#shadows of the elevator au

[noorthestar]

she's missing someone again ...

[shadowsoftheelevatoraskandrp]

"" its so boring todayy .... ""

((PROTOTYPE IS OPEN FOR ASKS!))

[seidenbros]

I swear, the way I always write (in multi-chapter at least) Wesper thinking about kissing the other one, but not going through with it, once I get to the Hockey AU, Wylan is just gonna impulsively kiss Jesper.

[strialternatives]

bonus:

:inhales and slams hands on the desk: akechi. palace. pitch.

disclaimer: the setting for this is all about vibes and aesthetics, it kinda got away from me when i started hashing out the plot around it two months ago so now we're here. in hell. (i'll probably have to make a secondary post i made wayyy too many concepts,)

yes i made an ost for this idea, here is a youtube playlist of chill european jazz

AU details under the cut-

Akechi Goro's palace is "Ampitheatrum Doloris”.

KEYWORDS: Akechi Goro, Tokyo Highcourt, Amphitheater

Akechi's psyche is a massive collection of locked doors, puzzles, and contradictions. He wants to be seen but not understood—heard but never known, ect. This makes his palace infiltration a waking nightmare (affectionate).

His palace is made up of five main layers. They each mirror a stage of grief:

1) There is the outer layer of with the appearance of a Venice-esque water canal maze, there is a door that must be opened to reach the entrance to infiltrate the second layer underneath the amphitheater. The puzzle's actually pretty sentimental and revolves around Akechi's interest in literature.

(This layer is depression, Goro mourns what he lost and the fact that the choices he made for the sake of revenge ultimately led to nowhere. This is reflected in how desolate/meandering the outer layer feels, it is the largest and most time consuming part of the palace for this reason. It takes weeks to finish. AKA, Akira and Morgana have a terrible, no good, very bad month of May.) 

2) The Labyrinth under the amphitheater; it is full of shadows for the arena champion to use as fodder for the enjoyment of the masses. ‘Loki’ resides here—this layer’s theme loosely plays on the Minotaur myth. 

The only way to escape is through a pulley/elevator mechanism which leads to the surface after shattering the Champion’s chains by force. Loki taunts in Old Norse, but gives Akira (and the party by extension) genuine hints on how to escape.

(This layer is anger, Goro is always angry, about the hand he’s been dealt, the futility of his own actions, and the fact that his life has always been a dead end, written in the stars.)

3) The Audience Stands; full of human cognitions and Akechi’s former clients and fans, despite everything, like Sae, he sees them as ‘people’ and is disgusted by them. Their compliments are shallow and empty, surface level like Goro’s facade. Cognition Sae is delegated to a middle manager-type role, and leads Akira and Co. through puzzles.

Different cognitions from Akechi’s shitshow of a childhood throw riddles based around philosophy and the nature of justice at the party, if the answer is ‘wrong’, there’s a mini-boss fight. Answering everything correctly yields a prize—a key, this process is made difficult by all of Robin’s ‘hints’ (which the Thieves can directly ask for) being lies.

(Bargaining. Goro always thought he could still salvage his revenge despite his enemy being essentially invincible, even now deep down he thinks he can salvage all the effort and sacrifices he put in.)

4) The Stage; Robin Hood appears proper instead of in cameo appearances, this is the lead actor's stage. To earn the right to stand with him, Akira has to have to prove his worth in one-on-one combat while showing the crowd a rousing show. The goal is to use the key obtained in the bargaining layer to unlock the Performer's cuffs.

(Denial, Goro doesn’t believe he needs or deserves saving or a life outside of his revenge, he believes there is no other way forward.)

Hereward and the 'treasure' are in the Imperial box area, which I'll save for part 2 of this I think! The second half of this'll have less focus on the environments and more on general plot and character design.

EDIT: here's part two and part three

[yanderecrazysie]

A Dragon's Hoard Part 1 (Yandere! Malleus)

Title: A Dragon’s Hoard (Part 1)

Pairings: Yandere! Malleus Draconia x Reader

AU: My Fantasy AU

WARNINGS: yandere themes

Notes: Malleus's story was voted for first! (BY A LOT) So here you go!

Part 2: here

Mt. Diasomnia’s peak pierced the night sky, cutting the full moon in half. As intimidating as the impossibly tall mountain was, it symbolized hope for you. There were plenty of caves to hide in and a surrounding forest for hunting.

If any place would hide you from King Riddle’s court, it would be this mountain. After all the rules you had broken, the king of the fae would surely clip your wings permanently if you were found. You were a hunted woman so the sooner you disappeared the better.

You spread your transparent wings and took flight. The wind was strong tonight, lifting you higher and higher. The freedom of flying was intoxicating and, for a moment, you allowed yourself to forget the weight of your circumstances.

But then the memory of King Riddle’s cold stare cut through your mind, as sharp as a blade. “Rulebreaker”, he had called you in such a cold voice. You might as well be a traitor to your kind.

The mountain loomed over you as you scanned it for any sign of shelter. A sudden gust of wind caught you and threw you off course for a moment. You gasped as you realized it wasn’t the elevation making the air unpredictable, but magic.

Your wings faltered- you knew this feeling. This was ancient magic, the same used in the time of The Great Ones. Something powerful was stirring inside this mountain. Still, there was no turning back. This was your only hope.

You spotted a wide, dark mouth of a cave yawning above a set of cliffs. You folded your wings and descended towards it. As soon as you set foot inside, a series of chills ran down your spine. It was cold and the air was strangely still. You could hear the sound of dripping water and took that as a good sign.

A faint green glow, barely visible at first, pulsed from the darkness deep within the cave. Something’s here… But anything was better than the fae court finding you, so you pressed on despite the fear rising slowly within you.

You stopped walking suddenly, your heart stopping altogether. A tall figure emerged from the shadows, two glowing, emerald eyes locked on you, piercing through the darkness and causing an otherworldly glow.

“You trespass upon my mountain,” the figure’s deep voice rumbled like thunder.

He stepped into full view and you gasped. He was much taller than you, draped in dark robes, with black horns that rose from his head like a crown.

A dragon in humanoid form!

You couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe. 

A knowing smile curled on his lips, “What have we here? A little fae, wandering into my domain?”

You opened your mouth to speak- to apologize maybe- but no words came out. He began to close the distance between you.

“Tell me,” he said as he drew close, “What brings a rulebreaker to my mountain?”

You flinched like you’d been slapped, “How did you-”

“I know many things,” he hummed.

You stumbled backwards, trying to get away from his approaching form, your wings twitching as if you were about to take flight. But for some reason, you couldn’t move.

He raised a hand and a ribbon of green magic slithered towards you, curling around your wrist like a snake. “You don’t need to be afraid. I will not harm you. On the contrary…” his voice was like silk, “I offer you my protection.”

“Protection?” Stunned, you stopped trying to back away.

“Yes,” he stepped closer until you were forced to look up, “In exchange for something small.”

“What is it?” you asked, voice trembling.

“Companionship.”

You tilted your head in confusion, staring at the mysterious man. Companionship? Is he serious?

“You are hunted, are you not?” he asked, “King Riddle’s court will find you eventually. Unless, of course, you accept my offer.”

You hesitated, looking down at your hand, which was encircled with green magic, “What is this for, then?”

“Proof of our agreement,” he replied, “If you agree, I will mark your wrist with the symbol of a promise.”

“I…” This mysterious stranger had ancient magic, perhaps the only thing that would keep you from being taken in to King Riddle and losing your wings. If companionship was all you had to offer… “I agree.”

There was a sudden pain on the back of your hand and you cried out in pain. The green magic tendril retracted and a strange green symbol was left glowing faintly on the back of your hand. It reminded you faintly of a dragon.

“It is done,” he said simply, “You are now under my protection. None shall harm you.”

“And what does this companionship… entail?” you asked.

A faint smile tugged on his lips, “It is simple- you stay with me, here on Mt. Diasomnia. You speak with me on a daily basis and you do not leave without my consent.”

Your wings fluttered instinctively at the last part, but you nodded. It was a fair trade- if anything, you were getting the better end of the deal.

“You may call me Malleus,” he said, inclining his head, “I am the Dragon Prince.”

“I’m…” Giving your name to someone with such powerful magic was dangerous, but you couldn’t hide it forever, “(Y/n).”

“A fine name,” Malleus said. He gestured deeper in the cave, “Come. I will show you to your quarters. You must be tired from your flight.”

You hesitated, glancing back toward the cave’s entrance. It was almost as dark as the inside of the cave. What was waiting for you, if you were to change your mind? Endless rules? The promise of clipped wings?

With a deep breath, you turned away and followed Malleus deeper into the cave. Somehow, the cave grew warmer the deeper you went. Green crystals jutted out of the walls, casting magical light over the two of you and vibrating your wings with energy.

“This is my sanctuary,” Malleus told you, “Few have set foot here. Consider it an honor.”

The cave opened into a massive chamber with stone walls lined with shelves. Ancient artifacts gleamed under the green light, most of which you’d never seen before. But what was truly amazing was the hoard. Piles of golden coins and gemstones reached towards the ceiling. Silver cups and golden crowns and all sorts of treasure littered the area around a huge, golden throne.

A smaller alcove off to the side held a simple white bed. “That will be your space,” Malleus said, “You will find it comfortable.”

“Thanks…” you said softly. You looked back at the gold towers and watched them shimmer in the green light.

“All dragons have a hoard, little one,” Malleus said. Something about the way he said it made you shiver. His tone softened as he continued, “Sleep now, I won’t keep you from your rest. We will speak more in the morning.”

You hesitated for a long moment, watching him return to his throne, before finally retreating to the alcove. The bed was indeed comfy and, overwhelmed by the day’s events, you fell asleep quickly.

Even with the pain on the back of your hand.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

What a Mess 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: thick!Bucky Barnes

Summary: Your new job isn't all that you expect. (maid AU – short!reader)

Note: hate me, baby.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You punch the code into the keypad. The instructions are in the app, under the corresponding address. It took you sometime to find the building, then a little longer to figure out how to work the elevator. As it stopped on the right floor, the grated door struck you with a glimmer of panic. 

Unlocked, you roll the door back to reveal the condo on the other side. Wow. It’s quite the place. Spacious. High ceilings, polished dark floors, tall counters. Well, everything is ‘big’ compared to you. The world is gargantuan in a way that makes you feel like a spec of dust. 

You set down your kit and roll in your vacuum. It’s a haul and a half and you felt a bit silly dragging it all up the front steps of the building. You always feel a bit ridiculous. Like you don’t belong. Even in a city so big that you’re invisible. 

You tap your earbud twice to turn the music up. You always keep one in to ward off the overstimulation of the New York chaos. It helps you through the hours of cleaning. 

You check the notes in the app. It’s a long list. The work isn’t new, just the place. They chose to give some of your old clients to newer cleaners and you took on the more particular ones. Zuli said it’s because you know how to get in and out without any hint that you were ever there. 

You start your cautious work. The client has included some very direct instructions. What you can and can’t touch. Alright, easy enough. You’re good with that. Details help. 

You get to the spiral staircase that leads up to loft bedroom. The instructions say to dust the railings and sweep the steps. It doesn’t really look like they need it but it can’t hurt. You’re paid to do the job. 

You start with the railings. Going top to bottom as you drag a microfibre cloth down the twisting ascent. You go back to the highest step with the broom, the task made awkward as the broom handle pokes through ceiling that would be the floor of the room above. It’s an interesting set up. 

As you bring the bristles across the metal step, a shadow shifts over you. The windows are tall enough to let the sky in. You ignore it until a voice startles you from above. “Got an extra cloth?” 

Your foot slips as a hand grabs the other end of the broom. You cling to the stick as another hand reaches to catch your arm. You squeak and look up at the man as he bends through the hatch door and keeps you from falling further. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you whittle out of your tight throat. 

“Careful,” he steadies you on the step until you get your balance. He lets go and steps back, standing above you as he looks down through the open hatch. “So, a cloth?” 

You tap your earbud to pause the music. You nod and give a wide blink. You turn and scurry down the spiral steps, dizzy by the bottom. You search your kit and take both the roll of paper towels and a microfibre cloth. You go back to him and offer both. 

You bat your lashes as you peer up at him. You know him. Well, you recognise him. The hair, the beard, the bright blue eyes. It's Bucky Barnes. What really gives him away are the metal fingers twiddling by his jeans. He bends to take the paper towel. 

“Thanks,” he rasps and walks away without another word. 

You don’t move for a moment. Then you set back to your work. You’re not there to ogle the famed super soldier. You have your list of tasks. You remember the underlined point on the list. Do not enter the loft.  

You make a slow descent down with the broom and gather the small cluster of dust in the pan. You dump it and begin on the lower floor. You get about halfway around the front room of the open-concept condo before the silence smacks you across the face. 

You hit play on your earbud. That’s better. You finish up with the sweep and start with the mop. You’re sure to use the gentle, unscented, all natural cleaner as specified in the app. You suppose a place this nice requires extra care. 

You bob as you clean, the rhythm of the music soothing your nerves. You can’t help by keep replaying your near disaster in your head. Imagine if you’d fallen down those stairs. That would have been painful and just as torturously humiliating. 

As you finish up, packing up your kit and tie up the trash bag to take out, you sense something behind you. You turn as you wait for the elevator to rise up and blanch at Bucky as he stands at the foot of the metal stairs. How hadn’t you heard him? 

He looks at you then around the apartment. You squirm, too tongue tied to speak. Better off that you don’t. Was that on the list? You can’t remember. 

“Looks good,” he says. 

His eyes meet yours and you flinch. His irises are a blue so bold and deep that they threaten to swallow you up like the sea. And the way he stands. His posture. He’s intimidating without trying. Or maybe you are a bit of a wuss. 

You press on your earbud, once more silencing the music. You wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t. He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge.  

You hesitate and face the elevator again. Tension roils at your back as you hear the glass tingle followed by the hiss of a cap popping free. You push your shoulders up and lift your kit, hanging on tightly to the hose of the vacuum. 

He must deal with enough leers, he surely doesn’t need that from a cleaner. The elevator doors open and you step inside. You roll the vacuum into the corner and go to close the gate.  

Bucky appears at the threshold as he pulls it across himself. The whole time, his gaze doesn’t leave you. He hits the keypad on his side and the lock clicks before the outer doors roll across and block him from sight. You stay there, frozen, even as the elevator jolts into motion. 

Did you overstep? Miss a check on the list? You hope you didn’t mess this up already. You really hate starting all over again. You prefer to know what to expect than to have to keep guessing. 

[youthguk]

Come home | kth (m) | one-shot

pairing: idol!taehyung (bts) x f!reader rating: explicit (18+) genre: military!au, reunion smut, established relationship, angst with comfort, fluff & filth word count: ~3.5k

His hands haven’t touched you in months. Now they won’t stop. Taehyung is on military leave — just four nights — and he plans to fuck you like he needs you to survive. Under hot water, in tangled sheets, on kitchen counters. Each time rougher. Each time sweeter. Each time closer to goodbye.

You’re parked in a dim underground garage on the edge of the city, three levels below streetlight and sky. The air smells like concrete and quiet secrecy. The engine hums low beneath your fingertips, heater brushing warmth over your knuckles, but your hands are cold. You keep checking the clock. 21:43. They said 21:45 sharp. Not a minute before, not a second late.

Your heart hasn’t slowed once since morning. Not when you chose your outfit, not when you double-checked the address, not even now, tucked in the shadows with your mouth dry and nerves stretched tight.

Then—

Headlights slice through the dark. A matte black van turns the corner, slow and silent. No license plate, no markings. It rolls to a stop two spots away.

The passenger door opens first.

He steps out.

You stop breathing.

He’s in uniform — dark green fatigues that cling to his waist and shoulders like they were sewn to remember him. His buzzcut makes him look older, sharper. That signature softness in his eyes? Still there. Still only for you. The duffel slung over his shoulder looks too heavy, but he walks light, like every step toward you is lifting something off his chest.

He reaches the car. Pauses. Just stares through the windshield like he’s trying to convince himself it’s real.

You don't even remember moving.

The driver’s side door flies open. He drops his bag. And suddenly, you’re in his arms. Your coat is crushed between you, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his arms locking around your waist so tight it almost hurts.

You don’t say his name. You breathe it. And he breathes yours back like a homecoming.

His lips find yours mid-laugh, mid-breath — it’s clumsy, a little desperate. Teeth clash. Noses bump. Neither of you care. It’s wet and real and God, he tastes the same. Maybe even better.

When he pulls back, your lips are slick, your pulse feral, and his voice drops into a growl. “Drive.” He brushes your jaw with his thumb, presses a kiss behind your ear. “Before I fuck you in the backseat.”

You laugh — a high, breathy sound that cracks open something deep in your chest. “Is that an order, Private Kim?”

His grin is crooked. His pupils are blown. “Don’t make me beg. I’ll do it.”

So you drive.

One hand on the wheel, the other clutching his fingers in your lap. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. His thumb keeps brushing over your palm like he’s reading every second you spent apart, and you feel like you're burning alive just from the way he looks at you.

You barely remember the elevator ride — his palm resting low on your spine, his eyes glued to your mouth like it’s something sacred. The moment the doors slide open, you're both already moving.

Your apartment greets you in shadows. The hallway light flickers on as the door clicks shut behind you, but you don’t even take off your shoes.

He crowds you back against the wall — not rough, just hungry. Like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing on earth that can feed him.

“Fuck—” he breathes when your lips part again, and this time the kiss is all tongue and low, broken sounds. His hands slip under your coat, pushing it off your shoulders with one smooth drag. It drops to the floor like it’s nothing.

“Let me see you,” he whispers against your mouth, his voice raw with ache. “Let me feel you.”

You nod, but words don’t come. You can’t speak with the way his mouth is moving down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your spine arch, just enough to make you whimper. You feel him smile against your skin — that lazy, devilish smirk you’ve dreamed about every night since he left.

He tugs your sweater up, slow at first — but then his fingers tremble and he groans, desperate. "Off," he mutters. “I need it off—baby, please—”

It’s messy. Clothes halfway on, halfway off. His uniform jacket hits the floor. Your legs wrap around his waist before you’re even sure how you got there. He hoists you up like it’s instinct, strong arms under your thighs, back pressed to the hallway wall.

You gasp when you feel him grind against you — still clothed, but thick and hot through the layers. “Been thinking about this every night,” he rasps. “Fucking my fist pretending it was you. Couldn’t stop. Even when I knew I’d go crazy from it.”

Your nails scrape down the back of his neck, and he hisses, lips crashing into yours again. The kiss is deeper now. Dirtier. Tongues sliding, breaths shared, teeth biting.

He walks you to the bedroom like that — lips never parting, his body caging yours like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll disappear into smoke.

When your back hits the mattress, you both pause. Barely. Just enough to see each other in the half-light.

He drinks you in like he’s memorizing. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along the waistband of your panties. “Even in my dreams you didn’t look this good.”

You reach for him, voice breathy. “Taehyung, please—”

He groans, deep and guttural. That sound goes straight between your legs.

“Say that again.”

“Please.”

“Fuck.” He kisses your stomach, then lower. “I’m gonna take care of you, baby. Gonna make you feel so good you forget how long I was gone.”

He slides your underwear down and settles between your thighs like it’s the only place he belongs. The first lick is filthy— slow, hot, with a low hum that vibrates against you. You cry out, hand flying to his buzzed head. He moans at that — actually moans — like having your fingers tugging his hair is the highlight of his entire leave.

He doesn’t stop. Not when your hips buck. Not when your legs shake. Not even when you beg. He works you open with his tongue and fingers, slow at first — then faster, harder, until you’re chanting his name like prayer.

When you come, it hits hard. Blinding. Your vision whites out for a second, and he kisses his way up your body with a smug, drenched mouth, his eyes dark and wild.

“Still with me?” he whispers, stroking your cheek.

You nod. Barely.

“Good,” he says, lining himself up. “Because I’m not done yet.”

When he finally sinks into you, you both break. His forehead falls to your shoulder, curses spilling from his lips, and your back arches to take him deeper, deeper, like you’re trying to make up for every night spent sleeping alone.

He moves like he means it — slow at first, then grinding, rolling his hips until you’re gasping under him, one leg hooked around his waist, arms wrapped around his back. You feel everything. The weight of him. The stretch. The love.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice shaking. “Can I come inside?”

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

It’s the softest yes you’ve ever said. And it ruins him.

He presses his mouth to yours and spills inside you with a quiet cry, holding you like he’s never letting go again.

You don’t realize you’re crying until he kisses the tear trailing down your temple.

You’re still joined, him still inside you, both of you trembling in the silence that follows. His hips have stopped moving, but his hands haven’t. They keep roaming — over your ribcage, your thighs, the curve of your cheek — as if he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck, where his skin is hot and damp, and you hold him there, forehead to forehead. His breath stutters against your lips.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “So much I forgot what your voice sounded like sometimes.”

He closes his eyes. His throat bobs. “I whispered it into my pillow every night.” A small laugh, broken in half. “Got yelled at more than once for talking in my sleep.”

You giggle, wet and breathy. It makes him smile again, that soft, crooked one that only ever appears when he’s fully stripped down — not just naked, but open.

Slowly, he pulls out, eyes never leaving yours, like even that distance is too much. He watches your face as he does, like he’s afraid it’ll hurt. Then he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest, skin to skin. Your bodies are still slick with sweat, and your thighs sticky where he came inside you, but it doesn’t matter. The mess is sacred. The warmth of it makes you feel claimed.

His heartbeat thuds beneath your ear. “Did I hurt you?” he asks softly, lips grazing your hairline.

You shake your head against him. “You made me feel alive again.”

He exhales. Then: “Wait here.”

You blink. “Where are you going?”

But he’s already moving — sliding off the bed, grabbing his duffel bag from the floor, still half-naked, chest glowing in the low lamplight. You watch the lines of his back shift as he crouches, pulling something small and folded from the inner pocket.

When he returns to the bed, he holds it out like a gift — a little rectangle of worn paper, creased at the edges.

“I was gonna leave it for you to find after I left,” he says, voice suddenly small. “But I want to see you read it now.”

You sit up, pulling the sheets over your chest, fingers trembling as you unfold the letter. His handwriting covers both sides — messy, tight, like he couldn’t get it out fast enough. It smells like soap and something earthy you can't name.

The first line wrecks you.

I think about the mole under your left eye every time I close mine.

You blink back tears. Your thumb brushes over the ink.

It’s the first thing I noticed the night we met. You smiled with your whole face. I didn’t know people could do that.

I’ve been counting the days like they’re beads on a string. Every letter you sent, I read ten times. Sometimes I slept with them under my pillow just to dream softer.

I don’t know how to say this without sounding stupid but—

I’m in love with you.

You pause. Breath hitching. He’s watching you, bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

“I know I never said it out loud before,” he murmurs, breaking the silence. “I just… wanted you to know. In case something ever—”

You launch into his arms before he can finish the sentence.

He catches you mid-sentence, mid-tear, holding you like you’re breakable and infinite all at once.

“I love you too,” you whisper into the curve of his neck. “I think I always have.”

Something cracks in him then — not loudly, just a soft unspooling. His hands tremble on your back. You feel his lips press to your shoulder, your collarbone, your heart.

“I’m gonna keep writing,” he says, voice shaking. “Every week. Every day if I can.”

“And I’ll keep waiting,” you promise. “Even if it kills me.”

You lie there for a long time after, tangled in limbs and love and the sheets you never made. He falls asleep first, breath even, mouth slightly parted. You watch him like you’ll never see anything so beautiful again.

And maybe you won’t.

But tonight, he's here.

And so are you.

_______

The morning finds you wrapped around each other like vines.

It’s warm beneath the covers, skin clinging to skin, his leg slotted between yours, one arm heavy over your waist. Taehyung breathes slow and deep, mouth resting open near your collarbone. His buzzed hair tickles your chin when you tilt your head. The light is pale and sleepy, spilling through your curtains in soft brushstrokes.

You don't want to move. Ever. But your thighs are sore, sticky. The delicious ache between your legs reminds you of everything he did to you last night — the way he whispered your name like a psalm, the way he came with his face buried in your neck, holding you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

You shift gently.

He stirs.

“Mmm…” His voice is pure gravel. Still half-asleep. “Where you going?”

“Shower,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along the slope of his spine. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re perfect.” His eyes don’t even open, but his arms tighten around you like a reflex. “But I’ll come.”

You laugh softly. “You’ll what?”

One eye cracks open. He grins. “I’ll come… with you. Don’t be greedy.”

The bathroom fills with steam in seconds. You step under the spray, head tilted back, water cascading down your shoulders. It’s hot enough to sting — in the best way.

And then he’s behind you.

Taehyung steps in, warm palms sliding over your hips like they belong there. His chest presses to your back, heartbeat steady and slow. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grope. Just… holds you. Lets the water pour over both of you like a blessing.

“You feel like home,” he murmurs into your neck, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear.

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Do you say that to all the girls you shower with?”

He laughs, a deep, sleepy sound that echoes in your chest. “Only the ones I dream about in bunk beds.”

His hands move — up your sides, under your breasts, then down, gliding between your thighs with the gentlest pressure. It’s not frantic, not like last night. This is slower. Worshipful. One long finger dips between your folds, slick even under water. His breath catches.

“Still so wet for me,” he groans. “Fuck, baby—”

You reach behind you, find his cock hard and hot against your lower back. You grip it, lazily stroke it once. He curses against your shoulder, his forehead falling to the curve where your neck meets your body.

You shift forward, just enough to guide him to your entrance.

He slides in with a moan like he’s being reborn.

The water pounds around you, drowning out everything but the wet sound of skin against skin. He moves in slow, shallow thrusts, holding your waist with one hand, the other stroking over your stomach and chest, cupping your breast and flicking your nipple until you gasp.

“Let me stay here forever,” he whispers. “Right here. Like this. With you.”

You turn your head to kiss him, messy and wet, tongues tangled. It’s clumsy in the best way — all steam and water and mouths that can’t get enough. Your walls flutter around him and he feels it, groaning deep.

“You gonna come?” he asks, lips brushing yours. “Come on, baby. I got you.”

You do — a slow bloom, thighs shaking, voice caught in your throat. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep, breath broken against your skin as he lets go.

You stay like that for a while. Water rinsing you clean. Arms wrapped around each other. Nothing but warmth.

Later, you're wearing his hoodie — massive on you, sleeves hanging over your hands, his scent wrapped around you like a second skin. He watches you from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, smirking like you just painted yourself in gold.

“You look better in that than I ever did.”

You grin, flipping a slice of toast. “Well, good news — I’m never giving it back.”

He strolls over, kisses your bare shoulder. “Fine. But only if you burn breakfast with me.”

And you do. You both do.

The toast ends up black on one side, and the eggs are slightly rubbery. But it doesn’t matter. You eat it sitting on the counter, legs swinging, him standing between them, feeding you with his fingers and kissing the crumbs from your lips.

The laughter comes easy.

And for the first time in months, you feel full.

_______

You lie in bed, bare skin tangled in sheets, his head resting on your chest. Neither of you speaks.

The bag is still at the door.

His uniform is draped over the chair like a silent countdown.

Taehyung traces slow circles on your hipbone with the tip of his finger. He hasn’t touched you like this all day — not properly. Not since the moment you both realized what tomorrow would take.

So when he lifts his head, kisses the space between your breasts, and murmurs, “I need you again” — your heart breaks a little in your chest.

You roll to meet him, and the kiss that follows is already dripping in hunger.

It starts soft. Mouths brushing. A sigh into his lips. His hand on your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

Then the ache slips out of both of you.

He exhales sharply, pushes his body closer. “Let me make you feel it.” His voice is rough silk. “Let me give you something to hold on to while I’m gone.”

You nod, already breathless. “Touch me.”

He slides down the bed, mouth trailing heat along your belly, and when his tongue dips between your legs, it’s with purpose. No teasing, no patience — just a deep, slow lick that has your head falling back and your legs falling open.

You moan — low, needy.

He groans like a man starved. “God, I’ll never get tired of this.” His tongue moves in tight circles, then slow swipes that make your toes curl. His fingers slide in beside his mouth — two at once, deep, curling just right. Your hips buck and he holds you down, forearm firm across your waist, eyes locked on you like he wants to burn the image into his memory.

“Come on,” he murmurs, breath warm against you. “Let me feel you. I need to feel you come on my tongue.”

You do — hard, loud, thighs clenching around his head. He doesn’t stop until you're gasping his name like prayer, until he’s soaked in you, lips shiny, breathing heavy.

He climbs back up your body, kisses your mouth with your taste still thick on his tongue.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you.”

“Then ruin me,” you whisper. “So I won’t forget.”

He growls — a sound that comes from deep inside. Grabs your wrists, pins them above your head. His cock presses against your entrance, thick and pulsing, dragging through your slick folds until you’re begging.

When he finally pushes in, you both gasp.

“Shit—” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, voice shaking. “Tight… so fucking tight. Always so perfect for me.”

He starts to move — slow, agonizing strokes that make you feel everything. Every inch, every drag, every twitch of his body inside yours. Your legs wrap around his hips, nails scraping down his back.

“I love you,” you say, suddenly, brokenly.

He stills. Breathes hard.

Then kisses you like he’s dying.

“I love you,” he repeats, thrusting deeper. “I love you. I love you—”

His pace quickens. Rougher now. Messier. He lets go of your wrists to cup your face with both hands, holding you still so he can watch your every expression. He fucks you like a man desperate to leave a piece of himself inside — hips slamming, sweat dripping, teeth gritted.

The sound of skin on skin is wet, obscene.

Your breath catches every time he hits that spot. Your walls flutter around him.

And then he growls, pulling out suddenly, flipping you onto your hands and knees.

“You said ruin you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “So I will.”

He enters you again from behind — one hand gripping your shoulder, the other sliding down your stomach to rub your clit in tight, filthy circles. You cry out, body arching like a bow.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Take it. Take all of me. Let me fuck you so good you’ll still feel me when I’m gone.”

You come hard — eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream. Your body pulses around him and he chokes on a moan, hips stuttering.

“Where do you want me?” he asks, breath ragged. “Tell me—fuck—inside?”

You nod, whimpering. “Please. Please come inside. I want to feel it.”

He groans deep, loud, and spills into you with a broken cry of your name, body collapsing over your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder.

You both breathe hard, shaking, stuck in the wreckage.

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays there, wrapped around you, holding you tight, like if he moves, he’ll unravel.

“Don’t forget how I feel,” he whispers, lips trembling against your spine.

“I couldn’t,” you say. “Even if I tried.”

_______

You don’t cry at the station.

You stand in the same garage where he first appeared, same van waiting in the dark. His uniform’s back on. His duffel slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll write,” he says, cupping your cheek.

You nod.

“I’ll call. As much as I can.”

You nod again.

“And when I get out—”

You lean in, press your mouth to his, soft and shaking. He kisses you like it’s the last breath he’ll ever take. When you pull back, your voice cracks around the words:

“When you get out, I’ll be waiting.”

The van door slides shut.

And just like that, he’s gone.

But the warmth of him stays. In your sheets. In your chest. In the faint bruises on your hips and the ache between your legs.

You drive home with the hoodie still on.

And you fall asleep clutching the last letter he left under your pillow.

.

.

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[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Three

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd (Formula 1 AU

CW: Language

WC: 4.2k

Notes: Andddd we’re back. Paige does a little bit of #noticing but unfortunately no #critical thinking. Anywaysss welcome to Miami 😏

Miami was loud. Always had been.

Even in moments like this — away from the camera flashes, away from the swarm of fans and influencers and sponsors in pastel suits — it buzzed in the air. The hotel smelled like sea salt and vanilla candles, air conditioning humming beneath the polished sheen of money. Every inch of it gleamed: marble floors, glass elevators, a rooftop infinity pool that overlooked the city like it owned it.

Ferrari had taken over the top few floors. Of course they had.

Paige had stopped keeping track of what brand was sponsoring what. She just showed up where she was told, smiled when it mattered, and tried not to roll her eyes when they made her wear heels.

But tonight? Tonight was better.

This wasn’t a gala. It wasn’t a press obligation or a launch party. Just a small thing — maybe two dozen people, all team. Food. Music. A view of the skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Someone from the comms team had called it “a culture reset.” Luca had said it was “an excuse for overcooked steak and a dress code that doesn’t include logos.”

Paige had laughed and showed up early anyway.

She wore a black short-sleeved button-up, loose and open just enough to feel like summer, and some black shorts paired with the cleanest pair of white and gold Dunks she had. Her hair was up, lazy and effortless, a single braid tucked behind one ear. No makeup. A thin chain around her neck.

She hadn’t seen Azzi all day. Maybe not since the track walk two days ago.

Didn’t matter.

The steak was actually good. So were the fries. Someone had thought ahead and brought in sweet tea that didn’t taste like hotel sweet tea — and she’d spent ten full minutes trying to figure out which mechanic to thank for that before giving up and nursing it like bourbon.

Luca leaned back in his chair, plastic cup in one hand, the other gesturing lazily toward the cityscape behind them.

“Home race for you,” he said with a small grin. “You feeling the pressure yet?”

Paige shrugged, then grinned. “You mean am I still floating from Saudi? Little bit.”

“Fair,” he said. “You’re allowed to enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it.”

“You’re also stalking the charts, so—”

“I like being prepared.”

Luca chuckled. “Prepared’s one thing. You’ve watched your quali lap like it’s a breakup video.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “I didn’t even win pole that day.”

“You won the race.”

“Barely.”

“But you won.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just looked out the window again, sunlight slipping lower, casting long shadows over the balcony tiles.

“I want to do it again,” she said quietly. “In front of a home crowd.”

Luca nodded. “And what about Azzi?”

“What about her?”

He gave her a look.

Paige toyed with her straw. “She wants it too. That much is obvious.”

“She’s not used to being second.”

“She’s not second yet,” Paige said, quick. Sharper than she meant to be.

And then, like magic — like the universe heard her and decided to make things interesting — the glass door on the other side of the room slid open. And Azzi stepped through it.

Not alone.

Paige’s eyes clocked the guy before she even registered Azzi’s outfit. Some polished PR-looking guy in a tailored button-down, blazer slung casually over one arm like he’d just stepped off a yacht. He said something low to Azzi and she laughed — not loud, but real. The kind of laugh that came from comfort. Or practice.

The guy touched her back lightly. A familiar gesture. And Paige looked away before she could decide how she felt about it.

Azzi was in white. She looked like she belonged here — like the room had been designed for her. High-waisted cream pants, a sleeveless top that made her collarbones look like they’d been carved from marble, earrings that caught the light every time she turned her head.

“Think that’s her boyfriend?” Luca asked casually, sipping his drink.

“No,” Paige said.

“You sound sure.”

“I’m not. I just don’t care.”

Luca gave her a slow grin.

Azzi made her way over in that effortless way she always had — graceful but detached, like she was floating half an inch off the ground. When she reached them, she barely glanced at Paige.

“Luca,” she said, nodding. “Didn’t think you’d be drinking.”

“It’s ginger ale.”

“Disappointing.”

Her tone was smooth, teasing — almost warm. But not toward Paige. Never toward Paige.

Azzi’s eyes flicked her way, finally. Paige held her gaze. Didn’t blink.

“You clean up,” Azzi said, like it was an afterthought. “Surprising.”

“You showed up,” Paige said, with a shrug. “Shocking.”

That earned a small tilt of Azzi’s mouth. Not a smile, exactly. But close.

The PR guy drifted off — maybe to find a drink, maybe because he knew when to leave athletes alone. Azzi didn’t watch him go. She took a fry from Luca’s plate without asking and sat on the armrest of the chair across from Paige, legs crossed.

“So,” she said. “How’s the high?”

“Still riding it,” Paige said. “You?”

Azzi shrugged. “I’m from here. It’s not new.”

“But you haven’t won here.”

“Yet.”

Paige took a sip of tea. Let the silence stretch.

The room hummed around them — quiet laughter, a low playlist of late-2000s R&B someone from strategy must’ve put on. It smelled like spice rub and cologne and sunscreen from someone’s shoulders.

They were the two best drivers in the championship. The whole team knew it. So did every other team.

They just weren’t quite sure what to do with each other yet.

Paige looked at Azzi again — at the slope of her shoulders, the curl of her hair, the quiet fire behind her eyes that never seemed to dim. Even when she was losing. Even when she was smiling.

She didn’t hate her. She knew that now.

But she also wasn’t ready to like her.

Not yet.

“Hope you enjoy second place again,” Paige said, casual as a breeze.

Azzi’s expression didn’t change. “You’ll know it well soon enough.”

Their eyes met. A beat passed.

Then Paige smiled.

So did Azzi.

And the night rolled on, humid and American and alive.

–

Night practice in Miami always looked like a dream.

The floodlights carved the track out of the dark, all hot white and fluorescent shimmer. Everything glowed. The walls. The asphalt. Even the tires caught the shine — rubber and speed wrapped in Miami heat. It was all slick and loud and fast.

Paige loved it.

Loved how the night made the colors deeper. The noise sharper. Loved the cool air after a long, sticky day of press. The heat was still there, clinging to the tarmac like a second skin, but it didn’t feel suffocating anymore. Not under the lights.

The track felt like it was breathing with her.

She wasn’t doing anything complicated tonight. Not really. This was just fuel burn testing — the long, low kind of run where you didn’t need to worry about setting times or overtaking or showing anything off. All Paige had to do was drive the car. Keep it steady. Consistent. Let the numbers roll in.

The Ferrari felt good under her.

Too good, probably. Which was bad news for everyone else.

“Radio check, four-five,” Luca’s voice crackled in her ear. “Still good?”

Paige tapped her mic, leaned lazily back into her seat even though she didn’t need to. “Still here, bossman. Loud and clear.”

“Mic sounds great from our end. No drop in Sector 2 this time.”

“Nice. Maybe that prayer circle you made the engineers do is working.”

A pause. She could hear his amusement in the static. “Don’t joke. You didn’t see what I made them sacrifice.”

She laughed — a low, pleased sound that vibrated right up from her chest. The car surged beneath her hands like it was in on the joke too.

“I’ll send them a fruit basket,” she said. “Or a goat.”

“Data looks smooth. Fuel curve’s tracking well.”

Paige eased through Turn 11 with one hand on the wheel, the other flicking a quick toggle on the dash. The lights of the stadium curved around her peripheral vision, flashing blue, then gold, then blue again. Everything in Miami had to sparkle. Even the pit building.

“You like the race suits for this weekend?” she asked, sliding into the back straight. “The blue ones?”

“Yeah,” Luca said. “You like them?”

“I mess with it.”

“You just like looking like a Tar Heel.”

“Nah. Go Huskies all day.”

“It’s a soft blue. Not a dark blue,” he corrected. “Very fashionable.”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

“You look good in it.”

Paige let that sit for a beat. Smiled under her helmet.

“I know.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Her telemetry pinged in her ear, confirming pace and tire wear. She let the silence stretch a bit longer before cutting into the next turn.

“I like the helmets too,” she said finally. “The shimmer paint? Fire.”

“We went all in for Miami.”

“You should’ve gone all in on the hard tires. These feel like bricks.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’re not good, Luca. If you make me qualify on hards, I’m spinning just to prove a point.”

“Noted.”

“Mediums are way smoother. It’s like ballet out here.”

“Remind me to record that quote.”

“You’re welcome.”

The smile was still sitting on her face, a little crooked now, curling at the corners of her mouth. The straightaways felt endless out here. She could see the halo of the car reflected in the clear plastic boards above the pit wall.

This was the kind of night she lived for.

No pressure. Just the car. Just the team.

She had the fastest lap so far in practice, not that it mattered. It wasn’t about pace tonight. It was about feeling. About the way the tires bit into the track, the way the power hit in third gear, the way she could count on the engine’s whine like a heartbeat in her spine.

“How’s the temp?” Luca asked. “Oil’s creeping high.”

“Still stable. Little hot, but nothing weird.”

“Copy. Might bring you in two laps early.”

“Did Azzi pit already?”

There was a half-second pause. Enough to make her notice it.

“Yep,” Luca said. “She boxed ten minutes ago.”

Paige didn’t say anything at first. Just let the thought hover — Azzi already done for the night. Back in the garage. Probably watching the feeds, helmet off, hair damp from the humidity. Paige could almost see it — the way Azzi sat, the way she leaned one arm against her knee, always looking like she was deep in some private thought no one else had earned the right to know.

“She looked fast,” Luca added, careful.

“She always looks fast,” Paige replied, even.

Another long corner. Her fingers tapped once against the wheel.

“She’s top of the board?”

“Second. You’ve got her by four-tenths.”

Paige didn’t say anything. Just nodded to herself. Four-tenths wasn’t much. Not with the way the track evolved under nightfall. Not with Azzi. She’d seen that kind of gap disappear in a single lap before. She’d lost a race once, years ago, by a tenth and change to that same calm, surgical driver who never seemed to sweat. Paige usually tried not to think about the first time she and Azzi were teammates.

She banked into Turn 16 like she owned it. The car answered like it agreed.

“Telemetry still looking clean?” she asked, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” Luca said. “Very clean.”

“You know I’ve always liked street circuits.”

“I can tell.”

“What, did my excitement for Azerbaijan give it away?.”

Luca laughed — a real one this time. Not static-filtered. Not sharp.

“I like the chaos,” Paige said. “I like the pressure.”

“You’re thriving.”

“I’m trying.”

She didn’t have to explain it. Not to Luca. Not to anyone who really knew what this meant. She was a rookie last year. A rookie with too many good laps and not enough good results. But she’d climbed. Fast. Too fast for some. Not fast enough for others. And now?

Now she was here. In a Ferrari. Tied at the top of the championship with Azzi Fudd, two-time world champion and permanent thundercloud in her rearview.

She was supposed to be calm. Focused.

She was also 22. Hungry. Loud. A little reckless when she wanted to be.

“You think the podium lights are red this weekend?” she asked.

“Pretty sure they’re blue.”

Paige smiled again. “Good.”

And the lights of Miami kept flashing past her visor — faster, hotter, sweeter than anything else in the world.

–

The rain didn’t come down softly.

It fell with intent — sheets of it, all silver and violent and lit by the white-hot buzz of the Miami floodlights. It turned the circuit into a mirror. Turned the air electric. Turned every decision into a gamble.

Paige wasn’t afraid of the rain.

But she respected it.

She’d nailed her lap early — slick tires just barely hanging on, everything on edge but holding. She’d kept it tight in the corners, let the car breathe on the straights. A little loose in Sector 2, but Luca didn’t complain. The lap had her 1st when she crossed. And that was when they called her in.

“No need to risk it,” Luca said. “You’re safe.”

She came in quiet. Helmet off. Hairline damp. She leaned against the back wall of the Ferrari garage with a towel around her neck and her eyes on the monitor. Time was running out. The board flickered through the top ten. Her name stayed at the top.

Until it didn’t.

She heard them before she saw them — the engineers clustered near the pit wall letting out a low, collective ohhh. The kind that came from knowing you’d just seen something you probably shouldn’t have. Something just on the edge of impossible.

And there it was.

FUDD.

1st.

By two hundredths.

“Are you serious?” Paige asked, half-laughing, half-annoyed.

It wasn’t even bitter. Not really.

She’d seen the lap. Watched it unfold in real time on the garage monitor. Sector 1 was clean. Too clean. Sector 2 made no sense — her traction out of Turn 9 looked like the track was bone dry. And Sector 3?

Sector 3 was filthy.

She’d hooked the apex like it was magnetized. Drove the final chicane like the car was wired into her veins.

“Didn’t even look like it was raining,” Paige muttered. “She drive around the drops?”

Luca just handed her a water bottle and nodded like a proud teacher watching two overachievers cannibalize the rest of the class.

The screen still said it:

1 – Fudd – 1:37.216

2 – Bueckers – +0.020

Two hundredths. A blink. Less than a breath. Paige wasn’t mad. She wasn’t. But damn if it didn’t sit in her chest like static — all that electricity, no outlet.

She stripped out of her race suit with slow, practiced hands. Dried off. Changed into the Ferrari-branded black zip-up they all wore for media. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would show too much skin or too much ego.

Just her and the tension in her jaw.

The walk from the garage to the media zone was short, but not short enough. Rain slicked the pavement, and the ground lit up with reflections from every LED light and every camera flash. Miami still felt alive, even soaking wet.

That’s when she saw her.

Azzi was walking the same way — same pace, same slow, mechanical gait of someone who’d just done something insane and was trying not to think too hard about it. Her suit was still half-zipped, white undershirt soaked to her skin. Her hair was pulled back tight, but rain had loosened the shorter pieces along her hairline.

She looked like a myth.

Paige hated that she thought that.

Azzi’s eyes met hers just once. No smile. No nod. Nothing performative. Just a flicker of something behind them — not quite a smirk, not quite cold. She looked away first. Always did. Paige didn’t know if that meant anything anymore.

They didn’t speak. But it was loud anyway.

Two hundredths.

It might as well have been a millimeter or a mile.

They stood side by side in front of the cameras a few minutes later, both under the same Ferrari banner, both in front of a row of soaked mics and grinning journalists.

The questions came in waves.

“Paige — another front row lockout for Ferrari. How’s it feel knowing you’re starting in second by such a slim margin?”

She smiled. Tight. Professional. Controlled.

“Means we’re doing our jobs right,” she said. “And Azzi’s doing hers really right.”

A little laugh. Eyes flicked to Azzi. No response.

Another question.

“Azzi — that final lap, in the rain, two hundredths quicker. How confident were you going in?”

Azzi’s voice was low, steady. “Not confident. Just committed.”

The press lapped it up.

They always did.

Paige nodded along, still smiling. Still holding.

But her fingers were curled into her sleeve. Her pulse was steady, but it pulsed loud in her ears. She was already thinking about Turn 1 tomorrow. About the dry line. About how fast she could get off the grid. About how hard Azzi defended when she wanted to.

She could still see the lap in her head. Still feel the way the car didn’t slide when it should’ve. Like the track had made an exception just for Azzi.

She’d earned it. Paige knew that.

But still.

Two hundredths.

On the walk back, she didn’t say anything. Just put her hood up, slipped into the hotel shuttle, and stared out the window the whole way.

Miami was restless.

So was she.

–

The Miami sky cleared like it was apologizing.

Gone was the wet drama of qualifying, traded now for thick heat and glittering sunlight that baked the pavement and shimmered off the bay. The streets were dry. The crowd was loud. And the pressure sat heavy on every corner of the circuit.

Paige liked this kind of race. Fast. Flat. Loud. She could hear the roar of the fans even through the foam of her helmet. She liked feeling the engine punch her in the spine on acceleration, liked the stick of the soft tires on warm tarmac. The car felt alive.

So did she.

Azzi was on pole, but that didn’t matter much in Miami. The run to Turn 1 was long enough for drama. Paige knew the line. She launched clean. Saw the flash of red in her peripheral. Knew she had the better start. She slipped past for all of three seconds before Azzi cut back under her on the second apex and held her there, forced her wide.

It was like that. All race.

Twenty-seven corners. Fifty-seven laps. One inch between brilliance and recklessness.

They traded positions three times by Lap 18. Paige was better in Sector 2. Azzi owned the last sector like she’d built it. Every time Paige caught her, Azzi had just enough battery left to defend. Every time Paige backed off to save tires, Azzi put in a personal best time.

Then came Lap 31.

They went side-by-side through Turn 11. Wheels within inches. Mirrors nearly clipped. It was brilliant. It was stupid. It was racing.

And then came the radio.

Fred.

His voice cut through the noise, calm but commanding.

“Paige. Azzi. This is Fred. I need you two to cool it down. No contact. This is not a request. Team orders if we have to.”

Paige’s jaw locked so tight it hurt.

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to.

Fred’s voice lingered like a warning.

Team orders.

This early?

With the points this close?

She wasn’t going to crash Azzi. She knew that. Azzi knew that. They were smart — they were Ferrari. You don’t get to wear red unless you know how to play the long game.

But now every move felt different. Every defense. Every pass attempt. Like it wasn’t just about the race anymore. It was about roles. About labels. About what the pit wall thought she was capable of.

Number two?

No way in hell.

She stayed on Azzi’s gearbox the whole final stint. Didn’t back off. Not once. But she couldn’t get close enough. The dirty air through Sector 3 choked her down. Azzi was just clean. Efficient. Cold.

Paige crossed the line one second behind.

One second.

Her engineer told her it was a great drive. The crowd was deafening. American flags waved and champagne was already being rolled to the podium.

But all Paige felt was heat in her chest.

She took her helmet off slowly. Didn’t look at Azzi. Azzi didn’t look at her either.

“Nice race,” one of the Pirelli reps offered. “You two are… electric.”

Paige didn’t respond. She was too busy trying to decode the look on Azzi’s face — calm, unreadable, maybe even smug. It wasn’t new. But it still sparked something under her skin.

The podium was loud, bright, crowded.

Paige stood one step lower. Again.

Azzi stood tall, hat cradled under one arm, hair sticking to her forehead from the heat. She looked like a driver who was meant to be on top.

Paige didn’t clap during the anthem. She stood still, teeth pressed together.

This was the first time it really sank in.

Not that she’d lost — she could handle that. Not that Azzi had won — she could handle that, too.

But the whispers.

The optics.

The team orders.

Not championship material.

That one dug deep.

Because it felt real, even if no one had said it yet.

And she could see it now — not in the data, not in the standings, but in the way Fred’s voice had sounded in her ear. In the way the mechanics glanced between her and Azzi when they stood too close in the garage. In the way she was almost the story.

She had time off after this. A little space. A little quiet.

A little fire to build.

Because Imola was next. Then Monaco. Then Spain.

A triple header.

Three races.

She could win them all.

She had to.

No more second place.

No more almosts.

No more waiting for permission.

–

It wasn’t quiet at Imola. It never was.

Ferrari fans didn’t whisper. They screamed.

They filled every hill, every grandstand, every walkway and corner and patch of grass within five kilometers of the track. Red flags everywhere. Scarlet shirts. Banners with names and numbers and handmade paintings of drivers who hadn’t even podiumed here in years. Even though Ferrari’s home race is technically Monza, they came for their team.

And today, they came for Paige.

Paige stood on the grid with her helmet off, hand on her hip, eyes closed just for a second. The Italian sun was warm on her cheek. The crowd was already loud, even though lights hadn’t gone out yet. And all she could think was:

Let them watch.

She had pole.

And this time, it meant something.

Because she didn’t just win the race. She owned it.

From the very first turn, Paige dropped the hammer. There was no “settling in.” No tire saving. No watching mirrors. She punched out of Turn 2 like her life depended on it, tucked her elbows in, and said goodbye to the field.

By Lap 5, she was three seconds ahead.

By Lap 12, it was six.

By Lap 20, the race was hers.

No one touched her. No one even tried. Even the team stopped bothering her on the radio after a while — just Luca’s voice every now and then with a lap delta or a pit window.

“You’re in your own world, Paige,” he told her on Lap 34. “Just keep driving.”

So she did.

She danced with that car through every corner, feathered every curb. When the tires dropped, she adjusted. When the fuel lightened, she pushed harder. She didn’t just drive fast — she drove perfect.

That Mercedes behind her — the one that finished second — only saw her on the opening lap. And Azzi? Azzi couldn’t get past them. Couldn’t get close enough.

It was 19 seconds between Paige and second place when she crossed the line.

Nineteen.

That wasn’t a win. That was a message.

She didn’t scream when she hit the radio. Didn’t cry. Didn’t punch the air.

“Told you,” was all she said, voice calm as hell. “Told you I could.”

Then Luca, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

–

The podium was high. That old school kind of tall, with stairs that made her calves ache and a view of the sea of red down below.

They chanted her name.

She wasn’t Italian. She wasn’t a legend. She wasn’t even the most famous driver in red.

But they chanted anyway.

Paige Bueckers.

Because that drive? That was championship material. And everyone saw it. The press. The other teams. The fans. Azzi.

Especially Azzi.

Paige stood on the top step, head high, grinning with that quiet sort of cockiness she’d earned. She didn’t look for Azzi in the crowd. She knew where she was — third step, to the left, two trophies shorter.

This was Paige’s race.

Paige’s win.

Paige’s year — if she kept this up.

She held the trophy up with one hand. Champagne in the other. The sun hit her visor just right, and the whole damn sky looked gold.

Let them watch.

Let Azzi watch.

[dolcejwnie]

THE GAME OF DESIRE. Y.JUNGWON

synopsis: where you, a courtesan in the old china, meets a foreign man who could change your whole life forever.

warning: open ending .ᐟ.ᐟ

genre: historical au; courtesan! reader x a very rich man of power yang jungwon, platonic love, 4149 words.ᐟ

remember to reblog and like for more content!

you were born into a world where survival was a delicate dance, and beauty was a currency that could either condemn or elevate. the daughter of a minor merchant family in the bustling streets of suzhou, your early life was one of modest means, tinged with a sharp awareness of the class divide. your parents, struggling to make ends meet, were forced to make difficult choices to ensure you and your younger siblings ate. you remember the day your mother, her face pale and drawn, came to you with a proposition. a tháng—a renowned brothel in the heart of suzhou—was looking for young girls with talent, beauty, and grace, to be trained as courtesans. your mother, knowing your aptitude for music, your quick wit, and your striking looks, saw it as an opportunity for you to escape a life of poverty. though she had always hoped you would marry a respectable man and lead a life of honor, she also knew that life, as it had been for many women in your position, was often a closed door.

at the tender age of 14, you were sent to the tháng, where the sound of guqin and pipa could be heard in the halls and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and incense. the brothel, like all others, was a place of both beauty and brutality. it was here that you learned the art of seduction, music, poetry, and tea—skills that would elevate you in the eyes of wealthy patrons and clients. but as the years passed, the harsh reality of your position became clearer. the courtesans who could capture the attention of powerful men would rise to the coveted title of huakui—a position of wealth, influence, and respect. and with that respect came a power that no amount of wealth could buy. huakui was the highest rank, but it wasn’t given; it had to be earned.

you, like many before you, were trained to entertain the rich merchants, the government officials, and the scholars who came and went like shadows. you were taught to be charming, to make men feel as though they were the center of your universe, while beneath it all, you maintained a careful detachment. at first, you believed in the idea of courtship, the slow, deliberate dance of seduction. but the years wore on, and you saw how many women, far more beautiful and talented than you, were cast aside by the men they gave their hearts to.

it was clear: huakui was not earned through beauty alone. it was a game of power, of influence, of timing—and above all, wealth. wealth, and the men who controlled it.

over the years, you made subtle shifts in your approach. you no longer relied purely on your beauty or music to capture the attention of a potential patron. you began to study their desires, their weaknesses. you became a master of conversation, learning to read a man’s true intentions long before he even spoke. you became adept at playing the game of jiu—of knowing when to give and when to withhold. you grew bolder, more confident, as you learned that to rise, you would have to sacrifice not just your time, but pieces of yourself.

by the time you reached 20, your beauty was still radiant, but it was your presence—your intelligence, your wit—that began to attract attention. still, despite your efforts, none of the men who visited the tháng seemed capable of taking you to the next level. they were all too ordinary, too distracted by their own desires. you could play the game, but you needed more than just a string of fleeting admirers. you needed someone who could offer you more than a few nights of extravagant dinners and trinkets.

one evening, as you rehearsed a new choreography in your room, your mind wandered again to huakui—the title that, it seemed, could only be earned by the wealthiest, most powerful of men. it was said that a woman who became huakui would be given a sum of wealth so vast, she would never need to work again. but more than that—she would gain respect, control, and an elevated place in society. she could even influence the city’s politics, if the right man found her. that’s when you first heard rumors of a foreigner, a mysterious man who had been frequenting the most prestigious brothels in the city. a man who had connections to the highest echelons of power in suzhou, someone capable of making a woman’s dreams come true. but there was a catch—he was notoriously difficult to please, and none of the courtesans seemed able to capture his attention for long.

your desperation deepened. if huakui was your only path to the life you dreamed of, you had to be ruthless. you would not wait for a man to fall in love with you, to be courted into submission. no, you would approach this differently. you needed someone who could take you to the next level—and you would have to impress him, no matter what.

you had heard whispers of his name: jungwon, a foreigner with a keen interest in strategy and intellect. it was said that he preferred a different kind of woman—one who was not simply beautiful, but sharp, calculating, a challenge in her own right. you knew your beauty alone would not be enough. you would have to prove yourself in ways that others could not, in ways no one had expected.

but even as you rehearsed your pieces and prepared your mind, there was one thing you could not deny: the desperation inside you, the hunger for power, for respect, for the life you had always dreamed of. you were willing to pay whatever price was demanded, to give up whatever was necessary, because you knew that without huakui, you would never be free.

the night of your performance arrived, heavy with anticipation. the tháng was alive with murmurs of your bold plan, courtesans and attendants alike buzzing with speculation. the air was thick with incense, clinging to your skin and filling your lungs with an almost intoxicating sense of destiny. You had spent weeks crafting the perfect strategy, knowing that Jungwon was not a man easily impressed.

The performance hall was lit with an array of glowing lanterns, their light casting soft shadows on the lacquered floors. The guests that evening were of the highest caliber, adorned in silk robes embroidered with gold and silver. And among them, seated near the center, was him—Jungwon.

jungwon entered the tháng with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to announce his presence. the room shifted around him, the air becoming charged with something indefinable. conversations slowed, laughter faded into whispers, and eyes turned in his direction, drawn as if by an unseen force. even the courtesans, practiced in their poise, faltered for a moment, their fans stilled mid-motion.

he was younger than you expected, barely in his late twenties, but his presence made him seem older, like someone who had seen and shaped more of the world than most men twice his age. his features were a study in contrasts—sharp cheekbones softened by the fullness of his lips, a strong jawline balanced by the slight curve of his nose. his skin carried a faint golden undertone, kissed by distant suns, and his hair, dark as a moonless night, was neatly combed back, exposing a broad forehead and the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

his clothing marked him as both foreign and elite: robes of deep indigo silk, trimmed with intricate embroidery that seemed to shimmer in the lantern light. the subtle elegance of his attire spoke of immense wealth, but it was his demeanor that truly set him apart. his movements were deliberate, each step measured and soundless, as though he had long mastered the art of walking unnoticed yet unavoidable.

when his eyes swept the room, they moved with the precision of a hawk scanning the horizon. dark and piercing, they seemed to see not just what was in front of him, but beyond it, to some hidden layer of reality no one else could access. his gaze lingered nowhere for long—until it found you.

the moment his eyes met yours, it was like the room collapsed into silence. his stare wasn’t appreciative, nor was it dismissive; it was calculating, as if he were weighing something unseen. there was no warmth in his expression, no smile to soften the intensity of his focus, only a calm, quiet challenge that seemed to say: are you worth my time?

whispers began to ripple through the room, hushed and urgent. jungwon. the name moved like a secret passed between trembling hands. a foreigner, they said, but one with connections to the highest circles of power in suzhou. it was said he was a man of ruthless intelligence, one who favored strategy over brute force, intellect over emotion. those who underestimated him often found themselves ruined before they even realized they were playing his game.

yet it was not just his reputation that made people pause. it was the way he seemed to hold the room in the palm of his hand without a single spoken word. men envied him, some even feared him, but no one dared to challenge him. women watched him with a mixture of curiosity and longing, their gazes lingering on the way his robes clung to his broad shoulders or the faint, knowing curve of his mouth.

as he took his seat near the center of the room, his posture relaxed but commanding, it became clear that jungwon was a man who did not chase after things. he expected the world to come to him. and it did.

you stepped into the center of the room, the faint hum of whispers melting into silence as every gaze followed you. the air was thick with expectation, the light of the lanterns softening the edges of the polished floor. your silk robes clung to your form as you moved, a deliberate choice—you had spent weeks preparing not just a performance, but a strategy. tonight, your dance was your weapon.

the music began, a soft, hypnotic rhythm of guzheng and flute. at first, your movements were traditional, precise, flowing like water through the air. your arms extended in arcs of perfect symmetry, your steps delicate and measured, as though you were painting poetry with your body. you knew how to play this part—the elegant courtesan, demure and untouchable. it was what the audience expected of you.

but jungwon was not like the others.

you had studied him, listened to the whispers, the rumors of his sharp mind and colder heart. men like him did not fall for convention, for what they could predict. they craved something else, something unexpected. so, as the music swelled, you let your movements shift, the rhythm of your dance breaking free of its careful elegance.

your steps became bolder, your hips swayed with a daring curve that edged on the line of propriety. your arms, once delicate as willow branches, now moved with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone unafraid to be seen. you tilted your head, letting the dark curtain of your hair fall over one shoulder, a subtle invitation, a tease.

a ripple of murmurs spread through the room, a mixture of surprise and tension. no one had expected this—the playful tilt of your smile, the flirtation woven into the precise art of the dance. it was a risk, one that could easily be seen as too brazen, too improper.

but jungwon’s eyes never left you.

you could feel his gaze like a weight, sharp and assessing, but not disapproving. his expression was unreadable, a mask of calm, but there was a glint in his dark eyes, a flicker of something primal, something intrigued.

your pulse quickened. you had him now.

as the music swirled toward its climax, you moved closer to where he sat, your steps slow, deliberate, each one a challenge. your gaze locked with his, and you let a faint smile curve your lips, as if daring him to look away. he didn’t.

the room seemed to vanish. there were no murmurs now, no whispers. it was just you and him, the unspoken tension crackling in the air between you.

when the final note of the music faded, you ended your dance with a low, graceful bow, your arms extended, your head lowered. the silence that followed was deafening, every eye in the room waiting for his reaction.

jungwon sat back slightly in his chair, his expression unchanged except for the faintest curve of his lips. it wasn’t a smile, not fully—it was something deeper, sharper. he brought his hands together in a slow, deliberate clap, the sound breaking through the stillness like a drop of water into a calm pool.

“unexpected,” he said, his voice low and smooth, carrying just enough weight to send a ripple through the audience. “and bold.”

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair, his fingers brushing his jaw as he studied you. “you dance like someone who doesn’t fear the consequences of being seen.”

there was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to draw a breath of uncertainty before he added, “and that is what makes you remarkable.”

his words were simple, but they carried a quiet power, a subtle acknowledgment that sent a thrill through you. the risk you had taken had paid off. for the first time that evening, jungwon was no longer merely observing. he was engaged, his focus entirely on you.

you straightened, your heart racing but your face composed. you met his gaze with calm defiance, as if to say, i know what i am doing, and so do you.

the tension between you hung heavy, charged with possibilities. but this was only the beginning of the game.

"i wonder—are you as skilled off the stage as you are on it?”

the challenge in his words sent a shiver down your spine, but you met his gaze with unwavering calm. “that depends, sir,” you replied, your voice steady. “on the nature of the challenge.”

his smile deepened, sharp and knowing. “xiangqi,” he said simply. “join me, and let’s see if your mind is as sharp as your moves.”

the attendants quickly set up a xiangqi board, the red and black pieces gleaming like gemstones in the lantern light. as you took your place opposite him, the tension in the room grew thick, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on you.

the xiangqi board gleamed between you and jungwon, the lacquered wood reflecting the flicker of lantern light. the red and black pieces were meticulously arranged, the symbols etched on them seeming to hum with the promise of conflict.

jungwon sat across from you, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, cutting through the ambient noise of the room as if no one else existed. his fingers brushed the edge of a black piece—a general—his touch slow, deliberate. “the stakes are clear,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of challenge. “if you win, you become an huakui, your reputation elevated beyond question. financed by me.”

he paused, his dark eyes catching yours. “but if i win… you should be mine. no one else’s.” his words hung in the air like a knife’s edge, daring you to falter.

the room was utterly silent now. the courtesans and guests who had gathered lingered at a respectful distance, but you could feel the weight of their gazes. you met jungwon’s eyes, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “a generous offer,” you replied, your tone steady, teasing. “but are you sure you’re ready for the consequences of losing?”

his mouth quirked, a subtle hint of amusement. “i never lose.”

“then let’s see,” you said, your fingers lightly touching a red soldier piece as you made the opening move.

the game began.

at first, the moves were measured, careful. jungwon played like a tactician, each movement precise, calculated, as though he were testing you. but you didn’t falter. you knew his type—men who expected to dominate the board, who underestimated the nuance of your strategy.

he tilted his head slightly as he studied the board, the movement revealing the curve of his neck beneath the edge of his high-collared robe. the rich black fabric clung to his shoulders and chest, emphasizing his lean, athletic build, while the faintest trace of a smirk played at his lips, just enough to send a thrill down your spine.

“an aggressive start,” he noted, his voice low and smooth as he countered one of your moves, capturing a soldier with a cannon.

you leaned slightly forward, letting the motion bring you closer to him, your hand lingering on the board. “sometimes aggression is necessary,” you murmured. “but only when it serves a greater purpose.”

his lips curved faintly, his gaze flicking to yours. “you speak like someone who’s used to winning battles of her own.”

“perhaps,” you said, moving your horse to an unexpected position, a move that forced him to pause. “but sometimes, it’s more satisfying to win the war.”

when he spoke, his voice was low and smooth, like the first notes of a pipa—calm, controlled, and undeniably alluring. “are you hesitating?” he asked, his gaze lifting from the board to meet yours. the question wasn’t innocent; it carried a weight that made your pulse quicken, as though he could see the exact moment doubt flickered across your mind.

his eyes then sharpened, and for the first time, you saw it: surprise. he hadn’t expected that move, and the realization sent a ripple of satisfaction through you.

the game continued, the tension between you thickening with each passing moment. jungwon played with an almost predatory grace, his hands moving with purpose, each piece he captured a statement of dominance. there was something about the way he moved, deliberate and unhurried, that made the air feel heavier, warmer. the curl of his fingers around a game piece, the way his lips parted slightly as he calculated his next move—everything about him exuded confidence, a quiet, smoldering power that made it impossible to look away. but you weren’t merely playing defensively—you matched his intensity, meeting each calculated strike with one of your own.

your moves became bolder, riskier. you leaned into the game, your hand brushing his once as you reached for a piece. the touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a jolt through the air, an unspoken challenge that lingered in his gaze.

“you’re playing dangerously,” he said softly, his voice laced with both admiration and warning.

when he leaned forward to place a piece on the board, the subtle shift brought him closer, the faint scent of sandalwood and something darker—something unmistakably him—lingering in the space between you. the proximity was disarming, the brush of his sleeve against your hand almost enough to send heat rushing to your cheeks.

“isn’t that what makes it fun?” you countered, your tone light, teasing. you moved your chariot forward, cutting off one of his major pathways.

jungwon’s gaze darkened, the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “perhaps you’re more dangerous than i thought.”

the tension between you was almost unbearable now, the air electric with the weight of every move, every glance. the onlookers held their breath, their eyes darting between the board and your faces.

and then came the final play.

jungwon’s general was cornered, his defenses crumbling. his jaw tightened slightly as he assessed the board, his mind racing to find an escape. you could see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, the realization that he was moments away from losing.

you hesitated, your hand hovering over the board as you prepared to make the winning move. for a heartbeat, you met his gaze, and the intensity there was enough to steal your breath.

“if you do this,” he said quietly, his voice low and intimate, “you’ll win everything you’ve ever wanted.”

you tilted your head, your smile soft but confident. “but at what cost?”

he leaned forward, his voice a whisper meant only for you, his yes locking you in like you could never escape, even if you ever wanted.

“because if you win, you’ll never see me again.”

the words hit you harder than you expected. the game wasn’t just about strategy anymore—it was about something deeper, something unspoken between you.

you had entered this game with clear intentions: to win, to claim the title of huakui, to secure a future of wealth, freedom, and power. it was what you had worked for, dreamed of, bled for. and yet, in that moment, as jungwon’s voice—low and unyielding—wrapped around you, the certainty of that victory began to waver.

was this the cost?

your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the board, your mind racing. you could feel every beat of your heart, loud and insistent, like it was trying to drown out the logical reasoning you clung to.

jungwon sat before you, his face calm, but his eyes—those dark, penetrating eyes—held a challenge that made your chest tighten. he wasn’t bluffing. you could see it in the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. if you placed that final piece, if you claimed victory, he would be gone.

there was a bitter irony to it. the very thing you had fought for—a place at the pinnacle, recognition, power—felt hollow now that it came with the loss of him. and yet, what was he to you? a stranger, a patron, a man who had challenged you, intrigued you, drawn you into a game that was about more than pieces on a board. he wasn’t part of the life you had imagined for yourself.

and yet… he had become central to it.

your gaze flickered to his hands, steady on the edge of the table, and you remembered how they moved—precise, deliberate, with an elegance that matched his words. you thought of the faint scent of sandalwood that clung to him, the way his voice had wrapped around you like silk, the quiet intensity in his eyes when he looked at you.

the thought of never seeing him again sent an ache through your chest, sharp and unexpected. it wasn’t love—it couldn’t be, not so soon, not with someone you barely knew. but it was something. an allure, a magnetism, a possibility. and now, that possibility hung in the balance, waiting for you to decide.

you swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. every rational part of your mind screamed at you to finish the game, to take what was yours, to secure the life you had dreamed of since you first set foot in the tháng. you owed it to yourself, to your family, to every sacrifice you had made.

but as your fingers brushed the edge of the winning piece, the thought of jungwon walking away tightened around your heart like a vice.

was this truly winning?

your throat tightened as the weight of the choice bore down on you. the audience around you faded further, their whispers and expectations dissolving into the haze of your uncertainty. the only thing that remained was him, watching you, waiting.

the question wasn’t about the game anymore. it was about you.

what did you truly want?

your fingers moved with precision, placing the final piece. “checkmate,” you said softly, the word carrying the weight of victory.

the room erupted into whispers and applause, but you barely heard it. jungwon sat back, his expression unreadable, though the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.

“well played,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something deeper—respect, admiration, and perhaps even regret.

you straightened, your heart pounding as you absorbed what had just happened. you had won. you were an huakui, your future secured. but as you looked at jungwon, at the quiet intensity in his gaze, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something more significant had been at stake.

“congratulations,” he said, rising to his feet. he inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. “you’ve earned your victory.”

but as he turned to leave, you found yourself speaking before you could think. “wait.”

he paused, his back to you, his shoulders tense, as if saying that he didn’t expect that you could have something else to say to him.

“you said if i won, i’d never see you again,” you said, your voice steady but soft, almost a whisper. “what if i don’t want that?”

he turned slowly, his eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it settled into something softer, something warmer.

“then perhaps,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips,

“you’ve just made your boldest move yet.”

[kentoxo]

friction | reader (f) x crush!nanami pt. 8

pairing: reader (f) x crush!nanami

synopsis: [AU] you have always had a crush on nanami. since the day you were hired as his personal assistant, you've been right at his side combating numbers and making money within the finance department for the company you two worked for. but, things take a turn when nanami catches wind of your feelings, and rejects you. little did he know the weight of his mistake.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, sexual tension, jealousy (future smut)

a/n: AHHH im so sorry i was gone for so long! work and school and i got sick again. my luck lately has been quite poor, but here's the next part!! i dont think its quite well written but i hope you all think its good! thank u again for ur support, kindness, and patience :) (sorry i say thank you so much, cant help myself!)

all parts: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7,

December | Tokyo, Japan | Wednesday

You should have worn more lotion. 

The unkind cold and threatening winds made your trek to work excruciatingly more difficult. Surely you made it, but had to get blind by the flurries of snow in the process. You take your time in the lobby, stomping aggressively down at the weather mats to remove all the snow and ice from your boots. You shake yourself like a wet dog to get the snow off your coat, too. The lobby men chuckle at you, and you couldn’t help but smile. 

It’s been rough to do so, after all. Considering you got rejected twice by the same man, you needed all the serotonin you could get. You spent hours crying, which only halted when you finally passed out. The heartbreak exhausted you, given how dark your eyes were, and how hollow your chest has felt since then. The worst part about all of it is that despite everything, you still had Nanami’s coffee in mind. 

It floated in your mind to go to the cafe and get him a cup. But you have to remember that he has other assistants who know his coffee order now. You were now one of few who knew it. 

To have your relationship seen as just boss/assistant by the other participant felt like punishment. A large sigh left your lips when you exited the elevator on your floor. Shivers tickled your body as you begrudgingly walked over to your desk. It was warm in the office, enough for you to take solace in. 

You begin to turn on your computer and prepare your desk, before being interrupted by two hands slamming down your desk. You look up to find a panting (and exhausted) Haibara. “Yu?” You whisper worriedly. “Is everything okay?”

“He lost the flashdrive,” Haibara lets out. “The presentation… it’s missing.” 

Your eyes widen, “Nanami? But… how?” Of all people, Nanami was never one to lack in anything, especially in organization. He was always sharp and aware of where all his things were. You never had to concern yourself with assignments getting lost because Nanami is too diligent.

“We– we um, drank last night…?” Haibara reluctantly confesses. “We both got home quite late… he might not have his whole head on.”

Without another word, you swiftly leave your desk and rush over to Nanami’s office, with Haibara following closely behind. On your way towards his office, you see all of Takada’s assistants outside of his office, their expressions full of concern. You make your way through them and knock on his door gently. 

“What?” Nanami’s annoyed tone rang through the door. 

“It’s Y/N,” you reply, ignoring his attitude. 

Quick shifting was sound behind the door before the doorknob began to turn. The door opens to reveal a disheveled Nanami. Despite his usually refined features, his unkempt hair and unbutton shirt was quite distracting. The shadows line his collarbone and the darkness under his eyes add to the intensity in his struggling, hazel eyes. He leaned against the door frame, his eyes slightly lighting up from your presence. There was some sort of relief in his eyes, but it was still drowned out by anxiety. 

“Please, please tell me you have a copy?” Nanami practically begs.  

You feel a lump in your throat from seeing his desperation. Not even you can be dismissive to his plea. “I–I was instructed not to keep an extra copy. It’s confidential, so I didn’t…” 

Nanami let out a quiet ‘fuck,’ retreating slowly back towards his desk. “Don’t worry, I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with myself because you’re right and I’m simply irresponsible…” He leans back against his desk, defeatedly holding himself up with his hands firmly down on the desk behind him. He looks distantly to the floor, a sight you never thought you’d ever see. 

The confident, sharp Nanami was now at his wits’ end. 

“Do you remember when you last had it?” You ask quietly. 

“I had it in my coat pocket on my way here,” he recalls quietly, “I still had it when I got off the train, so it must be outside around the area.” 

“But with all that snow…” Haibara begins, the defeat clearly on his tongue. 

You let out a sigh, emitting a calm apology before dismissing yourself. Once you were out of sight, you ran towards the elevator, practically beating the button until it arrived to you. You impatiently wait as you descend, your body already feeling the cold from outside. Even maintenance couldn’t believe their eyes as they watched you run out from the lobby, and into the harsh weather. 

It was a bit embarrassing for you. You were always there to fix Nanami’s scarce mistakes, or prevent them. Even after he broke your heart twice, here you are, outside in the freezing cold, without any garments to protect you from it. You could feel your body beginning to go numb from the seconds you were outside. 

Your exposed legs were inches deep in the snow, your frigid hands sifting desperately through the snow. Why? You asked yourself. Why, why, why? You were freezing, the weather was harsh, and this flash drive is as small as a roach. Why were you doing all of this? 

As you shoveled through the snow, you were finally able to feel how you were feeling after facing Nanami again. You were able to keep yourself from crying, but you wanted to cry profusely. Your boss, your crush, was stressed out over a mistake he made, and it didn’t even make you feel better. Unfortunately, your feelings were too weaved into his, and you felt the stress he is feeling. 

It bothered you to see him stressed. So much so, your body moved on its own and now it was in the cold, looking for the solution to Nanami’s problem. You didn’t even stay idle for a moment while in his office. Perhaps, the reason why you were helping him was because since you met Nanami, he has always been someone to work for his team. 

But you know for sure part of it was that you never want to see him like that again.

Taking on projects on his own to keep his other colleagues working in low piles. Working with clients he personally isn’t a fan of to make sure the company grows. Providing breakfast and lunch when important meetings arise to make sure everyone at least eats well before torturous work. He was strict, but never a mean person. And to that end might explain why you still felt the way you did. 

However, 

Your respect for him goes above your feelings. A hard piece of plastic was barely felt between your fingers, but they were able to hold onto it firmly. The small flash drive, covered in a bit of snow, still glowed green when you pushed up to reveal the USB. You promptly make your way back in, the warmth barely penetrating the cold you developed while being outside. 

I’m gonna get sick, you thought to yourself. As you passed through the lobby, you noticed Nanami’s clients getting checked in at the lobby. You hurry to the elevator, pushing aggressively at the close button so they didn’t have a chance to get there at the same time you did. You move your legs in place, attempting to regain some warmth. While you ascended, you purposely pushed the buttons of the floors you passed to delay their arrival. Finally reaching your level, you rush out to go to the other free elevator. As you did, you were met with a concerned Haibara. 

“H-hey!” Haibara calls to you, but you ignore him and shove the flash drive into his hand. But as you did, he noticed that you were frozen and kept his hands around yours. “You… found it? Did you go outside? Without a coat? Y/N, you’re freezing!” 

Oh, how you wished you fell for Haibara instead. You pull away your hand, quickly entering the other elevator and slamming your hands on the buttons. You look up at Haibara, your bottom lip blue and quivering. “Take it to Nanami,” you say roughly, your voice hoarse from the little warmth in your body. “Your clients. They’re downstairs. Hurry up.”

Haibara holds onto your arms, noticing that you could barely keep yourself up, “yeah, fuck the clients. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“Please,” you look up at him desperately, tears welling in your eyes. It was already enough that you felt stupid for even looking for the flashdrive in this state. But even Haibara couldn’t push away the hurt and stress in your own eyes. “I’ll be fine… please help Nanami finish this.” 

“Let me at least walk you to your desk–” 

“I got her!” You both look over to see Tae run over, his apron dancing left and right from not being properly tied in the back. He quickly takes hold of you, looking up at Haibara to give him a curt nod in replacement of a proper bow. “Resume your work, Haibara-sama. I can tend to her.” 

Tae held you close enough that you could feel his warmth. It was intoxicating almost, the solace of his heat and the scent of pine needles emanating from his body. The fresh scent of linen coming from his black sweatshirt made you feel a little nostalgic but uneasy. You could still feel the cold taking you over, your entire body shivering. His hands firmly held you without squeezing you tightly. 

Haibara looks down skeptically, but you wave at him. “Please go,” you croak, coughs finally leaving your throat. “I’ll be fine.” You could see that you didn’t quite persuade him, but for the sake of Nanami, he nodded. 

He eyes Tae, a rare serious aura surrounding him, “get her to a doctor if she needs it. I’ll be back as soon as the presentation ends. Please make her something hot, like hot cocoa or soup.” Tae nods, allowing Haibara to run back towards Nanami, who was probably drowning in his own anxiety. 

“‘m sorry to inconvenience you like this, Tae,” you whisper, your body still shaking and twitching from the cold. “But thank you for that.” 

“No worries, please don’t exert yourself,” Tae softly warns. He tightens his hold on you before slowly walking you over to the cafe. Though you didn’t have enough trust to close your eyes, you did have enough to hold his sweater, confident that he won’t let you fall. “Let me help you. After all, you helped me first. Come, the cafe is just around the corner.” 

The relief on Nanami’s face was truly meant to be displayed in a museum. 

He held onto the flashdrive tightly, mentally scolding himself from ever dropping it in the first place. He forces it into the projector, and everything was set up for the clients to come in moments. He noticed that the flash drive was not only still cold, but slightly wet. “Was it outside in the snow?” 

Haibara nods as he fixes up the conference table a bit. It was ornate with drinks, snacks, and notetaking items for their clients to use and enjoy. “The snow is really growing by the inch out there. This winter is brutal.” 

“It truly is unkind out there,” Nanami sighs, his eyes looking through the window. “I hope you grabbed your coat before going out there.” 

Haibara shakes his head, “it wasn’t me who found the flashdrive; it was Y/N. I caught her at the elevator, and she was the one who handed it to me.” 

Nanami slightly perks up at your name, “did she really?” 

“She left straight from your office to go find it,” Haibara says quietly, “but she didn’t even bring a sweater. She was completely frozen when I saw her.” 

This left a pit in Nanami’s stomach. “Why did she not bring a coat? She’s more rational than that.” 

Haibara lets out a sigh, “who’s to say, Kento. Y/N works very hard to do right by you and this company. I think she’d do whatever it takes in order to make sure you and this department shines.” 

“Disregarding her health is not why she’s here,” Nanami huffs strictly. “Where is she?” 

“I left her with the barista you hired,” Haibara informs, “my guess is he took her to the cafe to warm her up.” 

Nanami’s eyes cut over to Haibara, burning through his soul. Despite this, Haibara still didn’t see his eyes. “You left her with a stranger?” 

“A stranger you hired,” Haibara clarifies. “Anyways, Y/N insisted I come help you. I’d probably make her feel worse if I didn’t.” 

There was a rare annoyance that Nanami never felt. You were always conscious of yourself, and others. Nanami always noticed when you would help someone with a large pile of papers, or when you applied bandages to blisters due to your heels. But more times than not, you never shied away from a challenge, and never hesitated to help someone whether they asked or not. 

But now you were far from him, and he couldn’t do anything to help you. He had this stupid presentation to do, rather than be by your side and tend to you. After all, you truly were the reason behind his success. The reason for his reduced stress, and a direct asset to his department. You did so much for him, only to be given a shred of that effort. He was feeling guilty, not only for being unaware of his feelings towards you, but the immense disregard he had for your own feelings and effort in this company. 

You were his dear assistant, and he was breaking you. 

“I’ll be back,” Nanami hums, rushing out of the conference room. Haibara looks back and follows right behind him, surprised by his sudden dash. 

Nanami, the meeting!” Haibara calls out to him, “you can’t do this right now!” 

His response was silence as he reached the corner towards the cafe. As he appears in the opening, his hazel eyes relentlessly looked for you. But when he stumbled upon you, his concern and annoyance skyrocketed. 

You were lying on one of the couches at the cafe, surrounded by a few of the baristas there. They all comforted you, as you lay under a few blankets. But Nanami noticed that below all of that, you were covered by a large, black crewneck. On your head, a beanie as well. And sat on a stool right in front of you with a hot coffee cup was Tae, the barista he hired. Nanami noticed the warmth in his eyes when he looked down at you, with a free hand out to you. Your boss felt a lump in his throat when he saw you take his hand, helping you sit up to take the cup from him. Tae kept his hand on the bottom of the cup while you sipped it cautiously. 

His chest felt like someone was pushing it down, his breath was limited. His heart, at the same time, was punching against it as well, almost as if it was going through a two-front war. He looks down at his hands, adjusting the sleeves at both of his wrists. He needed to reach you– sooner rather than later. And now looked like the perfect opportunity. 

But before he could take another step, the elevator behind him opened, and the entourage of clients he was expecting stood before him, all smiles. Haibara catches up and pats Nanami’s back, forcing him to turn around as they both curtly bow in greeting. A vein protruded Nanami’s temple, and Haibara looked back to see what he was looking at. 

What he saw made him crack a small smile, his energy returning to him as he led the clients and an annoyed Nanami towards the conference room. 

Taglist: [Now Closed]

@blossomedfloweroflove @numblytemporary @everyoneandtheirmothers @animechick555 @inthedarkshadows000

@m-arj-1 @julk4e @hadassery @swoozleee @angxlsatvrn

@v1x3n @s-witch-bitch @furgusonn @watyousayin @thechaoticarchivist

@simp-manhwa @5sos-wdw @ffyona1214 @phantombaby @evangel44xxcds

@ukiyodestiny @jasminelee324 @eurydxceorphxus @moonlightazriel @s3rp3ntsssc0ve

@dusty-dweller @wifenanami @bokuatsubro @ayesayman @starry-eyed--dreamer

[noorthestar]

His name is party time and 👍

Since he's a regretevator oc (mainly for The AU)

INFO FOR THE AU:

+ not cursed, not apart of The lab

+ appears on The gumball machine floor and happy home

+ friends with : prototype and partynoob

+ has The ability to teleport anywhere he desires

GENERAL INFO :

+ demisexual transmasc! (he/him/xe/party)

+ friends with : poob, prototype, infected, and spud

+ pretty much against The cult of mr (i forgor what its called)

+ Dislikes : chaos, pest, spiders, bad moods

+ likes: parties, dancing, and clocks

+ people he wants to know more about : folly and mark

[shadowsoftheelevatoraskandrp]

"" hiya !! are you hurt ? ""

"" im prototype !! im here to help !! ""

OOC UNDER CUT :

hiya !! its me , @noorthestar again !! this time , its a roleplay blog for my AU , SOTE !! (shadows of the elevator) ^_^ if you want to roleplay here with your own oc , then thats completely fine !! just gotta know if they work in the lab or not , how cursed are they , and whats their role if they DO work in the lab !! a copy paste from my main acc lmao :

~SHADOWS OF THE ELEVATOR AU~

a while back , when all of this chaos started , MR created a curse that will turn anyone into a deadly and unrecognizable "shadow" , as the survivors call it. it had gotten to many people already ! meaning only a few of the NPCs are unaffected . for now. ABOUT THE CURSE :

it has 3 stages ! STAGE 1 : kinda blurry vision , some spots of black will appear on the skin , behavior unaffected. can be healed easily

STAGE 2 : a little more hostile , yet can control themself , more black parts will appear on the skin as there will be a slightly clear black "shadow" around them . can be healed but it might take more time

STAGE 3 : pretty much will attack anyone they see , manipulative , literally a "shadow like creature" . can be healed but it will take alot of time

----

now for the NPCs !!

💙: cannot be cursed / 💚: completely safe / 💛: stage 1 cursed / 🧡: stage 2 cursed / ❤️: stage 3 cursed

BIVE: 💚 SPLIT: ❤️ MARK:🧡 WALLTER:❤️ GNARPY:💛 MACH:💙 PILBY:💛 FOLLY:💙 ENPHOSO:💙 FLESHCOUSIN:🧡 DR RETRO: 💚 INFECTED: 🧡 JERMBO:💛 LAMPERT: 💚 MR MANUEVERER: 💙 MR: 💙 POOB: 💙 PEST: 💛 PROTOTYPE:💚 REDDY: 💚 SCAG: 💚 SPUD: ❤️ UNPLEZ: 💛 EMERSON: 💛 YUM ZLURPLIE: 💚 CREM: 💚 CLOVER: ❤️ JEREMY: 💛 SLIMYIM: 💙 GREGORIAH: 💚 SWIBBLEDIB: 💚 SARAH: 💛

---

theres a lab far away from the ones who are cursed to find a cure for the curse. MR works in that lab and no one thinks he's harmful ; except for bive and dr retro. they both know if they try something against him then everyone will be in danger..

NPCS IN THE LAB : 💉: scientists / 💊: helpers / 🔎: researchers/data finders (?) /🩺: ones getting "healed"

MR: 💉 DR RETRO: 💉 PROTOTYPE: 💊 SCAG: 🔎 BIVE:🔎+💊 PEST: 🩺+🔎 INFECTED: 🩺

---

☆although bive talks about split almost all of the time due to worry , dr retro manages to calm her down somehow ☆even though dr retro and MR fucking HATE eachother , they tolerate eachother in the lab ☆pest and bive work together to find info/data about the curse ☆prototype brings in random useful material whenever he finds it ☆anytime someone needs extra info , scag is there for them ! ---------- now onto the npcs opened/closed for asks !!! PROTOTYPE - OPEN SCAG - CLOSED DR RETRO - CLOSED PEST - CLOSED BIVE - OPEN MR - CLOSED INFECTED - CLOSED ---------- tags : #SOTE asks - asks that the silly guys answer #SOTE anon asks - anon asks that the silly guys answer #SOTE ooc - ooc stuff --------- yeah thats all , have fun and dont send weird shit please !!!

[ramp-it-up]

The Matrimony: Peach 7.5

Peach VII

Summary: Steve and Peach’s wedding!

Pairing: Art Dealer (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Reader (Peach)

Word count: 2K

A/N: @Seitmai along with others asked to see the wedding in this ask. Sweetie, I hope you like it. 😅

This fic is a Peach Fic and is connected to the Bucky Barnes Knock You Down AU, and IN THE MIDDLE OF the events in Peach VII. Your interaction is life so let me know if you like it by commenting and reblogging.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. The proposal (naked) and the elopement (casual). References to marks left during sex, raw p in v, the elevator scene! Helicopter rides, a wedding officiant who is not amused, and the wedding! Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

———

Steve…. looked like a little boy. And then he asked you a very grown up question.

You leaned up on your elbow, the sheets of the hotel bed swirled around your body as you watched him warily.

You were flushed, your skin still tingling from the way Steve touched you, and the way he moaned your name like it was a prayer from his mouth to God’s ear.

Steve hadn’t stopped looking at you, like he was trying to memorize every detail, your flushed cheeks, the way your lips were still slightly parted, that spark in those beautiful eyes.

Yes, he was going to do this, because there would be no more wasting time.

You and he would be one forever.

You watched as he stood, the glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows over the sharp angles of his jaw. You noticed that the curve of his lips that were still swollen from pressing against yours.

Your eyes traced his bare chest, his hard abs, the place where his hips cut into his torso, and the long, thick length swinging between his legs.

You drew in a shuddering breath of desire, because the lines of his body were still marked with the evidence of your passion; there were scratches where your sharp nails left memories of bliss.

Then you looked up into his eyes again.

Steve ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling like he was bracing himself for something big. You could tell that what had been a joke was becoming a very real possibility.

Steve chuckled, shaking his head like he couldn't believe he was about to say what he was about to say.

Then, he dropped down on one knee, naked as the day he was born, but ready to commit to you until the day he died.

Your breath caught in your throat as you realized the urgency of the situation. He was really about to do this. But Steve looked at you like he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Ever since the first time I saw you in Atlanta, I’ve been making plans for you, Peach.”

He took your hand, pressing a kiss against your knuckles like a sacrament.

“Marry me,” Steve said, voice quiet but certain. “Right now. Tonight.”

Your heart was pounding so hard that you could barely hear him.

“I don’t want to wait,” he continued, eyes locked onto yours.

“Not another day, not another second. I want you. Forever.”

His finger traced the line of the flush in your face. He knew you so well.

“Let’s go to some place in Connecticut where we don’t have to wait 24 hours and say screw it to everything else. Everyone’s expectations, all of those arbitrary rules about courtship and marriage. Fuck all of that shit.”

His voice was raw now.

“Because this, Peach?”

He motioned between you.

“This is you and me.”

You smiled slowly, sitting up and leaning forward until your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the falling sheet left the upper part of your body uncovered.

“You do realize what you’re asking for, right?” you murmured, tilting his chin up so that he those baby blues were looking directly at you.

“A lifetime of absolute chaos. Of me pushing every one of your buttons, popping off, and making you question all your life choices. Think you can handle that, Rogers? Can you handle me?”

You were halfway joking, but also serious, wanting to make sure that he knew that you were a lot. The last six weeks you’d known each other had been evidence of that, but you wanted him to be certain.

Steve laughed, a beautiful sound, and his grip on your hand tightened.

“I know I can. And I think you’re underestimating how much I love the chaos. Don’t underestimate how much I love you, Peach. I’m not going to make us wait forever for forever.”

You bit your lip, feeling unreasonably happy.

“So will you marry me Peach?”

Looking into those storm blue eyes and feeling the sincerity of his love for you made you throw your arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around you and pushed you back onto the bed as you laughed breathlessly.

Steve kissed you, helpless and under your spell. His tongue asked the question again, wordlessly this time.

“Buckle up, baby,” you whispered against his lips.

“Because this is gonna be the wildest ride of your life.”

Steve's hand began to roam your body as he looked into your eyes.

“I’m counting on it, Peach”

He buried his mouth in the fragrant cleave of your collarbone and you buried your fingers in his hair.

“Yes. I will marry you Steven Grant Rogers,” you whispered in his ear as your leg came up and wrapped around his slim hips.

He kissed you again, hard, desperate, just like the rest of his body that was entering you in one smooth stroke. He filled you up like a promise, breaking you apart and putting you back together like he never wanted to stop.

—--

New York was the city that never slept, but you and Steve were wide awake for a different reason an hour later.

It was well after midnight when you left the hotel; and your heart beat wildly as you ascended toward your ride to the wedding, which waited atop the Rebirth building.

The elevator rose and you used the opportunity to watch Steve’s handsome features. He caught you looking and winked down at you as he gripped your hand, his thumb tracing circles against your skin.

"Before we get started, do you want to get out?"

Steve stared you down like he was serious. Then he cracked up laughing, giddy. You shook your head and laughed with him, hitting him on the arm as he wrapped you up in them.

Steve kissed your forehead and grinned, the energy rolling off him; you could practically feel his urgency to make you his wife. You got it; you couldn’t wait for him to be your husband.

As the numbers climbed, he exhaled and squeezed your hand.

"Wait here. I’ll be quick."

The doors slid open with a soft chime, and Steve stepped out into the dimly lit hallway of his penthouse, his shoes silent against the polished floors. The doors closed again, and suddenly, you were alone, the city stretching out in all directions behind you through the glass walls of the elevator.

Your reflection stared back at you, leggings, sweatshirt and sneakers, messy bun, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips after the effects of a good night’s fucking.

Was this really your life?

You exhaled, pressing your palms against the metal railing as you waited for him, your heart pounding in your ears. What if he’d changed his mind?

The doors slid open again, and before you can spin around, Steve was there, changed out of the suit he wore to your hotel room and into dark sweats and a Dodger’s cap, a small velvet box in his large hand.

He stepped in, pressed the rooftop button, and the doors closed again. He looked down at you and kissed your nose.

“You ready?”

You smiled up at him.

“Yes, I am, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve took your hand again and just like that, the elevator rose.

—--

The rooftop access door was heavy, but Steve shoved it open, and the night air whooshed around you. The helicopter’s blades sliced through the darkness, the thrum of its engine drowning out the sounds of the city.

You scrambled out to the aircraft and Steve helped you in first, putting on your headset and then sliding in beside you.

His hand found your thigh before the door was shut and his grip was firm, grounding to the present. When the chopper lifted off, you didn’t look down. You looked at him.

"You still with me, Peach?"

How could his voice be sexy even through a helicopter headset?

You turned just enough to brush your lips against his jaw. "Try and lose me."

He grinned.

"That’ll never happen."

You finally looked down to see the city shrinking beneath you and Brooklyn disappearing into the darkness as you soared toward Connecticut. You exhaled, pressing into Steve’s side. He drew you even closer, his arm tightening around you.

—---

Connecticut was quiet.

It was a contrast to the 20 minute helicopter ride out there.

The chapel was in the middle of nowhere, an old, quaint little brick building with ivy curling up the walls and nestled between stately oak trees. It was the kind of place people go on a whim, people like you and Steve.

The night was cold, snow swirled outside the stained glass windows, aided by the slowing wings of the helicopter. Candles glowed inside and reflected light off the worn wooden pews of the little church, making everything glow, like the evening before at the conservatory.

The officiant stood at the altar and waited for you to finish the paperwork, looking groggy but amused, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

He was entirely unfazed by the urgency of it all. He’d seen this kind of thing before: two people so wildly, crazy in love that waiting wasn’t an option.

He should have been more impressed at the money Steve paid him to get out of his warm bed, but he wasn’t.

You handed the forms to him and then he directed you to stand before your fiancé of roughly 90 minutes. You stood with Steve, your hands locked together, your heart hammering so hard you’re sure he could feel it through your fingertips.

His hair was tousled from running through the snow, his cheeks flushed, his blue eyes glowing. He looked at you like you were his whole world.

“Are you sure?” you whispered, even though you know the answer.

Steve grinned the grin that made your knees weak.

“Too late to back out now, Trouble.”

You raised your eyebrow at the moniker and you two shared a heated look, like you would take each other down on this altar, causing the officiant to clear his throat, clearly used to chaos.

“Shall we begin?”

You both straightened up and nodded, trying to be good, but your energy was threatening to overtake you both.

“Do you, Steven Grant Rogers take—”

“I do,” Steve interrupted, squeezing your hands, eyes wide at his faux pas.

Your mouth dropped open and you laughed as the officiant blinked but barely reacted, as he turned to you.

“And do you—”

“I do,” you said just as fast, laughing when Steve let out a relieved breath like you were actually going to say no.

The officiant smirked.

“In that case, by the power vested in me—”

Before he could finish, Steve surged forward, cupping your face in his hands. He pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that nearly knocked you off balance. You felt his smile against your mouth, his laughter, and the sheer joy radiating off of him.

“Well,” the officiant chuckled. “That’s one way to do it.”

Steve pressed his forehead against yours, causing your breaths to mingle together, just like your futures.

“You’re my wife,” he murmured, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

You grinned, looping your arms around his neck.

“And you, Steve Rogers, are in for a lot of trouble, husband.”

He just laughed, picking you up and kissing you again as your legs wrapped around his waist. The officiant just shook his head and walked off.

“Please pull the door to when you’re done, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”

This man was going back to bed.

—---

The helicopter was loud, but all you could perceive was Steve, his presence, his warmth, and his heartbeat where your head rested against his shoulder. His arm was draped over you lazily, but his fingers toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt.

"Still got that adrenaline, sweetheart?" His voice was teasing.

You looked up to meet his gaze.

"What do you think?"

His grin was slow and dangerous.

"I think you’re mine now. Officially."

You smirked, tugging at his hoodie, pulling him down to you.

"Yeah?"

He kissed you deep and slow, like you had got nowhere else to be.

And maybe you didn’t.

The world could wait for a few hours.

At that moment, it was just you and Steve, about to descend into forever.

[cirusthecitrus]

Dissecting Horde Prime's titles

So do you remember the time when this polite lil gentleman dropped HP's long ass title at us? Which is-

The Emperor of the Galactic Horde, Ruler of the Known Universe, Regent of the Seven Skies, He Who brings the Day and the Night, Revered One of the Shinging Galaxies, Promised One of a Thousands Suns!!! AND I'm pretty sure there were a couple more left unsaid before Scorpia shut bro up All those pompous titles could simply be a bunch of clashing words thrown at the heroes to show how absurd and fullish and superficial the Galactic Horde empire truly is. But I'm willing to analyze each and every one of them and, as always, find more meaning that was probably originally intended And my first question is: is this really who Prime is known as in the Known Universe? Do people on other planets accept him as any of those things?? Or is it something only the clones actually know about and they are the only ones to whom Prime's titles hold any meaning at all? Did he made this all up? Is it yet another lie to make them believe their god is more important and powerful than he is? To make it seem like their servitude is even more noble and honourable, to make it seem more like a privilege? Or are those actually normal legitable titles for intergalactic rulers and emperors? Is Prime a simple menace to the universe and a self-declared ruler or a recognized big political and spiritual figure?

The second big question is - if those titles are real, where do they even come from and what do they mean? It is possible that HP's given himself this long list of titles as yet another way to elevate himself above everyone else, demonstrate his importance and simply stroke his own ego. But he might've also be given those titles by someone else. For something he did for or to the world So let's go through all of them one by one and try to guess the meaning behind them The Emperor of the Galactic Horde, Ruler of the Known Universe - yeah these ones are pretty self explanatory. Though it is still unsertain if he was officially declared a ruler of the whole universe or Prime just thinks everything he sees belongs to him even thought he hasn't actually conquered it all yet

Regent of the Seven Skies - now this is interesting. The Seven Skies might be the cosmic version of the Seven Seas, aka seven main parts/routes of the Known Universe. OR, if we bring up mythology and religion the Seven Skies might mean seven levels of heaven/gods' domains. Makes sense so far But why regent? "Prime is eternal" so why calling himself someone who only governs the Seven Skies for someone else? A temporary substitute for the real ruler? Now this might be the title given to Prime by someone else. Was he chosen a regent for the previous Prime or another ruler? Was he chosen to be someone overseeing the world/heavens before the real gods return? No matter what actually happened, in the end HP refused to give back his position of power. And thus he might've kept this title as this weird reminder of how it all started (wink-wink totally not smth i explore in my kur twins au wink-wink)

Thought in our case the word regent might have a different meaning. In very rear instances a "regent" can be called a person who conducts a church choir... And now it all falls back into place

He Who brings the Day and the Night - yeah a doubt Prime has the ability to control the luminaries so lets focus on a more metaphorical meaning. Day and Night - Peace and War - Life and Death - Rebirth and Destruction - you get it. But day and night may also mean Light and Darkness, which kinda implies that Prime is the source of everything the Horde is supposedly fighting against. It is Prime who brings the shadows and darkness to the world, something he himself deems sinful, horrible, unforgivable and undeserving of existence. And he doesnt even hide it! The truth was right before his brothers eyes, and they never realized...

But it's also interesting to speculate if once upon a time the darkness and the shadows weren't actually something inherently bad in the eyes of the Horde. What if the dark was once celebrated along with the light? What if the members of the Galactic Horde were once allowed to love the dark? Allowed to love the night?

Revered One of the Shinging Galaxies - now this one implies that he is (or rather was) someone highly respected among many galaxies (cant tell how big the numbers are), might as well be idolized and worshipped. I mean duh, he'd supposed to be a cult leader, they are meant to be adored by their followers. But this might actually be the only evidence of Prime not only being feared and hated, but also loved by the world. This might proof that his clones werent his only real followers. Again, if this is a legit title Prime didn't pull out of his ass

Promised One of a Thousands Suns - I can't tell what are the Thousands Suns exactly - kingdoms/empires/councils/rulers? Are the Suns if what the Know Universe calls their gods? Can Prime be also called a Sun then? Is he a chosen one, something close to what She-Ra was to the First Ones? Was there some type of prophecy predicting Horde Prime's rise to power? Was he promised as a bad omen, as a future plague to the universe? Or was he awaited, wanted, beloved, treated like the world's savior even before he even existed?.. (wink-wink)

Another interesting thing - the words Sun and Son sound almost the same. Which unintenionally adds another hidden layer to this title's meaning. Promised One of a Thousands Sons. Thousands sons - thousands brothers... It almost feels like a sound illusion, a trick to make the clones feel closer to Prime, feel like he belongs with them and they belong with him for they're the same, to make them believe that they're almost equals. They are all brothers, they are all important and special and they all play a role in the higher plan. But Horde Prime is a little bit more important, a little bit more special, and there's no other brother like him

So yeah, that was my free and totally biased interpetation, i'd love to know what your thoughts are cause I do not remember anyone else discuss Horde Prime's full title before. They may be meaningless afterall, but not to me, never to me u-u

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ I could never choose to love another (maybe one day I can learn to love you too). ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | angst, unrequited love, arranged marriage | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 3.7K

warnings: minor mentions of homophobia, emasculation (r! is forced to wear traditionally female garbs due to "tradition"), angst.

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

"You were born bluer than a butterfly, beautiful and so deprived of oxygen. Colder than your father's eyes — he never learned to sympathize with anyone."

"You were born reaching for your mother's hands. Victim of your father's plans to rule the world. Too afraid to step outside, paranoid and petrified of what you've heard."

authors note: (whisper chanting) wedding, wedding, wedding *song on repeat: BLUE by Billie Eilish

Black was the colour of elegance, formality, and misfortune.

It’s resolute. Existing in carefully filtered hues of shadows. The colour swallows up everything. A sharp contrast to everything it’s put besides. Your eyes are naturally drawn to it. Then, like everything in nature, the colour black has its equal.

White was a symbol of good fortune, and innocence.

Just as powerful in the way it both lifts other around it and yet becomes the most striking. A balance in their nature.

They’re unifying colours. Opposites but equal. A dichotomy that humans have found themselves philosophizing over. Yin and Yang, they were two fishes circling each other in the pond; they belonged together just as much as they seemed totally opposite of each other.

You suppose that’s why you’re wearing white for your wedding and Satoru, black. A binding of hands, families, fortune and misfortune.

A tradition of celebrating a union of equals.

A lifelong partnership.

It feels more like a sham to you.

This ceremony was unneeded and unnecessary. You’re sure a simple contract would’ve been more than enough. But, as great clans of sorcerers, traditions were not to be taken lightly and you were marrying into the Gojo Clan of Japan. This elevates you and your family’s social standing — finally being able to suckle at the teats of High Society and their riches without having to strain your necks and stick your tongue like a runt.

You will be Gojo (Y/N), husband to the most powerful sorcerer in your lifetime and you will be grateful and content. You will be taken care of. Never worry about anything because you will be just as untouchable as your other half.

Despite these “truths,” your heart feels so heavy you’re sure it has dropped to your stomach.

Like a frenzy of snakes, your intestines have wrapped themselves around your frantically beating heart; coiling and squeezing because this feeling has not left you the second Lady Gojo had come to discuss what alterations you needed to make for your wedding garbs.

Your breath hitches as your servants carefully tighten the obi around your waist. Your arms are outstretched as the servants busy themselves with tending to you. Those dolls you’ve seen your cousins play dress-up and make-believe with, you’re beginning to pity them. The hands are invasive as they worry about the way the fabric is falling and if there are any wrinkles in sight; your hair was kept neat and out of your face for the hard wig they were putting on, they do this after they painted your face with powders and colours.

The bags under your eyes concealed delicately and your lips pampered so there'd be no imperfections in sight.

All the while, they say nothing about the grimaces of discomfort on your face. Simply nodding in approval once satisfied. They tell you they’ll place another layer of cloth on you and you tell yourself that you’ve been through much worse.

But the second that weight settles, you can smell the incense they burned at your mother's funeral. It’s strange how one's brain can make these correlations. Bridging a memory completely unrelated to now and ruining it.

The smoke glides across your face and up your nose. The burn of them makes your eyes water. That smell — no amount of flowers could ever get rid of that burning smell.

“Young Master, do you need anything?” their voice surprises you enough for tears to fall. The servants gasp quietly, suddenly concerned at the state of you.

As if you’re a doll that had just come to life in the middle of play. This servant has the most unusual hair, inky black but in a way that’s obviously fake as it shines unnaturally blue under the sunlight. You wonder what their real hair colour is, so your watery eyes look at their eyebrows.

Stained, no giveaway to the truth.

Their voice was deep but also gave nothing away. A truly androgynous individual, with the most peculiar haircut. Blinking away the tears, you shake your head and turn away.

“No, I’m alright. Just overwhelmed, and excited,” you chuckle. “It’s my wedding day after all.”

They weren't convinced. Those coral coloured eyes seemed to ripple; as if a stone had been thrown into a calm lake. The servant turns and coldly announces for everyone to leave the room. Your older servants, your mothers, squared their shoulders.

"The young master should not be left alone on his wedding day," she begins. Her voice giving you a minute sense of comfort. She was a kind woman. Loyal to a fault. She cared for you the best she could, offering you her shoulder to weep on when she told you of your mothers sickness.

"You forget your place among us, young one."

The peculiar servant regards her with a placid expression. Yet, when she moves to approach you, they extend their hand out to the side to stop her.

You look between the two of them as they openly glared at each other. They lean in to her ears, hair slipping forward like a curtain, and they whisper. Whatever it is that they murmured makes her skin turn pale. She whips her head, gasping as she stares at them in horror.

Then, you were alone.

"What was that?" your voice was heavy with trepidation. The servant assures you with a polite smile. "My job is to ensure you are alright, Young Master. The room was beginning to get stuffy. Please, allow me to dress you myself."

Themselves?

It took three people in order to create the padding around your body. Essentially mummifying you in white so your shape was not distorted. Then another two servants assisted in your wrapping, securing the padding to your body and tying everything into place.

Like a proper bride.

It was emasculating. But the elders were already unamused by the binding of two men in matrimony — they demanded the wedding remained traditional. You found it hard to care, wanting to get this over and done with already.

The servant tilts your head up, gently pressing a cotton pad to your tear line and offering another smile. They smooth out what they can of your robe, getting behind you and quietly taking off the clips around the rim of your collar. It helps you breathe, if only a little, and your shoulders droop.

You suppose there isn't much else to be added onto your ensemble. But you appreciate the care they're putting in refining the hair accessories on your wig, using the flat sides of a rat tail comb to ensure the lace front was pressed neatly.

"...It feels like a helmet," you confess dryly. "It looks like one, doesn't it?" You gesture to your head.

"A pretty one," their reply makes you chuckle.

"They dress me up like this in order to humiliate me and my clan."

Your fingers curl into fists. They tilt their heads, regarding your fists with a glance then moving to your right to check the state of the lace.

"Do you feel humiliated?"

You twist your head, your expression now warped with simmering anger.

"I'm a man." You seethe.

"A beautiful one." They remind you. Not flinching at the subtle warmth your palms are emanating. "Why should you feel humiliated when you look as beautiful as the rising dawn? Don't do that."

They lean in and your breath hitches. You're so close you can tell they've combed through their lashes with mascara, feel the hardened brush of them on your cheek as they whisper in your ear.

"Don't give those rotting old bastards sorcerers the satisfaction of looking at the top of your head."

When they pull away, you feel like you can breathe again.

"I will be placing the wataboshi for you, Young Master."

You nod, the ache in your shoulders disappearing.

Wearing white is to symbolize your bride's willingness to be dyed in the grooms colours. Satoru thinks that's a bit of a dramatic description. It sounds more ominous than it does romantic.

He grunts as his servants tie the endless seams and cords. Folding it, smoothing it out — Satoru feels more like fresh dough being kneaded than he does a groom. The servants hasten their pace. He feels worn out. A vein on the side of his head pulsing as he reminds himself to unclench his jaw.

He can see himself in the reflection of the tri-fold mirror before him. He looks proper. Dressed in a black haori, with the striking white emblem of his clan on either fold.

Willingness to be dyed in his colours?

He sighs, furrowing his brows to keep his eyes hidden away. A servant asks if he needs anything, he waves their concerns away and tells them to continue.

"Are you sure if this is what you wish to do, Satoru?" his mother's voice echoes in his mind.

"I won't allow him to be humiliated further because of my actions. I have to be responsible. I have to marry him."

"You have to marry him?" she arches a brow his way, lifting the cup of tea to her lips as she watches him.

"You're mistaken, Satoru. The only one with power in deciding if this marriage is not the (L/N) Clan. It's us. It's you."

(Y/N)'s decisions do not matter. You accepted his dowry. Refused any other, is what she's telling him. The Gojo Clan's status is leagues above yours. If you refuse to marry him, Satoru can't imagine the ridicule you'll face. Your father — and his new bride — would cast you out.

It sickens him how weak you are. Your social standing is already so fickle, your clan just beginning to shake the fleas of the lower ringed trash from its fur. You deserve better than this.

You deserved choices.

He had never seen someone more devoted to sorcerer politics than you. You were a good son, a dutiful son.

Yet, your fate is in his hands. If he rejects your hand, you'll be humiliated. If he continues this path, he fears for your happiness. You'll be forever tainted by Satoru regardless of the choices he makes.

Forever dyed in his colours.

He flutters his eyes open, straightening his shoulders as the weight of the kimono reminds him of your red-rimmed eyes. The day of your mother's funeral, your hands healing him and washing him away from grime and filth while Suguru's marks were still so dark and blooming.

What a good husband you'd be.

He can't allow you to be shunned by your family, by sorcerer society.

He has to save you. He has to honour you. He has to.

Because he loves you. He has to.

He has to.

For you.

He'd do this for you.

Satoru looked handsome. You can barely seen him from underneath the hood, keeping your gaze ahead at the back of a shrine servant's head as he leads both you and your soon-to-be-husband towards the shrine.

It rained a little earlier, the sky was no longer gloomy so it provided the scenery with a shimmering quality. The leaves of the old ginkos tree decorating the grounds with its golden and orange leaves; every sway of its branches speckling light onto the puddles of rainwater which makes it shine like a gem.

The servant with the peculiar hair, they held a red umbrella over both you and Satoru's hair as your procession continues.

"You look beautiful," Satoru says. You eyes widen. In all the hubbub, the chaos after your mother's funeral, your father's marriage, preparing for your own, missions slipped between here and there. You'd forgotten this side of Satoru.

This unabashed mouth of his. With that sharp curl and those perfect teeth and blushed lips. His voice sounds so light despite the heavy cloud that'd been lingering over your heads.

The Star Plasma Incident, Geto Suguru's betrayal, your marriage.

Your refuse to let your eyes water. If Satoru can be this strong, then you will be just as strong as he is.

"I'm sure you do to," he turns his head. Not that you can see it. Hence, the joke. Satoru smiles your way and you're glad this hood protects you from more than just wind, dust, and dirt. Because the sight of his smile would make your palms clammy and your heart flutter.

It gives you too much hope. It is your wedding day. Most would say hoping wouldn't be too egregious. You'll be performing your marriage before the shrine gods after all, praying to them for happiness and wealth in your future with your husband.

Satoru reaches for you, slipping his black sleeves through the divot of your elbow and steadying you as you climb the steps. From behind you, your step-mother awws at the display.

You're sure Lady Gojo is curling her nose at her voice behind her handheld fan. This fills you with a little vicious delight.

The gods should hate you for this, but you swallow down that guilt as Satoru hitches you closer.

You enter the Pavilion, admiring the architecture and care of the shrine masters and maidens. You feel hope building in your chest. Despite your best efforts, it begins to lift its head. This shrine has seen so many marriages. Such as the marriage of Satoru's own parents, and his parent's parents.

Despite being arranged, despite being loveless in the beginning, they seemed happy.

Your wedding robes descend on your shoulders again and the scent of incense wafts up your nose.

Your mother's final breath echoes in your ears.

You feel your throat close up.

The priest is announcing to the gods of your marriage with Satoru and all you can feel is nausea. He stands next to you and your head is held high, the elders and higher ups watch from the sides and you hope they can't see the way your mouth presses into a thin line.

Satoru is wearing black. He wore black to the funeral too and your mother, white. Your brain does that thing again — making correlations out of thin air.

You are not not a walking corpse. Satoru was not a man grieving. You are both getting married. You are supposed to celebrate. This is not a funeral. This is not an unfortunate event.

The shrine maiden before you offers Satoru a sakazuki dish filled with sake.

This ritual feels mocking. Satoru doesn't even enjoy drinking. His taste buds were akin to a child's. He prefers sweets, sometimes you marvel at how he hasn't gotten a cavity. So you wonder how his face is like when he takes his sips — despite the eyes on you, you turn to see.

He does not grimace. Not even a twitch in his brows. He takes one sip, the second, then finishes the sake.

His mother had told you that the first sip is to show appreciation to the heavens above and for their ancestors. The shrine maidens hands you a cup and you carefully hold it in your hands.

Fuck your ancestors. What have they ever given you?

Still, you bring the rim of the dish to your lips and take two sips, tipping the cup for the final one.

The second set of cups are supposed to symbolize you. The couple. It's a vow for you to care for each other for as long as you live.

Satoru's lips press over the edge, he drinks and drinks and drinks. He does not grimace, he does not falter. He closes his eyes, breathing out slowly as he hands the maiden his cup.

You watch. Entranced. Hoping to see a frown, a sign that he does not want this.

You take your cup and drink.

The third is meant for fertility. Both you and Satoru drink, ignoring the curl of the elders lips or the disdain in the others.

Fuck them, the both of you thought together.

You're offered a wooden comb and carefully wrap it in cloth before holding it between your palms, holding your pressed thumbs to your chest as you pray.

It is Satoru's turn to watch. He can see your lashes across your cheeks, the colour painted on your lips glimmering like the rain droplets on those golden leaves.

You were breathtaking.

When you stepped out of the car, he knew the old fucks were expecting a good laugh. Seeing you dressed in bridal garbs, with a veil, makeup and effeminate — they did not laugh. They drank you in, eyes widening at your beauty. It fueled Satoru with pride.

You're turning, Satoru blinks for a moment but turns to face you as well. You hold it between your palms and he cups his hands over yours. His large hands covering yours as he accepts the comb in front of the attendees.

This is a symbol of his determination, of his willingness, to make this marriage work.

He connects his gaze with yours and your lips finally part to allow you to breathe. He nods and your finger twitches for a moment but you give him the comb.

He then turns to offer it to the gods.

The sun is beginning to shine, clouds blowing away as you continue the next part; the reading of the vows to the gods.

He unravels the scroll, offering you the other end and you press your shoulders together as you both held it.

He reads;

"On this great day, before the Great Gods, we are wed. We are eternally grateful for this blessed ceremony. From today, we vow to love each other, to trust one another, to be there for each other for the good times and the bad; we promise that this will stay unchanged throughout our lifetime."

He reads out today's date. He reads out his title as your husband, then his name, and you swallow your nausea as you read out your title as his husband, then your name. You help him fold the paper back, hoping he didn't see how your hands tremble.

The shrine maidens come to your sides with a sprig of leaves. You both take it, hold the stem to between your fingers and the leaves to your head. Lady Gojo had told you this sprig would carry your thoughts and prayers through the end to the gods.

You hope they do not hear your cynical thoughts, your fears, your anxieties; you hope they can only feel the little bits of hope for happiness you're desperately wishing for.

Finally, finally, comes the exchanging of wedding bands.

Satoru's eyes softened as you slip his on. It's beautiful, intricate up close and simple from afar. The gem in the centre twinkling shyly under his gaze. You can't help but smile as he holds your hand in his, preciously slipping on your ring.

The silver glinting under the sun, as did the gem embedded in it. It was your favourite colour. He remembered.

The shrine maidens disperse, pouring sake into the cups of the guests and the both of you tenderly hold each others hands as you finally face them.

Gojo's parents watch on proudly, your father looked smug, his wife weepy as she blinks up at the heavens.

"Congratulations!"

They cheer, downing the sake, in celebration for your union and to Satoru's ascension as head of his clan.

You've done it, son. You imagine that's what your fathers expression is trying to convey. A well done nod sent your way.

You slip your fingers loose from Satoru.

"I know you're watching," Satoru grumbles as he slips his sunglasses on. The wedding was still ongoing, families dining together, and he excused himself for some fresh air while you changed into a more comfortable kimono.

"I felt it from the goddamn entrance of the shrine."

"He looked gorgeous," Suguru speaks from behind the body of a tree, twisting a gold leaf in between his fingers. "He's always been handsome, did those old fucks think putting him in white would be funny?"

Satoru does not answer. He simply stares at Suguru and yet, his wedding ring burns. He brings his gaze to it, flexing his fingers in an attempt to get rid of the phantom sensation.

"You here to give a wedding gift?" Satoru asks. Suguru turns and smiles. He had put his hair in a half-up-half-down hairdo. It suited him. A lot.

"Your hairs' gotten longer," Satoru's cheek twitch as the ring warms again. Suguru just offers a laugh, reaching into his robe and pulling out an envelope. He offers it to Satoru, who stares down at it.

"You actually gave us a wedding gift?" Satoru scoffs. Not yet reaching for it.

"It'd be rude of me not to."

"...Keep it."

Satoru tells a servant to speak from behind the sliding doors, effectively making them squeak in alarm as she stutters out that you're ready to step back into the fray.

"I'll be there shortly."

"Mah, Satoru — "

"Don't." He snaps out, glaring at Suguru.

"Don't." He says, softly now.

Suguru's eyes widen, his hurt evident as he gazes up at him.

"I'm sure your new church will need the money more than we do."

They say nothing to each other. Satoru turns to head back inside. Suguru's hands fall.

He hopes the Gods do not see this. He hopes the Gods can't hear how fast his heart is beating and how it breaks as he slides the doors close.

Satoru walks in just as you do. This kimono is less heavy, you move with a lightness in your step and no longer in stark white but instead in a gorgeous blue. The fabric dyed a darker colour at the ends to balance out the bright hues — the colour of your skin harmonizing the colours together just like your hair.

You looked at him, brows pinching at the sight of his sunglasses.

"Are you in pain?"

He should ask you that, shouldn't he?

After all you've been through, he should ask if you were hurt.

He shakes his head, smiling as he takes them off.

You're stronger then that. Pitying you, babying you, reopening the wounds you have — there was no need for that. You were his husband now, he will bare your burdens together. As he vowed to do in front of the gods.

He slips his arm through yours.

"Never. Not with you by my side, beloved."

You roll your eyes at him, ignoring how hot your cheeks feel at his lame attempt.

Maybe...maybe this could work, you tell yourself. Today went by so smoothly, it must be a sign.

Maybe you can be happy.

[motthe]

If there requests are still open <3 could you maybe do something with a isekai/Lumen au? I thought of how different would be The reactions towards The different technology or behaviors! Any character is fine! (But if it's possible Viktor) Any gender is fine too!

Only if you're comfortable with it! Your writing is amazing 💖💖💖

oh man this was fun to play around with. thanks for requesting!!!

“Construction will be delayed.” Viktor hated to say it, but the storm had done too much damage to the Hexgate and there was no telling what that lightning strike had done to the core far below ground. “We must pray everything is intact at the base.”

“Elevator’s running. That’s good, right?” Jayce tried to find the silver lining as they stepped in, doors closing behind them.

Viktor grabbed your lumen before gravity shifted. The first time in an elevator had sent you into the ground and you’d yet to learn despite the many times he had used the academy elevator.

It was a common thing amongst lumens. They merely floated so how could they expect the ceiling to suddenly come racing down.

You brightened at his touch as did Jayce’s when he grabbed his own companion. It was second nature for the both of them to keep you close with all the dangers going on around inventors.

“Surely the lightning wouldn’t travel all the way to the core,” Jayce murmured over the whir of gears moving. “It’s miles below surface.”

“All witnesses reported a pulse of energy,” Viktor reminded him, lithe fingers rubbing against the soft outline of you against the crook of his neck. Your warmth was blocked with the long raincoat covering him. “Perhaps a boost of sorts would be best case scenario. An excess.”

“It’s not powering anything yet,” Jayce said.

“That’s why we must investigate, yes?”

As the metal box slowed to a stop, Viktor dropped his hand. You remained pressed against him.

A loud rattling filled the space as the doors creaked open before quickly coming to a halt. The opening was slim.

“Oh, great,” sighed Jayce, pushing forward and attempting to get them open. He grunted, arms straining as his lumen fluttered above his head. “Yeah, no.” He stepped back huffing. “That’s not budging.”

Viktor eyed the opening. “I think I may fit.”

“You wanna go in there alone?” Jayce’s judgmental tone had him rolling his eyes.

“It would make the most of our time.”

“If you get in trouble, I won’t be able to help.”

Viktor gave him a gentle grin, raising a hand to pat his shoulder. “I will be quick, yes?”

His business partner shrugged, shaking his head as he moved aside to let Viktor through.

Grabbing the seam of the door with one hand, he wedged himself through, cane first. The hall was dark, the only light came from inside elevator and your small form as you eased through.

“Stay close, my star,” he whispered, knuckles nudging you as he began the walk to the core room. The hit of his cane against the floor echoed an eerie song, shadows closed in tight against your brilliance.

Reaching the door posed a problem seeing as there wasn’t any power on this hall. But Viktor was prepared.

Moving his raincoat aside and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small pen light and master key and got to work. It was a heavy door but perhaps with some inertia, he’d get it open enough to slip in and check the core.

“You all right?” Jayce’s voice echoed from behind.

“The power is out,” returned Viktor, “I must open the door manually.”

“I’ll see if there’s a control box in here and work on getting these doors open.”

You loomed above, doing a better job of lighting up the lock. He thanked you, finishing up the various interlocking mechanisms before turning his attention to the door.

Taking a breath, he position his bad side against the frame, pushing off with his good leg. It took time, but soon the metal obstacle inched open bringing with it a cold breeze and the glow of the hextech within.

“The cooling system is still active,” he called to Jayce.

A curse sounded as well as an electric zap.

Rolling his eyes, Viktor pushed onwards, slipping through as soon as there was enough space.

His breath clouded in front of him as you hovered near his shoulder, the quiet hum of the core paired with the chill sending goosebumps across his skin.

The fact the core was still active was a good sign and the pack debris on the floor showed nothing had exploded, at least.

Taking a turn around the piece, he squinted as a warm light seeped through the cool, blue glow.

He jumped as the lights overhead flickered to life, the door behind him opening fully as gears turned and Jayce’s “A-ha!” rang out.

Blinking through the sudden blindness, Viktor sighed and rubbed his eyes clear before searching for the light he’d seen.

Instead he saw a hand peaking out from around the core.

“Uh!” he choked, the tip of his cane thumping hard as he moved quickly.

The hand extended to an arm, then a shoulder. A body laid bare just a foot or two from the fore, stomach down and face covered by their hair.

“Jayce!” Viktor yelled, kneeling so fast his cane slid across the floor. His hands hovered over the back, before he took a breath and grabbed their shoulder, attempting to flip them over.

He nearly jumped back as a lumen floated up, a deep, tawny brown. Viktor didn’t pay it much mine, too concerned with trying to get the person on their back and praying they were breathing—

But then your lumen was circling it, the two dancing around one another.

He paused, chest aching as the two brushed and another light blinded him.

You, he thought, breath quickening as he peered down, straining to flip you over. It’s you.

Moving your hair from your face, he took the slope of your nose, the shape of your jaw. You were in a deep slumber, all but dead to the world as clouds slipped from you parted lips.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered, quickly ridding himself of his raincoat and covering your nude form. “Jayce!”

Finally, those heavy footsteps came racing around, nearly slipping from the water trailed on.

“What is it?! Did the core—“ Jayce stood, dumbstruck as he stared down at your body in Viktor’s arms. “How…?”

“Help me,” Viktor gasped. “They’re my fated. Help me!”

“What?” he hissed, eyes moving to the two lumens circling in each other. “Why are they down here?!”

“I don’t know but they’re freezing to death as we speak. They need medical attention.”

Shaking his head, Jayce left the question for later as he lowered to take you from Viktor, carefully keeping you wrapped in the raincoat.

“Go, I will follow,” Viktor ordered. Jayce nodded and took off the way he came towards the elevator. That tawny lumen flew after them as yours returned to Viktor, rubbing against his cheek.

“Please, he all right,” he murmured, cupping you against his neck as he scrambled for his cane. “For my sake.”

.

The crack of lightning and thunder resounded in your head. You bolted upright, gasping.

Something tumbled into your lap, bright against the dark room. You thought maybe you’d knocked a lamp over or a flashlight—but as you get your breath back you find there wasn’t much weight to it.

You scrambled back as it floated up, shrieking.

“What the fuck?!”

Movement across the room had you scrambling for a weapon, the best you get was the pillow behind you as you hold it between you and the weird floating light thing.

“You’re awake.”

The accent was foreign against your ears. You squinted as light flickered on above, taking in a blurry outline on a couch. Rubbing your eyes, you remained tense a man pushed up onto a cane. He stood with a hunched form, shoulders long but dragging down. Wild brown hair framed tired eyes and a narrow face.

“Who are you?” you said, voice cracking from a dry throat. You held the pillow up higher as the light drifted closer. “What is that? Some kind of bug?”

Whatever it was, another one popped up over the man’s shoulder, perching there as if it belonged nowhere else. The man cradled it, brow furrowing.

“You do not know of lumens?”

“What? No,” you huffed, glancing around the room. The white curtains and beds hinted at a hospital or maybe a mental institute. Were you going insane? “Where am I?”

“The infirmary at the academy. It was the closest,” he answered.

“Academy? Which one?”

He tilted his head. “The only one. There are no other academies in Piltover.”

“Piltover?” you whispered. “I don’t know where that is.“

“Are you from another region?” You murmured the name of your country. “Is that in Runeterra?”

“You’re not making any sense,” you huffed, squealing when you spotted the ball of light creeping over the pillow. You panicked, thwacking it away. The man flinched.

“Please don’t,” he said, “it won’t hurt you.”

You eyed the creature before looking to the man.

“You’re connected,” you said.

“Lumens are the embodiment of our souls or so the legends say,” he explained, holding the one on his shoulder out and nudging it towards you. “This one is yours.”

“Mine?” You stared as it hovered, easing back towards the man.

“Go on,” he murmured to it, pushing it back your way. The thing—lumen—refused, sweeping up under his chin as he sighed. “You’re frightened.”

“I don’t know where I am or who you are,” you said flatly. “Of course, I am.”

“Viktor,” he limped forward to the end of your bed, offering a slender hand. “My name is Viktor.”

You took a breath, wincing as the tawny lumen brushed your arm. It was soft and warm, taking a moment before nudging you again.

“Uh, hi,” you whispered to it, raising your eyes to Viktor. “Or, hi to you, I guess?”

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile.

You pushed your fear down and reached forward to take his hand, introducing yourself.

.

When Viktor left the infirmary to grab you food, Jayce was waiting in the hall. He pushed off the wall as soon as the door closed.

“How are they?”

“Fine,” Viktor said, frowning. “They are lost. They don’t seem to know anything about, well, anything.”

Jayce’s face twisted. “Uh, what?”

“They have never seen or heard about lumens,” he explained, “nor have they heard about Piltover or even Runterra. The names they speak are foreign to me.”

“Well, you’re speaking the same language,” he noted.

“That is one blessing,” he sighed.

Jayce frowned, noticing the new weight in Viktor’s stance. “They don’t know they’re your fated?”

He shook his head.

“Did you tell them?”

“They are overwhelmed, Jayce. I think it best to explain it at a later time.”

“But—”

“I do not wish to scare them even more than they already are,” Viktor stated, words sharp.

Jayce’s eyes lowered to your lumen, shaking against the crook of his neck.

“Right. Okay, yeah,” he whispered. The two stood in silence for a moment before he dared to ask, “Do you think…the Hexgate?”

“Perhaps,” Viktor breathed. “We shall find out, but first things first.” He started off down the hall. “I have my fated to take care of, whether they know it or not.”