayed behind will be the only privy to the commotion.

However, if the entire squad has returned from the forest...

Well, there's no mistaking the shuffles and slams coming from Captain Levi's room.

Fighting or fucking; the odds are fifty-fifty.

He doesn't seem to care.

Honestly?

Neither do you.

(Too much time wasted on open secrets.)

With immense control and strength, he slowly lowers you both to the bed. The bed frame creaks in its age under the weight, but the mattress feels soft compared to the forest floor you crashed into mere hours ago.

Your back touches the ivory sheets, engulfing you in the scent of him. Something uniquely Levi; crisp and impossibly clean with a musk that’s making your mouth water. 

You’ve smelled it in passing the few times he’s passed you at headquarters — always at arm’s length, no matter how close you try to get — but now it’s bound to stick to your body, your clothes —

The way it used to in the Underground. 

The way it used to in this very bed.

His kisses are messy yet precise, focused on the feel of your mouth against his. When you let out a shaken breath and whimper, overwhelmed by his reinvigorated passion, Levi outright groans. 

The same arm once holding you up snakes around from under your back to meet its twin cradling your face, keeping you in place.

(As if you’d ever wish to leave.)

“I’m sorry,” you whisper between kisses.

“Don’t,” he replies just as softly, tugging at your lower lip with his teeth. “Not now.”

“But—”

“I don’t want your damn apologies,” he sighs, traveling south to pepper your jawline with short, chaste kisses. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

When he senses your hesitance, he pumps the brakes on his kisses and raises his chin to look you in the eye. The storm in his eyes has darkened to a damn near black.

His button-down hangs off of his bony frame, giving you a view of the expanse of skin beneath.

“Nothing,” he repeats.

Like he knows you want to fight.

(The two of you know the language of violence so well, but you know one another better.)

The protests, the pleas, the endless stream of begging dies on your tongue the second his thumb grazes your lower lip with reverence.

Emotion flickers across his face, gone as fast as it came, before he dives back in for another kiss — slower this time, the push and pull deliberate with reassurance.

This.

This is what your lips should be doing, not apologizing.

The message is received loud and clear: you tilt your chin to meet him in every kiss, hands blindly raising to run through the soft strands of his black hair. He exhales through his nose, the hot breath tickling your skin.

For the longest time, it’s all you do.

Kiss.

One for every day spent apart.

One for every fight you’ve ever had.

One for every memory you’ve yet to recall.

The puzzle has a frame, yet there are still missing pieces, destroyed edges, that may never return. Maybe he’ll never make peace with it, but knowing you were a stone’s throw away from death surrenders that grief into confetti.

There will be new memories to make.

(As the keeper of your heart, you trust his recollection of the details you can no longer recount.)

This life won’t be perfect, it never has been from the beginning, but so long as you have this — have Levi — then nothing else matters.

“I can hear you thinking.”

The first part of that statement is muffled by a kiss, but he pulls away to check in during this languid, yearning make out session.

Levi squints down at you, lips pink from exertion.

“I’m not,” you lie.

His eyes narrow further. 

“Fine. I am.”

“About?”

“About how badly I want you.”

The blatant honesty dissolves that narrowness in seconds.

“About... how you—”

With the strength harnessed by adrenaline, you push on Levi’s chest, hard, until he’s flat on his back.

The bed creaks again when you crawl on top of him, straddling his hips while your hands plant themselves on the soft flesh of his wrists.

Down; you push down, pinning him underneath.

Levi doesn’t tense. He simply stares above, allowing you to do this.

“Want you,” you clarify, “yes.”

His throat bobs, but his expression stays cool. 

“Are you sure?”

“Do I look like I’m hesitating, Captain Levi?” you challenge, leaning down to hover over his face.

His hands leisurely flex under your hold, as if to relax them from their clenched state. 

For a moment, doubt creeps in.

Even if he’s confessed, there is still so much time unspoken for; so much to talk about, so much that you have missed.

Maybe it’s too much.

The grip on his wrists falters. “Unless if you don’t want—”

With inhuman strength, he uses the light hold you have on his wrists to push up, setting you off balance.

As you waver he quickly finds the upper hand, switching your positions once more so he can pin your wrists to the mattress beneath.

“Don’t even try to finish that sentence.”

To make his point, he drops his head to your neck and plants open-mouthed kisses against the column of your throat. You can’t help but make a strained noise of desire, eyes fluttering shut from ecstasy.

From this vantage point, you feel it — the sheer tension in his hold on your wrists, how desperately he resists clenching down, how gentle he aims to be when he glides both of your wrists from the sides of your face to over the crown of your head.

Levi doesn’t tremble, not like you. He remains as calculated as ever.

His lazy, methodical kisses trail up your neck to your jaw to your mouth. Both of his hands work to carefully connect your wrist in an x-formation. Once satisfied by your compliance, he slides one of his hands over both to latch on, pushing them down — yet still giving you plenty of room to escape if something doesn’t feel right.

(For the first time in over six months, everything feels perfectly in place.)

Panting against his mouth to catch your breath, a floating thought comes to mind once again.

So you speak. “Do you think the others—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You follow his lead, tilting your chin up to meet him. “I do not fucking care right now, James.”

His candidness earns him a gentle giggle, and you feel the slightest shift against your lips:

A smile of his own.

You tap his hip cascaded by the disheveled fabric of his white button-down with your knee.

“Then take this off.”

The kisses cease at your request — no, demand — and Levi pulls away enough to stare down into yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Those beautiful gray eyes, stormy with droplets of blue — you realize the deep hurt in your belly is a pang of loss.

You say it before you can regret holding it back.

"I missed you."

His expression smooths with how earnest you sound beneath him, before clearing his throat.

“Which part?” he asks, voice slightly strained from the efforts of holding back.

You blink twice. "Which part?"

"Of me, yeah."

Searching his face, you decide to play along.

“Are you going to get mad if I say all of you?”

His eyes narrow. “Lazy.”

The flatness of his joke earns a genuine belly laugh from you. 

Levi lets go of your wrists to sit up, nudging your legs apart so he can wriggle out of the way. You easily comply, careful to leave your boots hanging off of the bed when you widen your thighs.

Stepping away from the bed, he bends over first to remove both of your boots, then his own.

Any other time he’d have a conniption over the dirt, the grime, that you’ve brought into this bed.

(If there was one thing to remember about your past, it was that people from the Underground City could still be just as clean as anyone else. So much time spent cleaning the endless grit from under your nails; an impossible feat.)

Even if dirt was a sin, apparently you were not.

He doesn’t even blink at the specs that may very well still be in your hair.

Instead he’s focused on watching your face as he unfastens the harness at his sternum, shrugging out of his own leather straps. Tossed carelessly to the floor, he rips off his dirtied cravat and ODM gear skirt next.

Pressing a knee into the mattress, he rejoins you on the bed to reach for your chest.

He hesitates, throat bobbing with fleeting uncertainty before he begins to slip the leather through its loop.

“Sit up for me.”

You acquiesce, sore muscles protesting the movement as you prop yourself up on your elbows.

He’s softer with his movements when it comes to your uniform, pulling it apart piece by piece, as if afraid one false move will ruin this dream.

It’s not a dream, you want to tell him. I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. I won’t be going anywhere ever again.

You don’t.

Can’t, not when you’re so mesmerized by the way he pauses at the first button of your shirt.

For a short moment he meets your gaze, studying it, before nodding once.

One by one, deft fingers unbutton your shirt until it’s hanging from your frame, revealing a chest band. All of the air rushes from his lungs in one swift woosh, until you realize—

The scars.

Shit.

The dreamy spell is broken, and soon you find yourself scrambling for something that will quell any negative emotion bubbling in his belly at the sheer sight of your body.

A part of you wants to cover up, act coy and switch roles —

But clever Levi, forever two steps ahead, dives right in to kiss the one of the many healing scars littering your body after the fall — the jagged line just above your left breast — with such fierce devotion that the gesture nearly knocks the damn wind of your lungs.

“Beautiful.”

The murmur is tattooed into your skin, invisible to the wandering eye.

“So—”

He unsnaps the bind.

“—fucking—”

Like a feral animal, his hand tugs once, twice, until it gives and unravels.

“—beautiful.”

Levi forgets himself when his eyes meet your breasts, and you see the way his pupils damn near dilate at the sight.

His lips part, slick from the way he licks between them, before he exhales one single curse like it's a prayer.

“Fuck.”

You stay perfectly still on your elbows, perched on an incline in his bed.

At a loss for words as he stares at your torso like it’s a work of art, your heart hammers in your chest as you telepathically plead with him to simply do whatever he wishes.

Anything he desires, so long as he moves.

Your voice dissolves to a whimper.

“Levi—”

“Can I?”

“Please.”

His own voice crackles like a spark readying a flame. You want to feel him, separated by the absence of muscle memory; to have his hands, his lips, scorched on your skin forevermore.

Levi gives into temptation and kisses south, his nose tracing in a straight line until both hands hold your breasts.

Hot sighs heavily flutter across your skin before those very lips kiss the rising bud they’d been seeking, causing your back to arch clear off of the bed. You whine, trying desperately to stay quiet.

Levi’s too busy worshipping the nipple in his mouth to chastise you for the sound.

His tongue swirls to harden it faster while his other hand massages the other breast, his calloused thumb rolling in the same direction.

Your nails dig into the sheets, anchoring your hands from clawing up his back.

“Levi.”

He hums around your nipple as his answer, its tone dismissive.

When you’re brave enough to open your eyes, you see that his eyes are completely closed — softened in an otherworldly ecstasy at the sheer feel of your body against his.

The sight shoots a dizzying amount of arousal to your belly.

When he switches it up and sucks, those eyes lazily open to stare up at you: a challenge to let him stay like this, to never leave.

He wouldn’t have to ask twice.

If this was your entire night, with Levi’s mouth on your chest while he lives in the memories of you old and new, then you’re inclined to say that there are worse ways to spend your time.

(No, you’re happy to say like this forever.)

Except a chill passes over your pampered breast as Levi kisses across it, abandoning your nipple to trail to the other side — 

Fuck.

“You’re going to kill me,” you rasp, too worked up to care if you sound wrecked.

“Won’t,” is all he replies as he dives back in, worshipping your body.

“Will,” you grit, trying your damnedest not to cry out from just how good it feels.

With one final kiss to your nipple, Levi detaches with mercy to shrug the pesky white button-down off of his shoulders.

The fabric joins the mounting pile of clothes on the floor, but his hands hesitate when they touch his belt.

His eyes notably flicker to your belt — a pause.

Deciding.

If it’s too soon—

If it’s too much —

No, you want to cry out. It’s not enough.

The words die on your tongue, possessed by the ghost that’s plagued your mind for months.

Instead you take action: sitting up on the bed, overly eager fingers tremble as they begin to unbuckle his belt, working at the leather straps crisscrossing his thighs and calves. 

“James.”

His voice is dying on his tongue; a singular syllable of surprise.

“Let me.”

You notice the way his abdomen tenses at your words as you tug the first belt from its loops.

“Are you s—”

“I said,” you slowly repeat, moving closer to kiss the trail of dark hair peppering just under his belly button. Levi exhales like he’s been punched. “Let. Me.”

Punctuating each word to show your seriousness, your eyes meet as he stares below.

Inch by inch, you press slow, meaningful kisses in his skin — first to the left, curving towards his hip. 

Your hands push down the trousers of his uniform pants, using the strength to drag the leather straps wrapping around his legs to fall with them.

Levi stands before you in merely white briefs, and there’s no hiding the immense arousal straining against the thin fabric.

The sight causes your breath to simply evaporate from your lungs, unable to stop staring.

From your peripheral you see the hand at his side flex then snatch into a fist to combat the desire to touch you.

He must feel guilt.

He must be so terrified that this moment will simply evaporate like the rest of your memories.

That you may have woken up, yes, but you can still fall back asleep.

You refuse.

“You can touch me,” you murmur into his skin, and Levi’s throat bobs. 

When he doesn’t move, you take the first at his side and systematically uncurl every finger.

He lets you.

Slowly, calculated, you raise his hand until it’s running over the crown of your head. His nostrils flare as he takes control, abandoning the guide of your hand to cup the side of your face.

A gentle thumb smears across your lower lip in reverence.

“I won’t break,” you tell him, knowing he’ll protest. Your voice drops to a hush. “I won’t.”

“I know,” is all he can reply — then your back hits the bed again, and he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Levi disappears from your immediate line of sight, but you feel pressure on your hips: inch by inch, he’s undone the belt and buttons and yanked your uniform down your thighs, your knees, until they’re hanging at your ankles.

Oh.

One by one, he slips your feet from the pants and uses your ankles to widen your knees, bearing you to him at eye-level in just your white cotton underwear.

“Shit.” 

A feeble gasp escapes when his lips start at your left foot. 

You can’t see him, only feel him — he presses a tender kiss to your ankle then another just above it, creating a careful line up to your calf. His fingers gingerly curl around it to keep you steady as he ascends with his lips touching every single inch he can.

When he reaches your knee, you see it: the darkness in his gaze, how stormy his eyes have become, while making direct contact with you.

“Levi,” you moan, refusing to look away as he makes a point to stare at you while he nudges your left thigh further out to keep kissing it.

Stay awake.

Don’t forget this.

Don’t ever forget this again.

“Can I?” he asks, and you nearly miss the question in your intoxicated, aroused state.

You know.

You know exactly what he’s asking to do.

There’s no chance in hell you’d ever say no.

Wordlessly you nod, but Levi’s tongue darts out to taste the skin of your inner thigh. “Say it.”

(Fuck, when did he get so demanding?)

“Yes,” you exhale. “Yes, I want this. Want you.”

He doesn’t answer with words — a mere wanting growl takes their place.

Raven-black hair tickles your bare skin as he shifts, and strong arms drop to your rope under your knees.

With one swift tug, he drags you directly against his face, and the world becomes a myriad of brilliant colors.

Even if it’s a mere kiss to the cloth of your dampened underwear, you whine from the sheer desire flooding through your veins.

Maybe in another life, you would have teased him for his eagerness.

Maybe before the fall, you would have made him work for it, asked him to crawl to you, to beg.

Not this time.

You don’t have time to be coy, not when it’s been so long.

The tip of his tongue sensually drags up the center of your underwear, the slowness obscene. Your head slams back into the mattress with a soundless cry. 

The hot puffs of his breath tickle your inner thighs as he continues to swirl his tongue against the final barrier between you and his mouth.

“Please,” you beg, throwing all dignity to the wind.

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

Levi’s hands grip your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he continues to gather the taste of you on your panties.

When you have the courage to watch him again, you see that his eyes are closed.

Like he’s found some kind of paradise right here.

With you.

“Levi,” you whimper louder, voice terribly shattered, “Levi, Levi, please—”

His moans against your clothed clit damn near scrambles your brain.

Finally ending your torture, he pulls away to tug your soaked underwear down your thighs, your knees, until they drop to the floor of their own volition.

“Been dreaming of this,” he finally states, his voice several octaves lower and cracked. “The goddamn taste of you—”

He cuts himself off when he runs his thumbs down your folds, parting them with his thumbs.

If you weren’t so eager, then maybe you’d be embarrassed by how wet you were.

Dripping, really, from the way he worshipped your chest only minutes ago.

You almost scream when he dives in and kisses your clit, before his tongue languidly glides against it. By some miracle, you don’t.

His thumbs leave you in favor of holding open your legs for him as he feasts, refusing to allow them to close from the shock of the forgotten sensation.

With one hand grabbing the pillow above your head while the other threads through his hair, you’re unable to take your eyes away from how thoroughly he eats you out.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, and the vibrations of his groans of agreeance damn near take you out.

The captain’s tongue explores every atom of you as if it has navigated this journey more times than he can count; as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

Because a part of you can remember —

The things you like.

The things you don’t like.

The hazy desires that plague heated dreams at night.

Yet Levi reaffirms them, teaches your body language right back to you, as his eyes lift from his task to yours to watch you watching him devour you whole.

Mesmerized, you stare back.

His lips close around your clit and suck as if to challenge you to look away, but all you can do is tense your abdomen and moan, louder this time, while your eyes flutter.

Stay open.

Don’t ever forget.

Lips parted with shaken breath, you witness this man mercilessly pleasures you.

Stares, so he knows that you’re still taken by him.

Worships, so he can remember what it’s like to finally have you in his bed after so many months apart.

It won’t take long to fall clear over the edge.

Not at this rate.

But you don’t want it to be over.

“Wait,” you whisper, “wait, I’m almost — I want you in—”

The second syllable of that word is lost in a sharp cry to the ceiling when he abandons solely sucking on your clit to focus instead on flickering side to side, rapidly, ensuring you’ll come no matter how badly you want to fall into bliss alongside him.

There’s no chance you can stave it off.

Your climax, a damn near year in the making, approaches like a bursting star.

“Levi—” you breathe, higher pitched than usual. “Levi, Levi, Le—”

You can’t finish the next syllable before you're surging off of the mattress, and he shoves you down against it by the hips so you don’t hurt yourself.

The world morphs and shapes into brilliant bright colors in the back of your skull as you come, and you do your damnedest not to shout.

As soon as your moan reaches its peak, your hand manages to smack against your mouth, muffling the strained screech.

His tongue slows down, instead focused on leisurely catching your essence with his mouth.

Greedily collecting every last drop.

So he doesn’t have to dream anymore, you realize.

So he never goes without again.

Panting heavily, your chest rises and falls rapidly as you try to remember which way is up.

“Holy shit.”

That doesn’t even begin to describe how otherworldly you feel at this moment.

“Levi…”

When you finally open your eyes, you see him resting his cheek against the inside of your thigh, nose and mouth glistening with the essence of you.

You’re not sure who is more satisfied.

“You okay?” he asks, softly this time.

Hardly a whisper.

You nod wordlessly, but hold your hand out for him. “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Let me have you.”

A storm flashes across his expression as he stands from the floor, his knee coming to rest on the edge of the mattress.

You can tell he isn’t putting his whole weight on it, avoiding the creaking of the bed frame as he contemplates.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, his fingertips running up and down your thigh absently.

“Why?”

“Because it’s been a while.”

The wandering fingers travel up, toying with the mess between your legs. Your hips jerk from oversensitivity, and a ghost of a smug smile passes across his lips.

“And I’m not rushing this.”

“Why?” you repeat, this time in a whine.

“Like I said—”

He begins, testing the give of your entrance as his middle finger pushes its tip into you.

You sharply gasp, forcing him to instantly stop. Those gray eyes flicker to your face.

“—it’s been a while.”

“I don’t care,” you state. “I can take it.”

“Well I do, so deal with it.”

There.

That commanding tone reserved for his position as captain pokes through, and it shoots straight to your lower belly.

Rocking your hips to try and force more of his finger into you, you shake your head wildly.

“You do realize that the more —”

His fingertip eases out, causing you to cry out in frustration. “Shh.”

There’s only so much sanity left in your body to plead your case.

“It — ah — the more time we spend away from the others downstairs—”

“As much as I like hearing you talk,” he reassures, voice dropping to a husk of its former self, “I really don’t want to discuss the whereabouts of anyone else when I could have my fingers inside you instead.”

Then that same finger suddenly pushes.

One knuckle.

Two.

Your head drops back when he buries his middle finger into you, unapologetic.

His free palm drops to the side of your head as he hovers over you, easing you to relax as he pushes one finger in and out.

The fringe of his black hair falls over his eyes, his face flushed with inexplicable lust.

“Do you remember our rule?”

Do you really expect me to think straight now? is what you want to say.

Instead you keep your eyes on him as he fucks you on one finger, too tight yet not nearly enough. You maintain eye contact, scrambling for an answer.

“With what?”

When his finger curls, you have to bite your tongue not to shriek.

“C’mon, James,” he purrs, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, “what’s my rule for you?”

Rules.

Rules, rules, rules—

Then it clicks, the puzzle piece unearthed deep from your psyche.

“Three,” you weakly whimper, realizing just what’s about to happen.

When we had our own place—

He nudges his index finger beside his middle finger, opening you up more.

You widen your legs with little shame, sinking into the sheets as this man thoroughly takes you apart in his captain’s bed.

—I always said I’d give you three.

“Think you can give me it?” he asks with feigned confidence.

You know what he’s really asking:

Is this too much?

Am I moving too fast?

Would this be taking advantage too soon?

The opposite; what he’s doing isn’t enough, because you know what you want.

You need to give him what he wants first before you reach your goal.

Belatedly, you nod emphatically.

“Good,” is all he replies in that baritone voice of his, before dropping down to kiss you when he curls his fingers again, relentlessly fucking you.

The kiss is maddening. Searing. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you try to keep up with the messy press of lips, all too eager to indulge in what it means to feel alive.

This.

This is what home feels like.

You never had to build it with nails and wood and insulation.

It was always in the person hovering above you, working you open with a sneaky third finger that causes a pathetic strangled moan to die on your lips the second his tongue dips into your mouth.

Relentless.

You’re so far gone that you don’t even realize you’ve already come a second time.

It’s Levi who pulls back, looking down at his hand as he keeps curling his fingers into you.

“Shit, already? Can feel you getting tighter– Fuck, James.”

Shaking from the less intense but no less amazing orgasm, you come silently on his hand as you melt into the sheets.

Stars blur your vision like the first snow of a winter.

Weightless.

Watching Levi pull his fingers out of you to immediately put them into his mouth, licking each digit clean, is an out of body experience.

Nothing to waste, nothing to lose — he relishes in the taste lingering on his tongue before you leisurely nudge him with your knee.

He’s still wearing his underwear, but his cock is practically ready to burst through the fabric. His hardness looks painful, the flush of his skin prominent against the ivory cotton.

“...do we still have condoms?”

Your voice is faint, an exhale at best.

His eyes widen briefly before his jaw clenches, and his hair flutters as he nods.

“Yeah. They… should be expiring in about two months.”

“But not right now.”

Levi considers your inquiry, searching your face. “Not right now, no.”

A moment of content silence passes, his eyes glued to yours.

You want to reassure him that you’re more than ready, that it’s been too fucking long since you’ve had him, that you need this more than anything you’ve ever needed in your life.

You can’t.

All you can do is beg, as you have this whole day.

“Please?”

His head drops in defeat, shoulders slumping.

All of the air leaves his lungs as he leaves your side to rummage in the nightstand by his bed, and you can see it clear as day on the hand that is still pressed to the mattress:

He’s trembling.

Sitting up on your elbow, you reach to gently place your palm over it. His attention whips back to you, first staring at your joined hands before looking back at you.

“Are you sure?” the captain asks, looking for complete and utter consent.

You open your mouth to respond, but Levi curls his fist over the condom foil and sits up taller.

His hand lifts the two of your hands together, switching their positions so your palm ends up on his cheek.

In a tender moment, his lips press a chaste kiss to its center.

“We can wait if it’s too much.”

You shake your head wildly. “It’s not too much.”

“You only just—”

“Levi.”

Exasperated, you crawl around him to slowly hike your bare leg over his hip.

Hovering over his lap, his eyes round when you snap the waistband of his briefs between pinched fingers. Instinctively his hand reaches to steady your bare hip.

“I know you have every good reason to worry that I could change my mind. That I could forget.”

He flinches, if only for a fraction of a second.

“But I never left you. I never stopped wanting to be near you. I never…”

Trailing off, you realize.

The words are right there on your tongue.

The image flashes through your mind: two kids just barely making sense of this cruel world, tangled together, when his whispered words tickled the shell of your ear.

Words that would change your life forever.

“I never stopped loving you.”

With a single blink, the lines on Levi’s weary face soften.

The captain’s throat bobs, swallowing the emotions that come with your confession. 

He speaks with a conviction unlike anything you’ve ever heard.

“...I never stopped loving you, too.”

Joy blossoms in the center of your chest as you lean in, capturing his lips in a kiss that seals the promise of forever. He kisses back just as eagerly, his hands leaving your body to push his underwear hastily down his hips. 

You hear the tear of a wrapper foil, feel the shuffling of his hands between your bodies, before lining up the tip of himself against your entrance.

You both stop.

Testing the give with a gentle nudge, you both let out a gut-punch exhale.

“Want you to set the pace,” he states against your lips, trying his damnedest to keep his voice from shaking. “Take whatever you want from me. It’s always been yours.”

Yours.

Nose to nose, you allow him to hold his hard and eager cock steady as you wrap your hand around the back of his neck for an anchor.

Levi lets out a shaken breath when you begin to sink, face flushed with sweat and arousal.

No going back.

(You never want to leave again.)

Inch by inch, you ease yourself onto Levi’s cock. Your eyelids flutter from the sheer ecstasy of finally, finally, having him inside you again.

The captain seated beneath you is oh, so focused, nostrils flared as he bites back a heavy groan.

Although it takes baby steps to get there — you rock your hips and fuck the tip of him, your body slowly relaxing enough to take up more of him — you eventually end up seated with your legs wrapped around his waist.

Levi instinctively curls a strong arm around your waist to keep you in place, looking utterly wrecked as he fully submits to your will. His brows are screwed tightly together, eyes struggling to stay open — to watch.

So you watch him, too.

When you lift yourself off of his cock and drag back down to the hilt, you both groan in harmony.

You can’t help it.

A smile bursts on your lips, stretched wide.

This.

This is where you’ve longed to be.

You roll your hips and ride your captain with reverence.

The room reverberates with the sound of skin against skin, your moans and his grunts, the squeak of a well-worn mattress on an ancient wooden frame.

To hell with subtly.

You don’t care who hears downstairs.

Once he has his own emotions under control, Levi memorizes your pace and begins to buck up in a thrust from below.

You gasp, and you see it: he smirks, his own confidence gaining on him.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, his words as finite as ash. “Fuck, there she is.”

The praise has your blood singing, burning, as you bounce on his cock with an urgency to bring him to his long-awaited climax — and your third. 

“I love you,” you tell him, earning a bitten-off grunt for him.

“Fuck, don’t,” he begs as he matches your pace, bringing himself deeper. “I’ll cum so fast.”

“Maybe I want that,” you tease.

“James,” he warns, pinching your nipple as punishment.

You can’t help but cry out, head dropping back. Levi takes the golden opportunity to lean in, kissing the column of your neck to mask his own needy moans.

The fingers once rolling your nipple as you ride him glide down your belly until they catch your clit, causing you to collapse into his chest. You whimper, and you can hear the utter filth against your ear as Levi picks up the pace.

“Love you.” You clench around him, causing him to hiss. “Shit, I love you so goddamn much. Feel so fucking good.”

“Levi—”

“I got you,” he promises, holding you up as he pounds into you from below. “Won’t let you fall. Gonna make me cum so hard, s’like you were made for me — fuck…”

He loses his train of thought as his fingers rub your clit in furious circles, desperate to get you to the same edge where he hovers.

Over and over you moan out his name, unable to even think straight as pleasure succumbs and fills every vein in your body.

From the way his rhythm is faltering, you know:

He’s close.

You’re not very far behind.

“I love you,” you tell him one more time under your breath, unable to say anything else beyond that and broken variations of his name.

His thrusts become more urgent as he answers between clenched teeth.

“I love you, too.”

“Let go.” 

You wrap your arms around his body to hold him close. 

“I’ll catch you, just let go.”

For what it’s worth, he holds on for a few seconds more. 

He gives you the performance of a lifetime as he thrusts up into you, running after his orgasm with a desperation reserved for you and you alone.

Then you feel it.

Levi grabs the back of your head and slams his lips to yours in one final, devastating kiss before you abruptly come around him.

Your muscles spasm and clamp down around him, milking him for all he’s worth before he’s moaning loudly against your mouth. 

He’s forced to fall off the deep end with you, coming inside you. 

You leisurely ride him through your joined orgasms until his hand comes to your hip, stilling your movements.

Eventually the fingers at your clit still, pressing against it to feel its erratic heart beat.

Forehead to forehead, the two of you stay here, catching your breath—

Refusing to part.

.

Author's Note:

taylor swift vc: it's been a long time coming...

If you've been around my blog for the last several months, then you know I got hit with the author curse (seasonal depression kicked my ass, my day job issued an RTO mandate, I was sick a few times, I have a surgery in late February) so the creative juices were not there. Apologies (and the biggest thanks!) to all who have been waiting so very patiently. To readers old and new, I am so grateful for your reblogs, comments, and inbox messages.

So I ask, after five long months away from you: how are we doing, Jevi Nation?

[heartsriki]

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY ⌇편지

pairing ᝰ ni-ki x fem!reader — featuring.. jungwon | word count: 2200+

⌇ … warnings & genre ↺ highschool au!, fluff, misunderstandings, sunshine x grumpy.

synopsis — After seeing your tiny crush nishimura riki sneak something into the confession box you just had to investigate.

lee's ₊˚⊹ ᰔ comment ┊guys I swear ill make a non highschool au with riki soon... I couldn't help myself.. anyways its FEB!! can't wait to write valentines themed fics!

Finally.

It was your favorite month of the whole year.

You worked as a library assistant at your school—not because you particularly loved the job, but because it was better than joining a club.

Well… that’s what you told people.

In reality, you had a secret gig.

Tucked away in the most secluded part of the library was your confession box—a simple, unassuming container where students could slip in anonymous notes pouring out their feelings.

It started as something just for you. A place to vent when things got overwhelming. But then, he found out.

Jungwon.

You had no choice but to let him in on your little secret, and somehow, he became your best friend. Over time, word spread, and people started using the box themselves. What once held only your thoughts turned into a place where students whispered their love stories into folded pieces of paper.

Only Jungwon knew you were the one behind it.

And now, February had arrived—the holy grail of confessions. Sure, people submitted notes year-round, but around Valentine’s Day? The numbers spiked.

You weren’t going to lie. You loved it. Not just the thrill of reading them (and occasionally sharing the best ones with Jungwon, who never breathed a word), but the idea that you were helping people express what they were too afraid to say out loud.

So here you were, stationed at the front desk, pretending to browse book requests on the computer when a group of girls giggled their way to the back of the library.

Your eyes flickered toward them, amused. Definitely not because you were excited to read their confessions later. Nope. Definitely not.

Then, moments later—he walked in.

Riki.

The second you saw him, your instincts flared up. Suspicious.

Riki never stepped foot in the library. He barely did his assignments, let alone read for fun. So why was he here?

You watched, careful not to make it obvious. He glanced around, acting almost… nervous? And then, without a word, he disappeared into the back.

Seconds later, he reappeared from the other side—hands in his pockets, expression unreadable, walking out as if nothing had happened.

Your breath hitched.

No way.

Did Nishimura Riki just put a confession in your box?

Your hand scrambled for your phone. You had to tell someone.

You:

JUNGWONJUNGWONOMG

PLSPLSANSWERLOOKATURPHONE

Wonnie:

Ok what the hell

What is it?

You:

You are NEVER going to believe who just slid into the back of the library.

Wonnie:

Is it Jake again? Poor guy

Maybe Jay? Idk tell me

You:

Nishimura… Riki…

Wonnie:

… Fr?

Maybe he confessed to you?

You:

Right, totally.

Wonnie:

Think about it.

And you did think about it.

You and Riki had a… relationship. Not exactly a friendship, but not total strangers either.

You first met in detention.

It was your first time there, and you had no idea what you were supposed to do. So, naturally, you turned to the guy next to you—the one with his headphones on, slouched in his seat like he owned the place.

Curious, you tapped his shoulder.

He flinched, looking caught before turning to glare at you. “What?”

You blinked. “How did you sneak those in? Can I listen too?”

Before he could answer, you asked another question. “Wait, also—what are we supposed to do in here?”

His face twisted in disbelief. “What do we do in detention? You sit here. Now be quiet before—”

“Mr. Nishimura, sneaking electronics in again?” The teacher’s voice cut in, hand outstretched.

Riki groaned, slumping back in his seat before begrudgingly handing over his phone and headphones.

When the teacher walked away, he snapped his head back to you, eyes burning with betrayal.

You swore he glared at you for the rest of the day.

Ever since then, you tried to make it up to him—with snacks, lunch, even passing him worksheets to copy. Eventually, after weeks of bugging him, he forgave you.

Kind of.

Even now, he still acted so indifferent.

Whenever you waved at him in the hallway, he looked away. When you invited him to sit with you and your friends, he ignored you. Even when you walked beside him, talking about anything and everything—he barely responded.

At first, you assumed he was just bad with people. But then you saw him with his friends—laughing, joking, talking.

So why was he only like this with you?

Eventually, you gave up.

You distanced yourself, refusing to waste energy on someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with you.

But then, every now and then, you’d catch him staring—or see him approach you, only to hesitate and walk away.

It was confusing. Frustrating. You told yourself you didn’t care anymore.

Until the school trip.

It had been late at night when you were sent to fetch supplies from the shed—a small, isolated building at the edge of the woods.

You weren’t scared, but walking alone with only a flashlight wasn’t exactly comforting.

By the time you found everything, thunder rumbled outside. Moments later, the skies opened up.

Heavy rain. Lightning. The kind of downpour that turned dirt trails into slippery nightmares.

Running back wasn’t an option.

So, hugging your knees to your chest, you sat in the shed—silent, alone, trying not to cry.

Minutes passed. Then—

The door burst open.

You jumped, heart nearly stopping—until your eyes locked with his.

Riki.

He stood there, soaked from head to toe, breathless, his curls sticking to his forehead.

Did he… run here?

He didn’t speak. Just stared for a moment, like he was checking if you were okay, before stepping inside and sitting next to you.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re helpless, you know that?”

You blinked, then let out a soft, teary laugh. He was trying to act tough. But he was clearly worried.

Neither of you spoke after that. You just sat there, listening to the storm. Well, you spoke—rambling like you used to, and for once, he didn’t seem to mind.

By the time the rain cleared, something between you had shifted.

And now, months later, here you were—staring at an empty confession box, knowing Riki put something inside, yet not finding his name anywhere.

Jungwon’s voice pulled you back.

“I knew I’d find you here.” He smirked. “Anything good?”

You forced a laugh, trying to mask your disappointment. “Yeah, some interesting ones. Oh—Minji completely dropped her last crush and moved on to a new one. Isn’t that crazy?”

Jungwon squinted at you. “You’re looking for Riki’s, aren’t you?”

You groaned, immediately dropping your head onto the table. “I’m pitiful. Don’t look at me.”

Jungwon laughed, dragging a chair out and sitting across from you. “You’re not pitiful. Just mildly down bad.”

You groaned, keeping your forehead against the table. “But I know he put something in there. I saw him! I was so ready to read it, but it’s like—poof!—nothing!”

Jungwon tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “You sure he actually put something in the box?”

You lifted your head slightly. “Of course, I literally watched him sneak in.”

“Then…” Jungwon grinned knowingly. “What if he took something out?”

That made you pause. You sat up straight, eyes wide. “Wait… What?”

“Think about it,” Jungwon continued. “If he put in a confession and realized he wasn’t ready, maybe he took it back.”

Your mind raced. That… actually made sense. But why would Riki take it back? And more importantly—who was he confessing to?

The thought made your stomach twist, and you weren’t sure why.

Jungwon smirked, clearly enjoying the sight of you struggling. “You could just ask him, you know.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right. ‘Hey, Riki! Weird question, but did you happen to steal a confession from my box?’”

“Why not?” Jungwon shrugged. “Or are you scared of the answer?”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny it, but the words never came. Were you scared? The idea of Riki confessing to someone else made your chest feel tight in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

Before you could respond, the student council room door creaked open again.

And there he was.

Riki stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, his hair a little bit above his eyes which flickered between you and Jungwon before settling on you.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you. “Welp. That’s my cue to leave.” He patted your shoulder before slipping past Riki, whispering a quick, “Good luck,” on his way out.

The door clicked shut. Silence.

You swallowed. “Um… Did you need a book or—”

“I didn’t take it back.”

Your breath hitched.

Riki sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “The letter. I didn’t take it back.”

Your heart was pounding now. You tried to keep your voice steady. “What do you mean?”

His gaze dropped to the floor. “I put it in there without a doubt, I think… someone else removed it. Maybe it was a sign not to confess to you.”

You.

Your throat went dry. “It was… for me?”

Riki let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Obviously.”

You blinked. “Obviously? What do you mean obviously? You ignore me ninety percent of the time!”

He huffed, looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t ignore you.”

“You literally pretend not to hear me half the time!”

“Because I don’t know what to say!” Riki finally looked at you, frustration and something else—something softer—lingering in his expression. “You drive me crazy, you know that? You talk too much, you’re way too nosy, and you never leave things alone. And somehow, I—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “I like you, okay?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Riki rolled his eyes at your stunned silence. “This is embarrassing.”

You snapped out of your trance. “Wait, wait. Back up. You like me?”

He groaned, turning toward the door. “Forget I said anything—”

You grabbed his sleeve before he could leave.

He froze.

Slowly, you grinned. “You like me.”

Riki’s ears were turning red. “Shut up.”

You laughed, warmth bubbling in your chest. You never thought you’d get anywhere with him, and yet—here he was, out of breath looking at you so fondly, confessing in the most Riki-like way possible.

February was definitely your favorite month of them all.

BONUS 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The moment Riki stepped into the library, he knew he was making a mistake.

This wasn’t his scene. He didn’t do books, didn’t do anything that required more effort than necessary. But here he was, standing in the one place he actively avoided, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets as his eyes flickered toward the back.

He could feel your gaze on him.

You were always watching him.

Not in a weird way—more like you were constantly trying to figure him out. Always with that curious glint in your eyes, like he was a puzzle you were determined to solve.

He hated it.

No, that wasn’t true. He hated that he liked it.

And now, as he made his way toward the confession box—the stupidest thing he’d ever been a part of—he was hoping you weren’t paying too much attention.

With one last glance around, he slipped to the back, pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and dropped it inside.

Then, without missing a beat, he walked out through the other side, playing it cool.

It took everything in him not to look back.

He could already picture the way your brain was short-circuiting, the way you were probably grabbing your phone to text Jungwon. You always told him everything, after all.

Riki swore under his breath as he left the library.

He wasn’t even sure why he did it.

Well.

That was a lie.

He knew why.

It was because of you.

Because you confused the hell out of him.

You were supposed to be annoying—loud, persistent, way too nosy for your own good. You were supposed to be someone he could easily brush off, like he did with everyone else.

But you weren’t.

Because no matter how many times he ignored your waves in the hallway, you still smiled at him. No matter how often he shut you out, you never stopped trying.

And then you stopped.

You finally gave up on him.

And for some reason, that made his chest feel too tight.

Ever since that night on the school trip, when he found you curled up alone in the shed, it had been harder and harder to act like he didn’t care.

That night, when he heard you were missing—it was like he could imagine you with red eyed, shoulders shaking—he couldn’t stop himself.

Didn’t even think.

He just ran.

Ran straight into the storm, through the rain, barely able to see a damn thing—but knowing exactly where he was going.

When he finally got there, when he saw you small and fragile under the dim light, something in him cracked.

He never wanted to see you like that again.

But he didn’t know how to tell you that.

He wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good with feelings.

So he wrote it down instead.

It wasn’t a confession, not in the way you expected.

But it was something.

Something for your eyes only.

Something he thought you would have found by now.

So when he walked passed the student council room later that evening, seeing you and Jungwon hunched over the pile of notes, he knew immediately.

You hadn’t seen it.

Because if you had, you wouldn’t be looking for his name like he overheard.

And now, as both your heads snapped toward him, your eyes wide and startled—

Riki sighed, stepping forward.

…You took it, didn’t you? He thought looking straight at Jungwon.

Because if you didn’t find his letter in the box…

Then someone must have.

What was Jungwon playing at?

What happens next? Click

[primofate]

Death and Regrets - Alhaitham

Notes: This has been written for quite a while. It will be part of my next Genshin book "Primofate's Angst Anthology Volume 1" I was planning on keeping it exclusive to the book, but I hadn't posted in such a long while that I felt that I had to give you guys something. Grateful to all of you who are still here and please look forward to the release of my next book! I'm planning for it to be out late 2025 on Amazon!

Word Count: 2316 (yes, the death and regrets in my next book are quite long)

Others in the series: (Scaramouche and Kaeya Version) (Thoma, Xiao, Diluc and Zhongli)  (Itto, Gorou, Albedo)

Death, Regrets and Second Chances [An Alternate Ending to Death and Regrets]: (Kazuha, Childe, Scaramouche, Kaeya)

Warnings: not proofread, YOU DIE, no comfort

Characters: gn! reader x Alhaitham

It was not that your relationship with the Scribe was a secret, it was simply because the two of you were private people. There’s no reason to go around telling everyone that the two of you were dating, in fact, it would be rather unprofessional to do that, seeing as both of you held high positions in the Akademiya.

Even before that, however, when you were merely students, there were a few countable times in which Alhaitham and you crossed paths.

“What’s a Vahumana student doing reading a book about ancient runes?” He was a handsome, young man. As he was today. But he was less guarded, less critical of others in his younger years. You had no idea whatsoever that this encounter with him would lead to a blossoming romantic endeavour.

You stared up at him, rather enchanted by his eyes, book held in your hands. You took one look at his uniform and immediately knew he was Haravatat. “…We’re going on an expedition into the Hadramaveth Ruins soon…” you explain, just waiting for him to leave.

He stands in front of you for a good 5 seconds before sighing and exclaiming “…I suppose I can let you have the book for a few more days,” he starts to walk off, adding a brief “Let me know if you’re done with it,” signalling to you that he probably wanted to borrow the book.

It was weeks later that you handed the book over to him, your left arm bandaged up and in a sling. He glanced at the book, then at your arm. “…What happened to you?” it was merely an offhanded question. He was just curious what kind of accident you got into.

You didn’t seem the reckless type.

“Just some trouble in the ruins,” you shrug.

You thought that leaving the book with him was the last you would see of Alhaitham. But, days later, struggling with a broken arm and in a cliché scenario of being unable to reach a book on the highest shelf, it was him who leans forward and retrieves it for you easily.

“…Alhaitham,” he says it with a bit of uncertainty. As if not knowing if he was making the right decision.

“Huh?” You instinctively let out.

“My name. It’s Alhaitham,” You make a sound of understanding, and give him your own.

What happened after that was a whirlwind of intense and exhilarating experiences. Somehow he had made it part of his routine to lend you a hand in the library. Those little butterflies in your stomach start to flutter, wondering why he made such effort for you, when you secretly knew the answer yourself.

Those same butterflies start to fly, flitting about in twists and turns in your stomach when you find yourself sitting side by side with him, studying separate subjects, yet together in each other’s presence.

Until, even when the sun set, the butterflies are awake and alive within you, seemingly escaping your gut and now fluttering with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump in your chest while the two of you meet in the secret corners of the dormitories, head to shoulder, whispering and talking about anything and everything you could think of.

You excelled in your school, as did he, and before long, the two of you were given important roles within the Akademiya. Him as the Scribe, and you, as Vahumana’s Assistant Sage.

“Y/N?” there was a knock on your study door, voice as familiar to you as your own.

“Come in,” you stand as the door pushes open. Alhaitham slips in and just as easily closes the door with his foot, striding over to meet you at the middle of the room.

Knowing that there was no one there except the two of you, both of you walk the full length, up until he opens one arm, and up until you walk into his warmth. His arm wraps you tight for a few seconds, his eyes closing, nose diving into your hair for a quick kiss, before releasing you completely and stepping away from each other.

Just a quick greeting.

Always a quick greeting, in case someone decides to come in.

“Your message…” Alhaitham trails off, he had been out on some sort of task for a few days and the only way to reach him had been through a messenger. The message you sent was clear. Grand Sage Azar was planning something devious, and he had to be stopped. “…are you sure?”

“…At the very least, Azar is suspicious,” you recount how it seems like the Grand Sage had been scheming something. That there was an important project the sages had been working on. That Cyno had suddenly quit his post as General Mahamatra. “…They’re tampering with the Akasha System, and I haven’t seen Naphis in weeks,” you end, face carrying a grim expression.

Alhaitham, as always, remained calm and collected. You had long known that he had been a person of logic. That he was smarter than the average person, his mind always seemed to be working faster than others’ did.

“…Even then, there’s nothing we can do at the moment, without any evidence,” he closes his eyes when he says this, possibly going through all the information that you’ve given him.

“Alhaitham,” you press, words suddenly taking a more assertive edge. “It’s not natural for Naphis to disappear like this. Furthermore, all the other sages assure me that he’s merely busy working on the project.” And it’s here that he detects a hint of your pleading tone. “but he opposed of the project, Alhaitham. They’re hiding something,”

He holds back a sigh, you see it in the way his shoulders tense and his face attempts to remain neutral. “If we don’t have anything against them, then there’s nothing we can do,” he repeats and you almost feel like you’re talking to a wall, but he continues. “I’ll scout around, but there are other things I have to do. We can’t just go by your intuition alone,”

“You’re saying I’m making this all up?”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it. You’re letting your frustration get the better of you, Y/N,”

You bite your lip. He’s right. As he always is. Patience is a virtue, that was always what he said. If he wanted to do something, it had to be mapped out and planned perfectly. It wasn’t his style to go rushing into something, including accusations of people.

“We’ll talk about this a bit more tomorrow. Just cool off, for now,” he leaves with only a nod, knowing that the two of you just needed some time to think and gather your thoughts carefully, before hatching a plan. Together, the two of you could easily do it, Alhaitham had always valued your opinions and intelligence.

Early morning the next day the same messenger you had sent to Alhaitham finds his way to your study. Karman, his name was.

“Assistant Sage Y/N,” he respectfully hands you a letter, bows his head and steps away.

The letter is addressed to you, from Alhaitham.

I was on a separate task to the Hadramaveth Ruins and found traces of the sages “project”. I did return to the Akademiya but hadn’t the time to seek you out before leaving for another assignment. I left my letter to Karman. I’ll make quick of my task, and meet you at the Ruins shortly after daybreak.

Karman only watches as you drop the letter on your desk, quickly packing essentials to travel to the ruins.

Pity. He thought to himself. Such a young talent going to waste.

“You’re free to go,” you hurriedly dismiss him and he nods, taking a last glance at the fabricated letter on your table.

Alhaitham wakes far too late to stop the tragedy from happening. When he slips into your study, your door being slightly agape was his first clue that something was amiss. The second was the letter on your table.

‘I didn’t write this,’ was his instant reaction.

‘Y/N’s in trouble,’ was his second,gut-wrenching realization.

He sprinted without a second thought towards the ruins. His legs, as practiced and trained as they were from doing assignment after assignment, burned with a speed that he had never attempted to reach before. He hears his laboured breathing in his ears, hears his heart going faster than he had ever felt it go.

All the while he berated himself. How could he not have seen this coming? Why had he not taken extra precautions?

The desert is brutal, even to him. It was harder to press on, his feet stamping on soft sand, making it difficult to propel forward. He sees the ruins in the far horizon, the doors shut tight.

I can make it! He thinks to himself, pushing his strength to the last limits. You must have been inside,all he had to do was—

BANG!

In a sudden, quick explosion of sand the entrance to the ruins erupt in a lick of flames. And then, one after another bombs set off. The ground shook at the intensity, Alhaitham swayed, tipped over, and fell forward only to push himself up and keep going, his eyes determinedly glued to the ruin entrance despite the sand kicking up everywhere.

I’ll make it. I’m coming.

Explosions were still going off, ringing in his ears. His worst nightmare descended upon him when the ruin doors burst into thousands of pieces, in smithereens and mixing with the sand. The rest of the structure stumbled and caved in, it was sinking so fast into the sand.

Alhaitham pressed on.

There’s no way.

He scrambled forward as the pillars and rocks crumble and sink. For a moment he thinks he hears someone calling his name, but all he can think about is your face.

Your face. In every corner of his life. Now sinking into the sand, trapped for eternity, never to be seen again.

Y/N…!

“Alhaitham!” He’s suddenly jerked backwards, equally strong arms are holding him back, preventing him from going any further into the disaster.

“Y/N!” Alhaitham finally bellows, the sound of his voice echoing through the desert. He struggles against the hold, pulling and heaving himself forward. When he realized that the person holding on to him was just as stubborn as he was, he swerved around with a glare. “I have to go! What’re you doi—” he stopped short, and saw that it was Cyno.

Cyno who had a pained look in his eyes. “It’s too late,” he said as a matter of factly.

Alhaitham stilled, he could hear the structure still crumbling, yet to him it sounded like the whole world falling. He jerked away from Cyno’s grasp, turning towards the crumbling structure, and finally fell to his knees.

His hands grasp on sand, palm stinging at how hard he was gripping on to them. “—Can’t be,” he murmurs something into the wind, only bits of it audible. His frame crumples forward, arms keeping him from falling face first into the sand. “It can’t be…It can’t. can’t. can’t. CAN’T be!” His fist pounds into the sand with each angry word, eyes squeezing shut and wracking his brain for a solution. This can’t be it. Y/N was smarter than that, you might’ve found a way to avoid it.

To Cyno, who had never seen Alhaitham unravel in such a way, who had no idea that the man could even be in such a state, only silently watched. Unaware of what he could do for him. “Alhaitham…”

The Scribe suddenly stood, as if he hadn’t been mourning just a few seconds ago. By now the storm had settled, and where the ruin doors once stood was now just a mound of sand, as if it had never been there before. “Y/N could still be around,”

Cyno could only see his back, now tall and proud. The General Mahamatra watched as Alhaitham picked his arm up, laid it over what would be his face and dragged it, slowly, from left to right. Cyno wasn’t sure if it had been sweat or tears, but the taller man stood there for a moment, and with a hint of a tremble, said “I have to bring Y/N back…”

That’s how Cyno knew, that Alhaitham was conscious of the world, was conscious of the tragedy that had just happened.

But that didn’t stop him from coming back to the ruins every single day, holding out on whatever hope he had, the pain of “We’ll talk about this a bit more tomorrow. Just cool off, for now,” repeating over and over and over again in his head, keeping him awake at night.

How could that have been his last words to you?

How could he have passed on the chance to wrap you in his arms, like all those times the two of you shared in your younger years, and passed on the chance to tell you how much he adored, missed and loved you instead?

The worst part of it all was the fact that he had nothing left. Not even a last look of your face, not even a tombstone to visit. Not even a safe space for you to rest.

All of a sudden it didn’t matter how much he had succeeded in life up until this point. He had failed you so miserably.

What had he been doing for the past few years?

What was it all for?

When all was said and done, when the sun set and the tasks were completed, he came home to you.

And now, there was no home to be found. For a while, he would come home and collapse on the cold, hard, floor. It was so, so quiet and all around the four walls he saw your face and your smile, haunting and piercing his soul.

There was no home here.

Only sadness, and solitude.

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[liketwoswansinbalance]

I've been thinking about this dilemma for so long, so I decided to make a poll.

All I can say for now is that I fall into the "situational" category. In my opinion, unless I've forgotten some critical, concrete evidence, it's so hard to tell, to the point that I think it must be nuanced and situational, or simply a non-explicitly-addressed point in canon.

We've nearly always seen him in a position of authority and he's a disciplined character, so we could say "rule-follower." Why would he sabotage his own rules, even if he had authority to supersede them as their creator. So, yes, he is (even tentatively) pro-rules or potentially pro-rule-of-law because of how he wields authority. Indeed, he is kind of a walking rulebook.

But that's no fun. Let's complicate matters, shall we?: he deserts the School in Rise. A notable exception.

(His Monrovia Prison prison-break doesn't count at the moment because that "had to be done," in the spirit of self-preservation.)

Then, what of others' rules?

Maybe he'd follow them only at his convenience? Because he's used to being the authority in every room?

Any rule that doesn't make sense, that would seem beneath him, or just wouldn't fly—he wouldn't follow or allow it.

But... isn't he also intentionally a contrarian over 50% of the time? So, maybe he'd flout the rules just because he can, or, i.e., because he (usually) has immunity from them in his authoritative position.

Yet, if he didn't have that position, would he still rebel? Hard to say.

If he already benefited, he'd have little to no reason to rebel for others' sakes, even if they were suffering, so he's no classic, rebel protagonist vs. a dystopian government. Seems too idealistic for his character.

If he were on the oppressed side of a society, what would he do?

Perhaps, just game the system for himself and himself only, climb the ladder for status, to reach a position of power and erase all evidence of his formerly being oppressed. Bury the old identity, supplant a dictator? (This hypothetical brings to mind Coriolanus Snow, haha.)

How do I know? Or how would I speculate that this would happen in the dystopian scenario?:

1. This "elevating himself" course of action would be the route of least resistance and the least effort, logically. No messy overturning of society as he's just one person. You can make a case for one person, if that person can prove they're "deserving" of more.

2. Canonically, he was willing to install himself in a position of power while others weren't impacted or were negatively impacted, by his conscious-or-not choices.

With sorcery, I feel as if his being oppressed couldn't happen believably. (Search up the logistical problem with the "oppressed mages trope" and you'll probably see a few world-building articles, if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

Ok, then, moving on, there'd still be evidence, internal evidence, in his mind that he was once in some form of some low (social) position (not even referring to Nevers in-narrative, no, I mean as a hypothetical).

Just take the oppressed fantasy class trope—like the Grisha (they are sorcerers/witches, to a degree, and the Small Sciences are nearly indistinguishable from magic, right?).

What would he do there?

Well, I'm tempted to say he'd be like the Darkling, side with those in power (Tsar) and just... grant himself every advantage, secure rights for his own kind (magic-users).

The problem: he may not even reach Darkling levels of "selflessness" or solidarity. At least, he wouldn't view himself as lesser-than, which feels impossible by default, given his ego.

But, we're still left with the question, and I guess the answer is just situational. That's all.

So, the best, approximate answer I have (now) is that he is a rule-follower—until something affects him and his own self-interest personally.

I don't think he could be the rebel-without-a-cause type, but that's already unspecific and a useless categorization.

I view him as a loophole abuser or exploiter (of the literal) because of the one, weight-in-gold, Man-Wolf-involved, Rufius-death scene from Fall.

Classic trickster archetype, as I tend to label him, or The Man of Exact Words and Clauses. And that's within the rules! Of language!

Thus, I'm (currently—you're welcome to try to change my mind) compelled to say: rule-follower at heart, with a rebellious streak, given extenuating circumstances.

Or, alternatively, True Neutral (literally his apathy) in most cases, with a self-serving streak and a severe case of monotropism/one-track mind.

Does any motive or incentive to dismantle anything, systems(?), lurk in the shadows of his mind? Possibly. Well—for anything that serves him (and his causes).

See the problem? Caveats to everything.

Any thoughts or more condemning-or-not judgments, anyone?

[jirishnesensei]

Mirio Togata x Reader | Isekai AU [18+]

Warming up to you ch3. It's an anime

⊱ Pairings - mirio 3rd year student x reader

⊱ About - Boku No Hero Academia was your favourite anime. You watched it every week when a new episode came out, but what if you were transported into the world?Having no clue how you got there and you're being accused of being a part of the League Of Villians.Suffice to say, it's not the best way to start the show.

⊱ Warnings/tags - 18+ (eventually), fluff(for the most part), angst, smut, fem reader, romance, pining, SLOW BURN, swearing, friends to lovers, death, jealousy, she falls first he falls harder, mirio is mean (with reason), first everything, sassy mirio, fangirl reader, unrequited love

⊱ status - ongoing

⊱ chapters - 3/x

⊱ word count - 2.4k

A/N - Hello! omg it's been a long time coming posting this story here XD just wanted to say thank you for those that hearted, reblogged and all that! This is unfathomably one of my most prized stories that's been giving me a migraine for years (seriously, and still ongoing) but I hope you enjoy it as much as I have (⁠θ⁠‿⁠θ⁠) okay bye!

Mirio decided to have Sir Night eye ask you the questions about Shie Hassaikai, which was smart on his account.

Now you were both heading over to Sir Nighteyes agency bright and early in the morning. Mirio definitely didn't know what sleeping in meant. You yawned obnoxiously loud to maybe catch the attention of a certain blonde and it was a success going off of the look he gave you.

"You slept for at least 9 hours."

"Yeah, well I need twelve. Thirteen if I need to do things during the day." You answered sarcastically. It's like the boy forgot you fell down thousands of feet from the sky not even 24 hours ago. He didn't entertain anymore conversation after that and it was a fairly quick walk to the agency.

Mirio stopped infront of a large set of green doors. Pushing one open while gesturing for you to go in first. You walked through, already feeling the cold air conditioning hit your bare skin.

You were given the lovely opportunity to wash your face and brush your teeth, but you were still dressed in the same clothes from your world. You felt gross, and that's putting it lightly.

"His office is this way." Mirio says as he walked down the long corridor then started his way up the signature spiral staircase. Your body was getting tingly at the thought of meeting Sir Nighteye. What were you going to tell him? He isn't even nice... so what if he doesn't even give you a chance to speak? What if he wants you to make him laugh?! Oh god you were terrible at jokes. Now that you were hopelessly scared, you tugged on Mirios white collard shirt, making him look down at you.

"Mirio I don't know how to make Sir Night eye laugh." You didn't see it but Mirio's eyes widened at how you knew one of his mentors rules. He didn't allow you to hear the shock in his voice though.

"Don't worry, if you're telling the truth then Sir won't care if you make him laugh or not." You nodded limbly. Still a bit shaken from the idea of meeting the Sir Nighteye.

When you reached the top of the stairs and walked down one last corridor, Mirio held the door knob and looked back at you. Your head hung low, it was obvious you were psyching yourself out. He rolled his eyes, not liking how his sense of hero duties were clouding his judgement with the fact that you could be a villain. Nonetheless he faced you and held your shoulders. The contact makes your skin crawl and hold your breath and for the first time since looking at him you actually notice how blue his eyes are. Like the deepest part of the ocean where sunlight can't even reach. Okay, that's leaning more towards black... but that's just how much melanin is in his eyes.

"Stop worrying, everything will be fine." He gives you one of those hero smiles, the kind that melts your heart and nearly your legs too, but you had atleast some kind of self-control. For now.

Mirio turns back to the door so you can get distracted by his broad back instead and knocks twice before walking in, now beaming brightly as the Mirio Togata you and every bnha fan knew. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at that.

"Good morning Sir!" 

You peer past him and see the one and only Sasaki Mirai, aka, Sir Nighteye seated by his desk.

"Mirio. is this the girl?" Sir Nighteye looks you over and it feels like his gaze pierced straight through your very soul. He was so much more intimidating in person. How in the world did Midoriya have the guts to make fun of All Might under these circumstances?

"Yes Sir. She claims she has information on Shie Hassaikai." Sir Nighteye nods then thanks Mirio for the notice before telling him to head off to campus. As Mirio turned to leave, you look at him with pleading eyes to not leave you alone, ofcourse he doesn't stay... but a girl can dream, right?

The door slams shut and now it was just you and Sir Nighteye in the room. You glanced around, trying not to make direct eye contact with him and instead focused on all the All Might merchandise that was everywhere. There was actually way more than they focused on in the anime...

"Do you know what my quirk is?" Sir Nighteye startles you out of your daze and his cold voice makes you stand straighter like you're in the military.

"Yes sir! It's foresight! You are able to look into a person's future upon contact with them for an hour!" You yelled this as if you were being graded for a test. And the outcome of that test is either prison or freedom. It was only now that you realize if you can't back up your claim, you could be in some serious touble here. Sir Nighteye hmph'ed as if satisfied with your answer and then stood up from his chair, making you flinch slightly.

"So you know what will happen if I look into your future." He states calmly, removing his glasses to clean while walking around his desk and then leaned his lower back on it. Hunching slightly from his tall posture.

You nod, unsure where he was going by stating that.

"Tell me something only I would know miss..?"

"Uh (y/n)... (y/n) (l/n)" You answered.

"Miss (y/n)" He gestured for you to continue. You visibly gulped. Was it getting hot in here? It feels like it's getting hotter. What do you tell him? You could tell him about Midoriya being the successor for One For All... that should definitely prove it, but that could land you in big trouble for even knowing such a secret. You pondered and pondered over what to say, making Sir Nighteye grow impatient.

"If you don't know-"

"No wait! I do... I do know, I just don't know which scene to tell you about-" Sir Nighteye grew confused by your choice of words, but gave you a few more minutes.

You bit your lip and wrung your fingers, desperately trying to will your mind to think of something, anything. You were very nervous if it wasn't painfully obvious already.

"Oh! I know!" Sir Nighteye looked at you intently as you were about to speak. You knew exactly what to say now.

"I can tell you exactly what happened-" you start, Sir Nighteye leans a bit forward, not fooling anyone with how intrigued he was on how you could supposedly tell them exactly where Shie Hassaikai is.

"-when Midoriya came to request for a work study here!" You finished with a winning smile as if you just said the numbers to the lottery. Sir Nighteye visibly sunk at what you just said then pushed his glasses back up, clearly not impressed by your revelation.

"Wait, just hear me out atleast! Wouldn't it be crazy if I could tell you exactly what happened in this room without ever being in it? Even what happened before Midoriya and Mirio walked into the room?" You urged. Sir Nighteye sighed, looked over his shoulder at his All Might clock then back at you. 

"Okay fine, I'll bite. Tell me what happened. Before Midoriya and Mirio walked in."

You nod earnestly and rack up all of your memories from that scene. You had watched this season so many times, you couldn't get it wrong the one time you needed to truly remember it.

"Bubble girl, your assistant, was telling you about the incident that was linked to Shie Hassakai and the league of villains. I'm not sure where the place was... but you were watching an All Might video while she spoke to you and because she wasn't being humorous enough, you tied her to some torture tickling machine and started to tickle her!" You finish off like you just convinced your mother that it wasn't you who broke her favourite dish. Eagerly waiting for Sir nighteye's response.

He was definitely shocked going off of his expression. You told him near to the tea what was happening before Mirio and Midoriya walked in which so to speak should be impossible. He pushes his glasses up again, not wanting to show more of his emotion and spoke.

"What happened when they entered?" You bit your bottom lip.

Did I get something wrong?

You cleared your throat and tried to remember what happened after, "You told Midoriya that he has to make you laugh for you to consider him as an intern and so he imitated All Might, which I thought was really funny, but you accused him of ridiculing All Might and then told him his wrinkles were in the wrong places and then... you both just kinda went at it and fanboyed over All Might." You laughed nervously.

"Oh! and before you stamped Midoriyas papers you made him spar with you! Which he lost... but he completely dodged all of your All Might posters, right?!" You hold your breath. You could feel your palms sweating. You were desperately trying to get Sir Nighteye to believe you here, but his stoic expression was so difficult to read through. He sighs once more and walked over to you. You step back in fear, but he grabbed your shoulder to keep you in place and used his quirk on you. You were hypnotized the second that he did, eyes fixated on his. They were actually moving like gears... tiny, mini gears and it was incredible. Sir Nighteye lets go of you and then stood up straight again.

"It's near to impossible that you could tell me that, but I still don't understand how. What is your quirk?" He looks down at you so intensely. Your legs really felt like they were going to give in at any moment. You laugh awkwardly under his gaze that now felt like they could see right through your skin. Like you're talking intestines and everything. It made you uncomfortable.

"Its not a quirk... it's um... haha, you're gonna think this is funny, but it's an anime." His expression stays the same, as if waiting for the punchline.

I knew he wanted a joke!

"I uh, gosh," You awkwardly rub your forehead, "I don't know how else to explain it..." You look down to the ground, feeling too exposed to look him directly in the eye anymore. Sir Nighteye realized this and turned on his heel to sit back down by his desk, gesturing for you to take a seat opposite. You take his offer and sit down then suck in a decent breath, preparing for the millions of questions to follow.

"I'm not from this planet. Or whatever this place is. Back where I'm from this place is known as My Hero Academia. An anime that people around the globe watch."

⊱ Next chapter: Coming soon!

⊱ Take me to the prev chap!

Taglist - @the-faceless-bride @distinguishedoafbiscuitopera

Dividers by - @cafekitsune and @strangergraphics

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the world (it burns through me)

Chapter 17: Sweetheart

Ao3 | 2.9k Words | Sweetheart's POV

Milo and Colm have a word. Sweetheart said ACAB. Porter has his teeth around the problem. Quinn performs surgery. Milo is pissed.

TW: Medical talk, discussions of surgery, discussions of injuries, discussions of gambling, alcohol use.

You weren’t exactly awake when you started hearing him, but you were fairly convinced that, the second Milo was near, you were aware of him. His hands, his long, rough fingers, brushing against your face, through your curls, pressing into the juncture of your throat, as if to prove to himself that you were alive. His voice, high and strained with panic, demanding to know what was going on, cooing your name, asking you to open your eyes, to look at him. 

You knew when he was gone again. You heard him fight it as his hands disappeared. 

“Don’t you touch me,” he snarled, voice growing distant, “don’t you touch me, you bastard, what the fuck were you doing there, huh?” 

You were somewhere else for a long time. Everything twisted up and down and around itself, tying knots in your concept of time and space. 

You knew when he came back. His hand was in yours and the world righted itself again. 

“Why did they call you?” Milo’s voice had gone tired and dark, tinged with a dangerous edge. The room was quiet around his question, save for the quiet breath and heartbeat of the machines that surrounded you. You counted the seconds before he got his answer. 

“We had a conversation in November.” Colm replied. He was somewhere off to your left, deeper in whatever room you had been stuck in. “I provided some information surrounding a figure of interest in their ongoing investigation.” 

“Cut the bullshit, please.” It had the bite of an admonishment, but you knew better. Milo was exhausted. 

“I made them promise to be safe.” Colm obliged. He sighed. You heard him scrub a hand over his stubble, the pops that rang up his back as he stretched in his stiff, rubbery chair. Milo’s thumb trailed over your knuckles, stung across the abrasions and bruises that dotted the delicate skin. You could feel his fingers shake in your limp hold. 

“Should’a called me.” Milo murmured. 

“They didn’t want to scare ya.” Colm replied. 

“What the fuck do you know about it, huh?” Milo snapped. His voice went sour and loud, too loud to be appropriate for a hospital. “You don’t know shit about us.”

The room was silent again, breathing gently around you. An alarm blared somewhere far off. A group of people ran by your room’s door, their sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. 

“You remember those nights that I wouldn’t come home until you were getting up for school?” Colm’s voice was low and harsh, barely audible over your own heartbeat echoing around the room. 

“‘Cause you were out gambling.” Milo had gone quiet. He didn’t sound afraid, not exactly. There was just a familiar trepidation in his voice that made you want to cry. You wanted to open your eyes. You wanted to wake up, to get out of this bed, to put an end to this conversation. Your body wouldn’t move. 

“No.” Colm snapped. “‘Cause I was at the overnight dry cleaner trying to get blood out of my suit.” Milo’s breath stuttered. You fought to grip his hand back, to let him know that he wasn’t alone in this moment. “I got hurt on the job. I saw people die. I killed people. And I didn’t want to bring that home to your mother. I didn’t want to scare her. Or you. I relied on people… on things besides you two to see me through that. Maybe it wasn’t the right choice. But you never saw me covered in somebody else’s blood, so I’ll call that a win for my parenting.” 

Something metal spun and clanked. A harsh swallow. You could hear the lace of Milo’s boot clanging against the frame of your bed as he bounced his leg a mile a minute. 

“You could have the decency not to drink in front of me.” Milo replied coldly. “Maybe then we could talk about wins for your parenting.” 

Colm started to respond, his voice gone harsh and mean. You felt the bolt of movement run down each muscle in your arm, through your fingers, so painful and strong that you thought you’d break MIlo’s hand when you gripped it back. Instead, your fingers barely twitched in his hold. 

It was enough, even with his father beginning to yell, to draw Milo’s attention back to you. 

“Sweetheart?” He asked softly. You heard his chair scrape the floor, tumble back, and fall as he stood. “Baby, are you with me?”

“Shit,” Colm breathed. Something metal hit the floor. Another hand slipped into your free one. “Come on, open your eyes, kid.” 

You tried to say Milo’s name, but all that came out was a rasping groan. You had been intubated. You could tell from the terrible, knee scrape sting that lined your vocal chords as they hummed back to life. 

“Come on, baby,” Milo cooed softly. You felt as one of his calloused hands slid up your cheek, tapping fingers bringing you back to life. “Lemme see those pretty eyes.” 

He asked so sweetly, and so you obliged. 

Your vision was dulled and fuzzy, and the scant lights of your dim hospital room burned across your eyes. As soon as they cracked open, you squeezed them closed again, but before you did, you caught sight of Milo’s beaming face. 

“Go get Ma.” Milo said, breathless. You heard Colm’s footsteps retreat without argument. 

Between the three Greers, you were fussed and primped over for the next hour or so, offered extra pillows and ice chips and more painkillers than you reasonably thought one person should be on. Marie recounted your arrival to the ER animatedly, somehow twisting humor in with the horror that still clung to the three of them. 

“I swear to God, when I saw my husband walk through those doors covered in blood, I was ready to kill him.” She laughed, retying the shoulder of your gown for the tenth time since she’d rushed into your room, calling doctors and nurses and a whole armada of medical professionals in behind her. You thought you’d probably been examined by everybody in the hospital at this point, from the surgeons to the janitors. Now, in the very wee hours of the morning, you were waiting for word from your surgeons to see how long you’d be trapped in this room. 

You had asked for David as soon as you got your voice back in your chest. Milo’s face had screwed up at that, confused, but acquiesced. You’d given David the run down over the phone, just the bullet points, promising to give him all of the details in person. The captain was getting off shift in an hour or so. He’d gone from his day shift to Milo’s night shift so he could be here with you. He’d been running on no sleep anyway, if his spouse was to be believed. You were sure that your report wouldn’t do anything to help him sleep at night. 

Colm had taken down your official statement despite your offer to wait for another detective. He was Homicide, not Violent Crime, and he had been drinking, but from what you could tell, his tolerance was working in his favor in this instance. He didn’t seem to be touched by the swigs he had been taking from his silver flask. 

Milo had to step out when you started describing the fight. His hands shook as he made for the door, Marie following quickly after him. 

“That’s what he said exactly?” Colm asked, his face gone stern with concentration. He had that look in his eyes, the same one that you got about you. He had his teeth around the throat of the problem. He was just waiting for the right time to clamp down. 

“Tell them that the next time they send somebody else to do their dirty work, they won’t walk away from me.” You repeated, eyes slipping closed. You could picture the words falling off of Quinn’s curved lips, the bright burn of his blue eyes. 

Colm whistled low, shaking his head. 

“This guy is a grade A freak.” He sighed. “I’m throwing some police resources your way. You’re officially consulting on a full fledged investigation.” 

“You know how I feel about cops, Colm.” You said. Your experience with the Police Department had been less than sweet, and Colm was quite familiar with your grievances with its practices. The deep rooted corruption in Dahlia’s Police Department was too much for you to overlook, and despite good people like Ansel trying to make a change, those good apples did very little to lessen the rot in the barrel. More often than not, good apples ended up like Colm; poisoned by the bad ones as the years went on.  

You’d given it the old college try, but you’d only managed to put a target on your own back in the process. 

“Then it’s a good thing it’ll just be me.” Colm smiled. “Besides, you’ll be doing most of your consulting from a hospital bed.” 

“If you think they’re going to keep me in this bed for more than a day you’re out of your mind.” You snapped back. 

“Oh, I think we’ll manage a bit longer.” 

You turned towards the door to your room as a tall, slender man stepped inside. He was clad in a navy button up shirt and tie, a pristine white lab coat announcing him as the Chief of Surgery in tight, hunter green embroidery. His shoulder length blonde hair was dotted with silver strands at his temples, tied back into a ponytail at the base of his skull. When he smiled, you watched as crows feet and laugh lines flashed across his features, lining his face handsomely. He was flanked by Marie, Milo, and another doctor in maroon scrubs. 

“It is good to see you awake and talking.” The chief said as he crossed the room, extending his hand to shake yours. “I am Dr. Solaire, but please, call me William. I performed your abdominal surgery late last night.” 

“Thanks for that.” You shook his hand, fucking freezing, and motioned towards your stomach. “Can I survey the damage? What’s the prognosis?” 

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” William snagged a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall and moved your bedsheets. Marie helped to move your gown aside, revealing a large patch of gauze that covered your entire stomach. “The initial puncture wound was not difficult to repair. Your attacker missed any major organs. It was merely a flesh wound. In time, it should leave minimal scarring both internally and externally.” You winced as the gauze was pulled back from your battered skin, and cast your eyes up to the fluorescent lights on the ceiling at the last moment. Milo’s hand slipped into yours, squeezing tight. Marie stifled a cry. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, muffled behind her hand. “I see stuff like this all the time, I shouldn’t…”

“It’s alright.” William reassured. “It is different when it’s the people we love.” 

Slowly, your heart in your throat, you glanced down at your stomach. 

You expected it to be Quinn’s name. That was what you were imagining, or at least a bunch of Q’s. That’s what he had carved into Ben’s chest, tattooed onto Trouble’s fucking face. But when you put your mind to it, this made more sense. This would certainly torture them more, which was his real goal at the end of the day. He had told you it was their mark, after all. 

In blocky, large letters, cutting from one side of your stomach to the other, Quinn had carved Tanker’s name– their real name– into you. 

You swallowed harshly. The cuts weren’t even stitched, left open and exposed. 

“The knife was dull,” the other doctor spoke up from his perch across the room, “and so the cuts are more akin to tears. The skin is uneven and ragged, notoriously difficult to stitch. The intention was to create as much scar tissue as possible.” 

“My colleague,” William waved his hand, “also Dr. Solaire.” 

“Family affair.” Your voice was absent of any joke. “I can handle a few scars.” You tried to sound certain, but your voice wavered slightly. Marie’s hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing it tightly. 

“You won’t have to.” The other Dr. Solaire said. He glanced at your stomach with that same look in his eyes that you and Colm got. Teeth around the problem, it seemed. “Not if you choose to follow my course of treatment.” 

“What would that entail?” You asked softly. Truly, you weren’t interested in any sort of experimental therapies or skin treatments. If you were going to scar, you would scar. Quinn had seemed to perfect the art of it, of carving his mark into people. You were no expert on scar tissue, but you had plenty of it scattered around. What was a bit more? 

“Two surgeries.” Dr. Solaire said. “And three pigment laser treatments. Including healing time, between a year and a year and a half of your life.” 

“That’s a lot of life.” You said. “And a lot of time for you to spend playing around in my guts.” 

“Please,” William said softly, “let Dr. Solaire walk you through the process. He is an expert on scar tissue.” You met his grey eyes steadily for a moment before nodding. 

“We would wait for the cuts to heal on their own, supported by suture glue and very careful attention.” Solaire bent to examine the cuts a bit closer before rising again. “Once the scar tissue sets, we could begin to work it out via surgery. I would split it into two separate surgeries, working from left to right. That way, you’d only be healing half of your stomach at a time. It is a very mobile area. We want to limit reopening as much as possible. Once we’ve removed the scar tissue, I’ll refer you to a pigmentation specialist who will focus on the changes of skin tone. The end result could, unless under very careful inspection, make your stomach appear completely normal.” 

You sighed softly. 

“That’s a lot of work.” You said. “Lot of time and surgery for a few cuts.” 

“Sweetheart…” Milo whispered. His dark eyes were brimmed with something heavy. 

“It’s worth it.” Dr. Solaire said. His accent, clipped and prim, rang in your ears. “The scarring will limit your movement. It’ll likely get worse and more painful over time. And besides all of the medical reasons, it’s just not fair, is it? Some bastard with a knife shouldn’t get to mark you up for life.” 

You blinked up at him. You were so tired. 

“There’s no reason to decide now.” William said amicably. He began to replace the gauze, taping it lightly over your stomach before realigning your gown and tucking in your blankets to boot. “You should rest, recover, talk it over with your family. It is your treatment, my dear. It will be here when you’re ready.” 

David arrived as the sun rose. You ran him through the attack again, beat by beat, detail by detail. His face went pale and slack when you peeled back your gauze to show him the cuts. 

“You can’t tell them.” You said softly. “I mean it. This will destroy them.” 

“How am I supposed to keep this from them?” He hissed. He turned away, pressed his face into his hands. You tapped the gauze back down. 

“If you tell them he carved their name into me, they’ll run right back to him.” You said. “You’ll give him exactly what he wants.” 

“He tried to kill you.” 

“No.” You shook your head. “He didn’t.” You’d had a few hours to think it through, and you were sure. “If he wanted to kill me, he could have done it in a second flat. My back was to him, David, he…” you swallowed, cutting that line of thinking off. “But he chose to stab me in my abdomen, by some miracle missing any of the number of internal organs he could have hit that would have killed me before the ambulance got there.” David’s face twisted, like the train of thought was making him sick. “He needed me alive to pass on his message. This wasn’t murder, David, it was surgery.” 

“He said next time, it would be.” David snapped. When he turned, you expected anger on his features. Instead, you were met with stark, plain terror. “Next time, he’ll kill you. Or me. Or-” his voice failed him. You reached a hand out to him, and he took it, big hand surrounding yours in heat. Everything hurt. You were so tired. David’s fear was heavy in your hands. You held on anyway. 

“I’m gonna catch him.” You spoke that solemn promise into the quiet of your hospital room. “I’m gonna put him away.” 

David didn’t say anything else. He held on until MIlo came back from the cafeteria, bearing food you couldn’t eat and coffee you couldn’t drink. The three of you talked, joked like you were on a double date and not in a fucking hospital room. David fell asleep, back bent awkwardly in a stiff, hospital arm chair. 

“He’s running himself into the ground.” You sighed as his breathing evened out. Milo hummed, perched at the foot of your bed, eyes flicking over David. “You’re pissed at me.” 

You’d known since before you’d even properly woken up, but this was the first time the two of you had been even halfway alone. 

Milo was quiet for a really long time. 

“Sometimes I wish…” he paused, as though he were choosing his words carefully, “I wish, when you needed help, you would run to me.” 

“I’m sorry.” You said. You didn’t know what else you could say. 

“I know.” Milo replied. He didn’t look relieved or resolved. “I know you are.”

[barbwritesstuff]

Hello there, I'm so excited for Of Monsters and Mainframes!

I used to write novels and short stories but have been almost entirely focusing on games for about the last 10 years... and now I'm kind of curious about trying out linear writing again. Do you have any recommendations for novel-writing craft books or other resources? And what's it been like swapping between the two ways of writing?

And I'm really happy to see how Thicker Than is going!

I have been on the hunt for a good nuts-and-bolts creative writing craft book. I pulled apart a bookshelf at a poor lady's bookshop last weekend trying to find one. The problem I'm having is almost all creative writing books are aimed towards people who are just getting started, and while that's amazing, it's not very helpful for me.

I started writing when I was 9ish and have had a long and messy journey as a writer since. I was that teenager writing self insert fantasies. I wrote escapist fanfic while struggling through university. I entered short fiction contests and never quite placed. I sold a short film script I wrote for one dollar. I tried to write popular fiction when everyone said self publishing was the way to go and discovered that was 100% not for me.

In 2018 I wrote my debut novel which I've since pulled and in 2020 I started writing my debut interactive novel which was my first real success.

My writing career isn't one of those 'young creative gets catapulted to success' stories. I sucked for a very long time. I floundered. I fucked up.

But I'm a persistent wee bitch, and I think that counts for a lot in this industry. You just gotta keep trying, keep getting better, and keep picking yourself up.

Now I'm in a place where I've had some (I think) successful stories. Blood Moon. Thicker Than. Of Monsters and Mainframes. My short fiction. I'm hoping to keep that momentum going, to keep that ball rolling, and I'm looking for craft books for people like me and I'm not finding very much.

So, I think what I need to do is make friends with writers who are in similar situations I am.

So... hi.

Wanna be friends?

I know I talk about cannibalism a lot, but I'm actually a really normal and nice person.

Oh, and, to answer your question: 'What's it been like swapping between the two ways of writing?' It's weird. There's the nuts and bolts stuff. I write my interactive stories in second person present tense and the current story I'm writing is in first person past tense. But there's also a different energy to a linear story I can't really explain. Neither better nor worse, just different. That said, my interactive fiction has 100% informed my linear style and my linear style has also informed my interactive style. They bleed together a lot more than you might expect.

I hope that helps.

💙

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 2 - A bit of a bad boy

It's no coincidence Cruel Summer came out that year...

or - ✨ Austria 2019.✨

word count: reasonable warning: hard racing

Two entire races go by before he gets so much as a glance from Charles. In both of those, Charles ends up ahead of Max. It feels like getting personally kicked in the balls. Max plays the PR game the best to his abilities and self-control, but behind the scenes, it's a total mayhem. Anyone who questions him about anything receives a snapshot answer. He hands out sarcastic comments like Halloween candy. The only time he laughs is when he beats Daniel in their little video game nights.

The first week, Max loses all remaining inhibitions and keeps blasting Charles' phone up with calls and texts. Unhinged amount of advances, jokes and random questions. No reaction.

The second week, he goes radio silent and tries to get hold of Charles around the paddock. He never goes looking for other drivers after the race, especially when they get to stand on the podium and he doesn't. As always, restraint regarding Charles never comes as easily. However, the Monegasque is always two steps ahead of him.

Alas, finally, they end up next to each other in a post-qualifying media pen in Spielberg. Max is not subtle about trying to catch Charles' eye. For a brief moment, he does. It turns his stomach over immediately. Max searches Charles’ face like it holds an answer, some kind of hidden message buried beneath the surface, but there’s nothing. Not a flicker of hesitation, no softness, no ghost of the Charles he used to know. They used to share a look that would say it all. No trace of that now.

His expression is cool, unbothered, a perfect mask of professionalism. The same way he looks at a journalist asking a pointless question, or a sponsor he doesn’t particularly care about. Detached. Uninterested.

Max wants to do anything else than be swamped by useless questions now. Not when he's eating crumbs in the form of overhearing Charles' voice. He has to force himself to even look at the journalist standing in front of him, let alone take in what she has to say. Charles, on the other, does not seem to share this problem. His voice is passionate, excited and his words land like a punch in the face. Max can't see it, but since he'd studied Charles from every angle possible, to be able to picture his smile clearly, just based on the tone. It's the nonchalant, I'm-the-world's-sweetheart smile that always works on everyone. Max is secretly present on social media, he has seen the fan edits of his - well, not boyfriend apparently.

"Charles, you seem to be on a great run of form lately, have you and the team at Ferrari found good rhythm after the unfortunate Monaco Grand Prix?"

Max has heard many things on that topic from the restless Reb Bull strategists. All of them flaunting ideas and theories around, none of them realizing what Max knew. That the magic fuel Charles is running on is spite. He asks the journalist in front of him to repeat the question, while he focuses on Charles' answer.

"Ah, you know how it is...The start of the season has been challenging. Changing teams, new environment...All of this takes time to process. But, I am stronger than ever. I've cut away all unnecessary distractions keeping me from being locked in on the target and pulling me to the wrong direction. With the amazing team I have - I am finally recognizing myself in the mirror after few strange months."

Charles must know that he can hear every word coming out of his mouth. Max's blood boils and freezes at the same time. He doesn’t react. Giving away anything more seems like a direct pathway to hell.

He stands there, nodding absently to whatever the journalist in front of him is saying, his mind busy with reading in between the lines, Charles' words echoing through the media pen like a fucking death sentence.

Distraction. That’s all he's reduced him to. His heart beats like it's about to go to a fight. The realization settles in his stomach, cold and heavy. He tilts his head slightly, just enough to catch Charles in his peripheral vision.

He’s still talking, crafting the perfect story. His posture is easy, he's leaning closer to the reporter than one probably should, his voice is smooth and warm. It has the word likable written all over it.

It's hardly a surprise that the reporters eat up every single sentence he says, playing up to be the golden boy everyone wants him to be.

And maybe he is. Charles keeps getting better and better at this - playing the part, giving people what they want. He’s charming and sharp, smart enough to be a goddamn PR dream but ruthless enough to keep them all at arm’s length. Except he wasn’t like that with Max.

No. With Max, he was real. Unfiltered. Messy. The kind of Charles who picked fights just to feel something, who grabbed Max’s face like he couldn’t breathe without kissing him, who pressed his forehead against his in the middle of the night and whispered things he could never say in the daylight. The kind of person who acted on what his heart desired, instead of what reason demanded. That's not the Charles standing next to him.

Something inside Max cracks. It doesn’t come in a rush - it settles, careful and slow, a icy coldness spreading through his chest.

Fine.

If Charles wants to erase him, to pretend he was just a mistake, Max will make him remember. Not with words. Not with apologies or late-night texts, stupid fucking phone calls or dangerous public driving.

Tomorrow, on track - where it’s just the two of them, where he can't pretend or avoid him endlessly. Charles will feel exactly what happens when you try to push Max Verstappen away. If he wants to pretend Max was just a distraction, Max will remind him that distractions don’t just disappear into thin air.

"It's great to be on pole, but points are tomorrow. But of course, the idea of a first win is something you can't not get exited about," he hears the last part of yet another one of Charles' speeches and this time he smiles. Time to prove everyone wrong. Make the damn strategists happy for once again.

//

It's hell. Pure, unfiltered hell. Charles arrives in Maranello in a state of a complete breakdown. He was running on some sort of manic fuel the whole Monaco drive. All was somehow bearable - until Max stopped chasing behind him. The absence of his headlights in rear-view mirror worked like a bomb detonator. He is a crying, miserable mess the whole drive. One time he has to stop over, because his breath gets stuck in the lungs and it sets his head into a dizzy spin. He collapses onto his bed in the small Maranello safe house and spends the night fighting terrifying nightmares.

After losing the next day by being glued to his phone, waiting for Max to call for one more time, he decides he can't take that anymore. He missed his chances. Ran away, fucked up everything and tired Max out. He knows him - if he stopped calling, he stopped caring. Charles can't bare himself to get to be the one to make the desperate move, especially after he let so blatantly known that he's totally under Max's spell. He cried in front of him. Nearly begged - but who knows, the whole conversation is becoming a blur, like an old tape wearing thin from being rewound too many times, the sound glitching, words distorting until they barely make sense anymore. So, the first evening after the fight, he blocks Max's phone number. This way, he can still hope that he is trying to reach him and he does not have to stare the unbearable truth in the face. That Max does not, in fact, call anymore.

He completely drowns himself in work. His trainer has to remind him to eat, even though the thought of food makes him sick. He's floating around, allows the team to handle him about and keeps his focus on racing exclusively. Because, that is the only means of communication with Max he's got left. On track, nothing changed. They still cruise around each other, expertly read each other's moves and for once, it all works out in Charles' favor.

The irony of him finally getting a grip on racing when he feels like he'd rather jump under the car instead is not lost on him.

The first step into the paddock after their fight feels heavier than it should. No matter how much he tries to shake it, there’s still a glimmer of hope that he and Max can fix this. But hope, in all its twisted absurdity, only makes him avoid Max more. Because, if this is suppose to be the end, he wants prolong this uncertain period as much as he can. His own misery is becoming the only thing he has left from Max and if that is the truth, he will cling on it. It's him and Max. Any reminder of that is better than nothing.

Red Bull ring. Half of the grandstand is covered in eye-searing orange, the other in signature deep blue that keeps haunting him. They are all waiting for him to fail. He can't. If he has to suffer, because of his feeling towards the Dutch driver, so should everyone else. No matter how mellowed down their devotion to Max might be compared to his own.

It's scorching hot. As is should be in hell anyway. Charles is sitting in his car, front row providing a clear view to the task ahead. Beat Max on track. It's like he can't see any other of the remaining eighteen cars. Lights out and away we go. The all familiar noise of roaring engines makes his ears hurt. His reaction is perfect, almost divine. He launches forward, sliding through the first turn like a man possessed, and when he glances at his mirrors, Max is gone. Buried in the chaos behind him, swallowed by his own mistakes. A chuckle bubbles up in Charles’ throat, raw and breathless, nearly manic again. This is what he wants. Him being able to prove that he is sharper, better and faster when giving as similar chance as Max. Not only that. To himself, and in extension Max too, he needs to prove that he can exist without Max fucking Verstappen.

He flies away, leaving the rest of pack behind. It's only in lap two where he figures out that Max fell five places down. There is a momentary wave of sorrow, one intrusive idea about Charles wanting to be the only to beat him, regretting that other drivers are doing so too. But they're both on their own. Max would never share this sentiment towards him. Whatever Charles is doing must be working, because it looks like he got into Verstappen's head. He's slowly extending the lead, keeping Bottas in a safe distance, far enough no DRS.

Ten and few more laps later, he notices Max working way up the field quite effectively. He keeps calm, because with every car Max passes, Charles makes up a second on Bottas.

Max's got the fastest lap now. Charles is managing tires, bracing for the future. Pit stop - the one thing he truly fears - gone right. He's in a completely calm and periodic rhythm, none of the cars providing a real challenge. He prays to the gods of racing for no mechanical failure this time. Destiny owes his at least that. Give him the right tools, he won't ask for help when all it lies on is his own abilities. He's making his way through the traffic, lapping cars and occasionally looking behind his back at Verstappen fighting Bottas. And after few more laps of this routine - Max is the first car on his tail. Charles expected nothing less. He digs into everything he has - not only in him, but in the car as well. The whole race was just a prep for this moment. Barely four seconds. Max is faster, a fact his dearest fucking engineer feels the need to point out, as if he couldn’t see it himself. But quick math tells Charles he should survive this. 3,8. 3,6. For Charles, there really is no other car on the track than Max's. The others are just annoying little gravel stones, hitting his visor and robbing Charles of clean air. A half of a second is lost only by having to cruise between them. He tries his best to stay cool. One final wish goes towards his tires.

He gives it all. Five final laps and the gap is dangerously close to one second. He spends what feels like two years stuck between Pierre, who's suppose to let him through and Max who is closing in on him. Two Red Bulls. Please, Pierre. This is the first time Charles regrets not telling his friend about the love affair. He knows Pierre is instructed to make it as hard as possible for Charles to get through while keeping it all legal.

"Verstappen behind, one second."

"Leave me alone."

And then - it's on.

It's like he can feel Max breathing down his neck. The DRS is inevitable. Max is inevitable. Charles defends for his life. He forces him to have to go around the outside, off the racing line. Turn 4 is the Achilles heel and Charles survives the first time they pass it through.

But he knows Max. Understands the way he moves, instinct in perfect symphony with logic, calculating every weakness...No stone left untouched. Why should Charles be the exception. He remembers the way he looked at Charles the first time they kissed - half a dare, half a warning. It's the way he uses his touch - firm, yet gentle - to bend Charles into whatever shape he wants. 

On the next lap, Charles watches his mirrors, waits for the lunge. This time Max doesn’t go for the outside. No, this time, he comes from inside, slicing through the turn with an aggression Charles thought he was ready for. It’s all so quick, just like their fallout. 

The wheels are millimeters apart. Charles tries to force him wide, but Max refuses to back off. Of course he does. Max has never learned when to let go. Never knows when to stop taking.

And then, it comes again.

Max is right there, alongside him, closer this time, pushing, forcing. Charles grips the wheel tighter, body locked in, blood roaring in his ears. He doesn’t lift. He doesn’t yield. Max doesn’t either.

A nudge. A shove. Space shrinking into nothing. Everything slows.

He’s back at the Monaco apartment, late at night, Max’s voice low against his neck. “If I have to take a win from you, will you ever kiss me again?” Charles had laughed, breathless. “You already take everything from me.”

Charles barely registers the moment his tires leave the track, but he feels it. The smudge of gravel beneath him, the split-second loss of control, the sheer force of what Max has done.

Max’s fingers curled around his wrist in a hotel hallway, yanking him back to the room before they could be seen, grinning like it was a game. "You can’t get enough of me," Charles had scoffed. "Give me all you have, Charlie," Max hummed in between kisses.

The back of Max’s neck in the early morning, hair still damp from post sex shower, heartbeat steady under Charles’ hand. "Would you ever crash into me?" Max had asked once, drowsy, barely awake. Charles had said no. Max had never answered.

The car snaps back into control just before he spins. Charles feels it all in his arms, his whole body resisting the centrifugal pull. No. It takes him half a second to realize what just happened. The next half is spent knowing, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t fucking legal. Max robbed him. They have to make him give the place back.  Charles grips the wheel so hard it might break, breath coming short and sharp. His visor feels suffocating, the heat pressing in from all sides. He should have known. Should have known Max would take everything.

He genuinely can't remember the rest of the race.

Just like that, it's over, he's getting out of the car and his own disbelief is preventing from believing any of this is real. His mind stayed back somewhere around Turn 4 and he's having something he thinks others describe as out of body experience. He understands there are words coming out of his mouth, but no one is in control of them. They roll of automatically and he's only aware that most of them are about the stewards having to have a look at the move.

He is painfully aware of the cameras in the cooldown room. That is the only thing grounding him and not flying into a shout festival with Max. The words he has reserved for this man are intended for him and his ears only. Survival mode kicks in and he tries to ignore him as much as he can.

He'd prefer getting punched instead of having to stand on this podium. Any attempt from people trying to congratulate is met with a face one does not forget. Max's smile is impossible to ignore, bright and shamelessly arrogant, the kind of grin that demands to be seen. Mercilessly cuts through like a knife.

Charles sees the way Max points at the Honda logo on his race suit, exaggerating the motion, playing up the moment. A distant memory flickers in. Charles remembers when Max came home one day, irritated after yet another Red Bull PR lecture about mentioning Honda at every possible opportunity. Max had rolled his eyes, complaining about contractual obligations, flapped himself on the couch and refused to talk. So, Charles came up with a game, with hopes of turning the mood around. Say it so much they beg you to stop. He still remembers Max’s mischievous smirk, the way they looked at each other every time he did that. Now? It feels like Max deliberately twisting the knife he shoved into Charles' guts. As if Charles isn't standing right there, watching it all, bleeding out behind a forced expression. Max took it all. No one would be mad or surprised if he hadn't won today. It means he did all of this on purpose. Inflict as much as he possibly can. Something he appears to be very good at.

Someone puts the dreaded Dutch anthem on and every note drags on and on.  Charles stares to the deep hills, avoiding the crowd below. His nails pressing so hard his racing suit he’s surprised there isn’t blood between his fingers. This is the sound he will die to. The tune that will crawl inside his skull, rot there, and play on an endless loop. If there’s a god waiting for him at the end of it all, this is what they'll hum as the gates get shut in his face.

Max is right there, right fucking there, barely an arm’s length away, standing taller, chest out, sweat still clinging to his skin like it’s something to be proud of. Charles doesn’t dare look at him. Doesn’t trust himself not to flinch, not to break. The heat between them is unbearable, suffocating, a reminder that not long ago, Max had pressed against him in a different way. The hand he now had to avoid from accidentally brushing against is the same one that used to grip Charles like he was something for Max to own.

He knows Max doesn’t even think about that. Not now. Not while he stands here, grinning like he was made for this moment, swimming in the praise from crowd that loves him, while Charles stands frozen beside him, barely holding himself together.

The anthem swells, the final few notes longing out like they’re mocking him, and Charles forces himself to swallow, forces the bile back down his throat. He knows it's over. Deep down inside, he stopped hoping for stewards standing by him.  Another mistake and he looks down the crowd. Roars of people suffocating him, stealing the air directly from his lungs and among all of those, one face stands out. Everyone is looking at Max, apart from this person, who's unmistakable smirk reminds him so scarily of the smirk he used to love. Jos Vestappen is unashamedly staring down at him, even though he's several meters below him. For the first time, he sees the resemblance between Max and his father.

He calls himself stupid about fifty times. The door for Max would not have opened if he hadn’t allowed it. He got burned once. It can’t happen again. Things have to change. He has to change.  The champagne tastes like a spoilt milk, Charles does everything in his power to get out of the podium stand as quickly as possible. He will go on to the stewards with his team, even though he knows the battle is lost. If there is one thing he is grateful for, it's the crying Honda spokesman, that wiggles in between him and Max for the final photo. Charles is spared of the final blow - feeling Max's cruel hands on his back again.

//

The come down of emotions is quick. He did it. Snatched Charles' first victory right from his hands. Celebrated so loudly, encircled Charles so efficiently he was sure he must be getting claustrophobic. Killer instinct called upon him and he gave in completely. Charles can't rely on ignoring him. He won't go away without a fight, without destroying him. Max is hardly a sappy dreamer, but all of today feels like it was written long time ago and he was just following the script. Charles is sitting by his right side during the press conference - exactly where he belongs. There is an evil joy Max feels from having him so close during his first win of this season. Charles has no choice but to endure every second of it. Weeks of silence, of trying to erase Max from his life, and yet, here they are. No matter how hard he tries, he can't escape him.

The questions roll in. "How does this win compare to the ones he's had before?" Oh, he has many words he can't say out loud. The reported receives some basic technical summary, but what he really wants to say - scream, shout to the world - is that this win feels sweeter than any candy, he's reclaiming his strenght back and Charles can try as much as he can, but Max proved today that he won't back down.

"When did you start to think the win was possible today?" Easy. Once the door shut behind Charles when he ran away. When his smug smile started to haunt Max in every waking moment. When he heard the words, his former lover, calling him a mere distraction.

Next question is aimed at Charles. General, basic, nothing out of the order. He steals one glance. A thunder of a feeling he can't name properly shoots through him. His bloodshot eyes, purple lips and hands with practically no nails left on them scream the truth louder than anything else. It's the moment Charles finally speaks, his words rolling out of his tongue when Max's heart stops. It is probably unrecognizable for the crowd of journalist in front of them, but he knows this tone. It's the utterly broken one. His words make sense, it's composed and measured, but the accent creeps in and gives away all. Just like it did whenever Charles felt unsure about their love affair. His voice is soft, too soft for a post-race fatigue. Max has to put his head down, to hide behind his cap for a moment. He hears Charles gulp and surprisingly it's that what breaks Max. Numbness descends over him. Next question is aimed at Valtteri and for once, he's glad.

Max sinks in. He tries to stop the guilt from drowning him. For once, this is a battle he can't win. The darkest worry Max always had about himself is that he it too ruthless. Can't see the line until he's way past by. Cruel, calculating monster, that will destroy anything or anyone standing in his way. Suddenly, he find himself regretting it all. His move was over the top, but he can't admit that now. This wasn't racing anymore, this personal vendetta, childish anger spree, because Max can't have what he truly wants. Maybe it's sadly better this way. By forcing Charles to hating him, he will make sure he stays far away from him. Max knows he'd crumble apart, had Charles given him any inclination that he wants him back. That man could probably ask for anything and he'd give it to him. Max is not strong enough to resist Charles. He's also just proven how much of a selfish dick he can be when things don't go this way. The reality of him coming to the conclusion, that Charles hating him instead of loving him might be safer and better option for the Ferrari driver is a hard pill to swallow. Max had spent years perfecting the art of fighting for every inch, of clawing his way to the top no matter the cost. And now, sitting here, drowning in his own victory, he wonders if the cost this time was too high. Max knows his actions today bought him all the time in the world to wallow around this idea. Because, it's obvious Charles can't stand him anymore. He finally sees Max for what he is. His father's son.

Another question, particularly snarky one comes at him and Charles together and something inside Max takes over. He's saying words, explaining the nature of his specific overtake and it takes him everything he has to prevent his voice from shaking. He ends up defending himself again, but the doubts flood his consciousness. Charles finally throws in a sarcastic comment, calling the move illegal, and something ugly inside Max likes it. If Charles has to hate him, let it be like this - spiteful, angry, not distant and indifferent. At least anger means he still cares, even if it’s in the worst way possible.

He will forever admire Charles for being able to sit through this, so strong and still.

We never gave up, he hears himself saying. His only hope is that Charles won't give up too.

"Charles, do you feel like this one has been stolen from you?" Yes. Obviously. Once again, Max questions the sanity of everyone in the room. Another punchy note about the legality of the overtake and Max revels in it.

"Will you stop being the polite driver you are?" Is this the first time people watched Charles racing? A polite driver? The menace that would rather have them crash into the barrier than get overtaken? The driver Max had to pull out his dirtiest trick only to get a chance on getting in front of him?

"On track I'm a bit of a different person than in the car." Max has never disagreed with something more in his life.

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

[universalloagodesss]

Why manifesting should be easy for you and how it ties into shifting

First and foremost shifting and manifesting are the same exact thing. I know some people say that they are totally different, and when you look at them separately they do seem that way, but they are the same, and here’s why.

When you shift you are changing everything completely at one time, as we all know. And when you manifest you are normally just changing something smaller and staying in your same environment.

Although your manifesting for a certain thing you are still shifting because you have to shift your awareness to a reality that’s the same but you have that manifestation. Not to mention we shift realities more times in the day than we can count, just by reading this you shifted, it is inevitable.

So how does this make manifesting easy? Well since we are shifting all the time we are also constantly manifesting, even if we don’t realize it. Which is why it’s easy, and why making the decision now is so important. Just by making a decision that you have what you want, you shifted to that reality, and it’s also why they say to persist, don’t go back and forth from not having it. Once you say you have it then you do.

It’s the constant ifs and but’s that hold you back which can be replaced by saying, “It is done” that simple phrase will change everything, because it pushes the doubt out of your mind. And after doing that so many times it becomes routine like everything else, and next thing you know you have your desire.

Manifesting and shifting is lazy coded all the way and no one can convince me otherwise.

Those who need more visual let me give an example.

Lucy is wanting to manifest a dog. So she decides what dog she wants, the works and then she accepts that she has it, “Since I shift all the time I just shifted to where I have it” She sits around some and then when she sees that her 3D hasn’t changed she begins to doubt but then she reminds herself, what she sees right now is not the truth what’s inside her mind is the truth and she says, “It is done” she repeats this process until one day she wakes up or is sitting there and she sees that her 3D has changed to her beliefs.

It is really that simple, again if you need more help just ask me, message me, or put it in my inbox will gladly answer your question, and if it’s the same and I’ve already answered it, I’ll give you the post but everyone is different and sometimes needs a different explanation than someone else.

[omgkalyppso]

9, 18! (from @bladesandbhaalspawn)

Thank you for the ask! ヾ(•ω•`)o

9. What did they do for work/to get by?

I'm so embarrassed that I didn't give Étoile a "day job," but every d&d setting I've ever played has had an Adventurer's Guild, and having made their mother my Skyrim Dragonborn oc, it felt fine at the time to make Étoile's profession "Adventurer."

I imagine a lot of work obtained from the Adventurer's Guild can look like mercenary work, such as protecting scholars as they research something dangerous or travel from place to place, or being hired to drive a cult out of a particular land, or collect so many vials of gelatinous cube, etc. But that being a part of the Adventurer's Guild means swearing off taking additional mercenary work or a promise to direct potential employers into going through the AG so that you're not hired in competition to your fellow guild members by those bandits, that cult, etc.

I think Adventurers are largely paid well / are more likely than the average person to come across rare and magical artifacts and other items that can be sold to stay afloat, but on the occasion that this income needed to be supplemented that Étoile wouldn't be opposed to odd jobs; painting a house, fixing a wall, helping someone move from one place to the next, dock-work, and they aren't a doctor but a few applications of Lay On Hands has to be worth something.

18. What did they want to be when they were younger?

I don't think there was something they wanted to be so much as there were things they wanted to see! They wanted to see the world! They wanted to feel prepared to leave their little home on their mountain and see what lay at the bottom of it, and beyond; to see how people lived across the Sea of Stars, etc.

They wanted to be respected, like they imagined (or perceived) their mother Wylla to be. Whether she's just coincidentally respected in Étoile's presence because the only people who they meet in her company are members of her werewolf pact and paladin order, and community members who have benefited from her actions directly, or because she was actually a respectable woman, her reputation would have stood out more to a young Étoile who felt like an assistant or apprentice to their mothers' works.

Étoile definitely had a period where they worried they'd falter and spend the entirety of their life in Aranea's temple to Auril / Azura, or that in Wylla's absence that Aranea would force them to stay, but Wylla trained them to be a paladin and Aranea nurtured their faith to ensure that when they felt othered because of it or their upbringing that they'd still be able to continue on and pursue those other desires of wanderlust.

It wasn't really until the illithid parasite that they went through anything traumatic enough that made them homesick.

[unpretty]

my plan for next year is to put a star sticker on every day that i don't buy anything, in the hopes that this will encourage me to no longer run to the store for a single missing ingredient and then buy some treats as long as i'm there to make the trip worth it

[hulloitsdani]

What do u think Kiran is

How do u think the order sees kiran

*slowly sits up in my chair*

I think Kiran is a very normal person. This is someone you and I have met before. Be that from the other side of grocery store cashier, waiting in the same elevator, or walking by on a crosswalk. Kiran is a civilian from our world trying to roll with the punches of being warped somewhere completely alien. And you can see it in how they conduct themselves.

I always have a lot of fun writing Kiran’s dialogue because their casual modern speech almost feels like a dialect in comparison to the more formal fantasy tone everyone else speaks with. An “ain’t” will never exit Alfonse’s mouth, you know? And there’s a difference in “Do you have gold?” vs “You got gold?” To me, this gives Kiran an air of unfamiliarity to anyone they interact with. Let’s use Grima as an example, because it doesn’t sound like this grammatical change would make much of difference until Kiran has the audacity to hit Grima with a bro mid sentence. But that’s just how they talk. And as sweet and friendly as they are, there’s always moments like that to remind that no one has the cultural context to fully understand Kiran. Except for the audience, who can realize that Kiran let the customer service voice drop to talk to Grima like he’s an actual person.

And that’s just about how they talk! This view is only emphasized by every other thing about them! They’re a lovable goof, which is normal chill person behavior in the audience’s eyes but feels REALLY ODD to the characters of FE’s medieval fantasy war setting. There is this air of unknown about them that the more socially perceptive will pick up on and will try to come to a conclusion about. Example, I imagine Soren would interpret a lot of this as a dangerous and deeply annoying lack of intelligence from someone he has the displeasure of sharing a tactics table with. Or looping back to the Grima example, he would totally think Kiran has greedy ulterior motives behind that pleasant facade. It takes a lot of work for those types to realize that the discrepancy present isn’t really any of those things. But I also wouldn’t be too surprised if Kiran doesn’t try to directly prove any of those assumptions wrong unless they have to.

Why? Well now it’s time for the implications! Oh how we love the implications.

Because the Summoner is a different story. No one has any fucking clue what that is.

I can tell you what Kiran has pieced together so far. Summoning people from across time and space is apparently not easy. It’s not some school of magical study that some mage could pull off with enough time and research. Trust, Eitri tried. It’s a lot of complex moving parts. For example, the contracts. The contracts Kiran automatically binds their summoned to don’t even compare to the ones Veronica used in book 1. They are far more intense and infinitely harder to break. The only way out of them is if Kiran wills it so. Not even death is an option, because Kiran can come in for the revive. If they had to guess, it’s an older, more completed version of the art. Something lost to time. But no matter the case, Kiran has the ability to take full control of whoever they manage to summon. From a lowly farmer to the divine. And their power only grows.

In a similar vein, if there was any character to canonically see the hud, I think it would be Kiran. It’s genuinely part of their power set. I have previously described Kiran as the party mage until Veronica shows up to be the actual mage, but it would be way more accurate to call them a mystic/seer. They see the map, everyone’s stats, and is doing a fast amount of math to give the combat forecast. Then, upon processing all this information their enemies couldn’t dream of having at their disposal, Kiran can telepathically communicate any change in plans to anyone under contract. Kiran is not inherently some great tactician the moment they touch ground in Askr; they simply can do things no one else can. They’re learning the actual tactics part on the fly. This makes them simultaneously the largest ace up the Order’s sleeve and potentially its biggest liability. If they fall, it could cause a whole system cascade. By that same token, some of the biggest threats the Order has faced are the ones who do their research and rightfully target Kiran.

Now. Thinking critically about all that. That’s downright terrifying. A ridiculous amount of power has been dropped callously into Kiran’s lap and they have to work extremely hard to be moral with it. It’s terrifyingly easy not to be. It would actively take less effort to ‘take the reins’ as it were. But in order to be able to sleep at night ever again, they go the extra mile to not invalidate the will of their summoned. To take over like that. To make a colony of worker bees out of people. Because oh dear god they just summoned a child and the fact that they could easily force them to fight and die for them, only to be revived and do it all over again, is HAUNTING. No. No the Order has an in house orphanage now. This kid is getting adopted and cared for god damnit or Kiran might just pop a blood vessel. And sure that child is going to be a child and there will never be a world where they get along with everyone else, but that’s just going to need be a problem they address when they get there and not an excuse to use Hubris; the power set. Now replace the word child with everyone they ever summoned and you have the wider philosophy they apply to the entire Order.

They’re hyper aware of the power imbalance. They hate it with every bone in their body. They work really hard to correct it in whatever way they can.

So Kiran might not jump on the opportunity to correct those who think lesser of them. It’s… oddly comforting to know someone is keeping a critical eye on them. Holding them accountable. Especially since so much of the order just thinks of them as this quirky yet well meaning host. And, really, what can they even do about that? They have gone over the contract with every hero they summon and despite that they still choose to stay. So, what, do they try to inspire more mistrust? The problem with that they would have to actually do acts that intentionally inspire mistrust. And even if that was successful they can’t just waste the extra man power because every other month there’s some new divine asshole who wants them all dead. And if they fail that means they have to start their life from square one and god they can’t do that again so—

Just breathe Kiran.

It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe.

You have work to do.

[i-havenothingelsetopost]

genuine question, do you like maths?? i have a vague feeling i saw your post of tags or something that said something about it but i cannot figure out if it was in fact you or if it was even positive ahahah

Yeah that was me! I don't go looking for math problems, but when I happen to do them, I tend to enjoy it. Wasn't always this way — elementary school math was about speed and memorization and I hated that — but I had a really good teacher in upper secondary school, and it became about creative problem solving. It feels the same as writing a poem in meter or managing to untangle a really bad knot in a ball of yarn.

[nguyenfinity]

[blasts you with miscellaneous rinky doodles from our heartbeat event]

[thsc-confessions]

"would any of the main thsc cast have fursonas" submitted by anon