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netherfeildren · 5 hours ago

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Busy, Dying. Part 3;

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my lovely and kind friend @FloBallestra whose beautiful beautiful art inspired me so much for this story. You’re the coolest, smartest girl in the world, Flo; I love being your friend.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, A/B/O, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, Heat Sex, Knotting, Fluff & Smut & Angst, Premature Ejaculation, Scenting, Dacryphilia; Explicit Sexual Content, Dom/sub Undertones, Breeding Kink, Excessive Amounts of Cum, Aftercare, Touch Starved Joel Miller, Angst With a Happy Ending

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

Part 3;

The apartment with the small, warm room you bring him to is a radiant and generous place; some brightly lit bubble of life Joel hasn’t looked upon in years and years.

You tell him you have a roommate who spends all her time with her girlfriend—crazy in love. They work at the opera, too—set carpenter and sound design. Soon, they plan to get married.

You tell him all of this with a patently wistful look in your eye. Like you’re happy for your friends, and also terribly aware of what it is that landed you in a place like the Emmanuel.

In your bedroom, there are twinkling lights that hang from the edges of the ceiling, and a mess of a pink and cream colored bed at the center of the closely packed room, blankets and pillows piled high into what looks like a preemptively engineered nest.

You move into the space slowly, like you’re shy, hesitant to allow him into this sacred place, as you drape his borrowed coat over the back of the desk chair. The surface of which is cluttered with books and papers, a beaten up red journal, a laptop and makeup strewn about haphazardly. An etched glass bottle of perfume perches precariously at the corner's edge, the deep golden liquid within: still and undisturbed.

“I like your room,” he tells you.

But what he’d really like to say is that he feels in danger here, in this comfortable space. That he wishes he could run but that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, also. Nowhere to run to. That he’s grateful. That the act the two of you are about to commit here will be undeniably selfish. That at the end of it all, he hopes you might forgive him.

The look on your face when you turn to thank him, one hand braced against the back of the chair as if to hold yourself upright, is full of the ardor of your unfurling heat, the weight of your biology, the reasons for finding yourself in the basement of an old church. There’s sweat dampening your hairline and a glaze in your eye that tells him soon you won’t even remember your own name, but you’ll surely remember his.

Joel feels suddenly flayed open, like some prey animal gutted by a wolf, spilling all of his own ravenous hunger out for your witness. It’s a moment of undeniable honesty. His own face, a mirror, his own skin damp with sweat. He’s painfully hard already with your scent on his tongue and fingers and surrounding him everywhere in this room. And the look on your face is so similar to the shiver in his gut, that he decides to be honest with his fears:

“We’re about to do somethin’ selfish here. With no thought for how it might hurt anyone.” Not even ourselves. “And I’ve always been a selfish man. But I worry for you.”

Your lashes flutter, as if taking in the weight of his words. But you smile, “Think I can’t handle it?” Another drooping flutter of your lashes, thick and curling. The fever turns you into an unreliable narrator. He can see the flutter of a too fast pulse beneath the thin skin of your throat. All bravado—you struggle to maintain the smirk. “I don’t think I believe half the things you say about yourself.”

“I don’t care about anything,” he tells you, palms splayed wide as if to show you all his cards.

“You’re a bad liar, Joel Miller.”

You know his last name without him ever having told you, and it feels like a sign. Like you already know everything there is to know about him, so obviously he’s supposed to be here.

“You can sit down,” you offer, slowly moving to shut the door. “They never stay here, we’ll have the apartment to ourselves for a few days most likely.”

He swallows his nerves, the reality that he’s never done a thing like this, been in this position before, slides down his throat to settle heavily in his gut as he sits slowly at the edge of the pink bed. On the nightstand there’s a dangerously leaning tower of books: Anna Karenina, The Second Sex, Emily of New Moon, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, an autobiography of W.B. Yeats, The Happy Hooker, The Act of Creation, Seven Gothic Tales.

A wishful romantic, a realist, a smart girl doing a stupid thing.

He stares at the stack unblinking. You like to read. This is who you are, this person who collects books in your small, pink room with the absent housemate and a brother who’ll only speak to you once a month. Parents who you want to be nothing like. Someone who works at the opera and likes to walk and eats too many sweets, with the golden perfume teetering dangerously at the edge of a desk.

Someone who’d dreamt of something better.

Suddenly, he can’t think of anyone else in his life whose small details he knows like this. Not a single person. Certainly not the woman he’s lived with for the past seven years. Perhaps not even himself.

And learnt in such a short time, too.

You move around him slowly, a gentle hand at his shoulder dragging to softly touch his cheek. He’s glad it’s you he knows like this. At least there is that.

“I’m not scared to be selfish. I’m scared of other things, but not that.”

He swallows, eyes wide and dry. And you’re so beautiful, and wanting him, what else is there to be but frightened and here, waiting for you to decide what’s next for him.

Your soft fingertip follows the curve of his cheekbone, back and forth, watching him with eyes that are not as afraid as his, but wide and young and honest. Full of the potential for life that has so callously slipped through his own hands. He thinks there’s nothing within him that can understand why you’d have found yourself in a place for lonely people. Why would you ever need a miracle cure the way he does? How could God or the whole world not want to miraculously cure you of any sort of loneliness you might have ever suffered? Desperate for the power to turn back the clock, change his whole life, find you at a time when he was young and unbroken and honest, too.

You push his hair back, fingers sliding through the thick strands, dancing over the shell of his ear the way they’d danced over the temptation of sugar. His blood throbs madly at his temples, his muscles spasming beneath his skin; he shuts his eyes, sucking in a slow, deep breath to steady himself. He’s not afraid to admit he’s afraid of this.

He hadn’t suffered any sort of real sex drive in years. His libido cold and inconsistent and… gone. He can’t remember the last time he’d slept with his wife, taken himself in hand. His erection this morning had been the first he could remember in months. Joel worked, he thought of the past, he did not consider himself. He went home, he existed.

He was so, so cold. Frozen.

Now, he is here.

Slowly, he brings his palms to your hips, gripping you there carefully, hearing the phantom sound of your moan in his ear as he’d made you come on his fingers. Unbelieving he’d had the gall to even touch you like that.

The hand at his ear moves to the buttons at the base of his throat, opening the first, the second. His breathing goes erratic, coming in quick, hot bursts. He pulls you in closer, spreading his thighs wider to make room for you, and his hold on you slips higher, mapping the curve of your waist beneath your sweater. Looking up at you with all the wonder of a man coming upon the answer to a question he’d been looking for his entire life.

He tries for sound once, falters. There are so many things he wants to say to you now, and all his bravado from the church has fled him. His strength gone under the feel of your soft fingers and the glow of your pink room in the warm fairy lights. Things he wants to say that might frighten you, disgust you, make you wet and pliant. He swallows courage once again.

“You’re going to let me have you.”

A muscle under your left eye flutters light and frantic, spasming with your nerves. You nod once.

“Fuck you, knot you—” he insists on clarification.

Another nod.

“Say it. Lemme hear it.”

“Yes. I’m going to let you have me.”

He pulls you in even closer, a groan as he presses his face against your belly, breathing in deep, filling his lungs until they hurt with your scent. The ache in his groin and his stomach beats behind his eyelids. Your fingers move quickly, undoing the rest of his buttons and then push his shirt back and off his shoulders, smoothing over the hot skin there up to his neck to ghost over the sensitive skin of his glands. He shudders a broken sound, pressing his face deeper into your stomach.

“The rest—tell me.”

“I’m…I’m going to let you fuck me, knot me.”

He pulls you in tighter, thank you thank you, he says against your midriff, mouth sliding against the knit fabric of your sweater that he pushes up your waist, uncovering the skin of your stomach for him to kiss.

Tugging the garment over your head, you let it fall to the floor from listless fingers, the soft shucking sound landing heavy against the carpet of the quiet room. You have on a black bra, soft, translucent lace, he can see the color of your nipples beneath, beautiful and succulent so his mouth waters. You’re like wild prey caught in his thrall, looking down at him with those bright eyes full of mirrored hunger. His fingertips make their slow, ghosting way up the skin of your back and then down again, mapping you, catching at the waist of your skirt to tug it down over your legs. You’re left only in your dark tights and tiny underwear. Hands on your hips he pivots you, taking a look at the back of a little thong. He feels perverted—he wants to bend you over and spread you wide and look at it all, press his fingers against tight, sensitive skin before getting to taste it all, too.

His legs shake and he hides his face against your stomach again, embarrassed with the intensity of his wanting, breath shaking in his lungs. Your hands smooth over his hair, comforting him, soothing and painful all at once. And cautiously, you begin to push him backwards until he’s stretched out and laying against the soft duvet.

It’s like he floats on a pink cloud, and Joel is nervous.

With his eyes closed, he concentrates on the feel of gentle fingertips moving over his chest, down his belly, sifting through the hair there to the clasp of his belt—open, his jeans, the zipper, parted. It’ll be his skin next. He breathes fast fast fast, he can’t remember the last time anyone touched him, and he has to focus intently on willing the boiling heat his blood full of mercury has become to calm down or he’ll spend in his jeans without you even having pulled him out.

At his sides, his arms are tangled in his open shirt, and he’s unable to defend himself when you climb on top, settling on his lap in nothing but your flimsy tights and your tiny panties.

He can’t look, he’s afraid of what he’ll see. He’s afraid of you.

“Open your eyes, Joel—”

The immediate realization that he’d been wrong before, that he is a weak man, that he’d never been able to escape it, that maybe all the sad, childless alphas of the world are a little bit the same—dying, it doesn’t bother him as perhaps it would have, had he not made it here with you.

“I can’t believe I found you,” he says in utter awe—eyes wide open now.

Your smile is beautiful when you lean over to kiss him. Fingers twisting into his hair as you moan against his tongue, sweet kittennish laps while you grind and press along his chest. He tries to twist out of his tangled shirt, frustration mounting at his trapped arms. He wants to pull you tight, grip you hard, feel your skin and leave his fingerprints everywhere, but you reach down, bracing your hand against his wrist to hold him down. Other hand coming up to circle his throat lightly.

At the provoking nature of your touch, his instincts finally come fully alive.

“This you pretendin’ to be in charge?”

“Yes,” you shiver, pressing your face to his throat, your hips starting a rhythmic cant against his abdomen.

The rumble, low and satisfied in his chest, is one of gratification. Happy to let you play for a moment, familiarize yourself with his body.

“Alright,” he says. “Enjoy it. It’s all you’ll get.”

He settles back, accepting he’s trapped for now whilst you slither lower, shuffling to straddle his thighs. Your touch is tentative, looking up with your own shy candor and glowing cheeks as you carefully grasp his hard flesh.

The muscles in his stomach bunch, a rough, pained sound clawing its way up his throat—he has to clench his whole body to stave off a humiliation.

“Fuck—” Joel whines.

Pulling back, you shove his jeans down his thighs and he toes his boots off, helping you to dispense with the horrible, confining clothes that hurt his skin. When he’s free, his sex lies there, heavy and jutting, and it embarrasses him. The angry, violent looking thing under your beautiful hand.

But there’s a sound in your throat, click clicking, whining too like him, and when you wrap your small fingers around his cock, the both of you stare down in awe. Your touch is too gentle, not hard enough. He needs more. Straining to wrap his own large hand around yours, he shows you how he needs it. Squeezing tightly he writhes on the bed, moving your palms up and down together, teeth clenched tight. He pulls away, letting you handle him on your own, and your touch goes light again, maddening.

“Does it hurt?”

“God yes.”

It aches, it needs inside.

He hisses when you gently part the spongy skin of the tip, foreskin rolled back, pulling the small slit open. Your eyes are glazed over, shiny with the fever heat now, like you don’t really know what’s going on anymore. Humming to yourself while you play with him.

His sac is heavy and tight, the space behind beats. He’s going to come soon, already. It doesn’t matter that you’ve barely touched him, it’d been so long for him, and you’re so beautiful on top of him, sweaty and fevered and ripe. He rips his arms violently from the trap of his shirt, seams popping and grips your hip forcefully with one hand, the other pulling your touch back to his agonized erection, moving your grip up and down brutally. Reaching to tuck his fingers beneath the half-cup of your pretty, lace bra, he tugs, letting one soft, full breast free.

“I’m so close,” he begs.

Your lashes flutter at his tone, nodding your head—I’ll be gentle, I’ll be gentle with you—slicking your palm over the wide, wet head, and then gripping there in a twisting motion, sliding down the length. It’s not hard enough, but goddamn it’s so good, too.

“I’m going to come in your hand, I’m sorry,” he says, too far gone to remember he was feeling embarrassed just a moment ago.

Suddenly, his semen is spilling hot and wet over your fingers and down your wrist, knot pulsing in agony. His animal snarl sends a shocked shiver down your back so that you’re gripping him even tighter, pulling his hips off the bed by the cock, your own high pitched sound meeting his deep one.

He ruts into your fist, moaning, crying your name, and your other hand joins your moving fist to scoop up his thick white come, bringing it to your mouth to smear against your tongue.

Joel is going to die.

He jerks you forward, over himself, fists twisting in your tights and wrenching them apart, snapping the clasp of your bra to tear it off. You’re crying his name back at him, writhing against him, wet hand sliding over his skin and getting come everywhere while you tell him how much you ache, how hot you are, how it hurts without him. How you need him.

Joel is needed, and it is a perfect, suspended moment.

Flipping you over suddenly, he crowds you with his heavy mass, pulling you up off the bed against his chest, belly to belly, fingers in your hair to tug your head back roughly and bearing the soft column of your beautiful throat, he closes his lips around your gland and sucks hard, the flavor of your pheromones flooding his mouth, sticky on his tongue like honey. Your fists tangle in his hair, pulling him in closer, bearing yourself further, a keening cry on your tongue as he ravages the supremely sensitive skin.

With a growl, he pulls back, running his rough hands all over you. Skin, bare and soft and hot. And with one rough tug, he rips the barely there panties from your hips, beneath him you’re breathing fast and hiccupped in a way that makes him feel like a predator and you some small prey. Your breasts are soft and lovely—on a quiet, hungry sound, he captures the tip of one in his mouth, sucking careful, then hard, biting gently, working the sensitive nipple with his tongue until you’re moaning and pleading with him for more. He can feel your hot cunt wet against his stomach.

“Hmm, such sweet, sensitive pretty tits. Do you like that, little omega?”

Your scent builds, blossoming and swelling and he feels the change in your temperature when you dip fully into the pit of your heat, his own rut responding in kind, coming up on him like a wave so that he feels suddenly that all sense has been lost and all he is, is a thing that takes, with you beneath him so ready to give.

He had warned you that this would be a selfish sort of thing.

Wrapping his big hands around your soft tits, he sucks on one and then the other, slapping the side to watch it jiggle and then, with a rough sound, nipping at it again like he’s angry at how it moves. He slides lower, teeth scraping along your ribs, tasting the curve of your soft belly, dipping to bite at the plump inner slopes of your thighs. Between your legs—God. Had he ever smelled something so sweet? Your arousal is thick and leaking heavily, pooling between your thighs onto the bed.

You’re beyond words or reasoning now, maybe that’s why he feels brave enough to say: “You can’t imagine the things I’ve done t’you in my dreams. Disgusting things. I wanna fill you so badly, mark you with my scent and my come. Want you to be only mine.”

He buries his face in your cunt, lapping at your hole and sucking on your pretty clit, so swollen. Spreading your sex open to admire what’s his.

Oh please, you cry above him, dragging your palms over your body to squeeze your own breasts tightly. He watches a lone tear slide down your temple in rapt fascination, and he’s certain he’s never laid eyes on such a sight in his entire life.

“Shh,” he soothes. “Let alpha kiss your little clit.”

He presses a full mouthed kiss to the swollen bud, eyes still locked on your face, flicking his tongue slowly back and forth. You’re so wet, pouring slick for him. Joel takes a deep breath through a clenched jaw, and distantly, thinks it would be wise of him to make you come first on his mouth. But as he straightens to his knees, his palms sliding up the backs of your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressed against the vulnerable backs of your knees, spreading you wide, touching skin softer than he even knew was possible, he knows he can’t wait any longer. Doesn’t want to.

You’re begging for it anyways. You don’t want him to wait either.

His wet cockhead brushes against your belly as he leans over to give you a long, lingering kiss. One last moment of softness, he thinks, before all reason is lost to rut.

He’d like to say so many other things. That you’re like an angel. That it makes sense he’d found you where he did. That he wants to do obscene things to you. Tie you up—ropes wrapped around your heavy breasts, your soft thighs, so that he might watch your skin take his marks. Keep you captured and bound.

Abstinence does strange things to a man.

Kneeling between your spread thighs, he lets his cock lay heavy against you, reaching halfway up your belly. Your palm slides over it, pressing at the hot skin, letting yourself rock against it, thighs flexing.

“This part is the worst,” you cry. “—So hot. Oh, I itch and burn everywhere, alpha.” Your words are slurred and febrile.

“You’re alright,” he soothes, taking hold of his thick flesh. “I’m here to fix it now.”

You claw gently at his shoulders like a desperate creature seeking safety. He tucks the wide head against your little hole, and eyes full of glorious fever, hair clinging to your sweaty face, you lift yourself up a little to watch him push it in.

As he presses inside you, Joel feels like he might cry.

He’s sure when he returns to that house not a home, that meager and cold place, that he will cry. Thinking he can’t remember when the last time was that he allowed himself to weep. Like touch, like lust, like all he’d deprived himself of for so long—his whole life, nothing but abstinence—Joel can’t remember the last time he let himself cry.

Now, he presses deeper, lashes fluttering, and he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. He slides his hands beneath your bottom, lifting you, filling you, and hisses, eyes on where he fucks you open. His hips nudging forward, rocking, until he’s balls deep, the wide, painfully sensitive tip of his cock pressed firmly against the mouth of your cervix. His burgeoning knot is an unspeakable ring of pleasure at the base. He bends, hunching over your splayed open form, to kiss your midriff, nuzzling gentle at your belly. Above him, you mumble nonsensically: his name, alpha, pleading for more.

Joel—it sounds more beautiful than he’s ever heard it said before. Like it means something now, not just a thing that exists, but a real person, too.

He pulls his hips back until only the wide head remains caught in the tight ring of your pussy—it’s so swollen, he can almost imagine he sees the blood beating beneath the thin, slippery skin. You’ve bloomed for him, and you’re so beautiful for it. He slides forward, hard, bumping roughly against your womb again and grinding there, making you really feel him. You wail once, long and sharp, and then the low pitiful sound of an animal trapped in a maw of teeth.

“Fuck—Oh, fuck,” he grits, letting himself fall forward on braced arms, looking down at where you connect, how you stretch so shockingly around the thickest part of him, the place just before his knot starts to swell. As if he could tear you apart.

His thrusts pick up speed, not bothering to measure the strength behind them, you were made for this after all. Perfect little omega cunt meant to be fucked hard—it starts to flutter around him, the wettest, most obscene sound he’s ever heard, squeezing and milking his length as you come on him for the first time.

“That’s it. Yes—” he growls, fucking you on his cock, your arousal dripping down onto his balls as he pulls out and slides back in with a deep, satisfied groan at the feel of his omega coming for him.

Joel loses his mind to the feel of it—better than anything else has ever been.

“Is your pretty cunt feeling good? She’s sucking on alpha so well, little one. This is what y’needed. I know. F’r me to fuck you until you wet my cock with your come.”

Wrapping his palm around your throat, reaching for your wrist to pin it to the mattress, the way you’d held him, prone and caught beneath him, he holds your pulse in two places, presses his lips to a third, the perfect, fragrant spot behind your ear. Tasting there, licking and sucking on the delicate skin. Ravenous mouth moving down to your gland, as soft and sensitive as your clit.

“Perfect, perfect thing. Can’t believe I found you—” he says again, taking your mouth now in a desperately hungry kiss. Your free arm wraps itself around his neck, holding him tightly. His chest fills with a heat so unbearable his heart feels it’ll burst, and then he’s settling as deep as he can, knot catching and swelling, and he’s pumping long spurts of hot come into your soft little womb, filling you.

His weight falls heavy over you, smothering your body with his much larger one, while he throbs deep inside of you, breathing in your scent, letting himself be suffused with your warmth.

Your smell, full of heat-fever, so sweet it sticks to his gums—it fills his head with thoughts of what next…what if? Plots to keep this for himself for the rest of his life because beneath all of that sweetness, all of that sticky slick that slides between your two hot, perspiring bodies, there’s him. Beneath all of that, him, him, his. Your bones are made of his own scent now. How could he ever let you go when you’re made of him?

“Look at me, look at me.” He pushes the sweat soaked hair out of your face, tilting your head back to get a good look at you. “You’re alright? Lemme see that angel face.” Your cheeks are burning hot, eyes unfocused, but you give him the most beautiful smile, sated and entirely trusting.

Your fingertips touch his own face, passing lightly over his eyelids and nose to his mouth.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, alpha. I’m here.” You tug his head closer with weak, heat-sick fingers. “More. More. I’m so hot—” But you shiver like you’re cold. “It hurts, please.”

“Tell me how it feels,” he rumbles. “Describe it to me.”

He goes limb-heavy over your body, pressing you into the bed, comforting you with his breadth. The skin between your eyebrows wobbles and creases, a tiny frowning pinch, and you make the most curious hiccupping noise. Like the answer to his question needs to work its way slowly through your silly, little heat-addled mind.

“Oh—it’s… it’s— Joel, it’s so good. I never thought—alpha, I never imagined it would be like this,” you mumble and slur. “So full.”

He watches the bright eyes fill with tears then, and spill over in a hot rush, clinging in large perfect droplets to long lashes of which he counts every single strand. The sight of your tears, of your overwhelm—it makes him come more. His cock jerks and swells impossibly fuller, and he begins to spurt again, filling your belly swollen with his seed against his own stomach.

“Silly thing,” he soothes gently. “S’no need to cry, little omega.”

“Oh, but Joel—” you sob, nuzzling into his throat, mouthing at the swollen gland behind his ear.

“I know it’s a lot,” he assures you, rolling the two of you over onto your sides, cuddling you close and gentle-like, petting your hair and letting the deep, rumbling sounds in his chest wash over you soothingly. “Just need some rest now. That’s all.”

He presses a kiss to your hairline, your brow, your mouth again—he licks into it deeply, pulling the edges wider to make more room for himself, his tongue tasting all along your own. He can understand your tears, how overwhelming this must be for an omega inexperienced in taking an alpha with a knot as big as his. It’s true that he might not have had much experience before this, but this is natural, after all. This is who Joel is and what he was meant for. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

I belong here, he whispers into your hair as you settle into him, melting into a heavy and sated sleep—so beautifully obedient, willingly submitting to his caring command for rest.

He feels so far away from where he’d started, from that mad creature who’d lost everything—that man with a daughter a whole world away. With nothing to hold on to and even less to lose.

He feels closer to his real self, here and now, than he has in years.

You had both been so alone and in so much pain, but he had found you.

The heat dips and swells in waves and bursts. You wake gradually from that first reprieve, calling his name, begging for something only he can give you. He takes you again and again, the bed so wet it sticks to your fevered skin, sweat and semen and spit. On your side, back to chest, his body cupped around yours in a shape akin to love, kissing your neck, your chin, the cup of one palm and the inside of a wrist. On all fours, mounted like a defenseless thing, fluttering, little hole creamy from use—spread it open, let me see what belongs to me. Splayed above him, little drip of a girl, cooing his name mindlessly, caressing yourself, sliding your hands over the round of your belly, cupping your breasts, tips of your fingers tangling in your hair while you writhe above him, and Joel…Joel is sure he will die beneath you, watching you like this. He moves inside of your slick heat, cunt like a little furnace. Your tears leak in a constant stream that he licks from your cheeks to slake his thirst.

Time is a loop and a loop and a loop and maybe the two of you exist here only, together now.

He thinks that he goes away from himself too, sometimes. Forgets his name and his past and who he was or who he could be and lives only inside your cunt, to fill and mark as his. He is certain that this is the warmest bed he’s ever known.

When he blinks awake and coherent, he feeds you soup he’s pilfered from the fridge and water that he drips into your mouth from his own, and feels sure that it must turn sweet on your tongue. If anyone could, it’d be you—turn water to wine.

Joel thinks he might finally believe in God now.

The gut twisting realization of all he could lose here, how he feels so happy beside you—it turns him from a faithless man into one full of zealous belief. And on a sigh, he feathers his lips over yours, the round of your cheek, the arch of your brow. He’s not alone anymore, and he’s happy. If he could, he’d hold onto this feeling forever.

Your eyes blink open, focused for the first time in hours or maybe days, but heat burns so brightly from the center of your navel, osmosing into his own belly, that he knows he only has a moment.

“Hey,” softly.

You murmur back at him, confused little hiccups of sound followed by a fluttery kiss to the tip of his chin, the bite of hungry teeth demanding flesh.

“Did you know you snore?” He laughs into the sensitive shell of your ear, rolling on top of you. His knot is sated for now, but it throbs with the feeling of his heavy length moving within you.

You blink once, wide eyed—then a funny little frown. “I do not!”

“Yeah, you do. It’s very soft like the purr of a kitten,” he tells you, nuzzling at the swollen gland at the slide of your neck. You make a soft sound at the back of your throat at the touch. “Yes—just like that.”

“Don’t snore—” you mutter, lashes fluttering and drooping. Too much conversation for the sleepy omega.

“Don’t go away yet. Talk to me for a little bit. Stay with me.” He squeezes the back of your neck and your eyes blink open, hazy and then alert.

“Do you have dreams?” He thinks to ask you.

“Oh, yes.” Your eyes droop again, there’s a smile on your face.

“What about?”

You hum, the look on your face is sly in that half-sleep space he’s trying to tug you out of.

“Of being great. Of being loved. Of being happy. Of family. Like a story book. I never thought I’d find anyone to love me,” you say with your eyes closed. Joel’s heart writhes in his chest, pains him as if it were cleaving in two. But you’re smiling, tangled in your dream, and say: “I want us to know each other so long and so well, we don’t need words to speak.”

He’s like an imposter in this bed, for all his feelings of belonging—unsure he could ever give you anything you really want.

“Does your brother look like you?” he asks all of a sudden.

“Yes. Very much. Does yours?”

“I don’t think so, but people say he does. Where it counts, we’re nothing alike. What’s his name?” he asks you.

You whisper it in his ear. Another one of the small things about your life that he knows about no one else.

The two of you tell each other things you’ve never told anyone else, funny things, sad things. Words full of hope that leave a bitter and longing taste in Joel’s mouth.

“Did you never want to have a baby?” you ask, and his heart jumps to his throat.

“I did once. She died.”

He can’t believe he has the courage to say these words which he hasn’t talked of in years and years out loud. Your eyes snap open, the pupil contracting so quickly it frightens him.

“Oh. I understand now.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I see it now.”

“What do you see?”

“What you were looking for.”

“What was it? Tell me—” For part of him feels he still doesn’t know.

“A way back to yourself, of course”

He nods, a feeling of relief so intense washing through his body, his limbs ache with it. Something chemical within him aligning for one perfect, singular second. He feels entirely known, and he thinks: this is the happiest moment of my life— before it fades away.

“Maybe. Yes.”

“Do you think it can be okay now?”

You press your entire palm against the skin of his face, as if you’d lift it off his skull and look at what’s held beneath.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it can ever be okay after something like that.”

“Please, don’t be sad anymore,” you tell him as if it were something so simple. As if it would just be within him because you’ve asked it so.

“I’ll try.” But he knows it isn’t something he won’t ever be hurt by. Joel realizes, with your simple words, this isn’t something he’ll ever be able to fix. That there will always be something missing, incomplete about him, and that no matter how hard he works, how hard he prays, how deeply he could ever lose himself inside of you, he feels sure it won’t ever be enough. He’s still in want of his miracle. “I’ll try,” he says again. “There are times I feel relieved. She suffered.”

“I’m sorry.” He can tell that you really are.

“We eventually all do. Perhaps that’s where the relief came from. She got hers over with quick.”

“What was her name?”

“Sarah.”

You put your hand over his heart, your face is wet with tears.

“Do you think this is a betrayal?” you ask him then.

The reminder of the woman who is his wife, who he had tried to love but who could never reach the bottom of that dark and fathomless well of cold within him to find anything worthwhile, it does nothing to him. Is it a betrayal? Surely to someone who cared it would be. But Joel cannot remember the last time they really talked, the last time either of them cared about one another. Maybe he’s a bad man. He’d chosen her for comfort, because it’d been what he felt he should do. Perhaps merely for something to do, or because he knew it’d be easy. Comforted by the fact that she was a beta and could thus never know him in a more intimate or painful way, in a way that would demand more of him. He couldn’t even accuse himself of not doing right by her because he’d always done what he was supposed to, what she’d asked of him which was so little, truly, that there could be no real claim of betrayal. At least, not before this, you, his knot locked within you and his heart on his tongue ready to be spit into your palm.

Yeah, maybe he’s a bad man. Certainly one who could never, ever deserve to keep this.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I know what the word means anymore.”

He bids you to sleep again after that, and in a brief respite of clarity, he has the wherewithal to call his house, to let the woman who lives there with him know he’ll be gone for a few days longer. But there’s no answer, and he’s relieved. In the following days, his phone does not ring.

As he stands before your bed, he takes a moment to study the picture you pose as. Curled in the center of your pink nest—you look lonely.

Do you even really exist if no one loves you?

Outside, there is snow in the night—winter come alive in the midst of heat. He climbs back into the bed, taking you into his embrace, arranging you perfectly, a sharp elbow, the soft knee—certain that he won’t ever be able to fix himself, to keep you, choking on gratitude that at least he gets this. He’ll preserve it in his memory for the rest of his life and maybe it’ll be okay.

As he lays watching you sleep beside him, entirely innocent in your vulnerability, and with such trust, lying here in this bed you’ve shared together, he has for a moment a great and treasurable illusion of the past. This feeling of being trusted by someone so entirely, that gift of someone’s safety and heart and rest handed to him with little compunction, for there is that much certainty in the care that will come from him. Watching the dreamscape unfold behind your fluttering eyelids, the membrane so thin there’s that almost indiscernible pulse of your heart beating through your body. The street lamp glow comes in through a split in the curtains to lay warmly over your lovely face, and there’s only faint sound, the blown snow. Little light, a heart of warmth.

It’s late now, he thinks, I could love you. Saying it out loud would be like creating a world with its sound.

He shifts his weight to make you more comfortable, your warm, soft weight rolling more heavily into his side, moaning unintelligibly in your febrile sleep, and then suddenly, lucid—Joel. The sound of his name in your mouth makes him real again for a single moment—how will he ever let this go? His throat is tight, perhaps with the strangle of tears—don’t leave me, don’t leave me, you murmur like you already know. And then settle quiet again, falling away back into deep sleep.

There is only your rest now, the soft sound of your sleeping, darkness. They are here, the both of them, together. At the center of all things, there is this bond; biology or heart or soul. Fate—perhaps.

He could bite you, make you his mate, fuck it all to hell. Run away again. He’s done it once before.

But how could he ever keep you without a miracle fix?

Outside there exists, as always, that great tragedy, that undying grief, that barren loneliness. But for now, there is this, and you, this enduring heart of warmth. His own dreams.

This cannot be happiness; that ever elusive thing. He must decide that in the here and now, in the presence of this enduring moment. This is the thing he can never earn and will not keep, and even perhaps, cannot realize for what it truly is.

All of this, he decides with his thumb against the mating gland at the back of your neck.

This is not joy, Joel lies and lies and lies.

Part 4;

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#busy dying fic #vic fic #Joel Miller fanfiction #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller AU #a/b/o dynamics

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writeriguess · 2 days ago

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Hi hun! I'm glad you're feeling better 😙

I see that you write for mha, so I'm hoping you write for Kirishima? He needs more love.

So he's a shy boi who keeps trying to ask out his crush but at the last moment, veers away before he actually can. And reader thinks it's absolutely adorable and keeps feigning innocence to give him time, not wanting him to feel "unmanly" about it 😆 but maybe she ends up confessing herself making him a blushy mess? Maybe add a kiss in there?🙏

author's note: I'm glad to be back too <3 Thank you.

Red as a Ripe Tomato

The lunchroom buzzed with the lively chatter of students. Laughter spilled from nearby tables, and the clatter of trays and utensils added to the soundtrack of a typical UA lunch hour. But for Eijiro Kirishima, none of that existed. Not the conversations, not the noise—none of it. All he could focus on was the way you looked across the table, the sunlight streaming through the windows catching in your hair and making you glow like something out of a daydream.

You were picking at your food, completely at ease, while Kirishima was internally waging a full-scale war with himself.

Come on, man. Just say it. You’ve got this! You’re a manly guy—you can handle asking one question. It’s not like they’re gonna laugh at you or anything.

He opened his mouth, his lips forming the start of something—a “hey” or maybe a “so.” But the sound caught in his throat, and instead, he let out a choked cough. Smooth. Real smooth.

You glanced up, your brows furrowing slightly. “Kirishima, you okay over there?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah! Totally fine!” he replied, voice a little too loud as he waved his hand dismissively. “Just, uh… wrong pipe, y’know?”

“Mm.” You nodded slowly, though the small smile tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed your amusement.

He could feel the tips of his ears burning as he focused on his tray, stabbing his chopsticks into a piece of karaage that didn’t deserve such violence. The food wasn’t the problem—it was the fact that you kept looking at him with that soft, sweet smile. The one that made him feel like his ribcage was too small for his heart and like he was about to burst out of his own skin.

“You sure? You’ve barely eaten anything.” Your voice pulled him from his spiral, gentle but laced with concern.

“I’m good! Seriously!” He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… thinking about something.”

“Something important?”

“Y-yeah. Really important.” He swallowed hard, his eyes darting up to meet yours before flicking back down. “Like, super important.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin in your hand as you regarded him. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Kirishima. What is it?”

He froze, his mind going blank. This was it. This was his chance. He could just say it—ask you to hang out, maybe grab coffee or go to that new ramen place downtown. His palms were sweating, and he could feel the weight of your gaze, patient and curious but not demanding.

“I was wondering if you—” He paused, suddenly hyperaware of the way his heartbeat thundered in his chest. What if you said no? What if you didn’t feel the same? Would you think he was lame or—

“Yeah?” you prompted, leaning in slightly, your eyes sparkling with interest.

“—if you think Mr. Aizawa is gonna give us a pop quiz tomorrow?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he instantly wanted to slap himself. A pop quiz? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

“Oh,” you said, blinking in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you were about to laugh, but you held it in. “I mean, probably not. He doesn’t usually do pop quizzes, does he?”

“Right, right! Of course. I was just… y’know… checking.”

You let out a soft laugh then, shaking your head. “Kirishima, you’re too funny.”

He chuckled weakly, feeling like a complete idiot. You thought he was funny—not smooth, not confident. Just funny. And he wasn’t even trying to be.

Still, there was no trace of mockery in your tone or your expression. If anything, you looked… fond. Like you knew exactly what he was trying to do and were giving him the space to figure it out at his own pace. It was almost worse, how kind you were being. It made him feel even more nervous.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, your tone a little softer. “If you ever need to talk about something important, I’m always here, okay?”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide. “R-really?”

“Of course.” You smiled at him, warm and genuine. “You’re one of my favorite people, Kirishima. I mean that.”

If his face wasn’t already red, it definitely was now. He mumbled something incoherent and immediately shoved a piece of karaage into his mouth to avoid having to respond.

You watched him with a knowing smile, hiding your amusement behind your hand. Kirishima was a lot of things—brave, strong, ridiculously kind—but subtle was not one of them. You’d caught on to his crush weeks ago, noticing the way he always seemed to hover near you, his shy smiles, the way he’d stumble over his words whenever you were around.

You thought about making it easier for him, maybe taking the initiative and asking him out first. But you knew Kirishima. He had a certain sense of pride, a belief in doing things the “manly” way. If you took the lead, you worried it might make him feel like he wasn’t enough.

So instead, you played along, feigning innocence and giving him all the time in the world to work up the courage. It wasn’t hard—you adored watching him try.

“Hey, Kirishima?” you said, tilting your head.

He looked up, still chewing, and made a questioning noise.

“Do you wanna walk back to class with me after lunch?”

The piece of karaage nearly went down the wrong pipe, and he coughed violently, pounding a fist against his chest. “W-walk back with you? Yeah! Totally! I mean, yeah, sure. That’s cool.”

You laughed, standing up and grabbing your tray. “Alright, then. Don’t take too long.”

As you walked away to deposit your tray, Kirishima slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “Get it together, man,” he muttered to himself.

But when you turned back to glance at him, your eyes meeting briefly before you gave him a little wave, his heart soared despite himself. Maybe next time…

Maybe next time he’d actually say it.

Weeks had passed since Kirishima had first worked up the courage to tell you how he felt. Or at least, he’d tried to. Each time, his nerves got the better of him, and what started as a firm resolve to finally confess ended with him fumbling over his words and making some excuse to leave. The poor guy had gotten so flustered that even some of your other friends were starting to notice.

“Is Kirishima okay? He’s been acting kinda weird,” Mina had whispered to you one afternoon during training, her eyes darting toward him as he hovered awkwardly near the punching bags.

You’d just smiled and shrugged, not wanting to out him. “Maybe he’s just got a lot on his mind.”

What Mina didn’t know was that Kirishima’s awkwardness was solely reserved for you. Whether it was the way his hands shook whenever he was near you, the way his voice cracked whenever he said your name, or the sheer panic in his eyes whenever you made prolonged eye contact, it was painfully clear to you what he was feeling. And honestly, you found it absolutely endearing.

Still, as much as you enjoyed watching him squirm, you figured it was time to give him a break. He’d tried, really tried, and you appreciated the effort even if he couldn’t quite get the words out. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands. After all, relationships were about balance, weren’t they? If he couldn’t say it, then you would.

The timing couldn’t have been better. The day was warm and golden, the late-afternoon sun casting a soft glow over the courtyard where Kirishima was sitting alone on a bench. You’d spotted him from the hallway and couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He looked so peaceful, his red hair catching the sunlight and his eyes fixed on the horizon as if he were deep in thought. You almost hated to disturb him. Almost.

“Hey, Kirishima!” you called, your voice breaking through the quiet hum of the courtyard as you walked toward him.

His head snapped up, and the peaceful look on his face was immediately replaced with a mix of surprise and nervousness. “Oh, hey!” he said, his voice just a little too loud. He quickly cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. “Uh, what’s up?”

“Not much,” you replied casually, stopping a few feet in front of him. “Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not!” he blurted, practically jumping to scoot over and make room for you. He patted the empty spot on the bench, his face already starting to turn pink. “Have a seat!”

You chuckled softly as you sat down beside him, noting the way he seemed to be holding his breath. He was always so animated around his friends, so sure of himself, but with you? He was like a different person entirely—shy, uncertain, and utterly adorable.

“So,” you began, turning to look at him. “You’ve been a little quiet lately. Everything okay?”

“Me? Quiet?” He laughed nervously, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “Nah, I’ve just been, uh… you know, busy. With training and stuff.”

“Right.” You raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. “You sure that’s all it is? You haven’t been avoiding me or anything, have you?”

“What? No way!” His eyes went wide, and he sat up straighter, his expression almost comically earnest. “I’d never avoid you! I mean, why would I? That’d be, like, super unmanly and—and—”

“Kirishima,” you said, cutting him off with a gentle smile. “Relax. I’m just teasing.”

“Oh.” He let out a nervous laugh, his shoulders slumping as he realized you weren’t actually accusing him of anything. “Right. Teasing. Cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how flustered he was. “You’re so easy to mess with,” you said, nudging him playfully. “But seriously, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Y-you have?” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat again, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench. “What is it?”

“Well,” you began, turning to face him fully. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been acting a little… different around me lately. Like, you’re nervous or something. And I think I know why.”

His face turned bright red, and he immediately looked down at his lap, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, though his voice lacked conviction.

You smiled, leaning in slightly to catch his gaze. “Kirishima. It’s okay. You don’t have to say it—I already know.”

His head shot up, his eyes wide with panic. “You—you do?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I do,” you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest as you spoke. “And just so you know… I feel the same way.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to find the right words but couldn’t quite manage it. His cheeks were blazing, his eyes shining with a mix of disbelief and hope.

“Y-you mean it?” he finally managed to choke out, his voice trembling. “You really mean it?”

“I really mean it,” you said, your own cheeks warming as you smiled at him. “I like you, Kirishima. I think you’re sweet, and kind, and brave, and… well, I just really like you.”

He blinked at you, his hands gripping the bench so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Then, all at once, the tension seemed to leave his body, and he let out a shaky laugh, his shoulders relaxing as a huge, goofy grin spread across his face.

“I—I can’t believe this,” he said, his voice still shaky but full of joy. “This is… this is the best day of my life.”

You laughed, feeling your heart swell at the sight of him looking so happy. “I’m glad to hear that,” you said softly. “But, um… there’s one more thing.”

“What is it?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Instead of answering, you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. His entire body went stiff, his eyes going wide as his face turned an even deeper shade of red. When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but giggle at the stunned expression on his face.

“Sorry,” you teased, standing up and giving him a playful grin. “Was that too much?”

“N-no!” he said quickly, scrambling to his feet. “It was—it was perfect! You’re perfect! I mean—uh—this is perfect! Everything’s perfect!”

You laughed again, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “You’re adorable, Kirishima. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Y-yeah!” he stammered, his voice cracking again as he tightened his grip on your hand. “See you tomorrow!”

As you walked away, his hand still warm in yours, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You’d made the right choice in confessing first. And judging by the way Kirishima was still standing there, staring after you with a lovesick grin on his face, you had a feeling this was the start of something amazing.

Feel free to request <3

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #kirishima x reader #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijirou #eijirou kirishima

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writingdevil · 3 days ago

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hi!! :3 ouh for the writing request, if you dont mind, how about smitten and opportunist? i like them as a ship but you can do them platonically too if you prefer 👍👍

(I think they'd be such a good ship!The one who manipulates and lies meets the world's most unabashedly passionate and loving person in the world!I think Opportunist wouldn't be able to help but fall for Smitten's words of love, and that Smitten would find Opportunist's attempts to charm and suck up to him adorable!Anyways, enjoy!)

"How do I look?"

"Absolutely beautiful, if I do say so myself."

Opportunist smiled at the way Smitten's feathers puffed up under his praise.Smitten had been complaining about the state of his feathers, and Opportunist had so graciously offered to preen him, and Smitten had been nothing but grateful.

They were currently sitting on Smitten's bed, and Opportunist's eyes were taking in every inch of the room-not that it was very shocking or useful.

Smitten kept his room at a really weird halfway point between messy and clean.He had handwritten poems and emotional letters strewn all around his desk and windowsill, but the entire area around his bed was spotless, not a stray feather to be seen. It was as if Smitten was trying to look as put together and as perfect as he felt was needed, but his passions and intense bursts of love spilled out into his room. It looked like he was trying to impress someone, but that someone was also making Smitten express himself in the most chaotic way possible.

Opportunist didn't mind it, really.It was nice to be allowed to peer inside the private rooms of his flockmates-most of the others didn't trust him inside their bedrooms, but Opportunist thought they were being overly cautious.He wasn't going to back stab them or anything-just look at him and Smitten!He's been preening his wings for half an hour, and Smitten didn't have a hole in his back yet. He'd say that was all the evidence the others needed.

Smitten hummed lowly as Opportunist straightened a feather that was awkwardly poking out, and the sound made a low heat form in his chest.He wondered if Smitten would keep making sounds like that if he showed him how good at preening Opportunist was.

Opportunist wasn't sure why he even offered to preen Smitten, besides the fact that Smitten was incredibly kind and was never mean or distrusting to Opportunist once.It was just-nice to not have to work so hard to please others.Smitten was so easy to convince that Opportunist was genuinely sweet and innocent, so he never had to perform that much for him.In a weird way, this was the closest thing Opportunist could call a break for himself, to not use one of his many masks so much, even if he was still wearing one.

Smitten just made everything feel lighter-not as important, and Opportunist really liked that.

Opportunist smiled, leaning back to inspect his handiwork."All done!"he announced, and Smitten straightened up, glancing over his shoulder to try and look down at his wings."Really?Oh, thank you Oppy, you are a darling.You took such good care of my precious wings-what a sweetheart you are."

Those words went straight to Opportunist's head, covering his mind with a blanket of warmth he doesn't usually feel.He ducked his head and smiled softly, hoping Smitten didn't notice how his words were affecting him.It wasn't often that Opportunist got complimented, much less for something that he was doing honestly.

Smitten looked over his shoulder, and Opportunist was quick to replace his soft smile for a confident one."May I repay you for your kindness by preening your wings?"

Instinctively, Opportunist's wings tensed up and pressed up against his back.He tried to keep the panic and anxiety out of his voice as he chuckled and said,"Oh, you don't have to do that for me, Smitten."

But Smitten's voice was firm and determined as he responded with,"Yes, but you were kind enough to take some time out of your day to care for me.I'd like to return the favour."

Opportunist shook his head, going,"No need!It's what flockmates are for.Besides, my wings don't need to be preened."Opportunist spread out one wing for Smitten to see, showing the perfect condition they were in.

Opportunist would never let anybody preen his wings.It required too much trust and vulnerability on his part, to turn away from someone and show his back to them.Opportunist wasn't about to put himself in a position where all his feathers could be ripped out in a matter of moments.That's why he made sure to preen them every night by himself in the comfort and safety of his own room.

He felt Smitten slump in defeat as he looked at Opportunist's wings, and said,"They do look lovely right now.You clearly have a talent for taking care of things."

Despite how incorrect Smitten was, Opportunist still flushed at the compliment, quickly folding his wings behind his back so that Smitten didn't see how much his words affected him.

He knew that he needed to leave and compose himself, but Smitten unexpectedly sighed dramatically and leaned back against Opportunist's chest, putting all his weight against him and trapping him to the spot.

Opportunist froze, hands awkwardly hovering in the air, the feeling of Smitten pressed against him making his head spin.Had anyone ever casually leaned against him before?He knows Contrarian does it to anyone near him, but Opportunist wasn't sure if he's ever been a victim of it.

"U-Um-Smitten?Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine,"he replied calmly, lifting a hand in the air to gracefully wave Opportunist's concerns away, "I just wanted to rest with you.Is that alright?"

Was it?"I-I-I guess so."Opportunist was mentally kicking himself for stuttering like that.This was Smitten-there wasn't any way that this fanciful bird was a threat to him.He needed to calm down.

Smitten tilted his head back to meet his eyes, a soft smile on his face as he studied him for a few seconds, and Opportunist tried extremely hard to look as composed and as confident as he usually does.After a few seconds, Smitten hummed in that way he liked and said,"You are very handsome.Did you know that?"

Out went his composure.

"Excuse me?"he squeaked out, feeling his entire face heating up in a way that he knew he couldn't hide-and don't even get him started on his feathers!

He gulped, and laughed lightly, hoping to distract himself from the thumping of his heart.He looked away as he casually said,"What are you talking about?Smitten, you're the prettiest bird in this land. In fact, if you ask me, I think you're the real attraction of this flock by a long shot."He laughed again, hoping to get rid of these damn butterflies in his stomach.

Smitten just continued to silently gaze up at him for a few seconds, before Opportunist saw the moment that Smitten's eyes darkened.

He couldn't explain it-other than it looked like Smitten's face went from soft to sharp in an instant. The usual light twinkle in his eyes were replaced with a hungry and predatory glint that honestly scared Opportunist.

Smitten's voice was low and husky as he said,"You think I don't know the truth about you?"

"What?"Opportunist whispered, all confidence and bravado being ripped away at that voice, and all he could do was helplessly stare as Smitten straightened up to his full height, taller than Opportunist by a few inches.He still stared down at him over his shoulder as he said,"You think I can't feel your heart pounding against my back?"

Before Opportunist had even a chance to try and think about how to take control of this situation, Smitten suddenly twisted around and pushed Opportunist down on the bed, pinning his wrist above his head.

"Hey!Smitten,what's gotten into you?"he fearfully asked, the intensity of Smitten's gaze sending a shiver up his spine, and he couldn't bring himself to look away.

Smitten's smile was somehow still as charming as ever, as he leaned down closer to Opportunist to lowly say,"You can't hide your feelings from me.I know love when I see it, and I know exactly how people react to the things they love."

He leaned in closer, tilting his head slightly as he studied Opportunist, and said in a curious manner, "You, for example, simply love it when people give you attention.When we compliment you or touch you or even look at you for a certain amount of time, I can see the desire for more in your eyes. That's something you can never hide from me."

Opportunist had no idea who he was talking to anymore.This couldn't be Smitten, could it?No, Smitten was the one who loudly declared how he was feeling no matter how early it was.Smitten was the one who insisted on speaking and spending time with everyone almost every day.Smitten was soft and non-threatening, which was why he was always Opportunist's go to bird to speak to.

But was it actually because he liked it when Smitten touched him and complimented him?It was nice to be around Smitten, but he thought that it was because it was easy to be around him.

Smitten chuckled in amusement, moving to be inches away from Opportunist's lips."What a cute little devil you are,"he whispered, before crashing his lips against his.

Opportunist gasped at the intensity of Smitten as they kissed, his mind spinning with nothing but pleasure and a need to keep chasing it-and when Smitten invaded his mouth with his tongue, Opportunist moaned.

It was only made worse when Smitten kept sprinkling in sweet words in-between the kissing. Words such as-'So pretty', 'Gorgeous', and 'Good Oppy.'It erased any mask and performance from Opportunist's mind and left him falling apart, letting a sliver of truth come out-that Opportunist longed to feel like this, to feel wanted and adored for who he was.

They broke apart, panting while still pressing their bodies impossibly closer to each other.Smitten's eyes flicked off to the side for a split second, before he moved his hands up to intertwine them with Opportunist's, and his smile looked dashing and wicked at the same time as he said,"It looks like your wings need to be preened after all."

Opportunist gulped.

#slay the princess #stories #my writing #writing prompt #stp voices #stp #stp opportunist #stp smitten #smittunist #voice of the smitten #voice of the opportunist #Sorry these are taking longer to get out #Oppy underestimating Smitten is also really funny to me

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telluriannovice · 1 day ago

Text

Day 3: Unexpected Kiss

It was a quick in and out job. All they had to do was get into the lab, download the files and get out. It would give them a leg up on all of Vlad’s plans for the next few months, and they could dedicate more time to school, designing tech, working out, and video games. It wasn’t hard to get into the building, Tucker hacked the electronic locks, Danny got them past the security desk, and they were lucky that Sam brought a hundred dollars in cash with her and the one guard they ran into after the desk was willing to accept a bribe of one hundred dollars in cash. Vlad might need to up his security people’s pay.

It had all been going well. Despite the lock on the actual lab taking longer for Tucker to crack than the external locks, but, they had time, thanks to Bill taking the bribe. Or they thought they had time.

They’d just gotten into the big secret lab under all the normal proprietary labs, when Danny’s ghost sense went off. He quickly shoved Sam and Tucker under a lab table, and it seemed he was quick enough, because when Plasmius phased down from the ceiling, he didn’t acknowledge them.

“What are you doing here, Daniel?” Vlad was uber annoyed, but didn’t attack.

Danny saw Sam and tucker move out of the corner of his eyes. So, Danny sarcastically called back to the terrible excuse they gave to Security Guard Bill. “Looking for the bathroom.”

“This isn’t a place for children.” Vlad said and transformed back into his human form, which was also weird. “I’ll give you once chance to simply turn around and leave, little badger.”

“Or else what?” Danny took a few steps away, pulling Vlad’s attention away from the computer Sam and Tucker were trying to get to.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Danny.” Vlad followed as Danny back up further away from his friends. “This lab is filled with anti-ghost tech and some very dangerous chemicals. Things that could seriously end the both of us. So, just this once, I’m offering to let this little breaking and entering slide.”

Danny didn’t want a fight, but the door is behind Vlad with Sam and Tucker in between. They needed at least some time for the files to download, even if Vlad’s company’s computers were as fast as the teens had assumed they were. “So, you’ll just let me go? You’re not curious why I’m here?”

“I’m sure it has something to do with being a dumb, adolescent with dreams of being a superhero.” Vlad teased and started to get closer to Danny. “But you do know I’d rather you be alive and stupid instead of dead and stupid, yes?”

“I’ve got scars that imply otherwise…” Danny responded and bumped back into a table and the sound of something metal rocking echoed around him.

Vlad quickly grabbed whatever it was Danny unbalanced on the table and it had them practically chest to chest. Danny was trapped. “Daniel, if that had spilled, it would have turned all the ectoplasm in your body into acid. We cannot fight here.”

Danny just stared at him with wide eyes.

Vlad growled, eyes flashing red. “I swear, if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here, I’ll call the police.”

“I… it’s… uhm…” Danny wracked his brain for an excuse under Vlad’s too close too intense stare. But just when Vlad just began to turn his head towards where Sam and Tucker were, Danny just moved on instinct. He grabbed Vlad’s face and pulled him into a kiss. He could see over Vlad’s shoulder, Sam and Tucker where half-way out the door, staring at him in horror. He tried to subtly wave them out, but had to stop when Vlad almost pulled away, instead forcing the man to continue kissing him.

Finally, they were out and running out of the building. It took them nearly 30 minutes to get in, but they wouldn’t have to unlock any doors on the way out. Vlad tried to break off the kiss again, but only after the third time did Danny let him go. Hopefully, that was enough time for Sam and Tucker to get out of there.

“What in the almond cookie are you doing?” Vlad shouted and stumbled back away from Danny.

“Fake-Out Make-Out!” Danny shouted, then quickly turned invisible and got the heck out of dodge.

#pompous pep #fanfic #kiss challenge #danny can sexually assault vlad as a treat

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pastorfutureletthembe · 3 days ago

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I love YINGDU as it is

I don't think I'll read these interviews everyone is talking about :/ I thought hard about it, I've read the general points of it, but I don't think reading them will make me enjoy YINGDU more. Quite the opposite actually.

Me: thank you but no thank you. Later maybe. Love you, still.

I don't understand why they had to get interviewed to clear things up. By why, I mean, this situation is fucked up and I don't get how things got like this in this industry.

First. Can't the fans just wait and see? We're grownups, stop treating us like children who cried to get a lollipop. We'll still be here next year. Trust your fanbase.

Second... in what kind of world were the animators under pressure to the point they created plot holes and new timelines by accident? I'm extrapolating but, for real, how fucked up is it that they decided to rush a show that popular for the sake of airing it early? I'm sorry, was the money we spend on merch every few weeks not enough? I'm just mad at the production, honestly. Because they made a big mistake.

They're rushing in like bulls in a china shop. The character PVs were a mistake as well. They should have been released after YINGDU, to manage our expectations on characters that were yet to be introduced. I used to think it was an actual teaser, a window on how Lu Guang saw them or what they will become because of Lu Guang's meddling with the timeline. Now, I'm starting to think they needed strong marketing to get people's attention.

The whole thing makes my viewer experience less than optimal. So I'll keep writing meta but I won't take these interviews into account. 🧩Meta is for fun🧩, mere interpretation, only fanon, and that's okay. Meta is gamble. Meta is character study and theories on plot twists.

✨And that's okay✨

We're not suppose to write season 3 in advance. So it makes sense to me to keep having fun on what the show and the official content bring us. But as far as I'm concerned, the interviews didn't happen. It's not denial, just-

When I was studying cinema in university, my teacher once told me a very harsh truth: if you have to explain the sequence you filmed, then you didn't film it right. Sadly, in this context, production limitations were at fault but the lasting impression is the same.

Do you realize how insane it is that a creative team has to spell their work out to their fans? How humiliating it must be? There's revealing easter egg, teasing next season, spilling spoilers on accident, and then there is whatever that was. I feel for the creators and animators who worked themselves to exhaustion to bring something as beautiful as YINGDU to life. Because this season? It isn't perfect and it's inconsistent and different but no one can call it ugly. I would lick my screen because the image does look tasty lmao. My heart bleeds for all the people involved in this season.

Meta is trying to understand and noticing easter eggs, honouring the writers and animators' work X

Of course, that's only my stand on the topic. I might take different directions in my interpretation than others, that's all. Aaaaaand? Yes. That's okay 🥰

As an artist myself, I feel like the situation is kind of disappointing for the people who worked on YINGDU. That's why I'll take the canon as it is. I don't want to mourn what could be or should have been. I want to enjoy what is.

Meta is diving in the depth of symbolism X

As a fan, I get that we're happy with every nugget of information on what's coming next. The lore in Link Click is still blurry and while I honestly want to believe it is an artistic choice and will stay under control, I can't help but fear it's the result of bad writing. But. What if it is? Meh, I'm still here, enjoying myself. Because I love this show as it is, I see the flaws and the beauty in it. I'll be there.

Meta is love and each of us expresses it differently X

#the daily life of alice's hyperfixation #link click #时光代理人 #shiguang dailiren #director li haoling speaking #meta #is this meta?#this fandom feels like home

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soluversworld · 3 days ago

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Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!- Solivan brugmansia x Yan!G.N Reader! (Part 3!)

The kid at the back is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Words: 10000

Genre: Yandere-(Self aware yandere won the poll)

(Reader is G.N)

Summary: You’ve become consumed by your obsession with Solivan Brugmansia. What started as innocent curiosity quickly spiraled into a fixation. He started it and you began to stalk him, learning every detail about his life. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction in making Sol’s world safer while growing increasingly delusional about your connection with him. Your love for him deepens as you fantasize about the future, convinced that you are the one who truly understands him—better than anyone else. Despite the line between reality and obsession blurring, you remain certain: Sol is yours, even if he doesn’t know it yet.. You’re his and he’s yours…

Trigger Warning: This content contains themes of obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, mental instability, and delusional thinking, Drugging, Yandere?, Hopeless in love for attention Please read with caution.

Obsessive behavior: The reader becomes dangerously fixated on someone, bordering on stalking and delusion.

Manipulation: The reader engages in schemes to control or harm others, often through deception.

Mental illness: Delusional thinking, possible dissociation from reality, and unhealthy fixation on someone.

Violence: There are references to bullying, physical harm, and emotional manipulation.

Emotional abuse: Both in terms of how the protagonist manipulates others and how they might internalize toxic behaviors.

Stalking: The reader watches and follows the person they are obsessed with.

Somehow you managed to talk with Sol, Thank Hyugo- THO, He tried to kill you.

Of course, you’re gonna complain.

You managed to strike up a normal conversation with Sol, and now he’s explaining the so-called assignment Mr. Professass (Professor) gave.

“Let’s use your face as an example,” he says with a sly grin.

“There, you’re making a cute expression right now—that can be considered expressionism.”

You blinked at his compliment, momentarily stunned. Sol seemed to know a lot about art, effortlessly weaving the concept into the conversation.

“Oh! Expressions! That’s easy! I used to draw a lot of yo—” You stopped mid-sentence, coughing to cover your sudden slip. Sol raised an eyebrow at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild amusement. How could he act so normal, like nothing ever fazed him?

“Was your friend good at art?” You asked, smoothly steering the conversation.

“Friend? Oh… you mean Hyugo. He ditched me at the last minute for some family business. He never talks about them, and I don’t pry.”

You nodded, a flicker of endearment softening his sharp features despite the faint annoyance in his tone. “He seems loud.”

“He did say sorry for dragging me into his mess—making me take his place and all.” You waved it off with a small smile. “But honestly, he’s a good guy. The best wingman, really.”

For a brief moment, you observed Sol closely. He rambled on about Hyugo, shaking his head as if exasperated, but there was a lingering warmth in his voice that betrayed his true feelings.

“Our first meeting wasn’t exactly ideal,” you said suddenly, cutting into the moment.

Sol paused mid-thought and tilted his head. “Oh? That’s…” His cheeks reddened slightly.

“I didn’t mean that chair situation,” you teased, leaning back. “I’m talking about your blue Jolly Rancher of a friend. That little menace tried to kill me with a pocket knife.”

The confession spilled out so quickly you almost laughed, but the expression on Sol’s face turned from confusion to shock—and then worry.

“Wait, seriously?” he asked, leaning closer. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, trying to downplay it. “It’s fine, really. I’m sure he won’t do it again.”

But Sol wasn’t convinced. His expression darkened slightly, an uncharacteristic seriousness in his voice. “I’ll talk to him. Thank you for telling me, Y/N. I’ll make sure he doesn’t pull anything like that again.”

“There’s no need for that!” you insisted, waving your hands in reassurance. “I’m sure it’s all water under the bridge now.”

Even so, Sol didn’t look entirely convinced. His determination to address the issue was kind of… cute. Watching him brood over it made your heart skip, a warmth pooling in your chest.

You pulled out your sketchpad on a whim and began doodling Sol’s expressions—the way his brows furrowed when he was deep in thought, the subtle pout tugging at his lips.

“Would you believe me if I told you Hyugo’s one of the top students in the entire class but is always missing in action?” Sol asked suddenly, breaking your focus.

“Probably busy with… uh… family stuff?” you guessed, barely glancing up as your pencil danced across the page.

“Yeah, something like that,” he muttered before noticing your scribbling. His gaze shifted to your sketchpad, and he leaned in curiously.

“Wait, were you drawing me this entire time?” Sol asked, his voice laced with both surprise and suspicion.

“Me? No, of course not!” you lied, trying to shield the sketchpad from view.

“Liar,” he said with a pout that nearly made your heart combust.

“Aww, come on, it’s not a big deal, Sullivan!”

“As in that monster from…?”

“Sorry, Sol.” You grinned sheepishly, attempting to cheer him up, but his exaggerated pout only grew more dramatic.

And for the millionth time that day, your heart had died from his unintentional charm.

You found yourself lost in the moment, staring at your sketchpad and then at Sol. A small, almost creepy smile crept onto your lips as you tilted the page toward him.

“You’re really cute,” you said softly, almost absentmindedly.

Sol blinked, his mouth opening slightly in shock.

You leaned closer, pointing to one of the sketches. “Like, look at this one. That little furrow in your brow when you’re annoyed? Adorable. And here!” You flipped to another. “This one, where you’re mid-smirk? It’s like you’re plotting something, but it’s so soft at the same time. And this one…”

You kept going, your voice trailing into near-obsessive detail about every single expression you’d captured. The way his lips curved when he was amused. The slight tilt of his head when he was curious. The barely-there pout when he was annoyed. Each word only made the lovesickness in your voice more obvious.

You caught yourself—barely—and let out a sheepish laugh, trying to backpedal. “I mean… Sol, you’re just… really cute, okay?” You smiled, hoping to play it cool, but the way your heart pounded in your chest wasn’t helping.

Sol stared at you, his face quickly turning an intense shade of red. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words just… weren’t coming.

Instead, he sat there, completely speechless. His ears burned red as he glanced between you and the sketchpad, frozen in place.

You leaned back, smirking as you tried to hide how flustered you were. “What, no snarky comeback? Cat got your tongue?”

Sol looked away quickly, burying his face in his hands with a muffled groan.

Your heart sank as you realized you might have overdone it. Sol was still red, his hands covering his face, and for a moment, he seemed smaller than his usual confident self.

“Ah, I—” you stammered, your voice softer now. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come off, uh, intense or anything.” You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly, looking down at your sketchpad like it was a guilty accomplice. “I just… got carried away. You’re really cool, Sol, and I—”

You cut yourself off, biting your lip. You didn’t want to scare him off. Sol wasn’t like this when he was around other people. It was rare to catch him vulnerable like this—unguarded. And now you were worried you might’ve ruined it by being too much.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” you added quickly, your voice almost a whisper.

Sol finally lowered his hands, his expression unreadable for a second. His gaze flickered to you, then to the sketchpad, and back again. He blinked a few times, his blush still lingering.

“You… didn’t scare me,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

You froze, not entirely sure how to respond.

He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck this time, mirroring your earlier nervousness. “I mean, it’s not every day someone… notices things like that about me.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t pulling away.

“Still,” you said with a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, “I’ll tone it down. Promise. You’re just… interesting to draw, that’s all.” You paused before adding, “And, uh, to talk to. If that wasn’t obvious.”

For a moment, the awkward tension melted away. Sol leaned back slightly, still blushing but less defensive now. “Just… don’t let Hyugo see those sketches, okay? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Deal,” you said with a laugh, relieved that the moment hadn’t ruined anything. If anything, it felt like you’d taken a step closer to understanding him—the real Sol, beneath all the bravado.

Sol leaned back in his chair, his usual cool demeanor cracking just a bit. “Alright, who’s going first? You sketching me, or am I sketching you?”

You grinned, already pulling out your sketchbook and a charcoal pencil. “Guess that answers your question.”

He raised a brow. “Want me to pose or something?”

“Nah, just sit however you want. It’s fine.” You waved him off casually, but your focus sharpened as you scanned his face, taking in every detail.

The way his jet-black hair fell in a soft cascade over his shoulders, streaked with green that caught the light just right—it was mesmerizing. His bangs framed his face, that one streak cutting down the middle and drawing attention to his eyes. And those eyes, with their burning orange inner ring fading to crimson at the edges, like embers glowing in a dying fire, they were impossible to look away from. His jawline was sharp but not harsh, balanced by the soft curve of his lips, which always seemed to rest in a mix of a pout and a smirk.

He was… handsome. And you couldn’t help but stare.

Too long, apparently.

Sol turned his head suddenly, catching you red-handed. His expression twisted into something flustered, and he turned away,

“Eyes on me!”

Sol blinked, jolted out of his daze. “Oh—sorry. I’m, uh, not used to staring at someone for that long.”

You tried to laugh it off, but your voice came out awkward. ““You know, just your boring face and all.” I got it! My face is boring!”

Sol turned back toward you, his cheeks tinged pink as he gave you a shy glance. “Your face isn’t boring,” he muttered, almost too softly for you to hear. “It’s… more… beautiful.”

Your heart slammed against your chest. Heat flooded your cheeks, and for a moment, you felt like you might combust on the spot. You stared at him, utterly frozen, the charcoal pencil trembling slightly in your hand.

Oh my god, I’m dying. This is it. I’m dying. Again. For the millionth time.

You tried to recover, puffing out your cheeks in mock frustration to defuse the tension. “Nope. Not doing this. You’re not allowed to be cute while I’m trying to work.”

Sol smiled—really smiled—and it was devastating. Soft, genuine, and just shy enough to make your heart stutter.

And then, as if to finish you off completely, you almost missed the way his eyes lingered on you. They were hazy, love-drunk, filled with something dangerously soft and unspoken.

Oh, you sick bastard, Sol, you thought, trying not to let your face give away the chaos in your head. I love you for that.

You started sketching, letting the charcoal glide over the paper with care that bordered on reverence. Each stroke of the pencil became a quiet obsession, capturing the slight arch of his brow, the curve of his jaw, the sharp bridge of his nose that added so much character to his face.

Your fingers moved instinctively, but your mind was a storm.

This won’t be enough.

You paused, glancing up at him again. His face was relaxed, but there was a faint curiosity in his eyes as he tried to stay still for you. That softness in his expression—it was the kind that sent a thrill down your spine. It wasn’t just a face you wanted to draw; it was him.

Your chest tightened. No amount of sketches could ever capture him fully. His little mannerisms, the way his lips twitched slightly when he was lost in thought, how his lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones when he glanced away—how could charcoal and paper ever do justice to that?

No drawing will ever be enough until I get you. All of you.

You swallowed hard, your pencil slowing for a moment as you scanned his face again, letting your gaze linger just a second too long. His expression shifted slightly—was that a flicker of unease? Or maybe curiosity?

You smiled softly, trying to mask the possessive edge in your thoughts. “Sorry. Just trying to get it perfect.”

Sol tilted his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “Take your time. Not like I’m going anywhere.”

Oh, you’re not. Not now, not ever.

The thought burned in your chest as you leaned closer, focusing on the details. The dip of his collarbone where it peeked from his shirt, the way his hair caught the faint light from the window, framing his face like a portrait already waiting to be hung. Your pencil moved with an almost feverish precision, each stroke pulling you deeper into your fixation.

And yet, it still wasn’t enough.

You let out a shaky breath, glancing up at him one more time. He caught your gaze this time, and his eyes softened. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

But in your mind, a different answer screamed: It’s not enough. I need more.

You quickly looked back at your sketchpad, your cheeks burning, hoping the intensity of your thoughts wasn’t plastered all over your face.

The bell rang, slicing through the quiet moment between you and Sol. You startled slightly, realizing how much time had passed, and quickly closed your sketchbook.

“Alright, we’re done for now,” you said, tucking the pencil into your bag.

Sol leaned forward, his curiosity practically radiating off him. “Wait—can I at least peek?”

You shook your head firmly. “Nope.”

“Boo,” he said, pouting in a way that almost felt illegal. The exaggerated downturn of his lips, the wide-eyed pleading look—it was devastating.

You sighed heavily, knowing you were no match for that expression. “Fine. Just a peek. But no judging, alright?”

He grinned triumphantly as you opened the sketchbook, angling it toward him. His gaze settled on the page, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just stared.

“Wow,” he finally breathed, his voice low and almost awed. “You… you drew this? Like, just now?”

You tried to play it off, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, but your heart raced. “Yeah, it’s just a rough piece. Nothing special.”

His eyes didn’t leave the sketch. “Nothing special? Are you kidding me? It’s—” He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. “It’s perfect. You captured… everything.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you fought to keep your expression neutral. Instead, you just smiled weakly and looked away, your thoughts a whirlwind. Of course, I captured everything. I’ve drawn you so many times, Sol. In my mind, in my journals. You’re practically etched into my soul.

“It’s not that great,” you muttered, trying to dismiss his praise.

He blinked at you, his expression shifting from awe to disbelief. “No. It’s good. Actually, it’s better than good.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head, cutting you off. “It’s better than anything I’ve ever drawn.”

Your eyes widened. “Get the fuck out.”

“No, I’m serious!” he said, looking at you earnestly. “It’s amazing, and—wait, you think I’m talented?”

You froze for a split second, and then words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. “I mean, yeah. Your portrait which I st—uh, think!—is really good.”

You coughed mid-sentence, your throat suddenly dry as panic set in. Sol’s eyes widened, and he immediately jumped up, grabbing a bottle of water from his bag. “Hey, you okay? Here, drink this!”

You took the water, your hands brushing briefly as he handed it to you. His concern was palpable, his orange-red eyes scanning your face. You quickly gulped some water and waved a hand to reassure him. “I’m fine! Just… choked on my words. Literally.”

He frowned, clearly not convinced, but let it go.

You cleared your throat and tried to steer the conversation back. “Anyway, we’ve still got two more works to finish for this project. Let’s… exchange numbers so we can plan things out?”

Sol nodded, pulling out his phone. “Yeah, good idea.”

The exchange was quick, and within moments, your phone buzzed with a message.

Sup.

You stared at it, blinking, before a laugh bubbled out of you. “You type so differently than you talk.”

Sol raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

You glanced at Sol, who was now scrolling lazily on his phone, and a thought hit you like a freight train. He was so intriguing, so magnetic, but also… so misunderstood.

You couldn’t stop yourself from blurting out, “Y’know, I bet a lot of people mistake you for someone you’re not.”

He looked up, tilting his head curiously. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “I mean… you come off as this super confident, kind of aloof guy, but you’re… more than that. People probably don’t take the time to really get you. To understand you.”

His brows furrowed slightly, and you felt your chest tighten. You hadn’t even planned this conversation, but now you were tumbling forward without brakes.

“And I… I want to be that person,” you said, your voice wavering. “I want to understand you, Sol. I want to know the real you. I want us to…” You paused, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “…to be friends.”

The word friends fell from your lips like a rock, heavy and jagged. It sounded so wrong, so painfully inadequate for how you felt. You wanted to claw it out of the air and burn it before it could reach him. But what else could you say? You couldn’t just ask him to marry you on the first day you’d truly spoken.

Sol blinked, his expression softening. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something deeper in his eyes, but then he smiled.

“So,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “let’s make today the start of something. The start of a wonderful friendship. What do you think, Y/N L/N?”

Your heart shattered into a million pieces.

Friendship?! FRIENDSHIP?! Your inner voice screamed, but outwardly, you managed a bright, almost too-cheerful nod. “Yeah! Of course!”

The smile on your face didn’t match the agony in your chest. You were happy to be close to him—really—but it wasn’t enough. Not when you wanted so much more.

Sol leaned back, his casual demeanor unchanged, you felt your heart breaking all over again. And yet, as painful as it was, you told yourself it was a start.

I’ll take this. For now.

But deep down, you couldn’t ignore the ache that wouldn’t go away. The way the word “friendship” echoed in your mind like a cruel joke. You wanted more, and the thought of settling for less was unbearable. Still, you smiled at him, masking the pain, determined to be patient.

Even if it killed you.

As you stood up, preparing to leave, a strange weight settled in your chest. Sol’s words echoed in your mind, the promise to see each other tomorrow. It was enough to make your heart ache, to feel something stir inside you that you weren’t sure how to handle. The idea of friendship—just friendship—with him made everything seem so much harder.

You gave him a smile, even though it felt like your insides were twisting in pain. “Will we see each other tomorrow? And… if it’s possible, could we hang out?” Your eyes were a little too soft, a little too vulnerable, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye for fear of what would spill out.

His expression shifted, that familiar lack of emotion, the calm mask he wore all the time. It was hard to read, hard to decipher, but you didn’t need to. You already knew the answer. His expression was now full of…surprise, he answered faster than you expected!

“Ah! Yes, of course! See you tomorrow.” He gave a small nod, his voice reassuring but distant. You were sure he didn’t feel the same urgency, the same burning desire that you did.

You patted his shoulder, your fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. The sensation of his warmth sent a shockwave through you, and you fought to keep your cool. “See you tomorrow, Sol.”

You turned and left.

Your footsteps echoed in the hallway as you walked away, a slight frown pulling at your lips. The walls around you were decorated in some half-hearted Halloween theme—streamers, fake cobwebs, jack-o’-lanterns—but it all felt like a blur. You didn’t care about the decorations or the meaningless chatter around you. Everything felt muted, distant.

Then, as you pulled your phone from your pocket, a text from Crowe appeared, and your stomach twisted.

Crowe: “Waiting for you outside the gate.”

It hit you like a punch to the gut. Crowe. Your friend. The one you’d always relied on, the one you cared about deeply. But now… you were torn. Torn between Crowe and Sol, between what had always been familiar and what was now irresistible, unsettling. You couldn’t lie to yourself: having a friendship with Sol was so distracting. Every time you saw him, you couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. It was overwhelming. And it was dangerous.

You cared for Crowe, too, didn’t you? Of course you did. He had always been there for you, your anchor in a sea of chaos. But… when you thought of Sol, when you remembered his gaze, the way he spoke to you, how he looked at you—how he made you feel—you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You stopped in the hallway. Your breath caught in your throat. The truth had become too real.

I’m choosing Sol over Crowe.

The thought was like a blade, cutting deep into your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about Crowe. You did. You always had. But this… what you felt for Sol—this strange, insatiable need to be closer to him, to know him, to feel something more than friendship—was undeniable. Crowe had always been there, but Sol… he was different.

But now, you had a problem. A big problem.

You loved Crowe. Or, at least, you thought you did. And you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, of him hating you, of him finding out about the way your heart raced when Sol was near. It was so unfair to Crowe, but you had to do it. You had to.

It was painful, but there was no other choice.

You took a deep breath, shaking your head as you walked toward the exit, your heart heavy with the weight of what you had to do. You couldn’t think of Sol anymore. You couldn’t let yourself be distracted.

You had to push Crowe away.

And the only way to do that was to make him hate you.

As the thought settled in your mind, you could feel your stomach churn. It hurt. It really hurt. But this was the only way to make sure you wouldn’t be distracted. To make sure you could stop yourself from falling any deeper.

You reached the gate, and Crowe was standing there, leaning casually against the wall. He looked up as he saw you approach, a smile lighting up his face. It made your chest tighten.

You hated what you were about to do. But you had no choice.

No one ever said love was easy.

It wasn’t just for that.

He’s watching, He’s always is.

Crowe stood there, radiating his usual easygoing confidence. His bag was neatly placed on the ground, his posture upright and casual, arms held behind his back as he tapped his foot in quiet anticipation.

You felt like you were walking in a dream—or maybe a nightmare. Each step toward him was like dragging yourself through thick, suffocating fog. You were broken. Pieces of your heart scattered, and you didn’t even know how to piece them back together. You didn’t know what you were doing, what you even wanted anymore.

You finally reached him, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Crowe… what’s the work?”

Crowe blinked, clearly surprised. “Work?” His eyebrows furrowed, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “No, Y/N… I just wanted to hang out.”

The words stung like a slap, and a pang of guilt twisted in your chest. Just wanted to hang out.

But the words should’ve been comforting, right? Crowe was always like this—sweet, casual, like he cared. He never made things complicated, never put pressure on you, just wanting to spend time with you. And yet… there was that feeling gnawing at you. A feeling you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

“I was thinking of taking you somewhere,” he continued, his voice lighter now. “There’s a neat park nearby. It’s a bit quieter. I can lead you there if you want.” His face lit up with excitement, and for a split second, you thought you saw something more.

Why was he so… excited?

Do you think…? No, it can’t be right.

You looked down at your feet, the weight of the situation sinking in. Regret gnawed at you, but you still smiled, trying to push the discomfort away. “Yeah… that sounds nice.”

Crowe grinned, his eyes bright with that familiar warmth. “Great! Let’s go then.”

Take his hand

TAKE HIS ARM

HAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA

You bit your lip, trying to find an excuse, any excuse to create distance. You didn’t want to be close to him right now—not when your heart was torn between him and someone else. Not when you couldn’t stop thinking about Sol, and the pain of choosing between them was suffocating.

And then, a solution hit you.

“I’ll carry your bag,” you said quickly, as if the words could erase the guilt already creeping in. You didn’t wait for his protest, picking up the bag and holding it in your hands, keeping it between you and Crowe like a barrier.

He frowned, about to say something. “No, Y/N, you really don’t have to—”

“I insist,” you cut him off, your voice firmer than you felt. “It’s fine. Really.”

You couldn’t let yourself touch him, not right now. Not when your thoughts were so clouded with confusion and desire. You couldn’t let the connection between you two grow any deeper. You had to keep distance, even if it was just a simple gesture like this.

Crowe sighed but didn’t argue, following you with that same concerned look in his eyes.

This is the only way to make sure you won’t get distracted.

You tried not to think too much about how wrong it felt to avoid him like this, but every time you looked at Crowe, your heart sank a little more. He was your friend, your best friend, but the truth was, your feelings were too complicated, too mixed up now.

you walked side by side, the silence between you two felt heavy, suffocating. You tried to focus on the road ahead, telling yourself that this was the right thing to do.

Every step felt like you were walking further away from the person you used to be, a person who hadn’t been so consumed by obsession, by him.

How had it gotten this dark?

You couldn’t ignore the ache in your chest, the constant pull toward Sol. You kept thinking about him—his face, the way his eyes met yours with that unreadable expression, the way your heart had thundered when he leaned in closer, the way he seemed perfect. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, not even for a second, and now—now everything else seemed to fade into the background.

You could almost picture it clearly: Sol, leaning down toward you, his lips just inches away, his eyes so intense as if he could feel what you were feeling. You felt your breath quicken, your heartbeat escalating, imagining the moment you would kiss him, desperate for his touch, for something real—something more.

But then, just as you were about to lose yourself in the fantasy, something yanked you back to reality.

Crowe’s hands were suddenly on your arms, pulling you back from the abyss of your thoughts. His grip was firm but gentle, as if afraid you might break under the weight of your own mind.

“Y/N…” he said, voice low, laced with concern. His eyes searched yours, his gaze soft but full of worry. “You’re… you’re making a really concerning expression right now.”

You blinked, feeling a strange, almost drooling sensation, like you were half there and half lost in some other world. You realized you’d been staring into nothing, your mind completely consumed by the image of Sol.

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe what was happening to you.

“Y/N, you…” Crowe hesitated, unsure how to put it into words. “You look… almost…” He trailed off, his voice a little shaky. “Disgusting?”

His words hit you like a bucket of ice water. Disgusting?

You felt a pit form in your stomach. What was wrong with you?

But Crowe didn’t leave it at that. He could see the confusion in your eyes, the hurt behind your forced smile, and he gently squeezed your arms. “No, Y/N. Nothing you do is disgusting, okay? Nothing.”

His words were meant to reassure you, but they only added to the chaos in your mind. It was almost like you wanted to believe him, but the truth was too overwhelming. You were becoming obsessed with Sol.

No shit sherlock!

You looked at Crowe, barely able to meet his gaze.

You kept walking, but something inside you pulled back. You felt like you were drifting away, each step carrying you further from reality. You heard Crowe’s footsteps pause behind you, and when you turned around, his worried expression stopped you in your tracks. His brow furrowed, his mouth set in a firm line as he studied you.

Without warning, he grabbed your hand, his grip gentle yet insistent.

“I wanted to talk about you maybe trying out with our new friends,” Crowe began, his voice a little too calm, too measured. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of concern—that made your stomach twist.

But he didn’t stop there. “But I won’t ignore the fact that you’ve been different for the past couple of months… something’s wrong.”

You froze, your heart racing. The evening sky had turned dark, the sun dipping below the horizon. Shadows stretched across the empty street as the quiet evening began to feel suffocating. You didn’t want to hear this. You didn’t want him to see through you.

“Ichabod,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as you tried to brush him off. “You’re wasting my time. I told you, I wanted to hang out. I came out for you.” Your words sounded cold, distant, like you were trying to push him away. You weren’t sure anymore if you were trying to hide yourself from Crowe or from your own feelings.

Crowe’s eyes hardened, his jaw clenched as anger began to brew beneath the surface. “Tell me what’s really going on.” His voice was tight, almost accusing. “You’ve been acting off for weeks now. Something’s wrong, and you won’t even talk to me about it.”

His words dug deep, and you felt that same uncomfortable pressure in your chest.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. The thoughts in your head were too chaotic, too tangled.

“You’re just tired, right?” Crowe asked, his tone softening, but there was still an edge to it. “That’s why you’re being so cold, so distant?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to. You were exhausted—mentally, emotionally—but that wasn’t the only reason you were like this. The real truth was something you couldn’t even admit to yourself, let alone him. You couldn’t talk about it. You couldn’t say it aloud.

Without waiting for your response, Crowe let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, we’re heading to the same place, but… this isn’t just to hang out. I’m not going to ignore the fact that you’re acting strange.”

Your heart sank. He had already figured it out.

Crowe’s words were sharper now, almost impatient, as if he was done pretending like everything was fine. “We’re going to talk. Not just waste time. We’re going to talk about what’s going on with you.”

Your body tensed. You felt the pressure of the moment building. You didn’t want to face this. You didn’t want to confront what was happening inside you, because the truth was far more complicated than you were ready to admit.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

But Crowe wasn’t buying it. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on your hand remained firm, guiding you forward. You could feel him watching you, analyzing every movement, every word, trying to figure out the truth.

You stood there, staring up at the night sky, your thoughts drifting once again. The stars above were beautiful, too beautiful for what you were feeling. It felt like everything around you was so peaceful, so perfect—but inside, you were falling apart. You couldn’t stop thinking about Sol, the image of him haunting your mind as you pictured him in every corner of your thoughts.

You had to get home. You had to go back. You wondered if he had drugged the food yet, the thought making your stomach churn with an odd mixture of excitement and dread. Sol… you thought.

Why was I always thinking about him?

You chuckled softly to yourself, a laugh that didn’t feel like it belonged to you. The sound was hollow, almost insane in its desperation, and you had no control over it. The more you thought about him, the more you couldn’t stop imagining all the what ifs—what if you could be with him? What if you could make him yours?

You closed your eyes for a moment, the image of Sol’s face appearing before you, his expression warm, inviting, even though it was a fantasy.

You opened your eyes, and it was like you were in a trance. There was Crowe, standing beside you, watching you intently, his gaze sharp and focused. You didn’t notice him at first, lost in your own world, but when you did, you were startled by his expression. He was just standing there, his posture stiff as he watched you with a mixture of confusion and something darker.

His eyes narrowed, almost like he was trying to understand what was going on in your head. It was as if he saw something in you that you didn’t want to admit.

You couldn’t even hide it anymore. You were obsessed. You were lost in thoughts of Sol, and now Crowe could probably see it. He was watching you closely, almost like he was analyzing every move, every flicker of your gaze.

Crowe was silent for a moment, closing his eyes as though trying to calm himself down. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. There was something heavy hanging between you two, something unspoken that made the air feel thick and suffocating.

You felt like you had been caught, but it wasn’t just about your actions anymore—it was about the part of you that was slipping away, the part of you that was losing its grip on reality. The part of you that was getting too close to Sol. Too obsessed.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to explain it. You couldn’t bring yourself to admit that the only thing on your mind right now was him, and you couldn’t lie to Crowe. But you couldn’t stop.

You were spiraling deeper into this madness, and the more you tried to pull yourself out, the further you fell.

Crowe didn’t speak, but his eyes were still on you, studying you with such intensity. The silence between you two was deafening, and it felt like you couldn’t escape from the weight of the moment. You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending everything was fine, because inside, everything was breaking apart.

Finally, Crowe sighed, his voice low and heavy. “Y/N…”

But you didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to hear him lecture you about your behavior, about how wrong you were, how obsessive you had become. Because you already knew. You already felt it. And the worst part was that you didn’t care.

You were too far gone.

Crowe coughed, a forced sound that echoed in the silence between you two, and the moment was ruined. The image of Sol, the one you had been fantasizing about just moments before, began to fade as you were pulled back into the present. You clenched your jaw, an unfamiliar anger bubbling up inside of you.

“What?” you snapped, your voice sharper than intended. The irritation was there, raw and unfiltered. He had broken your daydream—your escape.

Crowe, startled by your sudden outburst, looked away, his eyes betraying a hint of confusion and concern. “Y/N… what happened to you?” he asked, his voice softer now, but still laced with that underlying worry.

You immediately shut down, wanting nothing to do with the question. “Nothing’s wrong,” you muttered, your gaze already shifting back toward the stars, seeking refuge in the familiar expanse of the night sky. You sat down on the grass, trying to drown out the noise in your head.

Crowe didn’t stop. He sat beside you, his presence heavy as he continued to ask questions, trying to piece together the puzzle of what was going on with you. But you didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want to think about it.

You buried yourself in the task of picking at the grass, mindlessly drawing out Sol’s name in the dirt with the tips of your fingers. Sol…

Your eyes softened as you traced the letters, the feeling of love and obsession creeping in once more. You didn’t care if it was unhealthy. You didn’t care that you were losing it. In that moment, Sol was everything.

Then, Crowe’s voice broke through again. “Y/N… I’m talking to you.”

You snapped your head toward him, your patience thinning. “Shut up,” you muttered, the words slipping from your mouth before you could even register them. He had ruined it again. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand.

Crowe went silent, and when you looked at him, you saw that his expression had shifted. He looked hurt—surprised, even. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. It was the way he was looking at you, as if he had just realized how different you had become.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew. You saw it in his eyes, in the way he now regarded you. You were scary.

You suddenly felt that weight pressing down on your chest—the guilt, the realization of what you had just become. Your eyes, the same ones that hadn’t slept properly in days, were dark and haunted. You could feel the darkness inside you swirling, pulling you deeper into this obsession.

You felt the regret hit you like a wave, and without thinking, you..

Crowe’s eyes softened, and there was a painful hesitation in his voice. He looked at you, trying to piece together the person in front of him—the person you used to be. “What happened to you…?” His voice was tinged with sadness, something you had never heard from him before. It was like he was watching a stranger before him, and it made you feel… uncomfortable, uneasy.

You cocked your head slightly, feigning confusion, though deep down you knew exactly what he was getting at. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice quieter now, as you tried to keep your emotions under wraps.

Crowe ran a hand through his hair, a sigh escaping his lips before he spoke again. “It’s just! Look at you! You’re… nowadays sleep-deprived, always walking away… One of the students even complained to the council that you were… laughing a lot in the restroom. You threatened them to be silent… This isn’t like you…” His voice faltered at the end, as if he were afraid to say too much, afraid of pushing you further.

You shrugged, trying to dismiss it. “Ah, so what?” You could feel the coldness creeping into your tone, but you couldn’t stop it. It wasn’t like you cared anymore.

“I’m not sure who you are anymore…” Crowe’s words were heavy, like each one was a weight being pressed onto you. “You used to be a quiet, caring, bookworm artist who liked to listen… and a good child who cared about their father getting their land back. But now…” He trailed off, his voice thick with concern.

You stared at him, your expression hardening. “Ichabod, stop it… Crowe, what’s with you? What are you trying to say?” Your voice cracked slightly with frustration, but you didn’t let it show too much. You weren’t going to let him make you feel guilty, not when everything inside you was already breaking apart.

“You’re not yourself anymore,” he said, his voice quiet now, almost pleading. “Is there a reason…? You’ve become so… cold. Toward me too… You used to…”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you refused to show any sign of weakness. You didn’t want to hear it. “You only know me for what you think,” you said through clenched teeth. “You don’t know me as a person. You don’t have the right to complain.”

Crowe’s face twisted, the hurt evident in his eyes as he took a step closer, his voice trembling. “Complain?! Y/N! I’m someone who cares about you! I’m worried about you!”

You couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that escaped your lips. “Cared?” you spat, the word leaving a bad taste in your mouth. “Don’t make me laugh, Crowe. Didn’t I just say? Friend… friend… friend…” The word felt like a poison on your tongue. You hated it, but you said it anyway.

He was taken aback, the raw emotion in his face faltering as he blinked at you, unsure how to respond. “Then… What am I to you?” His voice was shaky, desperate for an answer.

You looked at him, almost broken, as the answer came to you, something so twisted and bitter you couldn’t help but say it. “You WERE MY savior,” you said, your voice hollow. “A friend.” You looked away quickly, trying to hide the sinking feeling inside you. What have I become?

Crowe stood there for a moment, processing your words, before he shook his head slightly. “Then I guess… I don’t really know who you are anymore, Y/N. What you are…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry for ruining your day.”

You didn’t know how to feel anymore. His words had hit you harder than anything, but you couldn’t bring yourself to show it. “Yeah, you don’t,” you whispered. Crowe was about to..leave but he held your arm.

Crowe’s grip on your arm tightened, his voice sharp and laced with panic. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and frustration. “Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?!”

His desperate eyes were searching yours, but all you could feel was anger and suffocating tension. You had enough of his questions, enough of his concern. You had too much of him in your life, and it was beginning to tear you apart. You couldn’t breathe in the face of it anymore.

"Shut up!” you screamed, the words ripping through the silence. “Shut up, Crowe! Just… shut up!”

You yanked your arm away from him, the fire in your chest growing. This wasn’t you, not the person he thought you were. Not anymore. You had changed, and he needed to accept it.

Crowe’s eyes widened in shock, but you couldn’t care less. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t. You were done trying to explain yourself to someone who couldn’t see the chaos inside your mind.

Suddenly, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer with force, your body trembling with the anger you could no longer suppress. “YOU’RE THE PROBLEM!” you screamed at him, your voice cracking. “YOU distract me, away from my life. You make everything so damn complicated! I want to focus on something, but you keep getting in my way! You make everything harder!”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you fought them back, gritting your teeth. “I DON’T WANT FRIENDS! LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you shoved him away, forcing yourself to take a step back. You grabbed your bag, clutching it tightly as if it were the last thing keeping you grounded.

Crowe stood frozen, his face pale, looking as if your words had physically struck him. But his voice was quiet, almost resigned. “Have fun with the group of people you’re trying to fix,” you spat bitterly. “But stay the hell away from me. I’m done.”

You turned sharply, your heart hammering in your chest as you walked away, the cold night air hitting your face, but you barely felt it. Your legs carried you without thought, away from Crowe, away from the situation you had created.

“Have fun with your new friends. I’m telling you this now… if you want to live happily… Stay with them. I’m done for.”

And with that, you walked away, your heart torn in two but your mind resolute. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to.

You made it home, the door slamming shut behind you as you staggered into the dimly lit living room. The emptiness felt like it was swallowing you whole, but it was the kind of emptiness you had grown used to. The kind that didn’t scream for attention, just quietly gnawed at your soul.

You collapsed to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest as your body shook. The tears came like a dam breaking open—heavy, hot, and relentless. It wasn’t just from the fight with Crowe, not just because of the raw pain in your chest. No, it was because you had to do it. You had to push him away, had to convince yourself that you hated him. You had to protect him.

It wasn’t like you didn’t care about Crowe; it was the opposite. You cared too much. And that kind of care was dangerous when you had someone like Sol watching you from the shadows, his jealousy like a burning fuse ready to snap at any moment. You had seen it, the way he watched Crowe, the way his eyes hardened whenever his name was mentioned.

Sol could never find out about Crowe. If Sol knew, he would kill him—you were sure of it. And that couldn’t happen. Not while you still had this insane, twisted obsession with Sol. The last thing you wanted was to lose the only person who made you feel something in this chaotic mess of emotions.

and to be peaceful with sol.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, taking a shuddering breath as you reached for the small pile of things you had been hiding in your bag. It was a strange collection: a piece of bandage you had stolen from the nurse’s office, a pencil Sol had left on his desk, a scrap of paper with a doodle of his—just things, little things. But to you, they were treasures. They were all you had left of him.

Hugging them to your chest, you buried your face in the soft bandage. His scent lingered faintly on it, something sharp and comforting. The smell of Sol. The smell of everything you wanted. It calmed the storm inside your head, at least for a moment.

Your mind wandered, thoughts growing hazy as the delusions crept in. You imagined Sol with you, imagined him loving you, imagined a life where he saw you as something more than just an object of desire. But that was all it would ever be—delusion. And yet, it felt so real, so comforting in that moment of weakness.

You clung to the bandage tighter, your tears soaking into the fabric. You couldn’t stop it. You wanted to scream, to let it all out, but the sensation of holding onto something—anything—was a distraction. It kept you from falling apart completely.

And in that moment, despite the overwhelming sadness, you felt a twisted sense of gratitude. “Thank God…” you whispered, your voice cracking. You didn’t even know what you were thankful for…

You sat there in the darkness of your room, the weight of the bandage pressing against your chest as you clutched it tighter, your fingers trembling with a twisted sense of ownership. The smell of Sol was still faint on the fabric, but to you, it was everything. It was him, in your hands, in your arms, in your mind.

A sick, deranged smile stretched across your lips, creeping its way into your expression as you hugged the bandages closer. The soft, comforting scent of Sol’s presence made your heart race, and every thought felt like a desperate plea to keep him to yourself, to make him yours. It didn’t matter that you knew how wrong it all was; it didn’t matter that you were sinking deeper into this madness. In this moment, you were consumed, body and soul, by the idea of him.

You could almost see him—feel him—right next to you. The way his eyes would soften when he looked at you, how his voice would whisper your name in that quiet, gentle way, if only he knew how much you loved him. The fantasies played in your mind like a twisted film reel, each scene more vivid, more real than the last.

“Sol…” you whispered, barely able to keep the name from slipping off your tongue. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

Your voice was soft, almost reverent, but there was a madness in your eyes. Your pupils dilated as your smile deepened, the corners of your mouth stretching until it felt like your face couldn’t contain the longing and obsession.

The bandage in your hands was no longer just a piece of cloth. It was a symbol. A symbol of the twisted bond you had with him, the bond you were building, even if he didn’t know it. You felt your chest tighten, your breath hitching in your throat. You imagined what it would be like when he finally realized—when he finally saw you, truly saw you, not just as a fleeting moment in his life, but as the one who loved him the most, the one who would never let him go.

Your mind raced, wild and untamed, thoughts spiraling in a whirlpool of desperation. What would you do if he knew? Would he ever love you back, or would he push you away like everyone else had? No. You wouldn’t let that happen.

You could feel a twinge of possessiveness, something dark and primal clawing at your insides, as you pressed the bandage to your face, inhaling deeply.

I need him. I need him so much…

A bitter laugh bubbled up from deep within your throat, a hollow sound that echoed around the room, dark and twisted. “I’ll make sure no one takes you from me. Not anyone. You’ll be mine, Sol. Forever…”

You closed your eyes, your fingers clutching the bandage as if it were the most precious thing in the world. A tear slipped down your cheek, though it wasn’t from sadness. It was from the overwhelming need, the obsessive desire that consumed every corner of your heart.

You smiled again, slower this time, as you whispered to the empty room, “You’ll see… You’ll see, Sol. We’re meant to be. You have me in your order already..“

The sudden buzz of your phone broke through the fog of obsession, pulling you back to reality with a jolt. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Crowe’s name flash on the screen. You felt a rush of panic that surged through your chest like ice-water.

Shit.

You quickly unlocked your phone, your fingers trembling as you read his message. "Hey, can I add you to the group chat with the others? Just thought it’d be fun to hang out more!”

You stared at the words, each syllable clawing at you.every interaction with Crowe felt like another chain around your neck, pulling you further away from Sol, from the delusion of him.

Your heart raced, a sick, suffocating feeling creeping up your throat. You couldn’t afford to keep Crowe close. He was a distraction. The more you interacted with him, the more dangerous it became. Sol was always watching, always simmering in the background, and you couldn’t risk him finding out about Crowe. No more distractions.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers moved faster than your mind. You typed the word “no” before deleting the message, quickly following up by erasing his contact entirely.

Done. That’s it. No more Crowe.

You breathed a sigh of relief—for now. You thought you could relax. You thought you could get back to your twisted little world with Sol, without anyone else interfering.

But then it happened.

The sickening realization hit you like a brick to the chest.

SHIT.

Crowe had added you to the group chat before you deleted his contact.

Your heart sank. You cursed under your breath, panic bubbling up inside you. You immediately opened the group chat, only to be greeted by a flood of messages. His name was there, right at the top of the list, and your chest tightened as you saw a few of the others already chatting away.

The chat was buzzing with messages about the Halloween party at school this Friday. The excitement was palpable, everyone discussing costumes, plans, and what to expect. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of anticipation in the air as you scrolled through the messages, catching bits and pieces of the conversation.

Your mind drifted, and a thought struck you suddenly—maybe I should ask him to come with me.

Without a second thought, you quickly snapped a screenshot of the party announcement that Deryl had sent earlier, one with all the details. You attached it to the message and sent it in the group chat, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe you weren’t just sharing the information with the others.

Almost immediately, your phone buzzed with a response from Sol.

“A Halloween Party hosted by the school?” he asked, his message clear and direct, as always.

You felt a small spark of hope rise within you. Maybe this could be the perfect chance.

You sent another message, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you typed, asking if Sol had eaten yet. It felt like a random question, but your mind was racing, eager for some kind of connection.

You kept sending little questions, almost aimlessly—anything to keep the conversation going. It felt like you were trying to fill the silence, but deep down, you knew what you were really doing.

You were craving his attention, his responses. You couldn’t help it.

“I’m not quite into parties,” Sol replied after a moment, his words calm but distant.

“Oh… Well, that’s alright, just asking, that’s all,” you quickly typed back, trying not to sound disappointed, though a part of you was.

Then, to your surprise, another message came in almost immediately.

“Wait.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“If you’re coming, then I’m coming as well.”

The words sent a wave of excitement through you. He’s coming?!

“Really?!” you typed, almost too quickly, feeling a smile tug at your lips.

“Really,” he replied, and for a moment, you felt your stomach flip.

“Do you plan on dressing up?” you asked, the curiosity getting the best of you.

“I don’t know. Do you?” he responded.

“I mean, it’s a costume party. Why not?” you replied, enthusiasm creeping into your tone.

“I’ll think of something then,” he said, and you could almost hear the slight smile in his words.

You hesitated for a moment, not sure whether to push Sol into the idea of going to the party. It felt like too much pressure, so you decided to soften your approach.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to come…” you typed, trying to make it sound casual. You didn’t want to make him feel obligated, but you couldn’t deny the ache in your chest at the thought of being alone at the party.

“Pardon?” he responded quickly, a bit confused. You could almost picture the raised eyebrow from him, a slight shift in tone.

“I mean, it’s Friday, so it’s the weekend, right?” You continued, trying to hide the vulnerability behind your words. “We could still hang out without going to the party. I just… didn’t want to be lonely.”

There it was, the truth spilling out, but also a part of you knowing it was a perfect excuse for your real intentions. You needed Sol close. You needed him to understand that Crowe was out of the picture, that no one else could get in the way.

He was quiet for a moment, then typed: “Do you want to hang out with me?”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” you typed, without a second thought. It was like you were dropping the last of your guard, exposing the raw, desperate need for his presence.

But deep down, you also knew you were playing the game just right. You were making sure to look like you were alone, like you didn’t have anyone else in your life. Crowe was out, and now Sol could see how easy it would be for him to sweep in. He’ll understand, you thought to yourself. I’m the fresh rabbit, and he’s always watching.

Your thoughts wandered to your conversation. You knew Sol liked horror films, he’d mentioned it before. You felt a surge of inspiration.

“What about a horror movie?” you asked casually. “You know, something fun, something we can watch while hanging out?”

There was a slight pause before he replied. And then it came.

“I guess I could do that…,” he typed, and for the first time, there was something different in his words. It was as if he wasn’t just dry and indifferent anymore. He sounded… slightly interested.

It made your heart flutter. He’s cute, you thought to yourself, smiling as you typed.

You slipped into the kitchen, eyes scanning the food you had prepared earlier. You opened the containers, one after another, heart thudding in your chest. But it wasn’t touched. Not a single bite.

Your chest tightened as you checked another batch, and then another. The seals were intact. Nothing had been opened.

He’s not coming tonight.

You felt the realization hit you like a wave. The silence of the empty space was deafening, and you wanted to scream, to cry, to lash out at the crushing disappointment. But instead, you swallowed it all, letting the heaviness settle deep within.

Grabbing something quick to eat, you barely tasted it. The food turned to ash in your mouth as you moved to your room. The quiet was unbearable. You needed to do something—anything to distract yourself from the longing, the ache that refused to go away.

You sank to the floor, pulling your sketchbook and supplies toward you. The charcoal pencil felt familiar in your fingers, a lifeline. You began to draw, the lines forming without thought, your hands moving like a machine. Stroke after stroke, his face emerged on the paper. Sol.

His soft, yet piercing eyes. The way his lips held a hint of mystery, the curve of his jawline—strong but refined. Every detail you etched felt like worship, your devotion spilling onto the page. You poured yourself into the drawing, the room around you fading away until there was only him.

When it was done, a small, trembling smile tugged at the corners of your lips. You stared at the portrait, your sleepless eyes red and raw, but filled with an almost manic satisfaction.

Slowly, you hugged the portrait to your chest, clutching it as though it were him. The paper crinkled slightly under your grip, but you didn’t care. You kissed the charcoal lips on the drawing, your own trembling, tears sliding down your cheeks.

“Please… just be mine already,” you whispered brokenly, your voice trembling with desperation. “I can’t wait anymore, Sol. I… I’ll do anything, just tell me what you want. Tell me, Please.”

You stared into the lifeless eyes of the portrait, waiting for it to answer, to give you some sign. But of course, it was silent. You begged again, your tears smudging the edges of the drawing.

“Say something… please,” you choked out.

But the portrait didn’t speak. It remained still, just like the real Sol—always so close, yet so far.

Curling around the paper, you let out a soft, pained sob. The ache in your heart felt unbearable, but you couldn’t stop. This obsession, this need—it had consumed you entirely. And no matter how much it hurt, you didn’t want it to stop. You wanted to push yourself with work.

The laundry room was quiet, the steady hum of the machine and the rhythmic sloshing of water the only sounds accompanying your thoughts. You moved mechanically, pulling clothes from the hamper, sorting them into piles, trying to ignore the lingering haze of obsession that clouded your mind.

I can’t keep going like this… you thought to yourself, folding one of your shirts. I need to focus on normal things. Normal people do laundry. Normal people don’t… don’t…

Your train of thought derailed as your hands brushed the fabric of a familiar piece of clothing. You frowned slightly, realizing something was missing. The set wasn’t complete. You glanced at the piles, searching, your hands moving faster, more frantic. Something wasn’t right.

Quickly, you abandoned the laundry, heading to your cupboard to double-check. You rifled through your drawers, tossing clothes aside until you found what you were looking for—or rather, what you weren’t finding. One of your shirts—your favorite, the one you wore at home—was gone.

At first, you froze, confusion flashing through you. Then, slowly, your lips parted into a soft giggle. Your face flushed as the realization dawned on you.

Oh, Sol…

A hand flew to your mouth as a giddy, almost delirious laugh escaped your lips. Your knees buckled, and you sat down in front of the cupboard, staring at the empty space where that clothing should’ve been.

He took it again. He stole it. That adorable little thief… How cute.

Your blush deepened as you thought about it. He can’t help himself, can he? It’s unfair… You glanced toward your bed, where the collection of his things was hidden away. He gets to take my clothes, and I only have his bandages and a pencil. It’s not enough.

You hugged your knees, staring dreamily at the laundry pile. The fabric, the scent, the soft feeling—it all reminded you of him. You let out a small, love-struck sigh, the flush on your face deepening.

“Oh, Sol,” you murmured to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper. “When will you realize you already have me entirely like this? And yet, you still sneak and steal like a kid… You’re so cute.”

For a moment, the world outside of Sol ceased to exist. Crowe, the laundry, your day-to-day life—it all faded into nothingness. There was only Sol. Your heart raced as you stood, your movements purposeful now. You opened the cupboard and pulled out the box where you kept his things—your most precious treasures. The bandages, his pencil, a tiny doodle of his you’d swiped from class. All of it.

You sat on the ground and opened your journal. The familiar pages greeted you, filled with sketches, notes, little scraps of his life that you’d painstakingly collected. Each page was a testament to your obsession, your devotion.

But this journal was full now, the last page crammed with your thoughts about him. There was no more room to document the all-encompassing love you felt. You smiled softly, running your fingers over the cover before carefully placing it into the box with the rest of the treasures.

“Time for a fresh start,” you whispered to yourself.

You pulled out a new journal, the pages pristine and blank, waiting to be filled. You grabbed a pen and carefully wrote “Sol” on the first page in your neatest handwriting.

“Yay!” you said aloud, a childlike excitement bubbling up as you hugged the new journal to your chest. You tucked the box away in the cupboard and stood, a sense of accomplishment warming you. This is perfect. It’s all for you, Sol.

The day’s events had left you feeling drained, but for the first time in what felt like months, it wasn’t a bad kind of exhaustion. It was the sort that pulled you to the ground with a soft, irresistible weight. You lay down, clutching the sketch of Sol you’d finished earlier, holding it close like a lifeline.

You stared at it for a moment, tracing the lines with your fingers. His eyes, his lips, his hair—it was all there, captured perfectly. You pressed a kiss to the paper, your eyes fluttering closed.

“I love you,” you whispered to the drawing, your voice barely audible. “One day, it’ll be real…”

The tears that slipped down your cheeks weren’t sad this time. They were soft, almost sweet, as you hugged the drawing closer and allowed your exhaustion to take over.

#sol x reader #solivan brugmansia #the kid at the back sol #the kid at the back sol x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #tkatb sol #tkatb vn #tkatb x reader #tkatb crowe #tkatb sol x reader #solivan x reader #sol brugmansia

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boiledpanini · 2 days ago

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Klangst fic

fair warning I have very little writing experience

this is based off of “Rose’s Turn”

Hope you enjoy!

All that work and what did it get me?

Lance could feel the heat, the anger, rising in his chest.

Why did I do it?

He gave everything to this team. To this coalition. And what had they done in return?

Scrapbooks full of me in the background

They had let the one thing he had die. Keith was gone, and none of them had even tried to save him.

Give them love and what does it get you? What does it get you?

He loved his team. He really, truly, thought he did. But they had made their minds up the moment they turned around, leaving Keith trapped in the Galran ship they had doomed to explode.

One quick look as each of them leaves you.

Lance walked with more purposefully than he ever had. He knew what he had to do. His rage was rising, coming to a boiling point that no one could stop before it spilled over.

All your life and what does it get you? What does it get you?

Keith had lost his youth to them. To these aliens who didn’t even appreciate his efforts. Now he had lost his life, and they still couldn’t give some semblance of remorse?

“Thanks a lot” and out with the garbage

Well, that just wouldn’t do.

They take bows, and you’re battin’ zero

They would feel remorse. But it was already much too late.

The rest of the team was so high and mighty, weren’t they? Always so much better, so much more mature than he or Keith could be. How tragic, Lance thought, that those things couldn’t save them now. Nothing would.

I had a dream

Lance had wanted this once. He wanted to come to space, to be a pilot.

I dreamed it for you, Shiro

And who had inspired him, but his dear leader. He still remembered seeing Shiro’s face on TV for the first time when he was younger.

It wasn’t for me, Shiro

Would Lance be here, if it wasn’t for that television broadcast? Was all of this a misguided pipe-dream?

And if it wasn’t for me, then where would you be-Team Voltron?

Without him, without Keith, there would be no Voltron. The others were ungrateful. Unappreciative on the sacrifices they made, focusing only on themselves.

Well, someone tell me when is it my turn?

It ended today. They didn’t matter now. They never had, not next to Keith. Lance would get what he wanted this time. And he wanted them gone.

Don’t I get a dream for myself?

He didn’t need to be a paladin anymore. He didn’t need to worry about them. All he had to do was be patient, get their quintessence, and bring back what really mattered.

Starting now it’s gonna be my turn.

As he reached the ship’s core, he almost could’ve laughed. They really were getting a taste of their own medicine! They could die on a burning ship, just as Keith had!

Gangway world, get off of my runway!

As dumb as he acted, Lance was smart. He knew that once the others were gone, their quintessence would end up in the lions. From there, he would take it and use it to restore Keith. He would be remade- brought back just as he had been.

Starting now I bat a thousand

The bomb wasn’t hard to plant. Not enough to entirely destroy the ship -Lance still might need some of the supplies- but enough that the other paladins would come running.

This time, boys, I’m taking the bows- and

Their clambering about the room would set off the other bombs, and that would be the end of it. Lance would get what he wanted.

Everything’s coming up Lance

He set the final wires into place and worked the timer.

Everything’s coming up McClain

He hoped Keith would understand. Of course he would, right?

Everything’s coming up Lance, this time for me

As the timer ticked down, Lance smiled. Yes, Keith would understand. This was just the beginning of their story. He made his way to his escape pod, laughing harder than he ever thought he could.

For me

For me!

FOR ME!

Boom.

#klance #lance vld #klangst #langst #voltron #voltron legendary defender

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ask-the-totally-real-peppino · 2 years ago

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Hello, i'm cheese anon's evil (not really) alter ego, theorist anon and i've come here to tell you my theory or uhh... actually personal hc of what happend to bruno (headcanons are like theorys but less fancy shut >:[), (i tweaked it a bit to fit your context just a tad better as i have some ideas with how you portrayed bruno (or well part of him))

SO. First of all i have to say i liked the uniform you gave bruno, very cute tbh, but more than pizzeria it's giving ice cream or candy shop thb, not that is a bad thing just saying so uhh fuck it pizzeria no more he runs an ice cream shop now in me mind

OK WITH THAT OUT THE WAY NOW WE FR THIS TIME.

Ok so. Once upon a time this italian guy called Bruno runed an ice cream shop with his wife, pizzahead saw how succesful they were on their own and said "shiiid imma need that" so he made a deal with the happy couple. BUT then he tried to bribe and trick them into giving up pretty much all rights to uhh.. i don't have a name for the ice cream shop actually lmao, just think of amything. anyways, they said no bc the ice cream shop was something they hold very dear to them, they have been saving for this for literal years and risked it all to get it running so who would want to give it all out like that really? But pisshead can't accept a no for an answer so what did he did? He just killed them in the spot. If they aren't gonna sing these papers might as well just kill the guys so they stop growing you know? He cannot afford ANY sort of competition (even tho he sells horrible pizzas and they are a fucking ice cream shop). But then he realizes "shit i fucked up imma get sued" so he just tried to recreate bruno using his brain as a base, couldn't replicate the wife tho, he accidentally shot her in the brain without thinking he would have to clone her too oops.

Anyways they go thru the cloning process but uh oh the clone isn't perfect, guy doesn't even remember who he was. The solution? Lie that they sold their shop and flew out the country with the money without telling anyone, aslo they changed their numbers you cannot find them ^-^. Btw the shop closed down literal months after he "acquired" the shop, the ice cream was bad it tasted like pizza :(.

That gets us to today, pizzahead now found some new guy to torment and since he had the clone laying around he just kind of managed to make it change looks so it can look like peppino and then used them as a boss on his tower.

Ok i'm done talking :] hope you like this mess of a theory imma go, cheese bitch wants to take control again mkay bye was a plessure to speak to ya'll <3

(Ohohoho, Theorist Anon! What a delight to read!

I cannot confirm nor deny your theory, but I will say that part of it is pretty spot-on! And it's generally an interesting story regardless!

Just some silly and goofy pizza man absolutely snapping and killing a couple bc he's a jealous bitch, and then he goes 'whoopsie daisy' and remakes one of them, and uses them to torment another guy??? Incredible

If dear Cheese Anon allows you to return, I'd love to read any more theories you have! (And I will continue to smugly grin as I do not confirm nor deny them)

ALSO, I totally get the ice cream shop vibes from the outfit, not intentional, but it is very funny to imagine Pizzahead taking over a non-pizza related place and making bad pizzas or pizza-flavoured ice cream!

Who knows! Maybe the tower warped Bruno's Ice Cream to Bruno's Pizza, bc it is Pizza tower and not Ice Cream tower hehe

Also, Pep does love ice cream, but that's maybe unrelated!)

#ooc post #I'm gonna make a theory tag so I can read them later hehe #theory post #but fr this was a fun read!!!#so thank you for spilling your thoughts <3 #also did I basically draw Pep doing the same thing as the previous post?#yes! but he deserves all the treats!!!#also cw tags!#death //#death mention //#guns //#you didn't say gun but it was implied so just in case

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kiisuuumii · 3 months ago

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@kiisuuumii (A+) [for anon]

#poeticstories #twcpoetry #bitsofstarglow #poets community #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #poem #poetry #original poem #original poetry #ferpa dictates i not share grades publicly but ! oh well !#i teared up quite a bit at your last paragraph anon and i'm finding myself going back and going back to it #it breaks my heart that you have found yourself in dark places but i'm so glad that my words could help you pull yourself out or through #i'm so glad you're here anon #maybe battered and bruised but here living all the same !!!#thank you so much for your essay :'''^) <3 #kiisuuumii #☆

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good-beanswrites · 8 months ago

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That LCSYS and OoA crossover got me wondering about Fuuta.

How does he feel about being in Mahiru's place and Amane being in his place? How does he act around them?

How does he act during his interrogation?

Poor guy isn't cut out for this role, but he's doing his best! I had some format fun with this one -- I took your OoA chapter of his interrogation and put Fuuta's LCSyS thoughts in between, I think it worked out well! I discovered some new things about Fuuta's mindset in the au through the process of writing, it was really interesing :0

(Trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts, including a brief mention of Haruka's situation. There's also something about Fuuta repeatedly stopping Es from getting Shidou.)

Fuuta heard Es' footsteps approaching. He took a measured breath. In and out. His exhale trembled a bit from nerves. He figured he could use that to his advantage.

Es entered the cell and took in the layout. Fuuta was propped up in a hospital bed, his neck and torso securely braced and his left arm in a sling. He was kneading a Jackalope stress toy with his right hand, digging his nails into it. More stress toys stood on the table to his right, and Es almost tripped on one a few feet ahead. As Fuuta saw Es approaching, he dropped what he was holding and swatted the rest out of his reach.

"Been a… while, Warden," Fuuta said. Es was expecting more malice in his tone, but he sounded like his life force was draining.

Fuuta hadn't liked the idea of playing the damsel in distress. He wasn't some sickly bedridden patient with a quivering voice and trembling limbs. Thankfully, Mahiru and Mikoto had talked him into taking a different angle: some of their favorite books and movies featured a battle-weary hero, weak from the fight and scorning the cowards that didn't fight alongside him. That seemed doable, he thought. He put an extra pant into his breath, hoping to evoke the thought of messy wounds from his brawl with Kotoko.

"Fuuta… you…" They pulled a chair to the side of the table and took a seat. "Are you okay?"

That's their opening? What kind of fucking question is that?

He kept Mahiru's pointers in his head, picturing a bloodied and bandaged knight, or maybe an action hero resting up after getting riddled with bullets. He forced his voice to come out more tired than he felt.

"…look like it?" Fuuta responded. If he was angry, his voice did a terrible job of showing it.

Es didn't know how to respond. Do I look like it? was obviously a rhetorical question, but they needed to show some tact.

After a moment, Fuuta spoke up again. "…look awful… don't I?"

Still unsure of what to say, Es nodded slightly.

Heh. Good. Time to twist the knife a bit. Play the confident card, make them feel guilty. They'll see how strong I am -- how strong I've always been -- and what a mistake it was to let me fall so far.

"Could've been worse. Could've died."

Es stared down, pondering their next words. Several seconds passed.

Fuuta watched them. He felt a sinking in his stomach. Their sullen silence wasn't what he'd been anticipating. He wouldn't have been satisfied with a lot of possible responses, but he'd still been expecting something. Where was their respect? Their remorse? Their pity? Anything? He reached his arm out.

A loud knock on the table got their attention.

"Oi… talking to you." Fuuta's irritated glare met Es as they lifted their head.

"I'm sorry," they said, "I'm… I'm not sure what I can say."

"Don't know what to say? I almost died because of… you don't know… Even so, it's a miracle I … If Shidou had taken any longer, would've been over for me. Don't blame him, though.

I think I've said too much -- Shidou said only a few sentences at a time...

It was impossible to keep it short, though. Es just told him that they have nothing to say in defense of his near-death. Did he really mean so little to Es that they wouldn't even dignify him with an explanation?

"…Oi, say something."

"Sor-"

"Sorry won't cut it." Fuuta sounded more pained than angry.

That was easier to accomplish now that he was actually feeling some pain. After everything, all Es had to say was a half-hearted "sorry."

So, they really don't care about me...

Es took a breath. "…Kotoko did this to you?"

Well then, I guess I'll just have to make them care.

"No sh… agh…" Fuuta gasped for air.

"Fuuta!" Es got up and walked to his side. "I'll go get Shidou-"

"Don't!" Fuuta's eyes betrayed his desperation.

Only when my pain is thrown directly in my face do they give a damn. And they were going running off to Shidou, anyway! Though maybe...

After they locked eyes for a few moments, Fuuta let out a chuckle. "Look … you … down on me, like always. Must be so happy to see…"

"I- no, I'm not. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think Kotoko would-"

"Beat me to near-death? What'd you expect … you affirmed her…"

"I…"

"…thought she wouldn’t have … same crime here in…"

It seemed Es was finally listening, finally trying to open themself to him. And all of the sudden, Fuuta hated it. He felt paranoid under their gaze. He wasn't sure if it was fear of them seeing through his false injuries, or fear of another judgement from them. Regardless, he felt his pulse race with the way they were watching him.

"Oi, quit standing… staring…"

"I’m sorry, I didn't think-"

"Useless… apology…"

But what else could Es do besides apologize? Stand their ground and contradict Fuuta while he was in that pitiful state?

Fuuta was tired of their weak apologies. If Es had the conviction to name him guilty, they should toughen up and admit it.

With a deep breath, Fuuta forced himself to stay slumped into the bedsheets. He was getting riled up, but couldn't afford to look to strong.

"Really didn't think it'd… turn out… Me too. All I did… call some bad person out… say what's wrong was wrong…"

Es' gaze had become intense again. Those eyes, staring into his. Studying his injuries. Studying his expression.

Staring.

"Their reasons were b-" Fuuta gasped and clutched his chest. Es began to turn towards the door, but Fuuta grabbed their cape with his right hand.

Why can't they just offer help themself? Why do they go running off to someone else at the first sign of trouble? Am I really so disliked they can't face me?

Es swatted his hand away. "Hey, you can't just grab me like that."

"Don't dare…"

"Fine, I won't get Shidou. Yet." Es stood in place and waited for Fuuta to regain his voice.

Fuuta pretended to catch his breath, using the time to muster up something to say. If he wasn't so insistent on Es taking some responsibility for themself, he'd consider letting them call Shidou and just end this whole interrogation. He was ready to jump up and start swinging.

He itched to leap out of bed and give Es a real piece of his mind. He repeated the others' advice and pleading for him to keep his temper in check for the sake of the experiment. He thought of Amane -- how eagerly she awaited her own interrogation. All of this had been her plan, after all. As miserable as he was, he wouldn't ruin everything before she got her turn.

No, I will not steal her trial.

"You judged me… said I was unforgivable… without the whole story… How's that any different?"

"Excuse me?"

"That's so hypo- khh!" Fuuta slammed his hand on the table, trying to play it off as an emphasis, but that didn't mask his pain.

"Careful, Fuuta! You'll hurt-" Es gave up on that concern when Fuuta glared.

Pssh, like they actually care.

"Someone died because of you. You're saying I'm the same?"

"I didn't think they'd die!"

"But you knew people would dogpile them."

"I wasn't acting alone. Anyone else… out of my control… Why'd you pick me…"

"Milgram has judged-"

"Milgram doesn't make any f-"

Maybe Es should have put their foot down and called Shidou regardless of Fuuta's wishes. But something compelled them to hear him out. "Don't push yourself."

He tried to gauge if they were being sincere. He wasn't sure if he only mistook it as genuine concern since he was hoping for that so very badly.

Fuuta was clearly annoyed, but he took a breath and continued. "Still don't see it? We're just the same!"

"Me? The same as you?" Es couldn't deny Fuuta's point. They both made their judgments without thinking that someone could be seriously hurt—or dead.

That's got their mind turning, huh? I've got 'em now -- even if they don't feel like taking responsibility for my condition, I can subtly get them to take responsibilty for anothers'.

Fuuta was not known for his subtlety.

"I'll tell you. They were just in middle school. Maybe closer to Amane… than you…"

"Amane…" Es already knew this from what they gleaned from Fuuta's first video, but it didn't register how close in age their victims were. Wait, why were they thinking of Amane as a victim? "Amane… huh… I noticed you two have been spending a lot of time together lately."

"You kidding? Don't change the subject... You don't talk about her like… Only one who cared before everything went to hell. You made her go through it. Decided she wasn't forgivable… painted a target… She could've died too! Then we'd be exactly…"

"Don't put me on the same level as you."

He took another moment to calm himself. His "broken" arm clenched into a fish underneath the blankets. It made sense that Es wouldn't want to talk about the other prisoners during his interrogation, but their avoidance of Amane made his blood boil.

"Are you not-"

"I'm just doing my job. Nobody told you to go online and decide who are bad people and harass them. You made a game out of judgment. This is what I'm supposed to do."

Fuuta laughed at Es for still failing to acknowledge their similarities. Then he winced in pain. Then he kept laughing and mocking Es for taking their job seriously.

It was difficult to keep up the act the whole time, but he was always quick to recover each time he slipped up. He was doing this for the others. All hope for himself was lost, but at least he could do this for the others.

Es snapped back. A pointless, cyclical conversation. Fuuta stopped Es from calling Shidou no less than three times.

If he had to sit here and suffer through this interrogation, so did Es.

Eventually, the bell brought the conversation to a halt.

Silence.

Why was Fuuta so quiet?

"Hey… Fuuta?" Es leaned over to get a better look at his face. His eyes seemed glassy, and he seemed to be breathing more slowly. "Fuuta… I'll go get-"

"Don't. Not worth…"

"Worth what?"

"If you're not going to… forgive… what's the point… living?"

Fuuta would just chalk it up to getting too in-character, when the others asked.

"Don't say-"

"Everything hurts so much."

This feeling of betrayal. Of loneliness. The fact that I was the first named unforgiven. The fact that I'd be the first attacked, making me the victim -- not a hero, nor a warrior. The fact that you knew all along. You knew I was none of those things. You saw right through my act, to the real me, the one who is a victim. And that's why you acted the way that you did. You're trying to do your job without hurting me any more, as if I'm something fragile to be handled carefully. And that hurts most of all.

To keep things on track, he added,

"Painkillers don't help… Strange wonder I survived. Is it really worth it?"

"Worth it…" What could Es even say about that? Anything they could think of was either more unwanted pity or…

A cold accusation that Fuuta was bargaining his life for forgiveness. Es's thoughts flitted back to Haruka's interrogation- no, that comparison was unfair. Haruka's loaded intentions were worlds away from Fuuta's resignation. How could Es dare…

"I understand… this job requires resolve…"

"Resolve? You really have resolve… just kill me. With your own two hands. Don't hide behind the rules."

Look who's talking...

"I can't do that. I can't sink to the prisoners' level. It's my job as the warden to make a fair judgement. I… I have to judge each and every one of you… no matter how much they plead, cry, or bargain… even if they are dying right in front of me."

"What is even the point? You give a damn about my life, forgive me! If not, kill me… get it over with."

The words came tumbling out. Fuuta tried not to think so hard about what he was saying. It was all in character. That was it.

For some reason, he got the sinking sensation that he'd be pulled aside later to explain himself. He wasn't sure who'd get to him first. Yuno? Shidou? Kotoko? Now that he thought about it, it would probably be Mahiru.

"Bargaining tactics won't work with me."

"Not like I care. Or… if I get out of this alive, I'll… kill… you…"

"Fine by me. If we truly are the same, then I'll have had it coming. Now, Prisoner no. 3, Fuuta, sing your sins."

Fuuta breathed a sigh of relief.

Fucking finally...

#milgram #au combo!!#es #fuuta kajiyama #order or attack #lights camera sing your sins #we are fuutaposting (FOUR posts across blogs??) then going to SLEEP its past my bedtime -_-#i was busy today so i stole some peaceful me time to write >:3 but i stole too much and now its 1am.... alas......#it was really fun setting this up like directors commentary asdfsdf (which i have an actual one to do from you still)#i expected for him to have more anger and impatience but i realized hed be pretty emotionally hurt still #also yeah. i think hed be in a bit of denial about his self-harming thoughts and unsure why they just start spilling out #then has to unpack A Lot behind the scenes #i think if it were anyone else hed go 'screw it - im going to ruin this experiment and call es out and everyone can go home'#but because he was moved by amanes mission specifically he has the bare minimum of self control to keep the act up ;--;#i wanted to include more of the fun behind the scenes mv details that hes aware of but it never really came up 🤔#thank you for the ask - this was so fun! :0 #drabbles #maybe? more like a parasite drabble latched onto your writing 😅

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biting-miguel-ohara · 3 months ago

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GUHH!!! I LOVE HOW U WROTE THE REQ IM SHAKING (｀Θ´) they prey instinct part!?/?/?:$:?:@:!:&: i went rabid. i'm feral and i'm crazy!!!! its like u read my mind and somehow made it even better. ur talent astounds me and i owe u my life i think!!! (ฅ>ω<*ฅ)

also i am always glad to give absolutely feral asks and reqs!!! it is my talent!!! and i have many more on the way (muahahaahaha evil laugh)

- 🎀 anon

🤭 I’m glad you liked it! I feel like something possessed me while I wrote it bc that’s the second best smut fic I’ve written!

And fr, I’m so glad you’re as feral as me. I was worried this fic was too much, and then I woke up to your Venom ask and was like OH. YOU GET IT!

So I’m glad you enjoyed 😁 Prepare for more really feral fics in the near future. I have a couple more Logan requests to get to and then it’s Venom time. And I am not holding back being feral for Venom 😈

Also, I’m literally so excited to see any future requests! Send as many as you want and have them be as feral as you’d like bc I’ll take them all!

(*Insert equally evil laugh here*)

#eeeee <3 #thank you thank you thank you #i’m so excited!!!#every ask from you is like an early christmas present #gets me so fucking excited to write #also to anyone else who reads this #don’t be afraid to be feral in my askbox #i love feral asks #even if they’re not requests #just spill your feral thoughts and i’ll match your freak #<3 #steviemail #🎀 anon

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luminni · 1 month ago

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Most desperate things the 141 boys have done for sex because I can't stop thinking about it <3

(sorry for this being a 3rd repost, I had an account called Lumi_bunsblog but that one got deleted for some reason so this is the new one now ig lol)

John's begged for it. I mean on his hands and knees begging for a taste. I know this man is an avid pussy pronoun user too. He has been on his knees in front of you as you sit pretty on his couch, trailing kisses up your soft belly to your tits and then back down to your thighs.

"C'mon sweet girl lemme' 'ave a taste of 'er yeah? Know she fuckin' needs me hm? Just look at tha'" as he runs a thumb of the wetness that's seeped through you thin panties, just waiting for you to say the words and let him tear them off.

He knows if anybody else in the 141 or if any of his fellow soldiers could see him now, the Captain Price practically drooling over you and sweet talking your cunt like it could hear him they would have a fit. But he couldn't care less because you looked so fucking good right now so "just let 'er 'ave what she wants alright sweet thing?"

I just know Kyle has spent 70% of his last month's pay check on hotel room because the 5 star pent house suite was the only hotel room in your area left available during the holidays. He played it cool with an arm around your waist assuring you it was fine, acting like this was the room he wanted to get, not the one he was forced to have. But if he was being forced to do anything thank god it was spoiling you.

"Don't worry 'bout it love. Just make 'urself comfortable" He'll say in a sultry sweet tone, planting kisses up the side of your neck before excusing himself to the lavish bathroom to check his bank account. He had to make sure he still had enough to buy you a nice breakfast in the morning.

And you're already layed out so pretty for him on the bed so he's not complaining about anything. Especially not the mirror situated on the ceiling right above the bed. Oh and don't you dare suggest splitting the cost, "just split your legs for me hun, 's all ya need to do"

Johnny is eager, like so so eager. When a passionate make out session on your couch got even more heated than either of you had previously expected and he now had his fingers playing with the waistband of your skirt, letting his cold finger tips splay themselves just below. When he got to the hem of your panties and began to hook a finger into the lace you had to stop him,

"Johnny"

"Yea?" He was breathless, chasing your lips when you pulled away to talk. You almost felt bad for separating but if he was going to touch you, there was one request you needed to make. You had felt his nails drag across your thighs moments earlier, it felt wonderful but they were...a little long.

"Do ya nae want this hen?" He'd ask, looking at you like you were a piece of art. Pleading with his eyes, shining like they'd spill tears if you said yes.

"No, no I want this, I want you so so much. It's just..." you trailed off

"Tell me what's wrong bonnie and I'll fix it, yeah?" his hands kept you grounded to his lap either a soft grip on you ass.

"It's just- you're nails, they're a little long" your request was nothing more than whisper.

'Oh' Johnny knew he probably should have just asked for clippers, but you felt so damn good on his lap. He could feel your warm cunt through the zipper of his jeans and with your tits brushing against his chest he couldn't bring himself to move.

You watched in shock as he just began to just tear his nails off with his teeth. Without a second thought his pointer and middle finger nails were bit off to the skin. He paused and looked at his right hand before ripping off the index finger as well.

"Johnny what's gotten into you-?"

But he's already got his hands back down your skirt. Soft finger tips slipping between your folds. "Feel better now eh?" And when you just nuzzled your nose into his neck and let out a little whimper he chuckled "I'll take tha' as a yes"

Simon swallows his pride for the first time in his life for a chance at hitting it raw. You tell him it's okay to not use protection, that you're on birth control. But you needed to make sure that he didn't have any stds seeing as they're even more of a pain when you're on birth control. Not that you don't trust him you just want to make sure and it's not a problem for him seeing as he has to get tested every other week being in the military.

He doesn't, however, have his records on him at the moment and with a girl already lying in his bed telling him he can cum inside. Plus a raging hard on, he doesn't exactly feel like running back to base to get the paper work. So...next best thing.

"Price-"

"Rare for ya to call on leave Simon, whatchya need?" Price responds, his voice cracking through the face time call, a cigar dangling from his lips.

"Sir I need..." he looks back at you, your eyes expectant and shining. You wanted him and he wasn't going to fuck this up. "Can you send me a picture of my last med check results?" He rushes out the last part, elbow on his knee and hand dragging over his face.

Price quirks one eyebrow but doesn't look like he's going to ask any questions. Unlucky for Simon though, Johnny was also in the room. His voice distantly coming through the phone,

"The feck ya need those for l.t.?" He questioned

Simon just groaned, soap's addition to this call just made it even more frustrating. But he snapped out of his frustration at the sound of price opening his file cabinet. "What part?" Price asked, dismissing Johnny with a wave of his hand.

"The-" Simon began, this was fucking embarrassing but when he looked back to you, now perched on your hands and knees, the plush of you hips resting on your ankles, he'd do anything at this point. "STD results." He responded plainly.

"Aye! No fuckin' way mate!" The sound of a chair scraping the floor could be heard as Johnny began to clammer over to his captain who pulled the sheet from his files.

"Ya didn't tell me he was in the room" Simon growled

"Ya didn't ask" Price droned

Johnny's head popped into frame "show me what she looks like ey l.t?"

"Not happening" Simon deadpanned

"Aw c'monnnn" The sergeant whined "just proud of you for finally getting some action!"

"Enough." Simon could see you biting your lip to stifle a laugh out of the corner of his eyes, a curious look in your eyes at his reddened face.

"Sent a picture to ya Simon" Price huffed, letting Johnny give him one last "good luck!" Before hanging up the phone.

You were a mess of giggles as he just shook his head and shoved the phone results in your face for you to look at. "See. Clean."

"Okay okay" you giggled, finally letting his form eclipse you back onto the pillows

"Went through a hell of a lot of trouble for ya, sweet girl" he whispered, nipping at the shell of your ear.

"I'll make it worth it" you said, kissing the corner of his lip and tangling your fingers in the back of his hair

"Christ woman" he groaned, feeling his cock twitch at your promise, "gunna' be the death a' me"

5K notes · View notes

ham1lton · 2 months ago

Text

X MARKS THE SPOT!

pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.

faceclaim: jessica alba.

summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.

warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3

author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D

now part of a trilogy!

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liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others

yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!

view all 298,727 comments

user1: MOTHERRR

user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!

-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡

user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.

user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!

-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂

user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.

-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓

user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.

-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.

user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.

-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.

user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.

-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!

-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!

user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.

*liked by yourinstagram.*

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“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.

dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.

by yn yln.

when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.

i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.

from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.

“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.

my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.

it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.

i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.

so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.

being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.

but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.

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r/books

Discussion Thread:

“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.

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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.

u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.

u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.

u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.

u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.

u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.

u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.

u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.

u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.

u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.

u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.

u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”

u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.

u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.

u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.

u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.

u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.

u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.

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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?

──────────────────────

‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’

──────────────────────

view all 23,727 comments

user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.

-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.

-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.

user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?

-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.

-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.

user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?

-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.

user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.

-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?

user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.

-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.

user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.

-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.

user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.

-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.

-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.

-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??

-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.

user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.

user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.

user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻

user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]

uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.

cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.

aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.

aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.

uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?

cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.

grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.

grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.

aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.

uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.

cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.

aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.

uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.

aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.

uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?

grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.

aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.

grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.

cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.

aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?

cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.

uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?

cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.

uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.

grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.

uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.

grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?

uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.

grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.

[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]

cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.

ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir! with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’

mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.

now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?

view all 2,983 comments

user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.

-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.

user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.

-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.

user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’

-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.

user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??

-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.

user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.

-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘trailblazer’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.

-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.

user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??

user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.

-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.

user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.

-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.

user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.

-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.

user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.

user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.

-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀

user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.

-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo

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— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)

────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────

4K notes · View notes