#finally got the energy to work on this again

[sixeyesonathiel]

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space. he’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Fifteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, rising tension (not between Amelia and Lando), a lot of Oscar!!!!!

Notes — Bit longer than usual! I wanted to cover 3 races per chapter, but it's not worked out that way. So we're covering Bahrain and pre-Imola. This is going to be a long 2021 season, so... yeah, get ready for a lot of chapters lmao.

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

2021 

Bahrain

Amelia perched at the edge of a padded hospitality seat overlooking the circuit, knees tucked up slightly, elbows resting on them. The sun cast sharp glints off the tarmac as the F2 grid wound their way through the formation lap, engines whining as they lined up. Her gaze didn’t waver, eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, tracking each car with sharp precision.

She’d missed the first sprint race that morning, buried in set-up notes with Max, buried in everything Max in general, really, but she’d made sure to find time for this one. 

Her eyes followed car number 81 as it weaved through the final corner. Oscar. 

She wasn’t quite sure what it was that had snagged her interest after watching her first F3 race with Max, only that it had. And now she was here, legs bouncing with unconcealed energy, eyes fixed on one driver who rose above the sea of talent. 

A shadow cast itself across her legs.

She looked up.

Mark Webber. A polite smile, hands in his pockets like he’d been waiting for her to notice him.

“Do Red Bull usually start sniffing around this early?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “I don’t work for Red Bull anymore.”

Mark’s eyebrows rose a touch. “No?”

“No,” she said. “Just Max.”

He hummed, shifting his weight. “Alright… it’s a personal interest in my Oscar, then?”

She hesitated for a beat. “It’s… I don’t know. He’s very good. Talented.” 

Mark studied her for a long moment. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t playing politics. That was what made her so bloody difficult to read. “Well, whatever you’re seeing,” he said eventually, “he’s locked into Alpine. Long-term. Management contract’s done. They’ve promised him a seat in 2023.”

Amelia didn’t react at first. She simply nodded, eyes back on the track as the lights began to count down. But something flickered behind her expression, something uncertain.

She’d been to the Alpine garage. She knew how things felt there. Knew what Fernando had told her over coffee and biscuits. The uncertain politics. The disorganisation. The fractured attention span of a team trying to be four things at once and pulling in opposite directions. It didn’t sit right.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She just said, “Okay.”

Mark nodded. “Thought you’d want to know.”

She offered him a small nod in return, and then turned her eyes back to the track as the five lights went out. 

Oscar’s launch was perfect.

Of course it was.

— 

Lando was sitting on a low wall just outside the McLaren motorhome, nursing a smoothie and checking scrolling through Instagram when someone stepped into his peripheral vision.

He glanced up to see Mark Webber standing in front of him, arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. “Uh. Hey,” Lando said slowly, slightly weary, wondering if he’d done something to accidentally pissed him off. 

Mark nodded at him once. “Got a question for you.”

Lando blinked. “Okay?”

“Why is your girlfriend obsessed with Oscar?”

Lando stared. “What?” he said eventually, like the words had taken a full second to download.

“Oscar Piastri,” Mark repeated, tilting his head toward the mini F2 paddock. “Your girlfriend. Amelia. She’s been watching him like a hawk all weekend. I thought she might be there on Red Bull’s behalf, but no.” 

Lando blinked again, processing. Then he laughed. “Oh! Oh, Oscar. Yeah.” He nodded, shaking his head with a fond grin. “She’s, like, imprinted on him or something.”

Mark stared. “She’s what.”

“You know. Like a duckling.” Lando made a vague motion with his hand. “It’s harmless. She gets like this sometimes. Sees someone drive well and suddenly she’s emotionally invested in their entire career trajectory.”

Mark looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“She was like that with Nyck for a bit,” Lando added helpfully. “And Latifi for exactly one afternoon, until he missed an easy breaking zone.”

“...Right.” Mark said. 

“Honestly, it’s kind of sweet,” Lando shrugged. “Means she cares. She’s not gonna steal him from you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried,” Mark said, slowly and clearly. “I’m confused.”

“You’ve just gotta learn to roll with it,” Lando grinned, sipping his smoothie again like the conversation was over.

Mark just stood there for a moment longer, processing the oddity of it all, before muttering something under his breath and walking away.

—

iMessage — 1:40pm

Lando Norris Mark Webber is very concerned Am I supposed to be jealous of this Oscar bloke 

The reply came almost instantly.

Amelia He has perfect apex management Do you think if I go and talk to him he’ll let me critique him

Lando Norris PLEASE go and critique the baby driver. I’m sure he’ll love that

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, still grinning. 

Oscar Piastri, whether he knew it or not, had just gained the most intense silent sponsor in all of Formula 1.

— 

Oscar had just unclipped his helmet when he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned, still half in his overalls, hair damp with sweat, and found himself face-to-face with a vaguely familiar woman who was wearing a white skirt, a T-Shirt with a lion and the number 33 on it, and sneakers that looked like they had a smudge of orange marker on the side. She also had a clipboard tucked under one arm, dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and an unreadable expression fixed on her face.

"Uh—hi?" he offered, polite and cautious.

"You're Oscar Piastri," she said, more like a statement than a question.

He blinked. “Yeah…?”

She nodded once, then added, "You braked too late into Turn 4. Could’ve gained three tenths if you’d taken a wider entry and stayed tighter on exit. But your apex work in Sector 3 was perfect."

Oscar stared at her. “I—thanks?”

Amelia tilted her head slightly. “You’re consistent. Calm under pressure. Don’t overcorrect. You keep your steering inputs clean, which is rare for a driver at this level.”

“…Okay.”

“And you’re doing that in a car that under-rotates on entry. That’s even more impressive.”

Oscar looked around as if someone might confirm whether this was real, if anyone else was seeing this happen. “Are you… scouting me or something? My manager—”

“No,” she said flatly. 

“Oh.” He said. There was a pause. “Right,” he said again, more awkward now. “Cool.”

Amelia squinted at him. “Have you spoken to your engineers about your differential settings? You’re losing too much on cold tyres, especially first lap out of the pits.”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck. “I—I guess I could mention that. I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You should.” She told him. 

Another pause. “…Who are you, exactly?” He asked on a wince. 

She smiled at him. “Amelia Brown. I work with Max Verstappen.”

Oscar’s eyes went comically wide. “Oh. Oh. I knew I recognised you.”

She nodded, glanced at her clipboard. “You’re fast.” 

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She shrugged. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off toward the Red Bull garages, clipboard swinging at her side.

Oscar stood there for another full thirty seconds before one of his engineers passed him and said, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just— yeah. Hey, can who should I talk to about my differential settings?” 

— 

Oscar was adjusting the straps of his shoes when someone nudged his elbow.

He looked up and nearly choked on his own spit.

“Hey,” Lando Norris said, all cheeky grin and casual posture. “You Oscar?”

Oscar scrambled to stand properly, knocking into the side of the pit wall in the process. “Yeah! Uh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I’m Oscar. Piastri. You’re—uh. Obviously.”

Lando chuckled. “Relax, mate. Just wanted to say good luck in the feature. Great win yesterday.”

“Thanks,” Oscar managed, ears already starting to go pink. “It’s… really cool to meet you.”

Lando grinned wider. “Appreciate it. My girlfriend’s actually the big fan.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, folding his arms. “She’s a bit obsessed with you.”

Oscar’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Uh… what?”

Lando held back a laugh. “Not like that. Jesus. No, look, Amelia. That’s my girlfriend.” 

Oscar’s brain stalled for a full second. “…Oh. I knew that, I think.”

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Look, she’s mostly with Max on race weekends, but if you spot her lingering around your garage, don’t freak out. She’s just… a bit fixated at the minute. It’ll pass.”

Oscar straightened a little, finally finding his footing. “I’m not freaked out. I mean—it’s kind of nice, actually. Having someone that smart in my corner.”

Lando’s smile softened. “Helpful, ain’t it?”

Oscar nodded.

“Shame she’s Max’s on race weekends,” Lando added dryly, nudging Oscar with his elbow. “But she’s mine the rest of the time, so I win.”

Oscar laughed, a little awkward but genuine. “Tell her thanks for the advice, by the way. Make some adjustments and I’ve already noticed a difference.”

“I will,” Lando said, already turning to leave. “Don’t let her scare you too much.”

“No promises,” Oscar muttered under his breath.

— 

Lando sat on the edge of the halo, half in his car, helmet perched on the shelf behind him. He was tapping one foot, not even aware he was doing it, gaze flicking back and forth between the screens in front of him.

Then he looked up; felt her before he saw her.

Amelia ducked in under the divider flap like she’d done a hundred times. One of the engineers gave her a small nod of hello, and no one moved to stop her. 

Lando stood up automatically.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just reached up, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve of his fireproofs, adjusting the zip at his collar. The kind of quiet, grounding touch that could settle a world spinning too fast.

Then, softly, “I love you. Do well. Be safe.”

He leaned down, and she kissed him; gentle and steady and just long enough to make his knees threaten to go out from under him.

When they pulled apart, Lando’s grin was crooked and dazed. “Love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb across his jaw.

—

The Red Bull garage was settling into that uniquely pre-race stillness; that suspended hum of controlled chaos. Final checks. Monitors flickering. Tyre blankets off. Nothing wasted, not a second nor a movement.

Max sat low in the cockpit of the RB16B, suit zipped, gloves halfway on, helmet resting beside him. His eyes were locked forward, watching but not really seeing the telemetry screen across from him.

GP crouched at his side, tablet balanced against his knee. “Steering feedback still alright after FP3?”

“Yeah,” Max said, barely blinking. “No pull on the straights anymore.”

“Rear end?”

“Still twitchy through ten,” Max replied. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. I’m having to correct.”

GP nodded, tapping the screen. “We can tweak the diff map slightly, smooth it out mid-corner.”

Max didn’t answer immediately, just flexed his fingers inside the glove.

Footsteps approached, steady and unhurried.

Amelia.

She didn’t need to say anything; Max’s head turned the second she appeared at the edge of the garage. She had a MV33 jacket thrown loosely over her shoulders, a data sheet in one hand, iPad in the other. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, sunglasses on her head despite the garage shadows, and ear defenders around her neck. 

“Steering sorted?” she asked, skipping hello.

Max nodded. “Almost. GP’s dialling it in.”

GP gave her a glance over his tablet. “You here to give me more setup notes?”

“No,” she said dryly, flipping her iPad around and showing Max a highlighted map of sector times. “You’re a tenth down in sector two. Get that under control.”

Max took the tablet from her, scanning. “Shit. I can sort that, yeah.”

“I know you can. You shouldn’t be struggling on that part of the track in the first place.”

GP snorted. Max handed it back with a smirk.

Amelia took a step closer, arms folded now, eyes flicking over Max’s face. She tilted her head. “You nervous?”

He looked at her for a moment, like he wanted to say no. Then he just nodded once. “A little.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “Good. You should be. You’re about to start a season-long war with a seven-time world champion.”

GP side-eyed her. “Amelia.” He warned quietly. 

She ignored him, eyes firmly on Max. “Just remember, you have the car. You have the talent. Just put it all together.” 

He glanced up at her then. Her expression hadn’t shifted; calm, focused, familiar. Grounding.

GP looked between them and stood up, giving them space. “I’ll give you two a minute. Don’t let him spiral,” he added, aiming that at Amelia.

“I’m the one who built the spiral,” she muttered.

Max breathed out a quiet laugh.

Then Amelia broke the silence. “I’ll be at pit wall with GP during the race. Nothing else I can do with the car until afterwards anyway. Don’t fuck it up, trust the strategy.”

“I’ll try.”

As she turned to walk out, Max called after her. “Amelia?”

She glanced back.

“If I can’t—”

“You can,” she cut in, with the blunt certainty of someone who refused to consider any other possibility.

Max blinked once. Then nodded. 

GP returned with the headset. “You alright now?”

Max exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah.”

—

The lights went out, and the grid thundered into motion. 

Amelia flinched slightly at the roar. Twenty cars launched toward Turn 1, and already her eyes were scanning; Max on pole, Lando P9. A clean start. Good. Clean was all she could ever ask for.

Max’s start was near-perfect; no wheel-spin, held the lead into the first corner. But Lewis was there. Always there. Breathing down his neck like more of an inevitability than a challenge.

Her stomach flipped.

Lap 5. Max radioed about rear grip. She already knew. She could see it in his lines, a little hesitation through Turn 10, just a touch of overcorrection. She scribbled something on her iPad, handed it off to GP without a word, let him relay the information to Max.

On the screen, she watched Lando pick off Charles. Nice. Brave. She smiled softly.

Lap 13. Bottas boxed. Mercedes going aggressive. Amelia tapped her fingers against her thigh.

Lap 14. “Box, Max. Box now.”

The pit stop was clean. Not the fastest, but smooth. Max rejoined behind Hamilton. The chase began.

Lap 28. She was quiet now, arms crossed. Watching Lewis manage his tyres like some kind of magician, Max clawing back the delta. 

Lap 31. Lando passed Daniel. Amelia’s stomach swooped with pride. Forgotten, he’d worried. As if. 

Lap 38. GP’s voice came in sharp over the comms; “Purple Sector Two, Max. Good job.”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not yet. She was holding her breath now.

Lap 45. Hamilton dove in. The final phase began. Max had the advantage. But not for long.

Lap 53. Two laps to go.

Max took the lead with a stunning overtake around the outside of Turn 4. Amelia’s heart leapt. 

But he ran wide. Track limits. The order came like a whisper, a curse; “Give it back.” 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Fuck,” she whispered.

Lap 56. Final lap. Hamilton led. Max was there, nearly pushing him through every corner, but it wasn’t enough.

The flag waved.

Hamilton won.

Max finished P2.

Lando P4 — a breath away from the podium. 

GP exhaled beside her, already offering reassurances. "It's only round one. We'll get them next time."

She nodded. She believed it. But still.

Still.

— 

Amelia found him on the balcony of their shared hotel room, one leg propped on the low wall, still in a McLaren team hoodie, curls damp from a rushed shower. He looked up when she slid the door open.

“Hey baby,” he said, soft and tired.

Amelia didn’t say anything at first. She just walked over, reached for his hand, and tugged him gently toward her.

He didn’t resist. Just leaned into her, let her wrap her arms around his waist and press her face into his chest.

“P4,” she mumbled.

He laughed quietly. “I know.”

“You were amazing.”

He let out a long breath, arms looping around her back. “Felt good. Car was sharp today. We had more in it, maybe, but... yeah. I’m happy.”

Amelia leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You should be. You outdrove your teammate, held your own against the Ferraris.”

Lando grinned at her. “You gonna make me a trophy?”

She frowned. “No. Why would I do that? You didn’t win.”

He snorted, kissed her forehead. “Yeah. Good thing I’m patient.”

“You are,” she agreed. “That’s why you’re doing so well.”

They stood like that for a moment, wrapped in the hush of midnight Bahrain, the warm breeze brushing past them. Her hand found the edge of his hoodie, fingers sliding underneath to touch warm skin.

“You looked good today,” he said softly. “On the pit wall, working hard.”

She nodded. “I really feel like I’ve found my place there.”

“And Max?” He asked. 

She paused. “He was… good. Disappointed. But he’s focused. It’ll come.”

Lando hummed, then pulled her closer, swaying them gently. “Chances of me winning before he does this year?”

Amelia looked up at him, amused. “Slim to none, unfortunately.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But it’d make you smile, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. And then I’d be crucified for sitting on Max’s pit wall and smiling at another drivers win.” She told him. 

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and sweet. When they finally pulled apart, Amelia cupped his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Completely.”

He brushed his nose against hers. “Cool. So… we celebrating with cake or sex?”

Amelia blinked. “Both?”

Lando laughed, pulling her back inside. “You’re perfect.”

— 

Following the first race of the season, Amelia got sick.

It started slowly, just a scratch in her throat, a little bit more fatigue than usual, but by the second day back in the UK, it hit her like a truck.

Fever. Shakes. Headache. Nausea. The works.

She tried to power through it, of course. She was Amelia. She didn’t do sick days. But when she nearly passed out standing in front of the mirror brushing her teeth, Lando had carried her back to bed, tucked the covers up around her chin, and handed her a glass of water with a stern but incredibly gentle, “You’re not moving for the rest of the day, okay?”

It was awful for her.

And somehow, somehow, it was worse for Lando.

He hovered. Kept her topped up with expensive coffee and water, made a heroic effort in the kitchen (which resulted in some aggressively average tinned soup, but it was warm and made with love), and sat with her on the sofa, leaning back against her, giving her the exact amount of deep pressure that she needed since she felt so out of sorts.

He ran cool cloths over her forehead, whispered soft reassurances when her fever spiked in the middle of the night, and called his mum every few hours for advice on what more he could do to help her feel better. 

Now, on day three, she was finally stable enough to sit upright without swaying. The lights were low, the flat was quiet, and she was curled into Lando’s side on the couch, her face smushed against his bare chest as Pretty Woman played softly on the TV in front of them.

He was scrolling on his phone with one hand and the other was moving up and down her thigh absently. She snuffled a little, still congested and gross, and pushed herself impossibly closer to his warmth. 

Safe. Comfortable. At peace. 

— 

Max showed up mid-afternoon on the Thursday. 

“Did you rob a pharmacy?” Amelia croaked from the couch, her voice still rough with congestion as she blinked blearily over the edge of her blanket.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table with a dramatic thud. “Maybe.”

Inside was everything she could possibly need; throat lozenges, vitamin C gummies, a fresh box of tissues, eucalyptus balm, electrolyte drinks, chocolate buttons (“for morale,” he’d muttered), and even a miniature hot water bottle shaped like a bear.

Amelia stared at it all. “Did the girlfriend that you’re still lying to help you with this?”

“No,” Max said quickly. “Okay yes. But I picked the bear.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he shot back, tugging off his jacket and flopping unceremoniously onto the living room floor. “Now come on. We’ve got work to do.”

That was how they ended up there, Max stretched out on Lando’s living room rug with his laptop open, Amelia curled up under a blanket beside him with tissues stuffed up her sleeve like someone’s grandma, hunched over notes and telemetry data.

They worked in a familiar rhythm; Amelia with her sharp, observant critiques and Max with his quiet nods, letting her voice guide the direction. She sounded like hell, sniffly and hoarse and congested, but her mind was still as razor-sharp as ever, and Max didn’t miss the way she caught every subtle shift in his sector times, every inconsistency in brake response.

“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he muttered, glancing sideways at her.

She shrugged, wiping her nose. “I know.”

They kept at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and the flat was soaked in golden light. Max had just asked about tyre degradation when Amelia stopped responding.

He turned to look, and there she was—head tipped against the arm of the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, tissues still clutched in one hand. Out cold, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed with fever.

Max sighed softly, closing the laptop with a quiet snap. “Stubborn zusje,” he muttered, a fond smile tugging at his mouth as he stood.

The front door clicked open a second later.

Lando stepped in, looking wrecked from a day of intense training, hoodie clinging damply to his shoulders. He paused when he saw Max still there, eyebrows drawing together. “What’s going on?”

Max jerked his chin toward Amelia. “She insisted on coming back to work. I told her she was still sick. She told me she wasn’t. So I drove here instead of dragging her to Milton Keynes.” He gave a small laugh. “She made it three hours. Then passed out mid-sentence.”

Lando dropped his gym bag with a quiet thud and crossed to the couch. He crouched beside Amelia, fingers gently brushing sweat-dampened hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “Jesus. She really doesn’t know how to stop, does she?”

“Her only flaw,” Max said, grabbing his own bag. “Take care of her, yeah? I need her sharp again by Imola.”

Lando adjusted the blanket up around her shoulders, gaze never leaving her face. “Yeah. Of course. Thanks for watching out for her, man.”

Max gave a short, understanding nod and let himself out with a parting, “Later.”

Lando waited a beat, listening to the quiet, before slipping his arms under Amelia’s knees and shoulders. She stirred the moment she was lifted, letting out a tiny groan and curling instinctively into his chest.

“You’re home?” she murmured, voice rough and small.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And now we’re going to bed. Proper bed.”

She hummed, already half-asleep, nuzzling into his neck. “Still feel like shit. But I love you.”

He chuckled, arms tightening around her. “Love you too. Can’t believe you actually wanted to drive to Milton fucking Keynes like this.”

“Would’ve been fine,” she mumbled, stubborn as ever.

And then, right on cue, she dissolved into a coughing fit that tore through her chest and effectively killed her argument.

Lando didn’t even try to hide the grin. “Yeah. Super convincing, babe.”

She sniffled, still curled against him. “Shut up.”

— 

It was sometime past midnight. The lights were low, the sheets tangled around their legs, and the soft hum of the street barely made it through the slightly open window.

Amelia lay on her side, head tucked into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, one arm draped lazily across his stomach. He was warm beneath her, skin soft and comforting, his voice a quiet murmur above her head.

“…and then Jon made me do this set of banded sprints that absolutely murdered my quads,” he was saying, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles along the bare skin of her arm. “Swear I almost fell flat on my face in the gym. And then we had the simulator session, but I kept getting distracted ‘cause the brakes were feeling off, like they were biting too soon.”

She didn’t say anything, just listened, eyelids heavy but not quite ready to let go of the moment. There was something in the way he spoke, like he didn’t even realise how animated his hands got when he was into something. Like he didn’t know his voice softened a little when he said her name, even in passing. Like he didn’t realise how easy it was to love him.

“Baby?” he asked quietly, glancing down when she didn’t answer.

She blinked up at him, smiling sleepily. “I’m listening, Lan. Promise.” 

— 

Imola 

Teams were setting up, media outlets milling around, and the familiar hum of power tools being tested echoed through the paddock. Amelia wandered a little ahead of Lando, distracted by the sight of a familiar dog trotting toward her through the crowd.

“Roscoe!” She grinned, crouching just in time to be enthusiastically tackled by the massive bulldog. His tail thumped against her legs as she scratched behind his ears.

“Hey, kid,” came a low, warm voice from above her.

She looked up, and there was Lewis, hands tucked into his Mercedes jacket, sunglasses perched atop his head, watching her with a soft but unmistakably distant look.

She rose slowly, brushing fur off her trousers. “Hi. I like his new collar. It’s so cute,” she said lightly.

Lewis glanced down at Roscoe, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you.”

There was a moment of quiet, just slightly too long. The smile dropped from Amelia’s face.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

Lewis blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re being weird,” she said flatly.

Lando caught up, hovering behind her. “Baby…” he said gently, tone a soft warning.

She looked back at him, frowning. “He is!”

Lando’s jaw jumped at the slight tremble in her tone, his gaze moving back to Lewis, a dark warning on his face. 

Lewis’ gaze was steady but guarded. “I can’t help it, Amelia. You’re working with Max now, yeah?” His eyes flicked to her, searching, almost like he was trying to measure her response. “And that… that does change things. You, working with my biggest rival.”

Amelia shook her head, the confusion and frustration beginning to bubble up inside her. “I’m just doing my job.” Her voice cracked a little, an undercurrent of hysteria creeping in. “I don’t want things to get weird between us. Please, don’t make it weird.”

Lando’s voice cut through softly from behind her. “Amelia…” he murmured, a note of concern threading through his tone. He knew how much Lewis meant to her, knew how much this was tearing her up, but it was only inevitable, wasn’t it?

Amelia didn’t turn to look at him, her focus solely on Lewis now, her pulse racing. “I’ve always looked up to you,” she continued, a little more frantic. “And you have always been so nice to me. I don't want to lose you in my life just because I'm working for Max. Nothing’s changed except that I’ve got a job to do now.”

Lewis sighed, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he took in her words. He glanced away for a moment, processing everything before settling his gaze on her. “It’s just hard, kid,” he admitted, quieter now. “Seeing you with him, knowing what that means for me, for my team…”

“I’m not picking sides,” she snapped a little more forcefully than she intended, the frustration now bubbling over. “I’m not picking anyone. I’m picking myself. I always have. And that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Lewis.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the tension hung thick in the air, with only the soft panting of Roscoe breaking the silence. Lewis seemed to deflate, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, kid,” he said finally, his voice softer. “I get it. I’ll get over it. I just… selfishly wish you’d chosen Mercedes, that’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice steadier now. 

As Amelia bent down to give Roscoe one last scratch behind the ears.

“Hey, zusje,” Max called, strolling to to them in his usual Red Bull jacket and skinny jeans. “I’ve been looking for you. GP’s waiting on us,” he told her. 

Amelia huffed softly, brushing down her skirt. “Alright, I’ll see you guys later,” she turned to Lando, leaned in to kiss him, feeling his hand squeeze hers lightly in response.

“See you soon, baby,” Lando murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before his attention shifted to Max, who was already gesturing for her to follow him.

Amelia turned to Lewis, her expression softening just a touch as she gave him a small wave. “Take care, okay?”

Lewis looked back at her, his eyes still carrying a trace of the tension that had been there before, but his voice was more measured this time. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

But just as she was about to turn away, she caught the faintest flicker of something in Lewis’ expression; a mix of caution, hesitation, and maybe a hint of something else — she hated that she couldn’t tell.

Max, noticing the look from behind her, turned his head sharply. His gaze locked with Lewis’ for a moment, something unspoken passing between them, a brief and subtle challenge.

Lewis didn’t flinch but held Max’s gaze, the tension hanging in the air like a low hum before Max spoke up, his voice casual but his body language firm.

“Let’s go, Amelia,” Max said, his hand gently guiding her away from the pair of them.

As they started walking, Lando took a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched them leave. “Christ. Good luck with that, mate,” he muttered under his breath. 

Lewis, still standing in the same spot, let out a long sigh, the edge of his frustration softened but still there. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, his voice low as he looked after the pair of them. 

— 

Lando and Amelia had found a quiet spot in the paddock, away from the bustling journalists and photographers. It was early afternoon, the Italian sun still high, but the relentless rush of the morning had started to wind down.

They sat together at one of the outdoor tables, with the faint sounds of conversations and laughter filling the air. Amelia took a bite of her sandwich, eyes scanning the surroundings lazily. The day had been full of interviews, photos, and the usual whirlwind of the F1 circus, but now she could finally give herself a moment to relax.

Lando sat across from her, munching on his lunch, eyes flickering between his phone and Amelia. After a moment, he looked up, a playful grin on his face.

“You know,” he started, a teasing edge in his voice, “you’ve got a rating on WAGFASH for today’s outfit.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “What’s the rating?”

“Nine,” he said, smugly.

She glanced down at her outfit; a white, low-waisted rara skirt paired with a baby tee emblazoned with an Italian flag and her little orange gem belly button piercing. “Huh. Not bad.” She said, slightly proud of herself. “I should comment and say thank you.”

But as she rifled through her handbag, her expression turned into one of mild panic. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Lando asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve lost my iPad!” she exclaimed, voice rising slightly.

— 

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lando N. Ok who has it?

Esteban O. Not me, mate.

Pierre G. Haven’t seen it!

George R. Yeah mate, not seen it today, sorry.

Mick S. You told me to just leave it if I saw it.

Lando N. You fucking what? Are you serious? Where did you see it?

Mick S. I gave it to the Alpine kid!

Lando N. What fucking Alpine kid?

Mick S. Pastry?

Lando N. Oh thank god. You’re lucky, Schumacher. She likes him.

George R. There’s an Alpine driver called Pastry? LMAO

Lando N. Piastri.

George R. Not as fun.

NEXT CHAPTER

[channieschaoscorner]

New Beginnings - Part 2 - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x Reader

Summary: You’ve made it to the survival show with your best friend but things are changing. You're friendship is turning into something else and its becoming something neither of you can understand.

Genre: Full on angst (I’m so sorry) 💔

A/N: You guys I need to apologise in advance for this one. No joke, I cried at one point writing this. I feel a little bit evil after the first part was a happy ending by my standards.

I also have like 4 more parts planned out for this so it’s turning into its own series (yay for me, not for your feelings.) I really hope you like it and again I’m so sorry but love you all lots 💕

Part one

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

The practice room clock blinked 1:42 AM. The rest of the group had long since gone home, too exhausted to keep going. You on the other hand were still there as per usual. You were sitting on the floor, rewinding a part of the track, while Chan sat nearby, notebook in his lap, tapping his pen against the page. He’d come in a little while ago, claiming the excuse of needing a change in scenery.

“Alright,” you said, standing and stretching. “I’ve got five more counts to fix. You still stuck on that bridge?”

“No…” Chan scoffed, even though he was absolutely still stuck on that bridge. “I’m almost done.”

“Bet you I finish this choreo before you figure out your lyrics.” You smirked, walking backwards toward the mirror wall.

“What’s the bet?”

“Loser buys snacks for a week.”

“You’re on.”

You turned the music up and jumped back into the steps while Chan hunched over his notebook, furiously scribbling. Every few minutes, you’d sneak glances at each other in the mirror — catching his eye, smiling when he stuck his tongue out at you.

At one point, you messed up a step and groaned loudly.

Chan looked up with a teasing grin. “Need me to help you out, or…?”

“Please,” you laughed, walking over. “Like you can even keep up with me.”

“I kept up with you for years.” His voice softened, and so did yours.

“Yeah… you have.”

A quiet moment stretched between you before you both shook it off with matching smiles.

“Focus, Bang Chan. I’m winning this bet.”

“Yeah, yeah, in your dreams.”

You kept working side by side, the night blurring into comforting warmth and quiet music, and the unspoken truth that neither of you cared who won anymore.

────୨ৎ────

The clock had slipped past 3AM by the time you finally gave up.

“Okay, truce,” you groaned, collapsing onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll buy the snacks. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“Deal,” Chan chuckled, dropping his notebook and flopping down beside you, shoulder bumping into yours. “But for the record, your choreography’s insane. The kids won’t survive this.”

“They’ll manage. They’ve got you, haven’t they?”

You turned your head, smiling at him, and he felt something tug in his chest. Something he pushed away and ignored.

“Yeah, well… I’ve got you too.”

It came out softer than he intended, and for a second, neither of them moved.

Then you grinned. “Damn right you do.”

You nudged his shoulder and sat up, rummaging through the snack pile you’d gathered. You handed him his favorite without even needing to ask.

“You always remember what I like,” he said, teasing, but something about the way he looked at you lingered. His eyes a little too gentle, a little too full.

“Well, someone’s gotta look after you. You’d live off energy drinks and stress without me.”

You sat cross-legged on the practice room floor, trading snacks and teasing each other, swapping old stories from your trainee days. Like the nights you snuck extra practice time, the times you had covered for each other, the little victories no one else had seen.

When you laughed at one of his jokes, Chan found himself watching you instead of laughing. The light in your eyes, the way your legs curled to the side, the warmth you carried like it was stitched into your skin. He didn’t realize how long he stared until you caught him.

“What?” You tilted your head and looked at him curiously.

He blinked. “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”

You offered him a soft smile. “I’m not going anywhere, Chan.”

And you both believed that so easily.

Neither of you ready to admit the way your hearts beat too fast in these small, unspoken moments.

────୨ৎ────

The room was buzzing with anticipation as the Stray Kids members sat in a circle, waiting for JYP’s announcement. The survival show had already pushed you all to your limits, but today felt different, something unexpected was coming.

JYP entered the room, his usual calm presence settling over everyone. His eyes scanned the group, before his eyes settled on you. “Alright, everyone, I’ve been thinking about the next challenge. We’ve seen how you all work as a team, but now, I want to see how the two of you will collaborate.”

You caught Chan’s eye for a split second, your stomach fluttering. You tried not to let the nervousness show.

JYP continued, “So for this next stage, Chan and Y/N, I want you two to perform a duet. You’ll have to work together, not just as friends but as leaders. I want to see how well you can communicate and create something meaningful together.”

A sudden hush fell over the room. You could feel the weight of JYP’s words pressing down on you.

You and Chan.

A duet.

Together.

In theory it made sense. You had worked together as friends for years, as teammates, you shouldn’t be nervous but this was something else entirely. A duet was a performance that required you to put complete faith and trust in your partner.

“This stage is going to be emotional.” JYP continued, oblivious to the shift in the room. “I’m not going for something high-energy. I want to see how you both can bring vulnerability and depth. Show us something more. I believe in you two, so I expect you to deliver.”

The challenge hung between you and Chan, like a heavy weight neither of you could lift. It wasn’t just a performance. It was a test of what you could handle, and, more importantly, how much you were willing to expose. The vulnerability that JYP asked for wasn’t something you were used to. But now, it seemed inevitable, you were going to be forced to bare your soul on stage for everyone to see.

Chan’s gaze met yours, and for a moment, everything around you felt like it was in slow motion. The excitement that bubbled up inside you only added to the strange tension you couldn’t place. Was he feeling it too? You didn’t know. You both quickly looked away, pretending to play it cool, but inside, you were both trying to figure out what this meant.

Chan forced a smile, though you could tell it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said, trying to make it sound easy. But his voice cracked just a little, and it made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Are you two nervous?” Changbin asked, raising an eyebrow as he noticed your stiff postures.

“Of course not,” you laughed, but it sounded a little forced even to your own ears. “We’ve got this.”

But even as you said those words, you knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

JYP smiled knowingly. “Good. I’m looking forward to seeing what you both come up with. Take your time, practice together, and figure it out.”

As JYP left the room, the younger members began to chat excitedly, their energy bouncing off the walls. You and Chan stayed silent. The sudden, unexpected reality of what had just been assigned to the two of you was starting to settle in and what it could mean not just for the group but for both of you if you failed.

Failure wasn’t an option, you decided.

No matter what was going to happen.

Later on, when you arrived for your first practice, you found Chan already sitting by the speakers.

“You beat me.” You teased, but it did nothing to ease the tension that had settled in you earlier on.

He smiled, but you could tell it was forced.

You opened your mouth to speak again but hesitated, you didn’t actually have anything to say but you desperately wanted to cut through the silence.

Chan’s eyes dropped to your hands, you were pulling the sleeves down, it was a nervous habit that he’d picked up on a few years ago. His stomach flipped uncomfortably at the thought of you being nervous with him.

“I think I’ve found a song for us to do.” He hit play without waiting for you to reply. You nodded along as the lyrics filled the room. It was emotional, filled with words of longing and love but also fear of losing their person. It was…

“Perfect.” You said, when the song ended.

“Do you think so?” Chan’s hand drifted up to his earlobe, twisting the earring that sat in it.

Your eyes narrowed slightly when he did so, was he nervous as well?

“It will be if we can pull it off.” You pushed through the nerves bubbling in your stomach.

────୨ৎ────

Over the next few days, you had settled into a more comfortable rhythm with each other. The initial awkwardness of having to be so emotional with each, pushed aside as the need to perform well consumed you both.

With the rest of the group preoccupied with their own challenge, you and Chan had been spending nearly every hour of your days together. It was a good thing that you were already friends before this as spending this amount of time with anyone would have most people ready to take each other's heads off from the pressure of it all.

Not you two though, thankfully you had become quite used to living out of each other's pockets in your earlier years when you had been each other's only friend.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been rehearsing today, only that it was dark when you arrived and it was dark now you’d seen when you went to the bathroom earlier. It was easy to lose track of time in the practice room. Caught up in the rehearsals and each other's presence, it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.

“You’re going to kill me.” Chan groaned from the floor.

“You’ll live.” You walked over to him holding a water bottle, you nudged his leg with your foot.

He sat up wordlessly, taking the bottle off you with a nod. You ignored his hand brushing over yours, choosing instead to crack your knuckles as if that could remove the tingling sensation left there.

You sat down next to him, too aware that he was still staring at you and you shifted uncomfortably. Desperate to break whatever this feeling was, as Chan takes a long drink from his water bottle, you snatched it out of his hand mid-sip.

“Hey!” he coughs, laughing.

“What? Sharing is caring.” You grin, purposely taking an exaggerated sip.

“You better hope I don’t catch your germs.”

“Maybe I want you to.” It slips out too quickly, too easily, too… too much.

He holds your gaze for a second too long of eye contact.

Your smirk falters.

His gaze drops to the bottle in your hand, then back to your face. Neither of you says anything. You toss it back, and stand up quickly, walking back to your phone to turn the song back on.

“Come on, let’s run this again.”

Chan stands up, ready to jump back into rehearsal mode, ignoring the fact that his pulse is a little faster than it should be.

────୨ৎ────

*3 days until the final performance*

The final performance day was growing closer and closer.

You and Chan have been pushing yourselves to the limit. Only taking breaks from your own rehearsal to check in with the others and help them with their challenges. It took much needed energy out of you but neither of you complained out loud, all too aware of the responsibility on your shoulders.

This responsibility meant that you kept pushing your own practices back later and later until it was almost morning by the time you would finish up, head back to the dorms and get back up to do it all over again.

Tonight was no different.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly above you, casting a gentle glow over the near-empty practice room. It was one of those late nights again. The kind where exhaustion seeped into your bones, where your muscles ached and burned, and yet neither of you could quite bring yourselves to leave.

You sat on the floor against the mirror, legs stretched out, you head tipped back against the glass. A dull, persistent headache throbbed behind your eyes, made worse by the tight pull of your ponytail. You winced as you shifted accidentally catching some of your hair, you closed your eyes in an effort to block out the light for a few seconds of relief as Chan knelt nearby, rummaging through his bag for his water bottle.

He noticed your discomfort immediately.

“You okay?” His voice was soft, almost hoarse from hours of use.

You gave him a tired smile, your hand lazily reaching up to rub the back of your neck. “Headache.”

Chan hesitated for a second, his gaze lingering on you, watching the way your brow furrowed and your shoulders slumped. Without a word, he moved closer, gently batting your hand away.

“Here,” he murmured, kneeling in front of you.

Before you could argue, his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, tugging carefully at the scrunchie that held your hair back tightly. His touch was careful, a little clumsy. Too intimate for something so simple. You closed your eyes at the warmth of his fingertips.

The soft, worn fabric slid free, and your hair spilled down around your shoulders. The release made you sigh involuntarily. A soft, relieved sound, and Chan felt it like a warm ache in his chest.

“There.” he said quietly, his fingers lingering a beat too long before pulling away.

You opened your eyes, blinking at him. The look between you both was heavy, something unspoken settling in the air around you.

He broke first, eyes falling down the scrunchie in his hand. He hesitated for a second before he tucked it into his pocket without waiting for permission, as if it had always belonged there. And maybe it did. You didn’t object either way, a single thought drifted in the back of your head that you were happy he kept it but you weren’t sure why.

────୨ৎ────

*2 days until the performance*

It was late. Too late, really. The only light in the practice room came from the dimming bulbs overhead which were absolutely going to need to be replaced from how much time the two of you were spending in here. The glow of your phones offered little lighting in the corner of the room. Both of you had been going for hours now, working through every single step, every little move, every note, perfecting it all for the survival show. But your body was beginning to protest, exhaustion creeping in.

You rubbed your arms, trying to get some warmth back into your cold skin. The chill in the air wasn’t helping, and you found yourself shivering, despite how much you had been moving earlier. It wasn’t that you had forgotten to bring a jacket, you had but gave it to Jeongin earlier who had forgotten his even though you reminded him this morning before you left the dorms. Now though in the stillness of the practice room, it was hard to ignore.

Chan, however, was still going, focused on the moves, gliding across the floor with ease, but you could tell his attention was partially on you. He kept glancing over at you, his eyes narrowed slightly in concern as he noticed you rubbing your arms again.

“Hey,” he said, finally turning toward you. His voice was soft, but there was an edge of worry to it. “You okay? You’re shivering.”

You gave him a small smile, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. Just a little cold. I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t seem convinced. There was something about the way he looked at you, his eyes lingering for just a second too long, that made your chest tighten.

“Hold on a second,” he said, walking over to his bag, pulling out his hoodie. It was oversized on him, the dark fabric a bit worn at the cuffs, but it still had a comforting familiarity to it. You weren’t sure why, but just the thought of him giving you his hoodie made something stir in your chest.

He held it out to you, a gentle smile on his lips. “Here. It’s cold in here. You can wear this.”

You hesitated for a moment, looking at the hoodie. Something about it felt so intimate, like a quiet offering of care that you weren’t sure you were ready for. You had spent years being close to Chan, always side by side, but this was different. There was a subtle tension in the air now, a strange pull between you that you weren’t sure how to describe.

“Thanks.” you said quietly, taking the hoodie from him, your fingers brushing against his for a second. The brief contact sent a jolt through you, and you quickly pulled the hoodie over your head, the fabric swallowing you in its warmth.

As soon as you slipped your arms into the sleeves, you could feel the familiar, comforting presence of Chan’s scent. It was like a shield, like a piece of him that was now wrapped around you. You didn’t know why, but something about wearing his hoodie made your heart race just a little faster.

You looked up at him and saw that he was watching you closely, his gaze soft, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something you didn’t quite understand. He looked… pleased? Maybe even a little proud, but it wasn’t just that. There was something deeper, something unspoken, a quiet kind of longing that lingered between you.

“You look good in it.” Chan said, the words coming out softer than usual, almost shy.

You felt your cheeks warm at the compliment, and you smiled, a little embarrassed. “Thanks.”

There was a brief silence, both of you standing there, not quite sure what to say next. But the tension between you was palpable now, the distance between friends blurring. It was still subtle, but it was there, hanging in the air.

“I’m glad it fits.” he added, and you could tell he was trying to make it sound casual, trying to downplay the strange energy that seemed to have settled around you both. But his eyes were still on you, and you couldn’t ignore the way his fingers absently tugged at the sleeve of his own hoodie, almost like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t know how to.

“Yeah,” you replied, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “It’s perfect.”

He smiled, but there was something in his smile that felt a little too heavy. It lingered a little too long, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was feeling the same thing you were — that strange, unexplainable pull between the two of you that you were feeling more and more as these practices went on.

You should have said something, anything, to break the tension. But instead, you both stayed there, silent, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest but neither of you spoke, the words too difficult, too tangled in the space between you.

You couldn’t explain why, but in that moment, wearing his hoodie felt like the closest thing to being wrapped up in his arms. The idea of that alone made your cheeks burn, and for a second you were scared that he would know exactly what you were thinking about.

As you both returned to your positions without a word to continue rehearsing, you caught him stealing glances at you. Every time you caught his eye, you quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks again.

“It’s just a hoodie.” You kept telling yourself but you knew it wasn’t. It was everything. The way he cared for you, the way he always looked after you. You didn’t understand it, but you knew that it was something you didn’t want to lose

────୨ৎ────

*Final rehearsal*

It had been a long night of rehearsals. Endless runs of choreography, fine-tuning the moves for the performance tomorrow. You could feel your body aching and protesting from the exertion, but the weight on your chest was made heavier by the other person in the room.

You were hyper-aware of the space between you and Chan, of the quiet tension that had been building for days. To say it was confusing you would be an understatement. This had never happened between the two of you before, you’d always felt comfortable with him but now? Every moment alone felt charged, like there was a bigger force behind what was happening and you didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t talk to the one person that you would do normally, how do you tell your best friend that your friendship is starting to make your head hurt?

Chan stood across from you, sweat beading on his brow, his breath coming slightly faster than usual. His eyes met yours for a brief second, and you froze. The moment stretched on, like a pulled rubber band that was about to snap, but neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.

Chan’s gaze dropped to his feet for a second, and you felt an inexplicable urge to break the silence, to say anything to break this strange, heavy feeling in the air. But before you could find your voice, Chan stepped closer, the space between you narrowing.

“Let’s run it again,” he said, his voice low, a little breathless.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, your heart racing as your eyes followed his every movement. He was so close now, too close, but neither of you seemed to back away. It was like your bodies were drawn to each other without your permission.

You forced your feet backwards, ignoring what felt like your own nerves protesting against you and found your starting position. He remained still, watching you carefully, he knew you were on edge and wish you’d tell him why. It was driving him insane, he wanted to ask you what was wrong but was afraid of the answer you would give him.

He shook his head, as if he could shake the stress straight out of it and found his own position. The music kicked in and the two of you began to move. Despite what you both were feeling, you couldn’t deny that you performed well together. Countless months of training as trainees had meant that you were familiar with each other's movements. The only difference in this routine was the meaning behind it, the powerful lyrics about love and longing were dragging up something in the both of you that neither of you had been prepared for, and so you both continued to shove it away and pretend it didn’t exist.

The final moment in the performance was always hard to pull away from. It ended with one of Chan’s hands on your waist and the other holding your face. Your own hands rested on his chest. The more it was rehearsed, the harder and harder it became to force yourself to step out of his embrace.

The music ended and once again, in his arms you felt suspended in time, your body held close by him, the feeling of his chest rising and falling under your fingertips. The music had faded into a quiet hum. Both of you were standing there, breathing in sync, eyes locked for a second too long.

You felt his hand on your waist, his fingers warm through the fabric of your clothes. You stood there, unwilling to move and tired of arguing with yourself that you needed to step away. The moment stretched on, thicker than any choreography you’d rehearsed before. Something felt different. Your chest tightened, and your heart picked up speed, as if it could escape your ribcage at any moment. You were terrified that he could hear in, no idea how you could explain this if he could.

Chan didn’t move, didn’t break the connection. Neither of you dared to speak, both of you caught in the tension that hummed between you like static electricity. His fingers flexed and gripped your waist tighter. His thumb moved ever so slightly on your cheek, so fleeting he could argue that it didn’t happen at all.

His eyes flickered to your lips, and just for a brief moment, everything stopped completely. The air was so thick you felt dizzy, certain that without his grip you’d have fallen in seconds. The closeness, the quiet, the stillness overwhelming.

It was almost too much to bear.

And then, so gently, so slowly, as though drawn in by an invisible force, Chan leaned forward. His lips brushed against yours, like a soft whisper, barely a touch, like a question that didn’t need to be answered. His breath mixed with yours, warm and uncertain, leaving you paralyzed for a moment, unsure if it was even real.

You felt the ghost of his lips against yours, soft and fleeting, and then it was over.

He pulled back, but still neither of you moved. You were both frozen, staring at each other as if you’d crossed some kind of invisible line. The reality of what had just happened hung between you like a dense fog. Neither of you could breathe properly, the weight of the moment pressing down harder with every passing second. You could feel the cracks starting to appear between you.

“I—” Chan’s voice cracked slightly, as though he were trying to find the words, but they weren’t coming.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say anything, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, like it was holding something back, something too heavy to say out loud.

“Sorry.” Chan muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

You shook your head, your hand instinctively going to your lips, the heat of the moment still burning.

“It’s… it’s okay. I don’t know what—” Your voice faltered, and you could hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears, loud and deafening.

Neither of you knew what to say.

“I just… I need a minute,” you said quickly, your breath shaky as you stepped back from him. You couldn’t stay in the same room with him, not now, not after that. You were too scared, too confused.

Chan nodded, his hand dropping from your waist, clenching into a fist at his side. “Yeah. Me too. I just… I didn’t—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You grabbed your things quickly, your hands trembling as you shoved them into your bag. Every movement felt clumsy, like you were trying to outrun something you couldn’t understand. You didn’t dare look at him, not now. Not after that.

Chan opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but he didn’t. He just nodded slowly, his face strained, as if he was trying to understand everything just as much as you were.

You didn’t look back when you walked out of the practice room. The cold air hit you as soon as you stepped outside, but it didn’t do anything to calm the storm inside your chest. You felt your heart pounding, your thoughts a whirlwind.The kiss had been so soft, so fleeting, almost like it hadn't happened, and yet, it had managed to change everything.

What had that kiss been? Why did it feel like everything was changing between you two, and why did it terrify you so much? You were scared. You were scared that you’d lost him. Scared that if you let yourself feel what you wanted to feel, you’d ruin the one thing you’d always relied on.

No.

It was nothing, right?

Nothing but a slip-up.

You repeated that like a mantra to yourself, ignoring how your chest ached, your thoughts swirling, your heart tangled in the mess of emotions you didn’t have words for. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You didn’t know if you were relieved that it was over so quickly or terrified of what it could mean. You didn’t know if you’d be able to face him again tomorrow without feeling the weight of what had just happened.

An image of the performance tomorrow in front of the others appeared and you banished it far from your mind, as far as it could possibly go.

The thought of losing him, of messing up what you had. It terrified you more than you wanted to admit. You wanted him so badly, and that terrified you too. You couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after everything the two of you had been through but you couldn’t stop going back to it.

How could you possibly stop thinking about it?

He had kissed you.

No matter how hard you tried, how hard you pushed them away, it kept coming back. The closeness, the feeling of his lips against yours. It was soft, gentle but there was something hovering behind it. Something full of longing, full of things unsaid.

And it terrified you.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant but you knew one thing:

You couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen, couldn’t pretend that you didn’t want to kiss him again, that you didn't want to turn around run right back in there to him and despite all of that, you knew you were going to have to.

So for the first time in years, you walked home alone. You kept pushing yourself forward, reminding yourself how much of a mess this would cause if you admitted the truth, admitted how you actually felt, what it would do to you both so you ran.

Ran further away from the JYPE building, further away from that stupid practice room and further away from him.

────୨ৎ────

Taglist: @m-325 @imeverycliche @mythicmochi @hynjnnie @mbioooo0000

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my Taglist <3

[4linos]

shattered walls.

lee minho x gn!reader

synopsis: as the weight of the day crashes down, you pull away from minho, terrified of letting him see your struggles. but his unwavering presence reminds you that true love is about sharing the messy moments, not just the happy ones.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, emotional distress, and anxiety

wc: 2509

It had been one of those days where everything felt wrong, like the world itself was pressing on you from all sides. It wasn’t one singular thing, but a multitude of small, sharp things that had compounded into a heavy weight on your chest. The little annoyances, miscommunications, a failed attempt at completing work, that email you meant to send but never got around to, and the way your heart still ached over something from the past you could never quite forget. All of it was too much.

You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to share the weight you felt in your bones. You didn’t even want to admit it to yourself, much less to Minho.

Minho, your ever-optimistic, seemingly unshakable boyfriend had noticed from the moment you walked into the apartment. He had asked the usual questions, all with that quiet concern in his eyes that always made your heart twist.

“Hey, are you okay?” he had asked, his voice soft but thick with worry. His eyes traced your movements carefully, reading you like an open book.

You gave him a half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes, but enough to reassure him. You nodded.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice flat. You tried to walk past him, but his hand caught your arm lightly, making you pause.

“You sure? You look a little... off.” His words were careful, tentative, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“I’m just tired, Minho. Really tired,” you answered, tugging away from his hand. Your own emotions felt like they were twisting in your chest, but you didn't want to say anything more. Not now. Not yet. Not to him.

He didn’t push further, but the concern never left his eyes. Instead, he tried something else, shifting gears, attempting to lift the atmosphere with his usual playful energy.

"Okay, okay. But hey, how about we grab some ice cream? I know it’s your favorite. Or maybe we could go out for a walk? You like walking when you’re stressed out, right?"

You shook your head at the suggestion. You didn’t feel like going anywhere. You didn’t feel like doing anything. You just wanted to disappear for a while. But you didn’t know how to explain that to him.

“I’m fine. Really,” you repeated, your voice becoming sharper now, more defensive. But you weren’t angry at him. You were angry at yourself. Angry that you felt this way and couldn’t find a way out of it.

Minho’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked like he was going to push a little more, but instead, he sighed and nodded. “Alright, if you change your mind, let me know. I’ll be in the living room.”

He tried to give you space, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you for just a little too long before he finally retreated. You watched him go, your mind reeling, and for a brief moment, you wanted to call out to him. To stop him before he left, to let him in. But you were scared. You were scared of him seeing how broken you felt, how overwhelmed you were. You didn’t want him to see you like this. Not now.

The next few hours were a blur of you trying to keep yourself busy, but nothing seemed to stick. The silence in the apartment stretched out longer than it should have. You heard him in the other room, maybe watching TV or scrolling through his phone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go to him. You felt like a stranger in your own skin.

But Minho, always the patient one, didn’t give up. He tried again.

“Babe,” he called from the living room. “Do you wanna talk? I can’t stand seeing you like this.” His voice carried an undercurrent of frustration now, not with you, but with himself. You could tell. “I hate it when you shut me out.”

You were sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, but you didn’t respond. You didn’t trust your voice. Every time you tried to speak, it felt like a lump was lodged in your throat, holding back everything you couldn’t say. You just wanted to scream, to let it all out, but you didn’t have the strength.

Minho walked in quietly, sitting on the edge of the couch. His presence was warm, his body heat radiating off him, but it felt distant. He wasn’t angry, no, Minho never raised his voice, but there was an edge to his frustration now. He just wanted to help you, wanted to make you feel better. But no matter how many times he asked, you shut him out.

“Come on, talk to me,” he insisted, his hand resting on yours gently. You tensed at the touch, pulling your hand away quickly, like the contact was a burn.

“I don’t want to,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a thread of emotion you couldn’t hide. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then let me help,” he pleaded, his eyes softening. He reached for your hand again, this time more cautiously, his fingers brushing over yours with the gentleness of someone afraid of breaking something fragile. “I’m here. I’ll listen. I don’t need you to say the right things, just... something. Anything.”

You flinched at his touch, your chest tightening. It wasn’t because you didn’t love him. It wasn’t because you didn’t want him there. But it felt like you were suffocating. Like you couldn’t breathe with him too close, with his kindness too much to bear.

“I just can’t, Minho,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill over. “I can’t keep pretending everything is fine when it isn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

His face fell, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Babe, it’s okay. It’s okay to not be okay. But pushing me away won’t help. You know that.”

You stood up suddenly, pacing the room. You couldn’t sit still. You couldn’t be around him without feeling like you were a burden.

“Then leave me alone,” you snapped, the words out of your mouth before you could stop them. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. But there it was. It felt like a cold slap, the kind that froze the air between you two.

Minho stood up quickly, his eyes wide with shock. He didn’t say anything for a moment, like he couldn’t process the words. His jaw clenched as if he was holding something back, something that was threatening to boil over. But he wasn’t angry at you. He was hurt. Deeply hurt.

“Is that what you really want?” he asked, his voice low and strained. “For me to just... leave?”

“No,” you whispered, your throat closing up. “I don’t want you to leave. I just... I don’t want to hurt you.”

His expression softened, but there was still a flicker of something in his eyes, something that told you he was close to breaking too. But he wasn’t going to. He couldn’t let you fall apart like this alone.

“I’m not leaving,” he said firmly, stepping closer. He reached for you again, but this time, you didn’t pull away. You didn’t want to. You felt his arms around you, pulling you into him, holding you as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

And in a way, you felt like you were disappearing, vanishing into your own misery, drowning in the weight of it.

“I love you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I love you. And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out, together.”

You closed your eyes, letting the words wash over you. His warmth, his scent, everything about him felt like a lifeline, and yet it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t find peace, no matter how much he tried to comfort you.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, the words coming out broken. “I don’t mean to push you away. I just... I don’t know how to let you in when everything feels so messed up.”

Minho tightened his grip around you, as if trying to hold you together. His fingers dug gently into your back, but it wasn’t an attempt to restrain you. It was a silent promise to be there, no matter how much you wanted to retreat.

“You don’t have to explain,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to let go of everything and lean into him, let him take the weight for a while. But you were scared. Scared that if you did, you’d fall apart completely, and he would see all the cracks you tried so hard to hide.

And that’s when he made a mistake.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, his frustration peeking through for just a moment. “I’m trying everything I can, and you’re shutting me out. Don’t you care? Don’t you want to feel better?”

His words hit harder than you expected. He didn’t mean it, not really, but it felt like a betrayal, like all of his kindness had been exhausted, like he couldn’t take it anymore.

You pulled away, this time with anger burning in your chest. The floodgates opened, and you were shouting before you even realized it.

“Don’t you think I want to feel better?!” you cried, your voice cracking. “I’m trying, Minho. But every time you come near me, it feels like you’re just piling more on. I’m broken, okay? I’m not fixed, I don’t know how to be fixed. And I can’t be what you need right now. I just can’t.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Minho stood frozen, his face pale. He looked like he didn’t know what to say anymore.

And then, without warning, the weight of everything hit you all at once, and you broke. Your sobs were raw, shaking your entire body as you collapsed back into him. “I’m sorry,” you gasped, clutching at him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Minho’s arms tightened around you immediately, holding you in a way that spoke volumes. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to be fixed. I’m here. Always. No matter what.”

And in that moment, with your tears soaking through his shirt and his hands gently running through your hair, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone.

Minho didn’t say anything for a long while after that. He just held you, his arms wrapped firmly around you like a barrier against the rest of the world, like he could protect you from yourself, from everything that was spiraling out of control inside you. His chest rose and fell with each slow, careful breath, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, a quiet rhythm that anchored you, a reminder that you weren’t drifting entirely.

Your sobs had turned into silent tears now. Your body still shook slightly in his embrace, but the storm was beginning to ebb, if only a little. He didn't speak, didn't try to fill the silence with hollow reassurances or explanations. He just stayed with you.

Eventually, when you could breathe again without it hurting, when your hands weren’t trembling quite so much, Minho slowly loosened his grip, but only just enough to cup your face gently in his hands and look at you. His eyes were red too, rimmed with emotion he hadn’t let spill earlier. He was always so composed, so strong for you, but right now, his vulnerability was written across every line of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I said the wrong thing. I was scared. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

You shook your head, wiping at your face uselessly. “No, it’s not your fault. I just, everything’s been piling up and I didn’t even realize how bad it had gotten. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t trust you, or that I don’t need you. I do. I really do.”

Minho’s thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek as he exhaled shakily. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” you whispered. “I love you.”

His breath hitched slightly, his eyes blinking a little too fast as if he wasn’t sure he heard you right.

You pressed your forehead against his, your voice steadier this time. “I love you. So much it scares me. And I think that’s part of why I shut down. Because letting you in means showing you every part of me even the parts I hate.”

He closed his eyes, his hands cradling your face, thumbs resting under your jaw. “I already see those parts,” he whispered. “And I still love you. I’m not here just for the happy days. I’m not here just for the smiles. I’m here when it’s messy and hard and when you don’t know how to say what’s wrong. I’m here even when you don’t want me to be.”

You couldn’t stop the tears again, but this time they weren’t sharp. They were quiet and warm and safe.

Minho leaned in, his lips barely brushing yours, not out of desire, but reverence. The kind of kiss that says, I’m here, even in silence. Even in pain.

When he pulled back, his expression softened into the warmest smile, the kind that always made something inside you loosen. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, then leaned in again, this time to rest his forehead against yours.

“Let’s not keep doing this,” he whispered. “Let’s stop pretending you have to go through things alone. I can’t force you to talk, and I won’t. But I need you to promise me something.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers curling around his.

He held your hand between both of his, like it was something delicate, like it was something sacred. “Don’t shut me out anymore. Please. Even if you can’t explain it, even if it’s just sitting next to me in silence, let me be there with you. Let me hold that weight too.”

You swallowed hard, your chest aching in a different way now. Not with dread, but with something softer, acceptance. Maybe even hope.

“I promise,” you said quietly. “Even if I can’t talk, even if I don’t know what to say... I won’t shut you out again.”

He let out a small breath of relief, then wrapped his arms around you again, pulling you into his chest like he never wanted to let go. You melted into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him, clean laundry and warmth and safety.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Even if you push. Even if you break. I’ll be right here.”

And somehow, in that quiet promise, something inside you finally, truly, began to breathe again.

//

masterlist.

[infiniteglitterfall]

fuck ME. reading and reblogging this on a day when I did a lot of emotional and physical labor and went to bed at like 1:30 am (for the millionth time in a row), then got up to eat breakfast and feed my kid, then crashed and took a nap with my arms wrapped around him while he gamed and watched videos and chatted to me and occasionally got responses, then finally managed to get up again at like 8:30 pm to do it all again

the last seven years have basically gone: traumatized by the ace discourse. Traumatized by my partner. Recovered from most of that trauma. Traumatized by my precious women/enby college getting shut down and handed to Northeastern Dudebro University. Traumatized by my partner some more. Autistic burnout. Traumatized by forceful goyish denial of the genocidal rape on October 7 and, subsequently, further genocidal rape of the hostages, all of which too closely mirrors my experience as a survivor of ritual/ideological abuse.

My spoons are just. WRECKED. by trying to function during any of this tbh. and DOUBLY wrecked by holding myself to the standards of "a normal person" and thinking I can do Normal People Amounts Of Stuff EVER while autistic with PTSD and ADHD.

Like. I don't even understand what normal people do.

And as an aroace person, I lack even more resources that "normal" people supposedly have. I think there are ways to replace those. Through, like, building community and asking for help. But it's really hard to figure out how to do that. Partly because I'm autistic and don't know how to navigate building in-person community with people who no longer avoid COVID.

I have ways that I'm fighting and clawing my way out of it. I promise. But holy fuck, it is so hard.

All of this is a very specific and personal version of "the enough-is-enough stage." It looks so different for everyone.

And I REALLY REALLY THINK we need to share our examples and our stories. As an autistic person, I NEED mental concepts of how it works for more people. And I bet even non-autistic people need this kind of representation.

So I'm gonna say here, instead of in tags, that this is ok to reblog. And that if this sounds more intense or worse than your own experience? I bet that I would think the same thing about yours.

There really is no "worse." There's just DIFFERENT. Go ahead and talk about what "reaching the enough-is-enough stage" and "the self-destructive spiral where I keep using energy I don't have" looks like for you.

It will help somebody, I promise.

I hate when my body reaches the enough-is-enough stage like wdym I can't just continue this self destructive spiral where I keep using energy I don't have??

[salemrph]

“Let the World Burn”

Final Chapter 8: Let the World Burn

A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money.

Chapter Summary: Trapped in Rudy’s warehouse, You, Sylus, Luke, and Kieran fight through waves of guards and Wanderers. Caleb must find Rudy before the rising energy collapses into something far worse: a Protofield. And if he doesn’t, none of you will make it out alive.

Characters: Sylus x MC/reader/you, Luke and Kieran, Caleb

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst

Words: 11k | Reading Time: 43min

Navigator: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | AO3

Tag list: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @syluskisser @fortunekookie07 @crimsonlittlecrow @mochibunnies3 @gazelover666 @fancyhawk45 @sorryimakira @paninisstuff @deathrye @tinyweebsstuff @sxderia @yunhogrippers @sylusqt @darkesky @an-ever-angry-bi @atinymekanie @bruisedchickensoup

@thatonegenderfluidwhore @certainduckanchor @the-girl-who-used-to @reika-desu @f41k47 @beezabuzz @mentaltrouble2201 @bl00dsuccker @blorbohunter @gianchan-de @fortunekookie07 @sylusloml @pandoras-rabbit @the-spine-of-the-world @noradest @owodi @greatmistakes @theshadowsdragon @pillarofsnow @lawssocuteee @gibborger @hestia-fires @crowskitten22 @hestia-fires

Chapter 8: Let the world burn

You didn’t remember the moment the fight truly began. One second, Sylus was at your side, whispering something after the kiss that left your lips burning. The next, the storm shattered the last remnants of silence and all hell tore through the walls. Rain poured in through the jagged wound in the ceiling, soaking concrete, bodies, blood. The Wanderers came fast. 

Gunfire cracked like lightning around you, echoing through the warehouse now painted in shadows and chaos. Wanderers shrieked as they lunged in, limbs twisted in unnatural angles, eyes burning with that eerie, hollow hunger. You moved on instinct: shoot, duck, slash, breathe. Again. Again. Again.

Beside you, Sylus moved like something otherworldly with fluidity, brutality, and precision. Every step he took left a body behind. A crack of bone. A hissed breath. He didn’t waste a second. Sylus just wants to end this nightmare, the longer you fight this wave, the more likely you are to lose your only chance to escape.

The twins were holding the higher ground, sending out bursts of cover fire and throwing down traps, working to contain the endless surge of guards Rudy had unleashed. You could hear one of them shouting over comms, breath ragged, laughing like a man on the edge of madness.

Luke's voices crackled faintly in your earpiece:

“We’ve got the inside. Hold the front, boss.”

But nothing was slowing them down. The Wanderers kept coming. The guards kept pouring in. You were stuck.

“Left!” Sylus warned behind you.

You pivoted, shot a Wanderer in the chest, but too late to dodge the second one. Its claws raked across your side before you could finish it off. You hissed, staggering, forcing your body back upright. Luckily the cut on your skin isn't big but it will be another scar to add to the collection.The Wanderer vanishes into particles. A third was close now, but Sylus is keeping your flank covered. You moved in sync. From the very beginning, fighting beside him felt effortless as if your bodies moved to the same violent rhythm, attuned to each other’s instincts. You could anticipate his strikes before they came, just as he read your movements. He moved, you followed. You struck, he covered. The hours of training together are starting to pay off.

“You really don’t want to make it easy for me, huh.” He tosses a spare magazine to you without looking. “Are you prepared to keep up with me?”

You caught it mid-air, slammed it into place. “I’ve been born ready.”

“Don’t over do it” 

There were too many. The ground shook as a Wanderer slammed into one of the support beams above, knocking down chunks of concrete and metal rained down in a storm of filth and dust. Your ears rang. You and Sylus instinctively dove apart. Your body is screaming in protest the moment you hit the floor, it wasn’t a graceful landing. Hitting the ground hard, a jolt of agony ripped through your ribs as bone grated against the floor. The breath tore from your lungs in a ragged wheeze, your vision blotting with stars. Pain clawed up your spine, but you bit down on it, hard. The pain was dizzying, but you welcomed it. It meant you were still alive.

Opposite you, Sylus moved with a predator’s grace, already unloading a volley of shots into the charging beast that veered his way. You mirrored him, squeezing the trigger with trembling fingers just as another creature lunged toward you. Your aim was a bit off, your hand was torn from when you’d gripped that broken glass too tight. The bandage was again soaked with blood, you wound open again. But the bullet found its mark anyway, splitting through the Wanderer’s neck in a bloom of gore.

Blood sprayed across the floor. Even if Wanderers dissolved into particles once dead, they could still bleed. And this one bled all over your boots before it vaporized into nothing.

Every step felt like you were walking through broken glass barefoot. You could taste iron on your tongue, from biting the inside of your cheek. Adrenaline kept you upright, but your mind were fraying at the edges. Caleb’s voice still echoed in your skull, the kiss siting heavy in your heart. Sylus’s gaze still burned on your skin. The truth. The lies. The years of pain and buried memories bubbling just beneath the surface. The experiments. Your past. The explosion. Your grandmother’s death… You were spiraling. It’s all tangled together, one wound bleeding into the next.

A guttural snarl pulled you back.

You staggered to your feet, knees buckling beneath you. Sylus was suddenly there, appearing at your side like he always did. He reached for you, anchoring you with one arm as you lifted your gun again.

“You’re too close. That 's my spot.” You smiled. 

“We could just resonate to make this easier,” you said between breaths, twisting your body to dodge a clawed strike, your bullet strikes clean through the creature’s weak spot.

Sylus crushed the skull of another Wanderer with his bare hands, his Evol sparking like wildfire across his skin, rippling with power. He turned toward you slowly, his eyes catching the light like a predator in a storm. Then he smirked, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

“Sweetie,” he said, almost warning. “I’m not doing that in your state.”

You clicked your tongue. You knew your body was far from its best but pushing forward like this wasn’t giving you the advantage either.

Sylus fought like a man possessed. One guard lunged at him, gun half-raised, finger twitching toward the trigger. Sylus grabbed the bastard’s wrist, twisted hard, bones shattering like dry twigs. The guard screamed once before Sylus stole the weapon straight from his hands and turned on a dime, just in time to blow apart the fucker charging at your blind side.

Before you could respond, he pivoted, grabbing the next Wanderer by the throat mid-leap. His Evol surged again and the beast detonated, its body flung backward like a broken puppet, torn apart by pure force, soon becoming particles in the air.

You returned the favor, your pistol cracking through the storm to drop the sniper aiming from above. The crack of your gun split the air. His head snapped back. Blood sprayed. His limp body slammed into the scaffolding above with a sickening thunk, tumbling over the edge before landing in a messy heap of broken limbs and twisted metal. One more down. 

The storm above pounding harder, lightning throwing stark shadows across blood-slick floors. For a second, there was peace. You turned, eyes locking with Sylus. Both of you are bloody, breathing hard.

“Shit,” you muttered, heart pounding. “They’re not stopping.”

“Rudy is still watching. Betting on how long we last.” Sylus looked toward the far corner, eyes narrowing. 

Your mind races, trying to piece together the cause of this relentless surge of Wanderers and then it hits. If Rudy was working with Ever Group, then he’d have access to the kind of tech that could manipulate MetaFlux fluctuations. Your thoughts flashback to the case at Linkon University with Xavier, that almost killed him. The case with Zanye in Chansa City. Shit.

“If the MetaFlux keeps destabilizing like this… it could trigger a Protofield” The thought alone makes your blood run cold. And if that happens… you’re fucked. Badly. You curse under your breath, ducking beneath a burst of debris as a Wanderer barrels past. You don’t have the gear, the backup, or the strength for something like that right now. Then you realize, you sent Caleb after Rudy, what if he doesn't know about that technology. 

“I need to find Caleb—”

“Absolutely not.” He was in front of you before the sentence finished leaving your mouth, “No.” He said, “You’ve done enough. More than enough. You’re already at your limit. I won’t let you throw yourself into something worse.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head. “The Colonel can handle himself.”

You want to protest. But… he’s right. How are you supposed to reach Caleb if you can’t take five steps without the world spinning? Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your only hope is Caleb. You pray he finds Rudy before it's too late. Because if he doesn’t shut this down the source, you're definitely won’t make it out alive. Neither of you. You moved again. Together. Shooting, reloading, ducking, slashing. You lost track of time, of wounds. Of how many fell before you. Your arms ached, your legs burned.

As Sylus deals with some guards, you begin to feel a wave of dizziness wash over you, your chest tightening painfully. You keep moving but something’s wrong. Your vision doubles for a second just a flicker but it’s enough to make you stumble. You gasped, but the air was too thin, every inhale shallow. Your heart hammers out of rhythm. Your fingers twitch, jittering like static is trapped beneath your skin. Something inside you is burning. You can feel it. Your heart is near to explode.

Panic claws at your chest, suffocating every cell. You can’t tell what’s real anymore. Are you breathing too fast or not at all? Did you just fire your weapon or were you remembering it? Did someone scream or was that your own voice in your head? 

What’s happening to me? 

It feels like your insides are being ripped apart. Fragments of memories flood back, faces, hands, a cold room, a pulse monitor screaming in your ears. You see yourself strapped down, the needle piercing your neck, and you feel it again. That same burn, but this time, it’s not leaving.

You feel it in your bloodstream. That goddamn serum. Chimera 1X9, merging with every molecule in your body. The Protocore Syndrome, the adrenaline, the heat of the moment. Your desperation. All of it colliding, morphing, you can feel the war being waged beneath your skin. It’s awakening, calling you.  

“Having your soul torn apart and all, it’s not that unbearable?”

The echo of his voice, that voice of the unknown face that hunts in your fragmented memories. His face is still a blur in your mind but merged so easily with Sylus face. The man who kidnapped you under a red moon, the one whose hands were calloused but so soft as he touched you, whose voice was dark velvet laced. A conceited devil who mocked you. After resonating with him the first time, some part of your soul recognized him, your soul had been looking for his across lifetimes.

You remember his hands on your skin, the possessive way he pulled you closer even when you were trying to push him away. The way he looked at you when you weren’t watching. Every moment flashes through your mind now like lightning. The field of flowers, a trial, feeling persecuted, crying uncontrollably, the weight of guilt, fire, and blood. A life locked away and then condemned as a sacrifice. 

“Are you trying to move me with your human love?” 

You slid down to one knee, sucking in a breath that burns. Your ribs scream. Your hand trembled violently. You felt like you were fracturing, piece by agonizing piece. You want to reach for him. Deep in your chest, a faint glow pulsed beneath your skin – an unbreakable tether, a connection that even death couldn't sever.

“Unfortunately... the string of fate connecting us can't be cut that easily.”

There’s a name you’ve heard in dreams. A promise, etched into the fabric of another life. Bound by a curse that you can’t remember fully. You clutch at your chest, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like something inside you is about to snap. You remember the line of the report:

If instability persists, termination may be required before critical system failure occurs. Subject must be transferred immediately.

The panic only makes it worse, and every second drains more of your strength.

“Sylus…” you whisper, your voice trembling, there’s no strength left in you to call out properly. In the split-second between killing one of Rudy’s guards and turning to face another, Sylus’s head whipped around. His eyes found you instantly and his face changed. 

As you collapse, everything around you feels distante. The floor feels cold against your skin, and your body goes limp, no longer able to fight the overwhelming pain. Sylus rushes to your side, his every movement filled with urgency. His heart skips a beat as he sees you lying there, weak and fragile, the once defiant fire in your eyes fading into exhaustion and pain.

Sylus kneels beside you, his hands gentle but firm as he checks for a pulse. Your chest heaving with uneven breaths, your skin pale, and your heartbeat erratic. Panic digs its nails into his mind, refusing to let go. He can't lose you. Not like this. Not again.

“Look at me,” he said sharply, voice cracking through your haze. “Look at me, kitten. Stay with me.” Your lips trembled. You wanted to speak, tell him that you were scared. That something was wrong. But all you could do was clutch his wrist, grounding yourself with the only thing that still felt real.

You see his face blurred, like something out of a dream you’re not sure you’re still in. His brows are drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes moving in rapid flicks over your face like he’s counting every breath you take. Your heart slams against your ribcage, each beat like a fist from inside, slower… deeper… louder. The world feels distant. Muffled. Like you're underwater and everything is just out of reach. Fingers brushing over your bruised jaw, the bandages at your side. You’re terrified. 

The night fog envelops you, and you're caught in what might as well be a long, chaotic nightmare. When you wake, you're surrounded by a red valley filled with blooming red datura. Your arms are heavy. You look down—and see a huge, horned creature cradled in your grasp. You’re holding it as it dies. You don’t know why you're here. You only vaguely remember something about a dragon in a pitch-black chapel. You try desperately to remember. But the last clear image you have of the dragon ends on that blood-soaked night beneath the moon Everything afterward is shattered shredded fragments, scattered and incomplete. You can’t remember if you finished playing that piece.

“This promise will never be broken.”

But your lips curl into a faint, broken smile before the serum’s burning again in your system. 

Sylus sees it and it knocks the breath from his lungs. That smile. He doesn’t understand. Why are you smiling now? His composure cracking beneath that damn smug mask he always wears for everyone else. His voice catches in his throat.

“Kitten…?”

︶︶°︶︶

Caleb moved through the shadows like a blade. Anyone who stood in his way didn’t last long. Around the next bend, a knot of armed guards materialized, their harsh whispers echoing in the sterile air. Caleb didn't break stride. He simply raised a hand, a subtle gesture that belied the immense power he wielded. 

The air itself seemed to compress, the atmospheric pressure plummeting with unnatural speed. A collective gasp escaped the guards’ lips as their bodies began to implode, bones crunching, flesh yielding, their forms contorting into grotesque parodies of human shapes before collapsing inward with sickening finality, like discarded puppets. Caleb stepped over the mangled remains without so much as a downward glance.

He tracked Rudy’s panicked scent to a grimy service door tucked away near the rear of the facility. The man was fumbling with the lock, his movements jerky and desperate. Caleb used his evol to put pressure on the door, preventing it from opening in either direction.

“Running already?” Caleb’s voice was low, sharp.

Rudy froze. “You’re making a mistake,” he said quickly.

“Am I?” Caleb stepped closer. “You didn’t just take her, you piece of shit. You took others . Hunters. Civilians. People who were never supposed to be part of this.”

Rudy’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape route. Caleb moved again, closing the distance. “And now you’re going to tell me how Sylus fits into all of it.” Rudy hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Caleb moved another step closer, his presence a palpable threat.

“This is your only chance. Talk.” Caleb’s tone left no room for argument.

Rudy’s hands shot up in a pathetic gesture of appeasement, his face a mask of desperation as he stumbled backwards. “It was… efficient. Two for the price of one. Ever gave me the target. Imagine my surprise when it was the same little toy clinging to Sylus. Take out the beast, deliver the girl – bigger payout for me. I didn't expect that Professor's dog would show up.”

Caleb’s face remained a rigid mask of fury, his eyes like glacial shards that could freeze bone. “What. Did they do. To her?”

“They tested something… something new. A serum, made from Protoflux readings. Chimera 1X9” Rudy’s words spilled fast, desperate. “Look, I swear on everything I hold dear – I don’t know the specifics of their sick experiments. I just deliver them. That’s it. My part ends there.”

A cold dread washed over Caleb as Rudy's words clicked into place, forming a horrifying picture. They pumped that shit into her . He didn’t have time for this. Letting Rudy breathe another second was a goddamn invitation for disaster, especially knowing what the bastard knew – Caleb's face, even who the fuck he answered to. The thought of the Professor getting wind of this… No. Loose ends got people buried. This piece of shit wasn't walking out of here. Decision made. He was going to enjoy this.

Suddenly, a monstrous figure smashed through the wall behind Rudy, tendrils of dark energy crackling around its grotesque form. A Wanderer, its eyes burning with malevolent intent, lunged for the defenseless Rudy.

Instinct took over. Before Rudy could even scream, Caleb moved with lightning speed, a blur of motion. He slammed into Rudy, throwing him out of the Wanderer’s path just as razor-sharp claws tore through the air where the man had been standing. The Wanderer roared in frustration, its attention now fully fixed on Caleb.

Caleb’s cold gaze snapped back to Rudy. “You were saying?”

Rudy swallowed hard, his fear now compounded with a fresh layer of terror. “Okay, okay! There’s… there’s a Metaflux destabilizer. I activated it when I realized things were going south. It’s overloading the containment fields.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You suicidal idiot! Get it off. Now.” His voice was a low, lethal command.

Rudy scrambled back, shaking his head frantically. “I… I don’t know how! It’s on a timer! A failsafe!”

Caleb snarled, his face inches from Rudy’s, his eyes blazing with a terrifying mix of fury and desperation. “You're coming with me. Right now. You're going to deactivate that damn thing.” He didn't wait for a response, dragging the whimpering Rudy along the debris-strewn corridor, the screeching of the approaching Wanderers growing louder with each passing second.

They rounded a corner, and two more Wanderers, their forms flickering in and out of phase with reality, lunged at them from the shadows. Caleb didn’t even break his stride. With a flick of his wrist, a gravitational force slammed into the creatures, sending them spinning into the walls with bone-jarring impacts. They slumped to the ground, momentarily stunned.

“It’s in the main control room!” Rudy shrieked, his eyes wide with terror as he glanced back at the downed Wanderers, their guttural snarls echoing behind them. 

A few breathless, chaotic moments later, Caleb and a whimpering Rudy burst into the main control room. Sparks rained down from damaged consoles, alarms blared with deafening intensity, and the air crackled with unstable energy. Several Wanderers were already tearing through the room, their grotesque forms ripping apart equipment with savage abandon.

Caleb hurled Rudy towards a central console, its screens flickering with chaotic data streams. “There! The destabilizer! Find the override!”

Rudy stumbled, his eyes darting frantically over the complex array of buttons and holographic displays. “I… I don’t see it! It 's encrypted!”

Another Wanderer lunged at Rudy, its razor-sharp claws extended. Before Caleb could intervene, Rudy yelped and scrambled backwards, tripping over a fallen console. The creature was on him in an instant.

With a snarl of pure rage, Caleb unleashed a focused blast of energy, tearing through the Wanderer’s chest, sending it collapsing in a heap of shimmering flesh. “Focus fucker, I don’t have all night for this.”

Rudy, spurred by a terror that finally eclipsed his self-preservation instincts, mashed frantically at the console. Sparks flew from his fingertips as he bypassed security protocols, lines of code scrolling across the damaged screens in a chaotic blur.

Finally, a holographic interface flickered to life on the console, displaying a large red icon labeled METAFLUX DESTABILIZER — EMERGENCY OVERRIDE. Rudy’s trembling finger hovered over it.

A violent tremor tore through the floor beneath their feet, a deep, guttural groan emanating from the very foundations, as if the earth itself was tearing apart. The building convulsed.  Chunks of concrete and twisted metal rained down from the ceiling like deadly hail. The violent upheaval sent Caleb staggering, his normally rock-solid balance betraying him. He stumbled, his head colliding with a jagged piece of falling debris. A searing pain lanced through his skull, and the world dissolved into a swirling blackness. Consciousness flickered and died.

When his senses returned, the building was still groaning its death throes. His head throbbed with a sickening intensity, and his vision swam. Disoriented, he blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Caleb’s head snapped towards Rudy, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What the fuck did you—?” 

Rudy lay crushed beneath a chunk of fallen ceiling, Blood soaked the concrete. The console, however, remained stubbornly intact, its holographic display still pulsing. Caleb didn't give the pulped remains a second glance. At least one less problem.

His only focus was you. He reached for the console, his hand hovering over the glowing icon, a moment's hesitation before the inevitable. Then, with a decisive thrust, he plunged his fingers into the light.

He had to get to you. He turned and ran, the image of you, vulnerable and possibly suffering, burning in his mind. He had to know if you were safe. If you were alive. And if that serum had touched you… he didn’t even dare finish the thought.

︶︶°︶︶

A violent surge of energy explodes tearing through the air with a deafening roar. A soundless eruption of pure, unleashed power. The shockwave rips through the building, slamming into walls and sending debris crashing to the ground. Steel beams shuddered, the ground beneath them buckling as the full impact of the blast tore through the building’s core. The boxes in the hall were explosives, which had further increased the shock wave. Flames ignite in the corners, curling up the walls, the heat suffocating. The ground shakes violently, and the ceiling cracks, chunks of concrete and metal falling to the floor.

None of the guards or Wanderers in the blast radius survive. Their bodies are torn apart, some vaporized on impact, others shredded by debris or crushed beneath the collapsing ceiling. Blood stains the floor before it’s swallowed by fire. The creatures never stood a chance. Not against that.

The force of the blow launched Sylus across the room, his body crashing against the ground with a sickening thud. For a moment, he doesn’t move. His ears ring. His vision doubles. The back of his skull throbs with sharp, pulsing pain. He groans, dragging himself to his elbows. 

What the hell just happened?

Sylus stumbles to his feet, wincing as his shoulder protests violently. A deep gash split the skin above his brow, blood spilling in slow, relentless rivulets that smeared down his temple and into his eye, blurring his vision. For anyone else, surviving an explosion like that would be a miracle. Even Sylus, with a body built to endure hell, has taken real damage and healing will take time. His jacket is torn at the seams, scorched and ragged, barely hanging on one side. Smoke curls from the charred fabric, revealing fresh cuts and bruises beneath. 

He ripped off what was left of his jacket, the scorched fabric falling from his shoulders. His shirt beneath was no better, ripped, soot-stained, and clinging to him in damp patches from sweat and blood. His crimson eyes, shadowed beneath blood and ash, searched the chaos for one thing. You.

You’re still glowing in the center of it all, body trembling. The flames spread quickly, licking at the walls, the heat unbearable. The whole place is a firestorm now, with walls caving in and the air thick with smoke. Sylus feels the heat on his skin as he tries to get back to you. He’s barely able to move before another wave of Rudy's men burst in, weapons drawn, and the chaos only escalates. Wanderers are also not giving a break. 

The building is coming apart, fire spreading in all directions. The rain that fell wasn’t enough to quench the hell that had broken loose. Seeing the number of enemies that are piling up, a retreat would be the most logical option. This just escalated beyond anything Sylus had prepared for. He glances back at you, lying unconscious on the ground. His heart clenches and his mind reels. He’d felt the moment it changed when your body twisted with pain, when something inside you fractured… and then detonated. This came from you . From deep inside your chest. The shockwave, the surge, the impossible energy of your aether core.

He doesn’t understand how or why. Surely, you’re not supposed to look like that, too still, too pale, eyes dazed and body swaying in the firestorm. Sylus cradles you in his arms, his grip desperate yet impossibly gentle, as if holding you too tightly might shatter what little remains of your fragile state. His mind screams at him to fix it, to make everything right. Your life hangs by a thread, and he feels it slipping through his fingers. His blood boils. His chest tightens. He should’ve known. He’s the one with half of your soul. The one who’s supposed to feel these things before they happen.

“Y/N…” he whispers, his voice breaking, raw with emotion he’s never allowed himself to show. The words tremble on his lips, his heart shattering with each syllable. “Open your eyes.”

But there’s no response. Your skin grows pale, the faint warmth that once comforted him now barely perceptible against the coldness of the moment. His heart drops into an abyss. You weren’t supposed to die like this. Not in his arms, not with ash in the air and your blood on his hands. Not when he had just gotten you back.

He pulls you tighter against his chest, one hand cradling your head, his thumb brushing against your cheek. You’re not allowed to leave him. Not after everything.

The anger, sorrow, and bloodlust churn inside him, an unbearable storm that demands release. Sylus has waited lifetimes for this, for you. Burned through empires. Spilled oceans of blood. All to get to you to share a future together. 

“My beloved…” His voice is barely there now. He kissed your temple. “Don’t do this...”

Something inside breaks. Sylus, the man one who has conquered with nothing more than his calm demeanor and his cold, calculating presence. The one they all feared. But now, as he stands in the wreckage, there is no cool detachment. There is no indifferent strategist. His expression is tight, his jaw set with a fury that has never before surfaced. His right eye, glowing like a dying star, reflects the turmoil inside him. Anger, sorrow and bloodlust twist together in a blinding maelstrom.

His evol built a shield around him as gunfire echoes through the space. The screams of the fallen mingle with the guttural roars of the Wanderers, their twisted forms wreaking havoc as they tear through what remains. 

The color of life drains from your body, and Sylus feels your soul slipping away. The unbearable realization rips through him like the swore you once put through his heart. His hands tremble as he pulls you tighter, pressing his forehead against yours, as if proximity alone could will your heart to keep beating. Your blood stains his clothes, seeping into the fabric, marking him with a reminder of the choices he’s made. He should’ve known better. Made Luke and Kieran drag you out the moment things went wrong. He should’ve blown Rudy’s empire to hell the second he found it and killed him the moment he laid eyes on you. He should’ve protected you.

His world tilts, and for the briefest moment, he sees nothing but darkness. A guttural, bestial roar erupts from his throat, raw and uncontained. The sound echoes through the crumbling warehouse like a harbinger of doom. 

“I let them see what a true fiend is.” 

When Sylus rises he doesn't rise as a man. He rises as wrath made flesh. Black and crimson mist swirled around him, tendrils of darkness coiling and writhing, punctuated by violent bursts of static electricity that snapped and crackled like miniature lightning storms. The atmosphere around him began to ripple, distorting with an unnatural, oppressive energy. His already tattered and battle-scarred clothing tore apart, shredding as if assaulted by unseen claws, as massive, obsidian wings erupted from his back.

They burst forth with terrifying force, their edges jagged and sharp, like shards of volcanic glass. Black horns, sharp and menacing, twisted upward from his skull, their base glowing faintly with the heat of his rage. Black scales cover part of his body and face. His eyes burned with a fearless, deathly glow, a crimson so vivid it seemed otherworldly. His gaze was void of humanity, carrying the weight of a predator awakened. A monster. A dragon.

The wings unfurled, stretching wide, their sheer size eclipsing the flickering flames that danced around him, casting long, ominous shadows that swallowed the light and plunged the warehouse into a terrifying twilight. 

Flames surged higher, licking at the steel beams and threatening the stability of the structure. Smoke and embers choked the air as debris began to rain down. Sylus raises his gaze from your face slowly, though still human in shape, his transformation into a mythical creature, a being feared throughout the history of humanity, was undeniable. 

The cacophony of gunfire falters. The armed men, ruthless moments ago, now freeze in terror. They stare at him, their weapons trembling in their hands. Through the blaze and destruction, Sylus appears like a wrathful deity descending into their midst. They can’t believe what they see, but it won’t matter. They won't live to share their story. Doom’s day has arrived, and it wears the guise of Sylus. 

Inside the building, the screams are like a twisted symphony, something out of a nightmare. Blood streaks the floors and walls, pooling around bodies that are barely recognizable. The smell of burnt flesh is everywhere, impossible to ignore. No matter who they are, humans or wanderers, everything must be annihilated until not a single being remains.

Through it all, Sylus never lets you go. You’re still in his arms, your fragile body limp against his chest. One arm holds you close, shielding you from the chaos. He holds you with all the gentleness he has left, while with the other he tears through anything that dares to get close.

It’s hard to tell how long it’s been. Time feels meaningless in the middle of this chaos. Sylus doesn’t stop to think or hesitate; he’s a blur of rage. There’s no satisfaction in it for him, no enjoyment in the bloodshed. Even as blood splashes across his face and claws, even as the flames climb higher, he never lets go. The massacre isn’t vengeance. It’s desperation, pure and unrelenting.

The hatred inside him feels like it’s eating him alive, fueling every swing, every strike. All he can think about is you, lying against him. He can feel the faint pulse of your heartbeat, and it’s the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself.

Part of him wonders if fate is playing a cruel trick on him, once again drenched in blood, slaughtering everything in sight just to keep you alive. He prays with every ounce of his being that history won’t repeat itself. That he won’t lose control again. That the dragon’s curse won’t devour what’s left of his humanity and force him to relive the same doomed ending. 

Luke and Kieran were locked in their own brutal skirmish in the far corner of the building when they heard the roaring. 

"Is that…?" Luke started, his voice barely audible over the massacre as he hurled a knife, embedding it perfectly in the skull of an approaching enemy. Kieran, a few paces behind, drove his elbow into the throat of another, crushing it before slamming the body into a wall with a sickening crunch. 

The twins sprinted through the labyrinth of burning corridors, lungs searing as smoke clawed its way down their throats, the heat pressing in from all sides like a living thing.

When they reached the threshold of the main hall, they skidded to a halt, blocked by a searing wall of heat.

“Shit,” Luke hissed, shielding his face with his arm. “We can’t get through!”

The firestorm raged ahead of them. Smoke billowed upward, churning with glowing embers. Through the haze, distorted by heat shimmer and ash, they saw him. A towering silhouette cloaked in smoke and glowing blood-red eyes.

“Boss?” Luke asked, his tone edged with equal parts awe and apprehension. “Is he...?”

Kieran took a single step back, breath catching in his throat. “Fuck me…” he muttered, eyes wide. The rumors, the whispers, Sylus’s true nature wasn’t just legend to them anymore. From the heart of the inferno, they watched his black form move. The shadows bent around him. Every Wanderer, every guard who dared approach was torn apart, reduced to ash and splintered in seconds.

Sylus was done. The chaos, the screams, the blood, it was all taking too long, and he was done wasting time. His patience had run dry, and the growing inferno in his chest told him it was time to finish this. Completely.

Through the smoke and slaughter, his sharp eyes caught sight of Luke and Kieran slicing through the last wave of resistance. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Good.

“Luke, Kieran” Sylus called, his voice cutting through the madness like a blade. The twins turned to him immediately. “Blow the place. If the Colonel is still inside, get him out.” His voice was steel and fire. “She’ll never forgive me if he dies here.” He said, his tone leaving no room for argument. A beat passed. Just enough time for the gravity of his words to settle. “You know what to do” 

Kieran gave a mock salute, while Luke raised his thumb in approval.

“Got it, boss!” Luke said, taking the detonator out of his pocket, already setting the timer.

“This is the best part,” Kieran added, his excitement almost childlike as he looked at the detonator. “Fireworks time!”

Sylus didn’t linger to watch them work. With you still cradled in his arms, his wings unfurled in a massive sweep, scattering ash and debris. With a powerful leap, he took to the air, rising through the collapsing roof of the warehouse. Flames licked at the edges of his wings as he flew higher, his grip on you protective yet firm.

Luke and Kieran sprinted through the smoke-filled corridors, weaving between collapsing beams and scorched debris. The heat was rising, and time was running out. Luck or something close to it was on their side. As they rounded the corner of a fractured hallway, they nearly ran straight into Caleb. The colonel stood like a statue, framed by flickering firelight, soot streaking his cheek, eyes locked on something distant and unseen.

“Oh, there you are,” Luke said casually, like they'd just bumped into him in a grocery store.

Kieran offered a lopsided grin, casually flipping the detonator between his fingers. “We’re about to blow up the entire party. So unless you’re feeling nostalgic about your last brush with death, you might wanna move your ass.”

Caleb didn’t answer. His eyes were distant, locked on the burning horizon where Sylus had taken flight. Where you had disappeared. He definitely needs to get his head checked, what he just saw must have been an illusion. Caleb shook his head. He didn’t have the patience for snar. 

“Where is she?” His voice was low, hoarse like it had been dragged through gravel.

Luke gave a half-shrug. “Boss took care of her. We’re kind of in the middle of blowing shit up, though, so…”

“Where?” Caleb snapped, the fire back in his eyes, fury crackling at the edges of his voice.

Kieran looked over to his brother and then back to Caleb “Uh, we saved her, big guy. A thank you wouldn’t kill you.”

“Sure…” Caleb growled.

Unbothered, Luke pulled the detonator from his pocket and checked the timer. “We’ve got ninety seconds. You staying here to play martyr, or are you coming with us?”

Caleb exhaled slowly, dragging his hand down his face but he followed the two. 

“Man’s got issues," Kieran muttered.

“Yeah,” Luke muttered, eyes still on the timer. “We’ve got bigger ones if we don’t move.”

The three ran out as fast as they could, when they were far away enough to not get hit by the shock wave. Luke and Kieran stood by, both laughing like kids at a carnival. The warehouse erupted in a deafening explosion, fire and debris shooting into the night sky like a macabre display of fireworks. The twins watched the destruction with gleeful awe, reveling in the sheer chaos of it all.

“I love this job” Kieran said, brushing soot from his face.

“Best boss ever” Luke replied with a laugh, already heading for the exit.

︶︶°︶︶

You started to open your eyes a bit. You're not feeling good at all, the harsh wind confuses you.

“Sy...lus,” you whisper weakly. You don't know if your dreams have become intertwined with your reality. His face hovers above yours but half of it is cloaked in dark, glimmering scales. Something stirs deep inside you, rising like a tide through your body. You simply smile.

“Don't talk,” he says softly, his voice strained with emotion.

Sylus soared through the night sky above the N109 Zone, the wind howling past his ears as the ruined city sprawled beneath him. His eyes locked onto the distant glow of Philip’s Odd Workshop. His landing is gentle at the back of the building. The massive black wings folded once, then dissolved tendrils of red-black mist curling off his back, twisting like smoke in the cold air before vanishing into nothing. The claws, the fangs, the otherworldly edges gone in an instant. There he stood once more, just a man.

Still cradling your limp form in his arms, he burst through the back entrance. He cleared a space on one of the cluttered worktables with a brutal sweep of his arm, tools, gears, and strange half-finished contraptions clattered violently to the floor. He laid you down gently, but his hands trembled. Sylus could have flown you to Akso Hospital, to your doctor but he had the feeling that icy Zayne wouldn't be able to fix this. This wasn’t a wound of flesh.

“Phillip!” 

The man rushed out from the back room, the sound of Sylus’s voice having shattered the late-night quiet like a bomb. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the blood, the smoke still clinging to Sylus’s ruined clothes, and you motionless, pale.

“Mister Sylus?”

“I need your help. Now.” Sylus’s tone was sharp, near frantic, something rarely heard from him.

Phillip blinked, trying to make sense of it all, but the moment his eyes landed on you, recognition snapped into place. He was across the room in seconds, rounding the table, checking your vitals. 

“What happened?” he asked, already scanning the extent of your injuries. Phillip’s hands worked with speed that betrayed his age. 

“An explosion. It could be her Aether Core.” Phillip’s eyes widened. 

Philip started to move around with urgency. Cabinets slammed open. Wires were uncoiled. Electrodes and diagnostic panels were yanked from drawers and wheeled across the floor. A cold sweat glistened at his brow as he pressed the final electrode gently against your sternum, just over the faintly beating heart in your chest. 

“Why did you bring her here? She should be in the hospital.” Phillip muttered, mostly to himself. “Under twenty-four-hour critical monitoring…”

“She won’t make it to a hospital,” Sylus cut in. “And you should know how to fix this.” Sylus replied hoarsely.

Phillip hesitated, visibly rattled. “Miss Josefin was the one who designed the failsafe systems. I... I wasn’t cleared for full access, but—” He exhaled sharply, steel slipping into his gaze. “Okay. I can try to stabilize the core… if there’s still time.”

His fingers moved swiftly across the panel, inputting commands, rerouting surge lines, recalibrating energy conduits on instinct and partial schematics.

“It’s bleeding into her cellular network, overclocking the nervous system, fusing with her neural patterns. Her whole body is trying to evolve past what it can sustain.” Phillip swore under his breath. Your heart rate was erratic. Your heart rate jumped, then dropped. Spiked again. Vital signs flickered like a failing lightbulb on the edge of burning out.

Philip paused. His hands stilled. He looked up slowly, eyes shadowed, voice suddenly very quiet. 

“Mister Sylus…” he swallowed for a moment. “You’re asking me to patch a falling star with duct tape.” Philip hesitated, then added, softly like the truth might kill him just by saying it. “The last time I saw her vitals like this… she died.”

Sylus wants to cry, but the tears won’t come. It’s been millennia since they last did. The weight of his failure presses down on him, a corrupting force that leaves him feeling torn apart inside. He couldn’t protect you, and the guilt is unbearable. He sat down next to you. He reached for your cold fingers, pressing them between his hands. Sylus bowed his head, his forehead brushing the edge of the table, his breath shallow.

You stir faintly, your fragile movements drawing his attention. His head snapped up, eyes burning as they locked onto yours. Your lashes fluttered. Your breathing was shallow but you managed to open your eyes. The world around you swam in fractured light and shadow, but his face was clear. The way his gem-like eyes searched yours like a man clinging to his last hope.

You felt cold and hot all at once. Your skin clammy, sweat dampening your hairline, and yet inside of you, everything was burning. Melting. Breaking apart. The sparkle he always admired in your gaze was barely there now, dulled and fading.

“R...resonate with me,” you whispered. 

“No!” He shook his head immediately, torn from his chest as if it physically pained him. You pressed his hand weakly. You want to feel his warmth, to remind yourself you’re still here, even as your body grows colder.

“Please...” The word was barely a breath. 

Sylus hesitates, torn by doubt. Granting you this wish is too dangerous, you have no energy left to spare. The thought of you using the last bit of strength in you terrifies him. Philip, who had hovered nearby, opened his mouth, concerned with sharpening his tone. 

“Mister Sylus, that’s not—”

“Leave us alone for a moment....” he cuts Philips, took a deep breath and added “...please.” 

Philip hesitated, glanced between the two of you and then nodded, retreating into the shadows of the workshop with silent urgency. Sylus leaned closer, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead. His breath trembled against your skin.

“If I resonate with you now, you could die...”

His eyes squeezed shut, and for a timeless moment, the chaos around you both faded. There was only the fragile warmth of your skin against his, the shallow whisper of your breath against his cheek. He breathed you in, a silent act of devotion, memorizing the feel of you, the scent of you, the very essence of your fading presence. 

“Trust… me, please.” A single tear escaped the corner of your eye, tracing a lonely path down your temple. “Can you do that?” Another tear followed, and then another, silent testament to the fear and the desperate hope clinging to your heart.

Finally he lets out a sigh. Reluctantly, he intertwined his hand with yours, his grip firm but gentle. A faint, fragile smile flickered across your lips. With the last shred of strength you can muster, you push your energy through your hand, trying to show him... You weren’t sure what he’d feel. You only hoped he’d understand.

Sylus finally yielded, his fingers tightening around yours as the resonance began. A wave of heat floods your body, flowing from him to you, and vice versa. It's overwhelming, enveloping you in a cocoon of safety and comfort. It feels so good, so pure. For a moment, the pain subsides, replaced by an all-encompassing feeling of love. You can sense it in every fiber of your being: his devotion, his desperation, his refusal to let go.

And if this is the last time you will feel this way, if this is your final moment... then it’s worth it. Spending the last remnants of your energy to share this connection with him, this fleeting perfection it’s enough. You let yourself sink into the sensation, the world around you fading as his warmth becomes your entire universe.

As the resonance deepens, the warmth flooding through you brings clarity, and with it, memories long buried. Fragments of another life, your life with him, begin to surface. Images, emotions, fleeting moments of joy and sorrow, all coming together like a puzzle you didn’t know was incomplete. More tears slipped down your cheeks.

Your heart aches, not just from the pain, but from the overwhelming realization that you’ve loved him all along, not just these past months, but lifetimes ago. A love so enduring it has transcended time, waiting patiently for you to remember. 

Sylus’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face as he pulled back just slightly, just enough to see you, to make sure what he felt wasn’t some cruel illusion. His gaze searched yours, stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just felt. Whatever you had just given him, it hit something buried deep inside. And it shattered him. His breath hitched.

You struggle to speak, your voice trembling but determined. “Sylus…” you take a ragged breath “I...I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Everything we had… you sacrificed… yourself.”

His eyes widen slightly even more, searching for the meaning behind your words. His grip on your hand tightens, the raw emotion in his eyes betraying the composure he tries so hard to maintain.

“I’m sorry for being so greedy” you continue, “I loved you so much, I couldn’t- I couldn’t let you die.”

Your free hand weakly moves to his face, brushing against his cheek. He leans into your touch like a man starved for it. His warmth grounds you, and though you’re so tired, the weight of those words lifts something heavy from your chest. For a fleeting moment, everything feels right, as if the universe itself pauses to acknowledge your truth.

His face twists. He presses your hand, shuddering breath escapes him. And for the first time in centuries, Sylus cries. His shoulders trembling as the tears silently streamed down his face.

“You remembered” Sylus's voice grows hoarser. You wipe some of the tears from his cheeks.

“Sincere feelings are hard to forget... you said that.”

His hand moves to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle despite the storm of emotions raging within him. For a man who always seemed unshakable, the vulnerability in his gaze is staggering. Without hesitation, Sylus pushed his power surging through you like a tidal wave. The warmth intensifies, and for a moment, it feels as if the very essence of his soul is pouring into you. Your injuries begin to mend, the pain receding as his energy knits your broken body back together. The fractures, the wounds, even the exhaustion, everything is erased as if the damage had never existed.

Sylus’s face is pale, the strain of using his Evol to such an extent evident, but he doesn’t stop. His only focus is you. “You’re not allowed to leave me then,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Ever.”

As the last of your injuries heal, you feel a strange mixture of relief and guilt. He’s given so much of himself to save you, and the depth of his love is almost overwhelming. You want to tell him everything, to promise you’ll stay but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you made a small, almost imperceptible movement, a silent attempt to rise. Instantly, he was there, his strong arms scooping you up, cradling you against his chest. A soft smile touched your lips, your fingers brushing against his chest. The warmth of his touch and the depth of his love lingering in your fading awareness. But the world around you begins to blur, the colors fading to a dull haze. You feel tired, incredibly tired, and you wish you could extend this moment a few more moments. A desperate longing bloomed in your chest, a selfish wish to stretch this moment. Just a few more breaths held in his arms, a few more heartbeats echoing against yours.

“My beloved dragon…” You whisper, your voice barely a breath. “I’ll always… be… with you.”

Your vision dims further, the light in your eyes vanishing as exhaustion overtakes you. Everything goes dark, a void swallowing you whole. The last thing you hear is Sylus’s voice, frantic and filled with desperation, calling your name. And then, softer, closer, a broken confession whispered against your hair, carried on trembling lips.

“I love you.” 

The words echo in the emptiness as you slip away, an inevitable pull of the darkness claiming you completely.

Six weeks later.

It’s a rainy day, the kind that turns the world into a grayscale painting. The radio murmurs in the background, its words cold and distant:

“After weeks of investigation, the police have officially closed the case on the death of Miss (Y/N). Her untimely passing during a critical mission in the N109 Zone marked the end of an extraordinary life…”

The radio clicks off abruptly. The soft patter of rain against the car window fills the silence, a maddeningly persistent sound. He sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. His gaze was fixed on the water cascading down the glass. Finally, as if pulled by an invisible string, he reached for the door handle. He stepped out into the downpour, the cold rain instantly soaking his clothes, the umbrella lying forgotten on the passenger seat. He stood there, exposed and vulnerable, the gray world mirroring the desolate landscape of his heart.

The path to the graveyard is narrow, slick with mud and rain. He carries a bouquet of flowers, their vibrant colors muted in the dreary light. Each step feels heavier than the last, his shoots sinking slightly into the wet ground.

He reached your grave, nestled beside your grandmother's. Gently, reverently, he placed the flowers against the cold stone of your headstone. His hands lingered there, trembling almost imperceptibly, his shoulders hunched as if bearing an unbearable weight. “I couldn’t…” The words were a broken whisper, torn from a throat raw with grief. His heart felt equally shattered. “I told you to be careful…”

He clenches his fists tightly, his knuckles white as the storm rages around him. The words escape in a choked growl, swallowed by the rain. The man kneeling before your grave was a shadow of his former self. His black coat clings to his soaked form, water dripping from his hair onto his hollow cheeks. The once vibrant green of his eyes, usually sharp and knowing, was now muted, dimmed by the dark circles that spoke of countless sleepless nights haunted by your absence. His expression, usually unreadable, is cracked open, revealing a pain he hasn’t allowed himself to feel fully.

He wants to cry, to let the dam break and let the anguish consume him, but he’s terrified. If he starts, he may never stop, not in hours, not in days.

The sharp ring of his phone cuts through the rain, jarring him back to the present. Slowly, he pulls it from his pocket, his voice cold and distant once more.

“Yes… I see. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Prepare the OR. Thanks.”

He lingers for a moment longer, staring at your name etched in stone before forcing himself to rise. Zayne hasn’t been the same since your death. The cracks in his carefully built facade are growing, but there’s no time to break. Duty calls. He walks back to the car, carrying the silence you left behind.

In the distance, the studio is in chaos, canvas after canvas leaning against walls, discarded paint-streaked brushes scattered on the floor, and a maddening array of half-finished portraits covering every surface. Each one is the same: your face.

Rafayel hasn’t stopped. Day and night, he paints obsessively, as if capturing you on the canvas might somehow bring you back. The smell of turpentine and oil paint lingers in the air, mixing with the suffocating weight of his grief. Yet, despite the feverish pace, there are moments when he sits in the corner, staring at the wreckage of his art, torn between the drive to create and the overwhelming desire to quit everything altogether.

At your funeral, he couldn’t bring himself to step closer. He stood at a distance, his broad frame cast in shadow, hands buried deep in his coat pockets to hide their trembling. The ceremony unfolded before him like a surreal play, his vision blurring as people wept and spoke of your life.

When they lowered you into the ground, Rafayel turned his face away, unable to watch. His heart felt like it was being wrenched from his chest. He stayed in the background until the last of the mourners departed, the sound of his uneven breaths lost to the wind. He would wait for you once more, waiting for the moment you will be reborn.

Xavier disappeared the moment your death was confirmed, leaving no trace, no explanation. It was as if he vanished into thin air. He didn’t attend the funeral, didn’t show up to any memorials or gatherings. No one knew where he went, not even the Hunter Association. He simply left, as if the world had become too much to bear after your loss.

Rumors spread, some said he was on another mission, others whispered that he had broken, retreating from the world to grieve in isolation. The truth was far different from what anyone had assumed. Xavier hadn't disappeared to grieve in silence, he had thrown himself into his work, desperate and consumed by a single goal. He was holed up in his spaceship, working tirelessly, but with no success. Every day, he scoured the endless streams of data, searching for a way to bring you back. He refused to believe the official story, that your death was just the result of a mission gone wrong. To him, it was all lies for the public. The idea that your death was a simple accident, part of a mission, felt like a betrayal of everything he knew about you. 

The N109 Zone had always been full of secrets, and Xavier was willing to sacrifice everything to uncover the truth, even if it meant losing himself in the process. But no matter how many leads he followed, no matter how many hours he spent in the darkness of his ship, the answers eluded him. Every failure, every dead-end only pushed him further into obsession. But he wouldn’t stop. 

The news of your death hit Caleb with denial and desperation. No. Not you. It can't be. He clung to the fragile hope of a terrible mistake, a cruel rumor that would soon be proven false. His love for you, a possessive tendril that had wrapped around his heart since childhood, twisted into a burning resentment. Someone had to be held accountable for this unbearable void in his world. And his gaze, sharp with suspicion and fueled by a desperate need for retribution, immediately landed on Sylus. He had taken you from him, either through direct action or by the mere fact of his existence in your life.

The Professor observed Caleb's devastation with a cold, calculating gaze. The raw, unraveling grief of his prized subject was a temporary setback, an inconvenient detour on the path to his grand design. While a flicker of annoyance might have crossed his features at the disruption, his mind quickly pivoted. Caleb's emotional fragility was a liability, a delay in his meticulously crafted plans. Other children, other evolvers – they were out there. He simply needed to find them, mold them, and continue his work. He would simply find another, perhaps even more potent, component to take its place. The grand experiment would continue.

The world kept spinning, relentlessly moving forward, and even for Sylus, life had to go on. Standing in the kitchen, he let the weight of the past few weeks settle on him, but the familiar routine of making coffee offered some small comfort. Since your death, everything has been more complicated. Cleaning up the mess after the shit show with Rudy was a massive effort, one that drained him more than he cared to admit. He took a sip of his coffee, savoring the warmth for just a moment.

Every piece had to be placed perfectly, from the fake mission briefing on your hunter watch to the carefully orchestrated setup of your death. Nothing could ever lead the investigation back to him or Onychinus. He couldn’t afford any loose ends.

Sylus sighed and poured himself another cup, this time filling it with tea. The calmness of the hot liquid briefly soothed him before the weight of the situation came crashing back. That night was more than a horrible nightmare. No matter how many times he reviewed the facts and the scenario, he always arrived at the same terrible conclusion: even if he had known about the serum and Ever’s experiments earlier, it wouldn’t have changed much. Even if he’d killed Rudy long ago, with Ever Group lurking in the shadows, the risk would’ve still been there.

He carried the two cups into his office, the ceramic clinking softly in the quiet room. From the old speaker in the corner, Chopin’s Waltz in A Minor played faintly, the delicate piano notes curling through the air like smoke—melancholy and timeless. He sank into his familiar chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him.

The faint light caught the exhaustion etched into his features, the shadows beneath his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights haunted by your memory. Healing from that night also took a long time. He had been forced to rely heavily on Luke and Kieran, entrusting them with responsibilities he would normally have shouldered himself. Despite their sometimes airheaded nature, they are loyal employees.

“We should not do that again,” Sylus murmured.

A small laugh came from across the room, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Why not? It worked, didn't it?” your voice teased, a familiar spark of mischief in its tone.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that spoke of both exasperation and a grudging admiration. “Sweetie,” he said, “you are breathtakingly reckless but... I must say, you never stop surprising me.”

“You were the one who so poetically declared I should go beyond the confines of light and shadow ,” you countered, a playful glint dancing in your eyes, mirroring the earlier mischief in your voice.

Sylus snorted, a short, almost disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Indeed,” he replies with a smirk. “My dramatic pronouncements do have a tendency to come back and bite me. However,” he emphasized, his eyes narrowing slightly, “I distinctly recall the phrasing step beyond, not faking your death .”

You settled deeper into the warmth radiating from the teacup cradled in your hands, a soft, almost contemplative expression on your face.

“It was necessary, Sylus,” you said quietly, the playful edge in your voice slipping away. “Ever won’t be looking for a corpse. This buys us time. Besides,” you added, putting the cup down again, your gaze lifting to meet his. “I didn’t exactly fake my death. I was dead.”

A shadow flickered across Sylus’s features, a momentary eclipse of the earlier amusement, as he straightened and moved with swift purpose to the sofa where you were curled. Without a word, you shifted into his embrace, a silent seeking of comfort and reassurance in his familiar presence. His arms closed around you, a protective embrace that spoke volumes of his fear, a tangible manifestation of his terror at the thought of losing you again.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. “Even if I’m glad you came back,” he murmurs “we still don’t know how that was possible.” You leaned into his warmth, the steadiness of his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against your ear. 

“My Aether Core.” you say, your voice quiet but steady. “The power it has... I want to work with Phillip. Understand it.”

Sylus tightens his hold on you slightly, his gaze serious as he studies your face. “I won't let you play with it. It took twenty days for you to wake up from that coma.”

You nod slowly, eyes distant. Thoughts still tangled in the dark. “It felt like… like something inside me refused to let go.” Unsure how to finish the thought, you trail off. “I never thought I would do the same as Caleb.” you whisper finally. “Disappearing and visiting my own tomb.”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. He just held you tighter. You felt his breath against your hair, uneven. 

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “I won’t leave you.”

When you finally opened your eyes, Sylus didn’t breathe. Twenty days. Twenty days of silence. Of your still hands and shallow breaths. The sorrow. The weight. His past, bleeding into yours. The sorceress and the dragon. It sounded like a myth. A girl cloaked in light, and a monster cloaked in fire. You had once tried to tame the beast with nothing but kindness and bare hands. And he had once promised to protect you, even as his world turned to ash. He’d failed before. He wouldn’t fail again. Even when something had changed in you after waking up. 

“Sylus…” Your voice, normally a melody of warmth and kindness, had now a sinister undertone. “What if… I want to destroy the world?” You moved a bit in his embrace, resting your temple against his, feeling his familiar warmth. When you looked into his eyes, the depth he saw there was no longer the clear pool of your soul, but a swirling vortex of shadow and greed. You didn’t blink. “Would you still stand by my side?”

He had glimpsed this nascent darkness in the moments after you awoke, a seed of something powerful taking root. Now, it was blossoming, and a strange sense of acceptance settled within him. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips, a mirror to the storm gathering within you. “You’ll always be free to do whatever you want when you’re with me.”

“It might be dangerous,” you warned.

He cupped your face, his thumbs tracing the delicate curve of your cheekbones, his gaze locked on the unsettling brilliance of your eyes. “I can handle it, kitten.”

Then you smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips, and your left eye flared with a crimson intensity that echoed the same intensity that ignited in Sylus's right. In that shared incandescent flash, the truth resonated, undeniable and profound. The seal in your mind shattered. Your souls were no longer separate entities but two halves of a singular, formidable whole, every nuance of feeling laid bare. 

The sorceress had risen, and her dragon would unleash hell itself before letting her slip away again. A dark promise, a twisted vow whispered between two souls bound by a love that now embraced the shadows. They would let the world burn, and they would stand together in the ashes. After all, you and Sylus were the same.

True kindred spirits.

Navigator to MASTERLIST: SYLUS FANFICS

It’s been a long journey coming to the end of this story. Thank you for walking through the fire with them. For reading. For feeling. For staying until the very end.

This story came alive because I once read a short fic about a kidnapping, like month ago. It stayed with me and I thought, what if the rescue wasn’t short? What if it was messy, long, painful... and full of love and mystery. And so, "Let the World Burn" was born. I enjoyed it a lot.

Writing this meant more to me than I can explain. To everyone who read, commented, or quietly felt something along the way, you helped to bring this story on this platform. And for that, I’m endlessly grateful.

If you haven’t subscribed to my page yet, feel free to do so. One-shots and short stories will still pop up now and then and if you enjoyed this insane, sprawling fic, maybe you’ll find joy in the little ones too. (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

With love, Salem

[landoscarinthefastlane]

Look when you're ready - Landoscar

Summary:

In 2025, Oscar stepped away from the grid but stayed with McLaren as Lando’s race engineer, their bond evolving from seamless sync on track to unspoken understanding beyond it.

Note⚠️: Contains intense eye contact, soft confessions, unresolved tension finally getting its moment, and two idiots in love pretending it’s still just about racing.

McLaren in 2025 was something else. New dynamics, old faces, fresh energy. Carlos was back in papaya, and the team was buzzing. Media, fans, engineers, everyone. There was nostalgia and excitement as Carlos and Lando were a team once again. The boys were back.

But there was something else too. Something newer. Different, Quiter. Threaded into the spaces between race weekends and radio check-ins.

Oscar.

Oscar wasn't a driver. Not anymore. He had to take a step back from the grid. But he had left his mark. Made sure the team knew who he was and what he could do, even outside of the car.

And the team wasn't ready to lose Oscar yet. So when Will announced that he was leaving the team, there was only one option left, in their eyes.

They offered Oscar a new path after having to step away from the grid. A way to stay close to the sport, to keep building something, to stay with the team.

Oscar had taken the headset and settled into a rythm on the pit wall. It was weird, at first, having Oscar not in the garage next to him, strapped into his car, looking at Lando before giving him a small nod in salute before driving out like he was meant to do it for the rest of his life.

But things can turn upside down in the blink of an eye. Carlos was back on the team, being pushed aside by Ferrari to make room for seven time world champion Lewis Hamilton, and Oscar had settled onto the pit wall as Lando's new race engineer.

Not everyone could make the jump. It was hard to make the switch from being in the car and driving it yourself to being the one navigating the driver in the car on track.

But Oscar had adapted faster than anyone had expected. Because of course he did. Calculated. Calm. Relentless under pressure.

And when it came to Lando? He just got him.

"Box, box." "Copy."

"Rain expected in five." "Understood."

"Push now." "Always."

Simple exchanges. Nothing more and nothing less. But still, there was a kind of intimacy to it. A shorthand that had developed over two seasons of already driving together. They never just communicated. They synced. They had always done that from the moment Oscar first joined McLaren. It just came natural for them.

And Lando? Lando adored him.

Not that he said it out loud. But it showed in the way he lingered in the garage after sessions, how he looked up toward the pit wall after a good lap and every quali run, like he was searching for confirmation only Oscar could give. It was also in the way he always, always smiled when Oscar's voice came through his radio.

The fans noticed, of course. But it stayed subtle. Speculative.

Until one thursday press conference changed everything.

Carlos had made a joke. Something light about how Lando only listened when Oscar said things. Lando hated how Carlos was right. But he had smiled, soft and genuine, and leaned forward like the question deserved honesty.

"I mean, he knows me," Lando spoke, voice warm. Carlos seemed to be the only one that noticed how Lando's voice toned down to something that made you think of warm honey, whenever he spoke about Oscar.

"Oscar's been working long enough with me now, to read me bettter than I read myself sometimes. Both in and out of the car."

He paused, fingers toying with the mic. “He knows what I mean even when I can’t explain it. He gets how I talk, how I move, how I race. There’s just… a kind of trust there."

He shrugged his shoulders. “He always knows what I need, even if I don’t say it out loud.”

The media barely blinked. The fans, however, did not let it go.

Clips flooded X and Threads. Edits on TikTok. Zoomed in footage of Oscar, sitting in the background, cheeks pink and ears red, trying not to react. “He always knows what I need” trended with fan art, headcanons, video compilations.

This certainly did not go unnoticed.

The world started asking questions neither of them had dared ask themselves.

Lando found himself replaying the interview that night, lying in his hotel bed with his phone in his hands. His eyes found Oscar, somewhere in the back of the room, with the other engineers. The way his cheeks turned pink and a shy smile moved onto his lips before he looked down at the floor.

Lando's heart stuttered at the sight.

Later that night, his phone buzzed next to his head.

He picked it up, only to see that Oscar had texted him.

Oscar: I saw the interview

Lando stared at the message for a long moment.

Lando: Yeah. I didn't mean to make things weird.

Oscar's reply was instant.

Oscar: You didn't.

The little dots on his screen dissapeared for a second before Oscar started typing again.

Oscar: Did you mean it?

Lando did not have to think twice about it.

Lando: Ofcourse I did. Lando: I just didn’t realise everyone else would hear it like I said it.

Oscar: I did

Lando's breath caught in his throat.

Lando: Oh.

Another beat of silence. His heart thudded against his ribs.

Oscar: You always look for me after a good lap, seeking my confirmation.

Lando: You always know what I'm asking without me saying it. Even with my helmet on.

Oscar: Yeah.

Lando hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

Lando: Can I ask something properly now?

Oscar: You can ask me anything.

Lando: Is this something?

Oscar didn’t reply for a full minute. Lando thought he was going to die.

But then...

Oscar: It could be. Oscar: If we let it.

And that was the moment.

The line was carefully crossed.

The next day, Oscar handed Lando his in-ears before FP1, like he always did. Their fingers brushed as per usual. Lando held Oscar's gaze just a second too long.

“Let’s go win,” Oscar said, voice steady.

Lando smiled, a slow, knowing grin that made Oscar look away.

“Only if you talk me through it.”

[lura-valentine]

Choose Your Own Adventure!

MHA / BNHA Writing event

Part 3: The Anime-Manga-Con

This will be an interactive writing event where you decide what happens next!

How does it work❓️

🐵 Character choice - completed 📖 First part of the story Post - concluded 🗳️ At the end of the story there is a survey on how it should continue 🌐 The majority decides what happens next 🔄 The cycle repeats itself until the story ends

Thank you so, so, so much to everyone who liked ❤️ and shared 🔄 the latest part.

There were a surprising number of votes and I really didn't expect such a high turnout. I hope you enjoy this project as much as I do and participate diligently, because the event lives from your votes‼️

To make things more interesting, feel free to give me some suggestions as to what else could happen.

If the suggestions are good, they will be included in the next survey! You can do this anonymously or simply write in the comments😊

Vote 1 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

#lura mha/bnha CYOA_1

–> To Kaji's Profile #kaji black character profil

The first light of early morning crept shyly through the half-open curtains, fell upon the dust-dancing particles in the air as if it was trying to slip gently through the silence, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of this small, chaotic world.

Dabi lay stretched out along the long side of the corner sofa, a blanket only half-draped over him, one arm slung over the backrest, the other resting heavily on his chest. His face was soft, calmer than usual, as if–for once – his body didn’t have to fight anymore, neither against enemies nor memories.

On the shorter side of the sofa, Kaji lay on his stomach, as always, wings slightly spread so they wouldn’t get squashed. Around him: Kaji’s chaos – empty cans, crumpled manga pages, a blanket discarded on the floor, and everywhere feathers. Long and short ones. It looked like a phoenix had reinvented itself.

The night had been good. A deep, restful sleep had settled over them after the long fights in the ring.

BOOM

A dull, heavy sound tore through the silence like a discordant chord.

Dabi jolted upright, eyes glassy, hair a tousled mess, like he’d dreamed of war and woken in its midst. His gaze swept the room, searching, scanning and found Kaji… on the floor.

Between a crushed energy can and a pillow lay his son, half on his back, half tangled in his own wings, his expression somewhere between confusion, pain, and offended pride.

“Nice exit,” Dabi grumbled, rubbing his eyes and slumping back again.

Kaji blinked, tried to sit up, failed – one wing trapped beneath his own leg.

“Damn… why did this sofa get so damn narrow?”

“Maybe because you’re about as tall as me now, with wings twice the size of your mother’s.”

Kaji snorted, finally managing to sit up. His hair stuck out in every direction, and a feather clung stubbornly to his forehead.

“I dreamt I was flying… and then got shot down.”

Dabi slowly shook his head, a tired smile playing on his lips. “Welcome back to reality, Captain.”

A moment of silence hung between them, broken only by the soft creak of the heating cutting through the morning stillness.

Dabi sank back down, pulled the blanket higher, and closed his eyes.

“Next time, we sleep separately. You’re dangerous.”

Kaji stretched, rubbed his neck, and glanced at the ceiling, where one of his feathers drifted gently toward the floor.

“Sounds boring.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“Sounds like something Mom would insist on.”

Dabi cracked an eye open. “How much time do you think we’ve got before she’s back?”

Kaji thought for a moment. “Hm… if we’re lucky? Three days.”

“And if we’re not?”

“She’s already standing in the doorway.”

They both paused and looked at the door.

Silence.

Then they exhaled at the same time.

“Three days then,” Dabi muttered.

Kaji grinned. “Plenty of time to destroy the couch and eat the fridge empty.”

Dabi sighed. “We’re going to die.”

“But at least in a good mood.”

Dabi turned his head to the side, the pillow flattened beneath his cheek, a shadow of sarcasm lacing his voice – rough and still heavy with sleep. “How the hell can anyone be in a good mood when they’ve been yanked straight out of their sleep? Seriously. This is against human rights.”

Kaji mumbled something incomprehensible, somewhere between a yawn and a curse, shoved his tousled hair out of his face with a flat hand, and then muttered, as if trying to defend himself – even though he knew it was utterly hopeless: “It was gravity’s fault. Without it, I’d still be up there.”

“Sure. Go sue Newton. I’ll even write you a letter to the universe.”

Kaji only grumbled and blinked lazily at the digital clock on the sideboard. He squinted, paused, then his eyes widened in alarm.

“Shit!”

Dabi pushed himself halfway up, his eyes narrowing. “What now?”

“It’s eleven! I wanted to be at the con by one! I haven’t even showered!”

“I thought you were staying here today,” Dabi said, a touch disappointed, as if he had hoped that the day would continue in exactly this slow, calm rhythm. Full of laziness and maybe one or two stupid sayings. “At least I can be sure that you don't mess up here.”

Kaji gave a lopsided grin, stood up, scratched his head, and stepped over a crumpled chip bag. “You can come with me if you’re scared. My plus-one’s never alone. She never comes alone.”

Dabi raised an eyebrow, now sitting up fully and stretching his tired limbs. “She?” he asked, his tone sharp with implication. “A girl? Is that your girlfriend, Kaji?”

A dry, throaty laugh escaped Kaji. “What? No. It’s just Haru. Haruki Shigaraki.” He bent down for an open can, only to find it empty. “My best friend. And you know her old man. He won’t let her breathe three feet away from him if she’s going to something like this.”

Dabi paused, then a grin spread across his lips, that rare glint of pure, malicious anticipation lighting his eyes.

“Shigaraki... Tomura. You mean he goes there?”

Kaji nodded with a shrug, already moving toward the bathroom. “Yes, and he follows Haru like a shadow. She said he once stuck his head into one of those cardboard cutouts because she wanted him to.”

Dabi let out a low laugh – the kind that was rough, almost scratchy, and left one unsure whether he was genuinely amused or just acknowledging the sheer insanity of it all.

“Okay,” he murmured, leaning back against the backrest and clasping his hands behind his head. “That I need to see. Tomura Shigaraki stumbling over tote bags full of merch while his daughter in cosplay drags him through a hall packed with nerds… that’s a divine sight I’d actually wake up early for.”

From the bathroom came nothing but a dry “You’re insane, man.” – followed by the sound of running water and an overdramatized yawn.

Dabi kept grinning. “Say that again when I give him a Hello Kitty backpack.”

The air was warm and shimmering, filled with the hum of people and the occasional hiss of automatic doors that opened and closed tirelessly, as if they were applauding the crowd pouring toward the entrance. The hall rose like a gleaming colossus of steel and glass into the daylight, in front of it a small square with scattered trees, whose sparse shadows stretched like protective arms over cosplayers and those waiting. Voices mingled – shrill laughter, excited exclamations, the rustle of fabric, the clicking of cameras, the muffled bass thudding from inside the hall – all of it forming a backdrop that, for Dabi, unfamiliar as it was, felt strangely alive.

“You know,” he murmured, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze sweeping across the colorful flood of people, “demons, heroes, robots, fluffy cat creatures, half-naked elves with plastic weapons… this place does have one good thing.”

Kaji glanced at him, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “Yeah? And that would be?”

“I don’t have to hide,” Dabi replied dryly, tapping his temple with a finger. “No mask, no sunglasses. Half of these people probably think I'm dressing up as a fucked-up villain. And the other half probably wants a picture with me.”

“Technically, you are a fucked-up villain,” Kaji laughed.

Dabi only grunted softly, his gaze drifting into the distance – over there, at the edge of the hall, beneath one of the trees standing almost shyly among the sea of people, he spotted two figures. Haru, with flowing, snow-white hair that floated like fine silk in the breeze, her deep red eyes alert, curious, a little shy, but not without that sparkle that always lit up when she looked at Kaji. Her outfit was an almost affectionate parody. The same top, the same hands on the clothes, only... more feminine. And somehow more stylish.

“Almost looks better than the original,” Dabi muttered under his breath.

Kaji grinned. “I know. You should’ve seen his face when she told him who she was cosplaying.”

Next to her stood Tomura Shigaraki – the real one, tired, annoyed, with that sharp gaze beneath half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t even bothered to change anything. No disguise, no attempt to blend in. Just himself, in all his fractured presence, as if it were his god-given right to drag himself through a manga-anime-con. Hands in his pockets, back slightly hunched, his whole face one vibrating Why am I here? mantra.

Haru raised her hand in greeting, hesitant but happy. “Kaji.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but full of warm sincerity.

Kaji stepped toward her, arms opening a little as if to embrace her, only to let them fall again at the last moment, knowing how quickly she blushed. “You look cool,” he said simply.

“You too,” she replied softly, fidgeting with the hem of her coat between her fingers.

Dabi and Shigaraki exchanged a glance. It was a silent alliance between fathers, both equally clueless about what to do with these oversized teenage feelings popping like soap bubbles around them.

“You look like you’re about to run,” Dabi remarked, half mocking.

Shigaraki snorted. “If I thought she’d be fine on her own, I’d be home already.” He looked at his daughter, then back at Dabi. “But now that you’re here, at least I don’t have to suffer alone.”

Dabi grinned, clapped a hand on his shoulder like they’d just taken the first step together onto a battlefield made of glitter, plush, and too-loud music. “Can’t be that bad.”

Shigaraki blinked lazily. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And then the hall door slammed open again, and a man in a full-body Pikachu costume jumped by with a giant plush hammer in his hand.

Dabi stared.

“…I take it all back.”

Kaji was barely containable, his steps light and springy, a crooked grin playing on his lips, full of youthful excitement as he threw a quick glance over his shoulder at Dabi. “That was nothing. Just wait till we get inside – it only gets better, trust me.” And before another word could fall, he had already grabbed Haru’s hand. She laughed softly, letting herself be pulled along, her long white hair trailing behind her like veils made of mist and light.

The hall itself was a living, breathing kaleidoscope, a crowded dream of colors, shapes, and voices. The air hung heavy with the scent of popcorn, artificial strawberry sweetness, and the faint metallic chill of air conditioning units desperately trying to tame the heat radiating from so many bodies. Screens blinked on every corner, looping anime intros endlessly, while oversized character banners hung from the ceiling and merchandise stalls lined narrow aisles like carnival booths squeezed too tightly together. Shelves bent under the weight of countless manga volumes, neatly arranged by genre and publisher. Keychains clinked, and T-shirts printed with wild, chaotic panels fluttered in the breeze of passing fans.

Haru, eyes glowing, had already dragged Kaji further on – past cosplayers, past kitschy plushies, past a booth selling katana replicas where Kaji briefly hesitated, only to be tugged forward with a resigned look. Their voices were swallowed by the flood of noise, while Dabi and Shigaraki followed at a slow pace, like two shadows trailing the edges of the scene.

“Is she always like this?” Dabi asked, hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes drifting across a few posters full of glittering eyes and dramatic poses.

Shigaraki didn’t hesitate. His shoulders dipped slightly as he replied, “Yeah... And when Kaji or Himiko aren't there, she drags me from stall to stall. Without mercy, until my shoulders ache and I know what a shopping cart must feel like.” He didn’t even sound annoyed – more like someone who had long since surrendered.

Dabi gave a quiet snort, his gaze flicking toward Haru, who was now excitedly chatting with an artist at a fanart booth, her eyes shining. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

“Almost, huh?” Shigaraki shot him a sideways glance. “Just wait. I give you an hour. You’ll wish you never left the house.”

Dabi was about to retort when he felt a slight tug on his jacket. He looked down, and there stood a little girl, maybe six years old, with huge eyes peeking over the rim of a fluffy fox mask. Her voice was barely a whisper, nearly lost in the roar of the crowd. “Excuse me… can I take a picture with you two?”

Her mother stood a few steps back, smiling crookedly with a camera ready in her hand. Dabi blinked, caught off guard – his eyes met Shigaraki’s, who had frozen just the same, now eyeing the child like some brave creature from another realm.

Then, almost at the same time, they crouched down – Dabi with a lopsided smile, Shigaraki letting out a sigh that seemed meant more for himself than for the girl.

“Sure, little one,” Dabi finally said.

The little girl beamed, stood proudly between the two, threw her arms in the air as the camera shutter clicked, and time paused for a blink of an eye.

Dabi gave Shigaraki a sidelong glance. “Maybe this place isn’t hell after all.”

Shigaraki shrugged. “Just wait.”

A few seconds later, Haru called out to them. Her voice like a tender echo in the seething crowd. Kaji waved from behind a booth, a plush toy in hand that was absolutely not his style.

Dabi drew in a sharp breath, releasing a sigh that lingered somewhere between resignation and amusement, while Shigaraki chuckled softly beside him, his shoulders twitching. The little girl who had just stood between them so reverently bowed shyly and darted back to her mother, eyes shining, as the woman gently stroked her hair like she had just returned from a fairy tale.

Together, Dabi and Shigaraki made their way back to their kids, who were already lurking in front of a new booth like hunters eyeing a rich prize.

Dabi crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing Kaji. “Tell me... what the hell is that? A plush unicorn? Are you serious?”

Kaji didn’t even bother to turn all the way around, just lifted the unicorn with a hint of pride. “Not just any unicorn. That’s a damn Spectrier. Pokémon number 897, Ghost-type. Besides, it’s for Mom – she likes the creature. And you can say whatever you want, it’s got style.”

Dabi was just about to respond with something between a mocking and a fatherly warning when he suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve. Haru – small, energetic, with that determined gleam in his eyes – had taken hold of him and was pulling him along with a tenacity that not even he could really resist.

“Come. You have to see this.”

“I hate it when kids boss me around…” he muttered, but let himself be dragged along, half stumbling through a narrow corridor of fabric and color until they stood before a booth overflowing with T-shirts. Dabi froze, as if caught in a fever dream – his own face, printed in all kinds of variations. Sometimes alone, surrounded by flames, sometimes side by side with Rain, and in one particularly absurd, cheesy version, even Shigaraki was included, the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder in a dramatic pose under the oversized slogan Legends of Villains.

“Oh my god…” Dabi stared at the selection like a man who’d suddenly found himself in a hall of mirrors with no way out.

Kaji grinned broadly, stepped up to the stand, and grabbed a shirt without hesitation – the one showing Rain in a fiery pose, while Dabi stood beside her, arms crossed in his typical I-hate-everything posture. “I’ll take this one. Perfect for casual wear.”

Dabi rolled his eyes, about to say something, but then a flicker of movement caught the edge of his vision. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted cosplayers locked in an improvised duel – with plastic weapons, foam swords, and exaggerated battle cries. The crowd around them clapped and filmed. And in the middle of it all, he recognized a cosplay as a spinner, with painted green skin, while another had slipped into Shigaraki's skin, complete with messy hair and fake hands.

Shigaraki beside him raised a brow slightly. “Don’t say it… I know what you’re thinking.”

Dabi snorted quietly, his gaze fixed on the strange scene. “I’m not thinking anything. I’m... still processing.”

At that very moment, Haru whirled past him – a small whirlwind of unwavering eagerness that pushed through the sluggish mass and unintentionally rammed him with his shoulder, just hard enough that Dabi stumbled half a step backwards and was swept back into the present with a muffled “Tch”

“Oh, sorry!” she called out without turning around, already heading straight for Shigaraki, who stood barely a meter away.

“Here, Papa.” Haru came to an abrupt stop, pressing bag after bag into his hands – each one filled with posters, trading cards, keychains, and plushies of the others from the League. “Hold these for a sec.”

“What… wait, what?” Shigaraki blurted, as the plastic bags wrapped around his fingers like strange parasites. “Haru, that’s five bags. We’ve only been here twenty minutes!”

“I know.” She was already half-turned away again, her gaze flitting from booth to booth like a bird of prey on the hunt. “And I haven’t even bought anything I really want yet.”

Shigaraki blinked, lifting one of the bags with two fingers as if it were contaminated. “And why do I have to carry all this?”

“Because I can’t look at everything at once if my hands are full.”

Dabi had to stifle a laugh that threatened to become a cough.Kaji stepped next to him, put a Pocky in the corner of his mouth and murmured out of the corner of his eye: “She has a theory: the one who carries the most bags wins the most hearts in the end.”

“Or herniated discs,” Shigaraki grumbled as he struggled to balance the handles into something vaguely manageable. “God, I hate this con.”

Haru turned around again, a smile crossing her lips, almost too fleeting to be seen. “You say that every time. And yet you keep coming with me.”

“because otherwise I would be afraid that you would buy everything here.”

“Then stop me.”

Dabi shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. It felt like a strange play, somewhere between social satire and domestic bliss.

A few booths down, someone had just begun singing karaoke on a small stage – an off-key, overly passionate rendition of an anime opening. Haru tugged Kaji toward the stage, and Shigaraki groaned softly as a few of the bags slapped against his shin. Dabi followed at a slow pace, hands in his pockets, his thoughts scattered between cosplayers, the scent of cotton candy, and that odd, flickering warmth threading through the hallways of this fantasy world like the echo of a dream.

After seemingly endless hours, the four finally found themselves in a small, somewhat secluded snack bar.

Shigaraki dropped onto the bench like a man who had just survived a war, letting the bags fall beside him like corpses. “Finally,” he muttered, resting his elbows on the table. “I think my spine just developed three new curvatures.”

“If I were you, I’d avoid looking in the mirror,” Dabi murmured, sitting down across from him and running his fingers through his sweat-tousled hair. “But yeah. I second that. Never again. Never.”

“Until next time, you mean.”

“Well,” Dabi shrugged and stretched out his legs beneath the table. “I am resistant to learning.”

Beside them, Kaji and Haru were sitting on the same side of the bench, so close their knees kept brushing. Their voices moved in their own rhythm, quiet, familiar, threaded with laughter. Haru was holding up a keychain – some over-stylized anime villain with oversized eyes – and Kaji grinned and nodded, said something Dabi didn’t catch because he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he watched. Watched as Haru’s hand lightly touched Kaji’s while she laughed. Saw how Kaji didn’t pull away like he usually did, how his words came a little slower, how his eyes softened, as if something was moving through him that he hadn’t quite figured out himself yet.

Slowly, as if it were a secret that could only be passed on with the right amount of conspiracy, Dabi leaned toward Tomura, elbows on the table, chin slightly tipped forward.

“Tell me… did you notice that too?” His narrow gaze slid over to the two teens. “What they’re doing… those looks. Those touches… You wanna tell me that’s still ‘just friendship’?”

Shigaraki took a sip of his drink, which tasted more like soap than tea, and didn’t even look. “Yeah.” Then, with a dry sigh laced with exhaustion: “And yeah, for girls that’s normal. Pretty much. The closeness, the touches, the emotions. That kind of stuff…”

Dabi snorted softly, about to say something, when Shigaraki’s gaze drifted from his cup and slightly to the left. “Besides,” he murmured, nodding almost imperceptibly in that direction, “the more interesting thing is happening over there.”

Dabi followed his gaze – and cursed inwardly that he had even done it. Because over there, at two tables pushed together, a group of cosplayers had just sat down. All of them were him – Dabi.

One with precisely glued scars, his hair tousled to the exact length, his jacket tailored down to the last detail. Next to him was a Dabi, whose eyes were way too green and who had spread the scars like makeup all over half his face, as if he had deviated from a makeup tutorial. Another wore a purple coat, had purple hair and silver contacts, looking like Dabi had fused with a fanfiction.

Dabi blinked, slowly, then rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “Oh. My. God.”

Shigaraki grinned narrowly, his voice dry as desert dust. “And that’s the real insanity. Cosplayer of yours”

“Think I could sell them autographs and live off that?” whispered Dabi, eyeing the good cosplayer. “That guy over there almost looks like me. Just in a better mood.”

“Well then,” Shigaraki said tonelessly, “better start signing – being famous is like a curse that puts you in a tutu while you’re trying to act serious.”

A tired, throaty laugh rumbled from Dabi’s chest, half sigh, half reluctant agreement. “Was a dumb idea anyway. Who wants to make money off their face when teenagers with neon wigs wear it better than you ever could?”

He took a sip of his drink, and as his gaze drifted back toward the cosplayers, he noticed how their attention had shifted – subtle glances at first, then whispers spreading like wildfire through the colorfully dressed crowd.

The well-dressed ‘Dabi’ with scars so polished they almost looked professional hesitated for only a moment before parting his lips with exaggerated nonchalance, releasing a small, orange-red flame. It flickered no larger than a candle’s flame and hovered in the air for a few seconds before fading.

Dabi’s lips twisted into a crooked smile, calm to the point of danger. He raised his hand slowly, almost with pleasure, and when his fingers opened, a deep blue shimmer danced across his skin, thickening into flame – hot, silent, so intense that the air around it began to shimmer. Real, merciless hellfire. His personal signature.

The cosplayer's eyes immediately widened, while the other Dabis slowly fell silent and one by one realized that this was not a fan in disguise – They sat face to face with the original.

Dabi closed his hand again, the flame vanishing with a barely audible hiss. “Well,” he said softly, not breaking eye contact, “I guess that’s what you’d call game over.”

Shigaraki, who had watched the whole spectacle in silence, now tilted his head and had to suppress a laugh.

“Well, great. Now they want a selfie with the real Dabi. And heaven forbid you don't look gloomy enough. Your image is at stake.”

My moral supporters

@tiny-roki-todoroki | @alexandhisstuff | @doumadono | @unhinged-bratty-boy | @within-eyesight | @hiding-inner-dabi

@feral-kittykat @brokenheart-brokenmind6 @leven-and-ashley @imabeliever @andrea-tries-to-write @indignant-alpaca @pranses-oradea @vakoss @isabeauwolf @tykorclint @vegemania @the-fallen-moonknight @haseki-huricihan @call-me-copycat @irkedpomeranian @kittenl4 @strawberryswirl4321 @grossograsso

I mention accounts that my works ❤️ and 🔄. If anyone no longer wishes to be mentioned, please let me know.

[toriwritesstories]

First day back on adhd meds after they were on back order for 2.5 weeks and here are the results

1. wow I can get out of bed on time and write an agenda for a meeting and speak with coherence and competence in all my work meetings

2. heads down work time for almost 3 solid hours in the afternoon during which I got so much done (even when I did get interrupted once)

3. did the chore that needed doing after work

4. cooked myself dinner!

5. played tears of the kingdom while watching fantasy high and did not get bored or feel guilty for the fact that I was not writing!

6. finally finished part of my dnd character’s backstory I’ve been procrastinating for 2 weeks

guys I feel unstoppable lmao

nowww unfortunately since I have to adjust to being on the meds again the downsides are:

1. My lunch was apple sauce and a cliff kids z-bar…. Pretty much wasn’t hungry at all until dinner lol oops.

2. Can’t sleep 🙃 but on the bright side - my thoughts aren’t anxious. I thought of more stuff for my dnd character, better solutions to a problem at work, and am having art and fanfic ideas! So it could be much worse lol!

All in all: fuck the government for putting stupid manufacturing limitations on adhd stimulant medication. The last two weeks I have been putting in double the mental energy to do my job, to do the bare minimum of taking care of myself and my body, been losing dopamine so fast that even my favorite activities were getting boring and I was switching between them like every 30 minutes. My thoughts have been all over the place and my anxiety has been worse and I’ve just be sooooo tired.

I still functioned, so part of me was like “maybe I’m okay without the meds” and sure yeah I’m okay without them. But I was supplementing with caffeine (neuromints, specifically) and still when getting back on my meds, suddenly functioning like a normal person is almost (almost) easy again.

Now just to adjust back to the sleep and appetite changes lol..

[anjelicawrites]

Days back home

Paring: John Price x wife!reader Synopsis: your husband John is finally back from deployment.

Warnings: angsty sex, P in V sex, cuddling, idiots in love, domestic John, kissing, handjob, crying, a bit of daddy kink, John is bad at compartimentalizing, John doesn’t know how to relax.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed.

You hear the rustling of pots and pans from the bedroom. Still half asleep you grab the cricket bat hiding under the bed, thinking Intruders! Before you realize how silly the idea is: are those intruders going to make themselves breakfast while ransacking your home?

Still brandishing the bat, just in case, you make your way downstairs, trying to be as silent as possible in your socks; with your shoulder you open the door connecting the corridor to the kitchen, just a crack, to check who’s at home with you, only to see the back of John’s body, clad in a green T-shirt and jeans, his ridiculous hat forgotten on one of the chairs; he’s making his ‘I’m back home pancakes’ while listening to the radio, the kettle already on the stove.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

“So, this is how I am welcomed back home?” He quips.

You have married the biggest idiot on earth and you wouldn't change him for the whole world.

You abandon the bat next to the door and leap to hug him from behind, smelling him in, feeling his hard body against your own, after too long.

He smells fresh, you know he has had a shower before driving back to you, because he doesn’t want to soil your shared sanctuary with his work; he still berates himself that he and his team had crashed your practice and that those were the circumstances he’s met you.

“You know me, I’m always ready.” You answer, taking another whiff from him, your hands sneaking to his front. “Welcome home my love, I think I will have to have words to whomever is in charge of the rations you eat: you’ve lost weight baby, I will need to fatten you up once again.”

He laughs, under your hands his muscles rip.

“I don’t think Major Williams would survive that.”

Swiftly he deposits another pancake on the pile standing on his left. Before he can pour some more batter on the pan, you lift your arm to his nose.

“Do I still smell like barn? I was on call and was out most of the night. I did take a shower but all I can smell is wet hay.”

His right hand wounds around your wrist, warm and calloused against your soft skin, to keep you still as his nose is filled by the sweet scent of honey; this is an inside jokes of yours, that he sticks to the neutral smell of his army mandated soap, whilst you try every different shower gel you can get your hands on, with various results. This time is nice, he likes how honey complements your natural scent, other times not so much, like the body wash that was supposed to be lemon, but smelled like dish soap, or the obnoxious candy one that’s still hiding somewhere in the guests’ bathroom.

“Any adorable litter of kittens?”

“No, twin calves, pretty fast and incredibly both born alive, and one of the Jenkins’ sheep that kept me up all night. I got into bed a couple of hours ago.”

John turns in your embrace, his big hands finding home on your hips.

“My capable vet, looking after all creatures, great and small.”

“Very funny, mister, I’m in a puddle of laughter.”

But there is a smile on your face that echoes his own: you have missed him, and the small quips you share.

It’s still too cold to eat breakfast in the garden, but there’s enough light that it bathes you both as you two sit at the table by the windows, your legs on his thighs, his hand caressing your calves in between bites as you both demolish the astounding amount of pancakes John has made.

“Go back to bed, love.” He tells you. “I napped on my way back. I’ll do a couple of chores around the house.”

You look at him, taking him in: he’s not antsy, but he’s thrumming with all the nervous energy from combat that needs to be released. There isn’t much to do around the house, but this wouldn't stop John from picking up random jobs, or even call at work to see if he’s needed back at the base, until you know he will simply crash and burn, utterly spent and miserable.

“I don’t think so, mister.”

Neither of you wear the wedding rings usually. You work with animals all day and for John is more of a security breach issue, the chance for someone who doesn’t belong to the small circle of people he trusts, to know about you.

For this reason you’re the ring bearer, keeping your engagement and both wedding rings on a thin, long chain usually worn under your clothes; the other tradition that marks John’s return home is you two exchanging them again.

You have to fiddle with the clasp for a moment, before you can release everything on the table, in between tea mugs and plates.

Your rings look so small in John’s thick fingers. Carefully he picks the engagement one, inherited by the male firstborn in his family to pass down the first son and slips it on your extended ring finger; a smile crinkles the sides of his eyes when you put his ring on his finger, stating your claim once again. He’s so used to be Captain Price that he forgets he has space where he is allowed to simply be John, your husband who has missed you dearly and who wants to make sure you will always have everything you desire.

“The house is fine.” You say with a smile. “The random dead light will not kill us all. Same goes with whatever is going on at the base: you and the boys did your job, now it’s time for others to do theirs. Come to bed with me, I have missed sleeping in your arms.”

John’s body is tired, the small nap on the flight back has barely scratched the sleep deprivation of the last weeks, but his brain is still running, still analyzing all the information harvested, still valuating all the plans he’s come up with, still trying to answer the age old question: will he be able to do better next time?

“I would like my husband back.” Your free hand finds his to squeeze his roughened palm.

“He’s here.”

“In body. Where is his mind though?”

He knows you’re right. When he’s out on the field, or simply at the base, it’s easy to let go of his civilian life; he can’t say the same when he’s home, his brain doesn’t compartmentalize the way it should.

“Not here.”

He pulls on your arm until you sit on his knees, your head on his shoulder, staring at him with half lidded eyes filled with love.

You’re full and nuzzle your face against his chest when he tries to feed you some more, mumbling ‘your loss’ at your refusal: you’re just happy that he’s back, unscathed and that you can have this slow morning where life isn’t intruding and you two can be fools in love.

You fall asleep like this, lulled by the sun shining through the windows and John’s comforting smell, his warmth creating a safe cocoon where you can huddle.

You don’t feel his kiss on the top of your head, nor the silent way he carries you bridal style up the stairs to your shared bedroom, where he deposits you on the unmade bed, careful to cover you with the light duvet; he stares at you and the way you curl on his side of the bed, in your sleep you’re still seeking his scent, even though the pillow must have lost it.

The weight of the chores he knows are waiting for him around the house is pushing him to go downstairs and busy himself, making sure you have nothing to do today and tomorrow; it’s the way he’s been raised, in a house where being lazy was never an option.

Life with you is different, it clashes, sometimes, with his training and his upbringing, with whom he’s become, with his heart missing you, his skin hurting now that it’s not in contact with yours: so easily you break him down and reshape him in the man you love.

He doesn’t jostle your body when he slides under the duvet and arranges your limbs so that you’re hugging him and your face sits against the hollow of his throat, your breath a soft tickle against the sensitive skin there.

A smile finds its way on his face when you wriggle closer to him, almost as if you want to meld your body to his and he hugs your tighter, until there’s no space left between you two, only the cotton of the sleep clothes you’re both wearing.

When he wakes up you’re staring, owlishly, at him: you must have awoken not too long ago.

“I need to do something.” You mumble.

Before he can answer, you wriggle in his embrace to kiss the freckle on his nose, then you nod to yourself, proud.

“I missed doing this.” Your face finds home against the hollow of his throat, again.

His arms curl tighter around you, his nose in your hair to smell the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“I love you.”

His heart still misses a beat when he says those words.

Before you, he had never had the courage to say it out loud to a partner, you have unlocked that in him, not sappiness, but honesty.

The two of you spend the afternoon pottering about the house, him changing a couple of light bulbs and writing down the grocery shop list for tomorrow, before you entice him to lay on the sofa with you.

“You don’t have to earn your down time, you know?”

“I do.” Not exactly a lie, but he’s an old dog still trying to learn new tricks.

“Just saying.”

He moves the two of you around so that you’re laying with your back against his chest so that he can read the book you two have started before his deployment; nothing too high stakes or complicated, a simple story with simple threads he can pick up after a couple of sentences.

“Shall we go to the farmer’s market tomorrow? After we go grocery shopping? Alfred is going to be there with his honey.”

Alfred being your mentor, the vet who had founded the practice you now own who, at the ripe old age of eighty years old, had finally decided to retire and follow his new calling: beekeeping.

“Sounds lovely.”

John likes the old man, he’s straightforward and with a dry sense of humor that reminds John of the captains he had served under when he was a lieutenant.

Seven pages down and a couple of chuckles on your part, you close the book to stare at him.

“I think there’s something going on between my vet tech, Johnny and Simon. Don’t laugh!”

“It wouldn't surprise me. Those two are a package deal, or are each other’s ‘Your friend Steve’”

“You should have told me! I had to ask my vet tech because I felt there was something fishy going on!”

“You didn’t!”

“I did. Asked if the men knew about one another and got lectured about polyamory!”

John’s body is wracked by laughter, so much so that he ignores you trying to elbow him to make him stop.

“It’s not funny John!” He keeps laughing. “You’re horrible!”

His arms lock around you as soon as you try to stand up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” There’s a huskiness in his voice that travels deliciously down your spine.

“Away from my unsupportive husband!” You whine.

His right hand travels leisurely down your body, until he can grab the fat of your thigh to spread you open.

“I think we can reach an agreement, you and I. A way for me to show you how sorry I feel.”

His thick fingers tease the hollow of your thigh, right next where your panties are.

“You should show me, as a proof of your good will.”

His warm lips kiss your neck as his fingers deftly slide under the damp cotton of your knickers.

“As you wish” he growls.

Sleeping back home the first few days is a matter adjusting himself back around you and the quiet of the neck of the woods where you two live: waking up when there’s too much silence or when your body moves next to his, opening one eye, hand ready to grab a weapon that’s not there, only to stop himself before waking you up. There are nightmares, sometimes, that propel him up with a scream locked behind his teeth and his fists ready to strike; those are the nights when he feels remorse at disturbing you with the horrors he carries within himself, those monsters he doesn’t want to bring home to you, but which manage to slither their way inside, scattered away by your hands on his skin and your voice telling him to follow you to the kitchen, that you’re going to make him a nice cup of war milk with honey.

This time there’s no nightmares, only the silence waking him up and the moonlight illuminating your body huddled under the duvet: it’s a warm spring, for the UK, but the nights still carry the chill of winter with them. Without disturbing you, he kisses your exposed shoulder and pulls the covers tighter around your frame, before hugging you as tight as possible, his nose buried in your hair.

Slowly you two approach this new day, your lips on his neck and his hands under your pajamas until his need, and yours, burns too bright to control and he slips inside of you, moaning against your naked chest when your muscles rip around his cock.

He luxuriates in your warmth, when you lock your legs around his waist and tell him not to move, to stay where he is, that you need to feel him. It could be hours when you beg him to move, slow pushed and pulls that bring you to an orgasms that leaves marks down his back, your cunt wounding so tightly around his cock that he spills with a shout.

It’s almost lunch time when you two arrive at the farmer’s market. To John’s dismay you had to use your old truck, the one everyone in the area can recognize, but the road has too many holes for the suspensions of his car to survive.

There’s always a bit of uneasiness on his part, whenever he is out and about with you: he’s trained to look for danger, even when there’s none and his body misses the weight of his weapons, the security they bring him, even more so now that he’s with you, out in the open, where anyone could attack you.

Not that it would happen, being alert is part of who he has become, a nagging guarding dog he can’t put to sleep.

“You happy?” You ask, arms wrapped around his, big smile on your face even though you can feel some lingering stiffness in his body.

“Yes, love.”

He has two jars of honey in a small bag dangling from his fingers, both gifts from Albert who has refused any sort of payment and has roped you two into going to dinner to his place one of these days.

He’s not lying to you when he says that he’s happy. Today the sun is shining, warm against the button down shirt he’s wearing, a trusted beanie to protect his head and you by his side in a nice dress, busy pointing the stalls you want to browse: despite all the food in the trunk, he knows you’ll buy more, just so you can spoil him and fatten him up a little bit, with the excuse that’s homemade and the ingredients are all healthy.

By the time you two walk back to the car, you both are saddled with too many bags and yet he had to convince you to stop buying food, and plants for the garden.

“Do you want to go and eat lunch at that cafe on the river?” He asks after he’s secured all your purchases.

“Are you happy to go?”

You don’t want to push him, you’re well aware that he needs some time away from the crowds to re calibrate; that your man will always be alert is something you have learn to accept, but you could feel him tense up a little too much by the time you were done with the last stall.

“I am.”

Then again, he’s not lying. The guard dog in him still has its bristles up, but John doesn’t want to waste a beautiful day such as today, barricaded at home, not when you look so happy and full of life.

He thoroughly knackered by the time you two make it back home and start putting away everything you have bought. The big lunch doesn’t help with the drowsiness he feels, paired with the sun and the general tiredness left by the last deployment, he’s ready to go lay on the sofa and just watch something inane on the telly, at least for tonight.

He shivers when your hands find their way under his shirt, your body plastered against his.

You follow the shape of his abdominal muscles, more prominent now that he’s lost the body fat you adore so much. Before him, you believed a defined six-pack meant strength, now you know that muscles born from exercise and not aesthetic, come with a healthy dose of body fat, to which you’re now addicted.

“I need you, John.” You purr, kissing his shoulder.

“I’m here.” His voice is gravelly now that your fingers are deftly opening the buttons of his jeans. “Christ love!”

“Let me take care of you.”

Your hand is gently fondling his cock and balls and he’s already a goner: anything you ask you shall receive.

You maneuver his big body to the sofa, where you sit him between your splayed legs, only then you free is half hard cock from the confines of his briefs.

You take your time with him, helping his erection to grow gently, with slow, long strokes from his base to the flared tip, fondling his heavy balls with your free hand, your teeth worrying the soft skin of his nape.

He’s so warm under your skin, his manhood leaking precome steadily on your fingers, his moans music to your ears now that you’re stroking him faster and faster, his strong hips pumping steadily to follow the punishing rhythm you’re imposed him.

“Love!” He groans, after a vicious stroke. “I’m…”

“Come for me John. Make a mess.”

He tenses in your arms, heels digging in the plush carpet as pleasure builds and builds in his gut, his nerves screaming with it, his hands grabbing at your skin desperately, leaving bruises he will kiss, scratching and kneading, moans and curses spilling until pleasure overtakes him, his seed splashing against his belly and your fingers.

“I love you so much, John.” You murmur, helping him ride the last shock waves of his orgasm, milking his cock until his hand grabs your wrist.

He’s panting in your arms, body still shivering, heart beating violently in his chest: you’re going to be the death of him.

His head turns when he hears you licking your fingers and palm clean from his seed, your lips sinfully sucking on your fingers with filthy moans that go straight to his cock.

“Take your clothes off.” He growls.

“Yes, daddy.” You giggle, sliding from behind his burly body.

You make a short work of the dress and your underwear, standing naked in front of him; you feel a special kind of pleasure at being naked while he’s still dressed, long legs spread and arms on the backrest.

He’s devouring you with his eyes, hunger burning wildly now that he’s taken the edge off.

He doesn’t have to ask you to kneel, you do it as if it’s your natural state to be between his legs, tongue busy with cleaning him, kissing his hardening length into fullness again, throat open to receive him.

“Come up here.”

His hand in your hair pulls you up, until you straddle him, wet cunt enveloping his erection.

“I need to feel you.” You beg, drunk already on the pleasure of his head sliding against your swollen clit. “So bad daddy please!”

He has to manhandle your squirming hips until he can impale your body on his cock, molding your hungry cunt around himself, until he can bottom out inside of you, him grunting and you keening like a wounded beast.

“Don’t” You beg when he pushes inside of you. “Let me feel you, please.”

His hands travel to your face, his roughened palms cupping your cheeks to stare into your eyes.

“You tell me when you want me to move, love. Shh, don’t fret. Shh, I’m here.”

His thick arms curl around your trembling body, his lips on the crown of your head to soothe you before you wound yourself up too much.

His voice is deep and calming, like liquor pouring down your throat. It cancels all your needs, your fears of the past weeks; only the gravelly nonsense he’s murmuring in your ear has a place to exist in this bubble, the calloused skin of his hands on the silk of your back tethering you back to him, to the present, where his lips find your collarbone to kiss and nibble and lick, to mark you as his.

“I missed you.”

Tears flow down your cheeks, you’re raw nerves now that your body has wrestled control away from your brain and has thrown to the wind all the reassurances you kept repeating to yourself while John was away.

“I’m here.” He murmurs against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“John!”

Your hands find his short hair to pull his head back and slant your lips on his, the kiss desperate and deep, filthy and wet with the salt of your tears.

On him you grind, his fingers tight on the fat of your hips to help you move, faster and faster against his body, clit brushing against the thick air around his base, choking on your words with every clench of your cunt around his cock.

“There! There!” You scream. “Please!”

You fuck yourself on him as if possessed, his cock head presses against your G spot relentlessly, pushing and pushing, throwing you into the depths of pleasure when your body stiffens in his embrace, muscles wounding so tightly around his cock that he comes inside of you, thick sprouts against your battered walls, until he’s spent inside of you.

You’re still trembling in his arms, wet face hidden in the curve of his neck; he doesn’t force you to look at him, he shifts your bodies so that he can hold you tighter, grounding you back into yourself.

“You with me?”

Your try to burrow closer to him, to breathe him in until all you can feel is him.

“Yes.” Your voice sounds small and muffled. “I don’t know what happened. That wasn’t the direction I had in mind.”

He kisses the crown of your head again, until you sit back on his thighs and he can see your wet face.

“I have no idea of what has gotten into me. I was scared, all of a sudden, afraid you would disappear.” You bite your lower lip, face turning to the side. “Jesus John, I’m so stupid!”

“No, you’re not!”

His hands are on your face again, sure they wipe away your tears while guilt nags at him.

When he was on his own it was easier to leave, sometimes for months, he didn’t have someone to go back to, someone who had to bear the weight of his deployment as well; he comes back saddled with all he has to do to keep this world safe, but you have to deal with his absence and what it does to yourself.

Swiftly, without jostling you off your perch, he removes his shirt to wrestle you into it, hoping his smell would help you settle.

“Have you been going to the meetings for the spouses?”

You know what he’s talking about, those hours spent with other wives and husbands and partners of deployed soldiers, simply opening up about your complicated feelings and nagging fears when your loved ones are away.

“I have been going, and it helped. I just…”

Your eyes land on his dog tags half hidden by the furry hair on his chest: all his basic information are there, but he’s so much more than that.

“Let’s get you a shower.”

You know John is strong, that his muscles aren’t for show, but you can’t help the yelp that leaves your lips when he stands up with your legs around his waist and your arms by his neck.

“John! You back!”

“My back has never been better, love.” He winks.

His chest hair are so soft against your front, his hands so strong and secure under your arse; you giggle a little when his fingers start massaging your cheeks, kneading the fat with a pleased hum.

He sits you on the small space next to the sink to open the water in the shower and then he disappears, leaving you questioning what the hell is your husband doing.

He pops back keeping one hand behind his back and motions you to stay silent when you try to ask him what is going on.

“Do you trust me?”

Oh, you shouldn’t fall for the amused glint in his eyes and the way his crow’s feet show, now that he’s smiling.

“John…”

“Close your eyes.”

You don’t know what his plan is, what you’re certain is that he’s trying to cheer you up and your heart is swelling with all the love you feel for him.

You feel and hear his hands rucking the shirt off your body, his fingers steady around one arm to help you navigate the small space to the warm stream.

“Are you going to join me?”

“Just a second, love.”

More rustling as you imagine him getting rid of his remaining clothes; he groans when the warm water hits his skin, the sound so low and primal flies to your cunt.

Then you smell it.

Too sugary, so sweet your nose tickles with it.

“You’re going to stink like that for days!”

John smiles.

“And so will you.”

The blasted shower gel banished to the guest’s bathroom!

John is happy to smell like a full bakery just to make you laugh has you hug him and cover his face with kisses.

“You’re so silly, John!”

“And yours. Never forget that.”

[eybefioro]

This is my first artwork for the FTH event! It's a stunning scene from @dbacklot99 fic, "Collapse". Highly recommend checking it out!!!

Thank you mods for organising the event, and thank you Db for this prompt 💛💛 it was such a gift to draw this and to read it!

@goodomensafterdark @fth2025fanworks

(time lapse and other ramblings under the cut)

AAAAAAAAAAAA THIS FIC IS SO GOOD. So sad (in a way that I love) but also so profoundly hopeful. It's LOVELY. And this scene right here is such a powerful one! A bit of a spoiler, so skip it of you don't want any:

The sun was dying. The sky above was red and ominous, most of it blocked out by the inflamed star. This was not as far in the future as most humans had thought; the life cycle of the sun was a joke the cosmologists never got. Aziraphale found Crowley, his black wings casting shadows on the sand, sitting near a faint mound where one could just possibly imagine a wall had stood long, long ago. He sat down next to him. “Crowley?”

Crowley kept staring up. He was holding the space between the sun and the Earth in a frozen pocket of time. “It'll be over soon, you know? Once I let it go, a few hours maybe and the sun will expand, consume everything, then collapse in on itself."

So, soooo beautiful. I hope I was able to do it justice 💛

I had so much fun playing with the colours here, testing stuff out, making the sun look angry. I really wanted the red to pop, and for that I put some purple on the corners, made the colours as saturated as I could... there's actually a bunch of orange there too, to try to give the sky depth (hope it worked!!).

There were many things that challenge me in this one (it was awesome!). I never drew a desert before, and gosh it is difficult. it's all about light and shadow do make the dunes look like dunes, and it was so satisfying when I finally saw the desert and not just a jumble varying shades of yellow!

I once again tried to do some funky stuff with the perspective, and once again wasn't that satisfied with it. It's better than my other attempts, but it lacks the oompth (lol) that I was looking for. I really wanted it look like we caught things mid action, like the "camera" was zooming in and we paused on one of the frames in between... lots of action and energy, with the shapes warped because of it and well. It looks nothing like that XD Still, I think the end result looks cool and I'm getting closer of being able to do that and draw epic-looking action scenes.

Because of my choice of point of view, Aziraphale was so hard to draw. I was sweating making him look right 😂 I really wanted him to look nervous wringing his hands, to be truly sad... and I'm really surprised that both their expressions are working! I'm really happy with that :D

Sad demon and angel :c

I once again have to thank Elen for teaching me how to draw WIIIINGGGZZZZZ. I have so much fun doing them... I still have lots to learn about them, ofc, but I feel like every time I draw wings following her advice they look a liiitle nicer, I get a liiitle better.

I'm beyond happy to be participating in the FTH event. Best decision that I took this year. Anyways. I'll stop rambling now. Go read Db's fic, it's awesome!!! 💛💛💛

[timetravelwitch]

Rex showing favoritism towards Emmet?

What? Nooooo, he would never

[seryonn]

Prompto from ffxv ♡

[hassianlovebot]

i got my first fit so i did a little photoshoot!!

[starbuck]

we didnt sit near each other at the goats show but you had so much energy it made me so happy !! you were the only other people getting tf into aisle and you just looked so happy i hope you enjoy life like that a lot more. also the cowboy hat BANGED it looked sick as hell

THANK YOUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!

i *WAS* so happy!! i was honestly trying to keep my hopes low for this show bc it was a john and peter duo when i booked it and i wasn’t sure how the change would change the vibe of the setlist but, needless to say my expectations were WILDLY exceeded!!!!!!!

i hope you had fun as well!!

[captainrayzizuniverse]

🍽️