#the table tilt test is brutal

[mysticaledelusion]

life update

so how are y’all’s 2025 going.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the absolute shit-show that was the first half of the 2023 season.

Notes — Amelia being McLaren's literal saviour? IKTR

2023 (Saudi Arabia — Silverstone)

The paddock in Bahrain had started to quiet down after qualifying, the desert heat finally slipping away into a cooler breeze. Amelia was walking through the paddock, steps quick and stride polished, muttering statistics under her breath and trying to burn off some extra energy before debriefs were due to begin.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Adrian stood just outside Red Bull’s motorhome, hands in his pockets, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“Hi, Adrian,” she greeted, smiling politely at the man she’d once idolised who had become something more reminiscent of a friend over the last two years.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

He gestured for them to walk a little away from the thinning crowds. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since testing, but I figured it was better in person rather than on the phone.”

Amelia waited, quiet.

Adrian glanced toward the Red Bull garage, then back at her. “You have done something incredible,” he said. “The car — it’s… brutally efficient. Elegant, even. It’s the cleanest thing I’ve seen come out of our CFD pipeline in five years. Maybe longer.”

Amelia’s brow ticked up. “Thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. “So why did you leave, Amelia? You could’ve ridden that thing straight through another championship with Max. Earned the credit. The spotlight. A long, solid legacy.”

“I didn’t need to,” she said simply.

He blinked, thrown off. “Didn’t need to… win?”

“I didn’t need credit,” she clarified. “That was never the point. Max knows that this years car is ours — mine and his, in a way. You know, too. That’s enough for me.”

“You designed one of the most dominant aero concepts I’ve seen in a decade,” Adrian said, still incredulous. “And walked away before it even hit the track?”

Amelia nodded. Shrugged. “I didn't build the car for glory. I built it because I knew what it could be. And then I gave my concepts to you, so that you would make them happen, and you did.” She pursed her lips. “Max didn’t need me anymore. He knows how to handle a championship. He’s done it twice, now.”

“And McLaren does need you?” Adrian pressed.

“Yes,” she said. Smiled. “They do. Oscar too.”

Adrian looked at her like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. Slowly, he said, “You’ve created a car that will be remembered for generations.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care that you won’t get the credit?”

“No,” she said. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

There was a long silence, the dusk settling over them in a soft hush.

Adrian let out a slow breath, almost reverent. “I admire it, you know. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Amelia gave him the faintest smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not an easy person to understand.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “But you’re very, very good.” He paused. “God, sometimes, Amelia, I wonder if maybe you’re better than me.”

“I might be. One day,” she said, and turned to go.

—

The debrief room was quiet, too quiet.

Oscar sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, eyes on the floor. His race suit was half-unzipped, his undershirt sweat-darkened at the collar. Amelia sat at the head of the small conference table, her iPad flat in front of her, her stylus spinning slowly between her fingers.

“Well,” Oscar said dryly. “That was shit.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course you can.” She frowned at him.

Oscar looked over at her, brow creased faintly. “You knew the car wasn’t going to be good this year. You warned me. So why did you still come back to McLaren?”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, you were a big part of it.”

Oscar blinked at her.

“You needed somebody who was able to make the most of a bad situation,” she said. “Not someone who’d write it off before the lights went out. You’re better than the car right now. But the car won’t stay this way forever; I promise you that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “Right. Thanks,” he said eventually, voice low.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Amelia said, flicking a button on her iPad. “We’re both going to be angry for a while, at least until I can fix this.”

He nodded, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

She tapped through to the race data, then looked up. “Okay. So. Let’s talk lap one.”

Oscar squinted. “What was wrong with lap one?”

“You braked late into Turn 10. Just like you did in qualifying.”

“Maybe the corner needs to come sooner,” he muttered, deadpan.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just need more time in the sim.”

Oscar made a face. “If I spend any more time in it than you already make me do, I might merge with the chair.”

They dove into the telemetry together then — back and forth, sharp and focused, their language slowly becoming shorthand. She pointed out throttle traces, he challenged her on strategy calls. She fired back with sector deltas, he offered precise corner feedback.

By the time they were done, an hour had passed.

Oscar leaned back, drained but calmer. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, unapologetically. “I’m also right, most of the time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

She packed up her iPad, stood, and gestured toward the door. “Come on, ducky,” she said. “My husband is probably pacing somewhere, lamenting about how shit his car is. We need to stop him before he spirals.”

Oscar made a face as he got to his feet. “I don’t like being ducky.”

Amelia shrugged, unconcerned. “Too bad. You are.”

He sighed. “Why can’t I just be Oscar?”

“You can,” she said simply. “But you’re ducky too. Both can be true.”

Oscar blinked at her, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Amelia paused in the doorway, tilting her head like she was debating whether to explain. Then she did — bluntly, honestly, in her Amelia way. “Nicknames are… structure,” she said. “They help me sort people. Feelings. Connections. If I nickname you, it means I’ve decided I trust you. It’s like… mental shorthand. Emotional filing.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Like… categories?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes lighting up slightly. “It’s not random. It means something. I call you ducky because you’re calm on the surface and all chaos underneath, and also because you look like someone who would fall asleep in a bathtub. And because I like you. You’ve earned it.”

He stared at her. “I… don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Just know that it means I’ve put you in the ‘safe’ column.”

Oscar followed, a little dazed. “That’s a lot to attach to a duck.”

Amelia smiled to herself. “Also, my husband kept saying that I imprinted on you like a mother duck, so…”

They rounded the corner and found said husband, Lando, in the corridor, muttering to himself with a piece of tyre compound data pulled up on his phone.

Oscar pointed wordlessly.

Amelia just sighed. “See? Spiralling. I told you.” She stepped forward, nudged the phone down, and gently took her husband’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “You did well with what you had.”

Lando looked between the two of them, Amelia’s steady face, Oscar’s unreadable one, and let out a breath that was mostly a laugh. “We’re going to be fucking shit this year, aren’t we?” He asked.

Amelia sighed. “I hope not. I’m already trying to get my hands on the car, but the cost cap is preventing me from making any significant changes this early…”

Lando pouted at his wife.

“Pizza?” Oscar asked.

Amelia’s head snapped around in his direction. “Yes!”

Lando was still pouting when he said, “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Depression pizza. Yay!”

—

The glass walls of the office reflected the glow of early evening. Outside, the MTC lake was still, pale with late-winter. Inside, Amelia sat at the head of the table with her knees drawn up in the chair, a pink, battered notebook open in front of her.

Andrea leaned in to look closer. “You did this all by hand?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I think better with a pen and paper.”

Her dad, seated opposite her, turned a few pages. His brows rose as he scanned carefully drawn schematics, annotated calculations, wind tunnel projections, notes in tiny, slanted handwriting. Everything from ride height tweaks to theoretical suspension layouts to predicted competitor development trends.

“This is a full concept,” Andrea said, quietly impressed. “This is… years worth of work.”

“Just a few weeks,” Amelia said. “That’s not just theory in there, though. That’s a car.”

Zak sat back, flipping to the final page. It was labelled, in block capitals, with an underlined title.

PROJECT: MCL38-AN

Underneath, in her neat writing.

It’ll win if you trust it.

He looked up. “This will put us back on top?”

“I know it will,” Amelia said, finally meeting their eyes. “Everything I’ve learned — from Red Bull, from Max, from every telemetry graph and CFD failure and stupid porpoising issue in the last two years — I used it all. And not just to make something clever. To make something fast. Reliable. Adaptable.”

Andrea gently closed the notebook. “This is championship-level ambition.”

“It’s more than ambition,” Amelia said. “It’s your 2024 car. The notebook is yours now.”

Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to keep it?”

She shrugged. “No. I won’t need it, but you will. I’ve already made a million copies, but I’d like you to keep the original.”

Her dad looked at her and reached for the notebook again with something like reverence. “We’re going to need to start assembling a team around this immediately.” He said.

“I already started,” she told him. “Tom in aero’s got preliminary CFD models. Jordan’s been mocking up rear suspension geometry in CAD for two weeks.”

Andrea laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “You went over our heads?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things to chance,” she said. “And our car this year is awful. So bad. I needed to start making something happen, even if most of it will have to wait until next year.”

Her dad stood and leaned across the table, hand on the notebook. “Honey, this is…”

“Yours. Ours.” She said.

Andrea let out a breath.

Her dad stared at her for a beat, and then he was beaming.

—

It was nearly midnight, and the MTC was mostly dark — save for the soft hum of light in the engineering wing. Amelia sat on the floor of her office, legs crossed, iPad glowing in her lap.

Oscar lay stretched out on the rug in front of her, still in his training kit, a protein shake abandoned next to him. Lando was in her desk chair, spinning gently, half-asleep and barefoot.

“This is the weirdest sleepover I’ve ever been to,” Oscar muttered.

“You say that every time you hang out with us,” Lando replied, yawning.

“I mean it every time.” Oscar said.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Shut up. I’m trying to change the trajectory of your entire careers right now.”

That got their attention.

Lando leaned forward. “What are you doing, baby?”

Amelia turned the iPad so they could both see the screen. Her voice was calm, even, but there was a thread of something bright underneath it. “This is going to be your 2024 car.”

Oscar blinked. “You—what?”

She tapped through a few screens: 3D renders, rear suspension models, aero flow maps. “Codename MCL38-AN. I told you both that I already had it planned out, didn’t I?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “You really think that’ll put us at the front of the grid?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re driving scrap metal right now, I won’t lie. It’s holding you both back. But this car—” she tapped the image again “—this is what we’re building toward. This is the one. The team just needs time. I need time.”

Oscar was staring at the iPad, wide eyed. “You’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. All I need is for you to keep showing up. To keep believing. We’re not going to be at the back of the grid forever.”

Lando stood, walked over, and looked down at the designs for a long moment. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Why are you showing us now?”

“Because,” she said, glancing between them, “I can’t ask you to keep suffering through this season unless you have a reason. A future. This is your future. You’ll win races in this car.”

Oscar laughed, breathless and stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, finally smiling. “Holy shit.”

Lando slid down onto the floor beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Us. This team. This sport.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Oscar pointed at the iPad again. “Can I name it?”

“No.” She said.

“Can I drive it now?” He asked.

“It doesn’t exist yet.” She told him.

“Then can I keep being your ducky?”

She looked at him, bemused. “You want to be ducky now?”

“I’m reconsidering my argument,” he muttered. “Out of loyalty…”

Lando was grinning. “We’re going to win championships, aren’t we?”

Amelia nodded. Smiled at her husband. Kissed him. “Yes. We are.”

—

They got back to Monaco well past midnight, Lando wordless beside her in the car. The race had been brutal. Another pointless race. Another weekend where the car hadn’t performed, and the looped back data had made her want to throw her laptop into the Red Sea.

But home was home.

Amelia dropped her bags in the entryway, kicked off her trainers, and walked straight to the kitchen, wordlessly opening the fridge. She fished out a can of Diet Coke and pressed it to her forehead.

Behind her, Lando wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"You gonna fire me?” He asked quietly.

She laughed despite the burning itch under her skin. “No. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled against her neck.

They stood like that for a beat. Amelia breathed in the scent of his hoodie and let the familiar weight of him soothe the static in her chest. He was solid. Warm. Hers.

Finally, she turned around and kissed his jaw. “It’ll get better.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Because I’m getting real tired of seeing you more frustrated than smug.”

She cracked a smile. “I’m always smug.”

“There she is.”

—

Amelia didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was loud, chaotic, and always somewhat efficient.

Oscar sat at the breakfast bar, watching her with mild horror as she chopped onions at a blinding speed.

“You’re a very violent chef,” he observed.

“The quicker it’s done, the better,” she said. “Now pass me the basil, ducky.”

He handed it over. “Still don’t particularly like being called that.”

“Don’t care.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you want red or white wine?”

—

The living room was littered with discarded Uno cards, an empty pizza box, and the remains of someone’s sprite can that Max Fewtrell had been using as a drum for the last ten minutes.

“You are cheating,” Pietra said flatly, accusing Lando with a pointed look.

“I’m just playing strategically.”

Amelia, half-asleep on the sofa with her feet in Lando’s lap, mumbled, “Strategically being a little shit, yeah.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Lando shot back, tugging her ankle gently. “Hate the wife.”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for that,” she muttered, eyes still closed.

Max Verstappen arrived late, as usual. Amelia opened one eye when he collapsed beside her on the sofa and started picking at the leftover cold garlic bread.

“Missed you.” She told him sleepily.

“Missed you too, zusje.” He said.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

—

The Spanish GP had been marginally better than the ones that’d come before. Still not good. But better.

Back at the airport, Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, while Amelia reviewed strategy notes and Lando bought three Snickers and two iced teas.

Lando dropped next to her with a huff, his arm winding around her waist, hand flexing before squeezing her hip. “I’m considering sabotage.”

“Of?”

“The car. I’m gonna drive it into a lake or something.”

Oscar pulled one headphone off. “Wouldn’t it sink?”

Lando stared at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Hydrodynamics are important.” Oscar smirked.

Amelia sighed. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned closer, then passed him a highlighter. “Help me mark the wind tunnel data.”

—

They’d flown into Spielberg a little early to prep and decompress. Amelia had her notes. Lando had brought five pairs of sunglasses and absolutely no socks. Oscar was, predictably, already on his fifth stretch of the legs down the paddock.

The three of them walked the track together at sunset, shoes crunching against the gravel.

“You know,” Amelia said, glancing between the two drivers, “if either of you crashes this weekend, I won’t be happy.”

“Would you leave me for dead?” Oscar asked, deadpan.

“Yes.” She lied.

“She wouldn’t,” Lando said.

Amelia looked ahead, wind tugging at her hair, then back at the boys; her husband and her ducky.

This job was hell. The car was beyond flawed. The season wasn’t what they’d hoped.

But this, this team, this family, this effort, felt like something worth holding onto.

—

Silverstone came, and there was a shift.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, arms crossed over her chest, watching the mechanics finish prepping the car for FP1.

The upgraded floor. The reshaped side-pods. The altered rear suspension geometry she’d argued over for weeks.

It was all here. On track. Real.

It wasn’t perfect — of course it wasn’t. The budget cap had demanded compromises. She hadn’t been able to implement the full package she’d thrown together back in March. That version of the MCL60 was meaner, leaner, cleverer — a little monster of a thing. A title fighter.

But this was the one they could afford. And she’d made it the best it could be.

Oscar stepped beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit halfway unzipped. “Doesn’t look like a paper towel on wheels anymore.”

She hummed. “No. More like... a reinforced napkin. Maybe a placemat.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “How confident are you?”

She exhaled slowly. “Seventy percent we’re in the points. Fifty percent one of you surprises me. Zero percent we DNF. I’ve triple-checked the aero modelling. You’re safe.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. Then, “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not. But it’s what we’ve got. And it’s good enough to fight for points rather than the chequered flag.”

Oscar squeezed her shoulder. Tight. “I trust you.”

There was something boyish in the way he said it. Uncomplicated. She smiled and nudged him toward the car. “Go, ducky.”

“Still don’t like that.”

“Don’t care.”

—

By Sunday, the paddock was electric.

The buzz was real. The performance gains were visible. And people were talking.

After qualifying, someone from Sky asked Lando if he felt like McLaren were back in the fight for ‘best of the rest’.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. We’ve got Amelia Norris to thank for that.”

That one made her throat pinch.

Later, back in the garage, she caught Andrea’s eye as he leaned over the pit wall screens. He grinned, then gave her a thumbs-up.

Even her dad, who’d spent the last several months managing expectations to sponsors and shareholders, gave her a bear hug that nearly knocked her clipboard out of her hands.

“You’ve made believers out of us again, kiddo,” he said into her ear. “They’re already asking about 2024.”

Amelia stepped back and smiled tightly. “Let us get through this race first.”

—

Lando was flying. Oscar was right on his gearbox. And Amelia was vibrating in her seat, headset digging into her ears.

The car wasn’t just competitive; it was racy. Bold. Alive.

She and Will traded glances as they watched Lando chase down Lewis.

“This is all you,” Will said.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

Oscar’s voice crackled in her ear. “Is this what driving a real car feels like?”

Amelia couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Keep it clean, ducky. Still a few laps to go.”

“Is my wife crying tears of joy right now?” Lando asked over his radio. “I bet she is.”

“She is.” Will said.

“Liar.” Amelia laughed, and okay, maybe she did sound a bit choked up.

—

The crowd was still roaring and Amelia was frozen beside the pit wall, headset hair sticking out from under her cap, breathing like she’d just done the full length of the race herself.

It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

Lando ran up behind her and flung his arms around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground as she shrieked.

“Put me down, you sweaty idiot—!”

“We did it!”

“You did it.”

“No,” Lando said, spinning her once before finally setting her down. “You did.”

He kissed her, quick and messy, and the cameras were definitely watching, but she didn’t care. She’d earned this moment.

Oscar wandered over and offered her a half-hearted fist bump.

“Better than a placemat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

“Almost a dinner plate,” she agreed.

He laughed, and then he took her to watch the podium.

Max on top. Lewis next. And then her Lando.

Her husband.

Beaming right at her.

She made Oscar hug her. Needed the deep-pressure to cut through the overwhelming joy coursing through her veins. Somebody took a picture and posted it on Twitter with the tag ‘Best racer/engineer duo EVER’.

—

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on their hotel bed, notebook open in her lap, notes scribbled in every margin.

Lando walked out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp.

“You’re still working?”

She looked up. “I’m trying to figure out how to sneak in another mini upgrade before Qatar.”

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. “You’re mad, you know.”

Amelia frowned. “I’m not.”

He slid into bed beside her. “C’mere. Work can wait till tomorrow.”

She paused, then closed the notebook and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it,” she warned. “That’s the future in your hands.”

He looked at the cover, scuffed, dented, covered in papaya and coffee stains, and held it like it was a sacred text.

“We’re going to have podium celebration sex now.” She told him. “I bought chequered flag lingerie.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh—Holy shit. You did?”

She smiled. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[gabseyoo]

FIFTEEN SECONDS — SAKUSA KIYOOMI

content: female reader, friends to lovers, love confession, fluff, bit of comedy. word count: 1,2k.

note: here’s a little something for valentine’s day, hope you like it!

What should I say?

“Here.” No, too dry.

“Here, it’s for you.” Shit, still too dry.

“I bought this for you, I hope you like it.” Okay, that one wasn’t so bad. 

For the past ten minutes, Kiyoomi had been locked in a brutal staring contest with the small black box sitting on the café table. The thing wasn’t even looking at him, and yet he was the one losing.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

He had bought the damn gift two weeks ago. Two weeks of overthinking, of waiting for the perfect moment, of nearly shoving it to the back of his closet out of sheer nerves. But then Valentine’s Day crept up on him, and he thought—maybe this was fate giving him a chance.

Or setting him up for humiliating rejection.

Kiyoomi had rehearsed this moment in his head. And still, here he was, breaking into a nervous sweat over a bracelet. What if you didn’t like it? What if you thought it was stupid? What if you liked someone else?

Then, in the middle of his internal crisis, a familiar voice nearly made him jump.

“Hey, Kiyoomi.”

He looked up so fast he almost knocked the gift off the table. There you were, standing in front of him with that impossibly pretty smile, your presence alone enough to make his pulse go haywire.

“Did you already order, or should I—?” You asked as you sat down in front of him. 

“I already did.” He forced his voice to stay steady. “Iced latte with two shots of vanilla, right?”

Your smile grew. “You know me so well.”

Yeah, because I’m hopelessly in love with you.

The words were right there. On the tip of his tongue.

Relax, Kiyoomi. Ease into it.

That was the smart thing to do. You didn’t just shove a confession at someone out of nowhere—there should be a conversation first, something natural.

“So, uh…” He wracked his brain for something—anything—normal to say. “How’s work?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “It’s fine?”

What the hell was that, Kiyoomi? It was comical how his calm and collected personality seemed to disappear at this moment when he needed it most. Was love always this complicated? Or was it because it was about you?

You tilted your head. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he was absolutely not okay. His fingers tapped anxiously against the small box. The longer he waited, the worse this was getting. His nerves were eating him alive. He could already feel the impending doom of chickening out.

Screw it.

With zero transition or warning, he grabbed the box and shoved it across the table. “Here.”

Goddamn it. 

You blinked in surprise. “For me?”

A stiff nod. This was fine. You’d open it, love it, and then he’d tell you. Smooth. Simple. Foolproof.

Except…

You were taking your sweet time untying the ribbon.

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to do it for you. Why were you so slow? Was this some kind of test? Did you already know he was panicking and just wanted to see him suffer?

Finally, you lifted the lid. Your lips parted as you took out the delicate silver bracelet, the small star charm catching the café’s warm light.

“Oh, Kiyoomi…” You breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

His fingers twitched under the table as your eyes widened slightly. “Wait… this is—”

Kiyoomi looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the café menu on the wall. “Yeah.”

Your fingers traced the charm, realization dawning. “This is the bracelet from that shop at the mall, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

You turned to him, eyes suspiciously bright. “You went back for it?”

Kiyoomi picked up his coffee, taking a slow sip as if that would somehow make this moment less humiliating. “You wouldn’t stop staring at it.”

“I looked at it for like, five seconds.”

“It was at least fifteen.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

This was it. The perfect moment.

He took a breath, preparing to say the words that had been stuck in his chest for way too long.

“I—” He began, but the words he had rehearsed for days were interrupted when a waiter appeared at the table.

“Here’s your order! One vanilla iced latte and one black coffee.”

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack a tooth. Not now, man. 

He nodded stiffly as you thanked the waiter. Okay, fine. Minor setback. 

“What were you saying?” You asked after the guy turned around, taking a sip from your drink.

His heart was about to beat out of his chest. Now. Now is the time. Just say it: I like you.

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, determined to do it, but then— 

“Do you need any sugar?”

Oh my god.

Kiyoomi glared at the waiter. Who was back. Did this man have a vendetta against his love life?

He mumbled a half-hearted, “No, thanks.”

“Cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“Any appetizer? We have a special red velvet cake because of Valentine's Day.”

Was this a joke?

“We’re fine.”

“Actually, I want a slice of cake.” You said.

Before the waiter could leave, Kiyoomi muttered, “Make that two.”

The guy finally left, and he was beginning to get irritated by his bad luck.

Just do it now! He scrambled at himself mentally. 

“Y/N, I bought–” He hurried to say, but then the loud hiss from the blender machine drowned out his voice.

Was this the universe making fun of him? 

By now, he was one more interruption away from actually losing it. So, ignoring the annoying noise, he decided to just keep going, “I bought this because–”

“Oh! Look at that dog outside.”

Kiyoomi stopped mid-sentence as you turned to the window, grinning at a fluffy golden retriever wagging its tail on the sidewalk. Are you serious?

But, when he turned back to you, you were watching him with amusement.

You two made eye contact for a few seconds, he blinked, you blinked, and then— you laughed.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What?”

You smirked. “Kiyoomi, don’t be so shy.”

His stomach dropped.

“I like you too.”

For a full three seconds, his brain just ceased to function.

You… what?

His ears burned. His grip tightened on his cup. His entire soul left his body. “You knew?”

You giggled, tapping his hand lightly. “Of course. I actually got something for you too.”

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small gift box, setting it on the table in front of him. Kiyoomi tried—really tried—not to look too eager as he picked it up and carefully lifted the lid.

Inside was a watch. The watch. The one he had lingered on in the mall that day.

“You looked at it for at least fifteen seconds.” You teased, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

Kiyoomi froze. His fingers tightened around the box as the realization sank in.

You had noticed. Just like he had noticed you staring at the bracelet. You both had thought of each other.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. His throat felt tight, his chest oddly warm. He looked up at you, something soft, something real in his gaze.

“This is—”

“Here they are! Two slices of red velvet cake!”

Kiyoomi visibly twitched.

Oh, come on!

[fawnistry]

ᥫ᭡ dead dove: do not eat.

content warnings: noncon/dubcon, medical experimentation, forced arousal, body betrayal, sensory manipulation,  physical restraint, pain-play, overstimulation, forced orgasms

▷ preview: zayne is a morally bankrupt scientist testing a new aphrodisiac drug, and you are his unwilling subject.

the cold metal table bites into your bare skin as you struggle against the restraints. zayne watches, his dark eyes gleaming behind those round glasses, fingers tapping against his clipboard.

"subject 47," he murmurs, voice smooth as poison. "let’s see how you handle this."

the syringe glints under the harsh lab lights, the unknown liquid inside a sickly, iridescent pink.

"new formula," he explains, almost conversational. "designed to amplify nerve sensitivity by… oh, about 300%." the needle slides into your arm before you can scream. "side effects include—" he pushes the plunger, and the burn floods your veins, "—inescapable arousal."

you gasp as the heat spreads, your body betraying you instantly. every brush of air against your skin feels like a tongue, every shift of fabric like fingers dragging too hard. zayne smirks, pulling out a recorder.

"subject exhibits rapid onset of symptoms: dilated pupils, increased heart rate, flushed skin." his gloved hand skates up your inner thigh, and you jerk, a whimper tearing from your throat. "ah, and heightened sensitivity to touch. excellent."

you beg him to stop, but he only tilts his head, amused. "scream all you want. no one can hear you down here." his fingers dip between your legs, and you sob—the contact is agony, pleasure, too much, not enough.

"fascinating," he murmurs, watching your hips buck involuntarily. "the drug seems to override conscious resistance." he circles your clit with clinical precision, scribbling notes as you writhe. "tell me, does it feel good? or does it just feel inescapable?"

you can’t answer, your mind fraying under the onslaught. he adds another layer—a blindfold, noise-cancelling headphones—plunging you into darkness, where the only sensations are his hands and the drug’s cruel insistence.

"let’s test pain thresholds," he muses, and then his teeth sink into your shoulder. you arch, a scream locked in your chest as pleasure-pain blurs into white-hot need.his fingers push inside you, fucking you with brutal efficiency.

"vocalizations increase with penetration—interesting."

his grip on your hips is bruising, his pace relentless. you come without permission, your body seizing as he hums approvingly. "orgasm achieved in under three minutes. dosage may need adjustment."

but he doesn’t stop. he unzips his pants with one hand, still jotting notes like you’re nothing more than data between his brutal thrusts. your body convulsing with unbearably pleasure as his heavy cock kisses the walls of your soaked cunt. 

when he finally unplugs your ears, your voice is raw from screaming. he just smiles, wiping his hands on a towel. "wonderful results. we’ll continue tomorrow." the door clicks shut, leaving you trembling, aching, and already dreading the next experiment.

[sshnzsr]

adidas boy

warnings: dom!sunghoon, unprotected sex, slapping (pussy and ass), p in v, orgasm denial, sex with no feelings attached, creampie, semi-public sex

wordcount: 0.6k

-

Sunghoon tilts his head for your camera, the Adidas gear hugging his frame as he locks into the pose. He’s the new brand ambassador and it shows every sharp line of his body screams confidence. But his eyes aren’t on the lens. They’re on you. You circle him, snapping shots, your voice cutting through the air with crisp commands. “Chin up. Look at me.” He does and the heat in his gaze catches you off guard. Professional, sure, but edged with something that sends a jolt down your spine.

You lower the camera for a second, smirking as you meet his stare. “Not bad,” you say, keeping your tone light but letting a challenge slip through. “You might actually make this work.”

He steps closer, his smirk mirroring yours. “Might? You’re underestimating me.” His voice dips, low and deliberate, testing you. You don’t back down, just raise a brow and that’s all it takes to light the fuse.

The crew starts to scatter, their chatter fading as they take a break, but neither of you moves. His hand finds your waist, pulling you against him fast and hard. Your camera hits the table with a thud as his lips crash into yours. Hot, messy, and straight to the point. No hesitation, just raw need. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails catching on the fabric and he presses you back against the surface, his hands sliding down with intent.

“Door,” you gasp between kisses, your breath uneven. He breaks away just long enough to stride over and lock it, the click loud in the quiet. He’s back in a heartbeat, pinning you to the wall this time. His mouth trails to your neck, teeth grazing your skin as you arch into him, a soft moan escaping before you can stop it. It’s like throwing fuel on a fire. He takes it and runs.

Your jeans are gone in moments, his pants following just as quick, the Adidas sweatpants pooling at his feet. His hand cracks against your ass, sharp and stinging, pulling a gasp from you. “You like that?” he growls, watching you squirm. You glare at him, defiant, but the way your thighs press together gives you away.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you snap, patience wearing thin. He doesn’t waste time, lifting you until your legs wrap around his hips and slamming into you with one brutal thrust. No barriers, just heat, friction and the stretch of him filling you completely. The pace is relentless, skin slapping against skin, your choked cries mixing with his low grunts. It’s not gentle, not sweet. It’s about getting what you both want, right here, right now.

Your nails rake down his back as he shifts, hitting deeper, and you feel yourself unraveling. “Close?” he rasps, sensing the way you tighten around him. You nod, desperate, but he slows just enough to keep you hanging on the edge. “Not yet,” he says, voice cold despite the sweat beading on his brow. You curse him, frustration boiling over, but he smirks, spinning you around to take you from behind.

Another slap.

This time between your legs makes you whimper, your body shaking as he thrusts back in. He’s merciless, driving harder, the tension coiling until it snaps. With a groan, he spills inside you, the warmth pushing you over too, your walls clenching around him despite his earlier tease. It’s messy, reckless and exactly what you needed.

You stay like that for a moment, panting, sweat slicked and spent. Then he pulls out, stepping back as you brace yourself against the wall. He tugs the Adidas pants back on, cool as ever, while you fumble with your jeans, hands still shaky.

“Next shoot should be interesting,” he says, grabbing a water bottle and heading for the door.

You snort, picking up your camera. “Don’t hold your breath.”

But the faint smirk tugging at your lips says you’re not entirely ruling it out.

masterlist

[p0orbaby]

this isn’t even getting a title because i can’t be bothered

SMUT 18+ couldn’t tell you what

-

The flat still smells faintly of the curry Leah insisted on cooking last night, even though you’d both agreed that her culinary experiments were best avoided. There’s a tension in the air tonight, not from any argument or unresolved issue, but from something unspoken, something that’s been simmering between you all day. It started in the kitchen this morning when Leah came up behind you, her hands sliding around your waist, her lips pressing into the curve of your neck in a way that was soft but insistent.

You didn’t have time then, and you told her as much, though you’d felt her smirk against your skin when you swatted her hand away. She thrives on moments like that, moments where she can push and tease and test the limits of your patience. By the time dinner came around, you could feel her watching you from across the table, her eyes sharp, her posture lazy but calculated. Leah Williamson doesn’t ask for what she wants; she demands it, and it’s that unspoken challenge in her that drives you to meet her with equal force.

Now, hours later, the atmosphere is thick. The curtains are half-drawn, the streetlight outside casting a dull orange glow against the wall. Leah is already on her knees, her palms pressed into the scratchy carpet as she glances back at you. Her hair is tied loosely at the nape of her neck, but strands have fallen free, sticking to her sweat-slicked temple. She looks wild like this—untamed, unguarded—and it hits you in a way that feels almost primal.

Her knees are already red from the friction, and you can tell she’s been shifting her weight, the faint tremor in her thighs betraying her impatience. You’ve made her wait longer than usual tonight, deliberately dragging out the anticipation because you know how much it riles her. She thrives on the tension, on the way you can take her to the edge of her restraint before pushing her over completely.

“You’re going to take forever, aren’t you?” she says, her voice sharp but breathless. There’s a bite to her tone, but it’s undercut by the way she arches her back, tilting her hips toward you in an unspoken plea.

“Maybe,” you reply, your voice low, clipped. You step forward, adjusting the harness against your hips with practiced precision. The weight of it is familiar now, grounding, and you tighten the straps until they dig into your skin.

Leah exhales sharply when your hands find her hips, your fingers gripping hard enough to make her flinch. You pull her back against you, her body shifting easily under your touch, and she lets out a low, impatient sound that makes you smirk.

“You’ve been waiting for this all day,” you murmur, your breath hot against her ear as you lean over her.

“Don’t make me beg,” she snaps, though the tremor in her voice betrays her.

You chuckle darkly, pulling back just enough to take in the sight of her—her flushed cheeks, the way her shoulders tense with every sharp breath. “I don’t think you could beg even if you tried,” you say, your tone mocking, challenging.

Her head turns slightly, her blue eyes meeting yours in a look that’s equal parts defiance and surrender. “Try me,” she says, her voice low, daring.

It’s all the invitation you need.

When you push into her, there’s no hesitation, no slow build. You drive forward with a force that makes her cry out, her body jerking against the pressure. Her hands scramble for purchase against the floor, her fingers curling into the carpet as she tries to hold herself steady.

The pace you set is merciless, your hips slamming against hers in a rhythm that’s brutal and unrelenting. Each thrust sends her forward, her knees dragging against the carpet until the skin there is raw, but she doesn’t complain. If anything, the sharp hiss of pain she lets out only spurs you on.

“Is this what you wanted?” you growl, your voice rough, breathless.

“Yes,” she gasps, her head dropping low, her forehead nearly touching the floor.

You grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back sharply until her back arches. Her breathing is ragged now, broken gasps that punctuate the sound of your bodies colliding.

“Look at you,” you murmur, your tone laced with mockery. “Completely at my mercy”

Leah lets out a sharp, fractured laugh that turns into a moan. “Fuck off,” she manages, though there’s no real venom in her voice.

You tug her hair harder, forcing her to meet your gaze. “What was that?”

“Don’t stop,” she says, her voice cracking. “Just—don’t stop.”

Her knees are slipping now, her thighs trembling with the effort to hold herself up. You release her hair, shoving her back down until her cheek presses against the carpet. Your hands find her hips again, your nails digging into her skin as you drive into her harder, faster.

Leah cries out, her body bowing under the force of your movements. The tension in her muscles snaps, and she collapses forward, her weight sinking into the floor. You don’t stop immediately, drawing out the moment until she’s gasping, her breaths shallow and uneven.

Finally, you slow, easing back as you catch your breath. The room feels impossibly small now, the air heavy and suffocating, but you don’t move.

Leah doesn’t move either, her body limp, her cheek pressed against the carpet. Sweat drips from her temple, pooling on the floor beneath her, and her knees are a mess of raw, angry red.

Eventually, she shifts, turning onto her side with a groan. Her face is flushed, her hair sticking to her damp skin, and her blue eyes flicker open to meet yours.

“You’re a menace,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

You smirk, leaning back against the bed frame as you survey the aftermath. “And you love it”

She laughs softly, the sound low and breathless, and doesn’t bother to argue.

[kathaelipwse]

Carved in Sin | Dokyeom

Masterlist

<<<previous chapter | next chapter>>>

Pairing: Art.student!reader x Mafia.Leader!DK

Trope: Forbidden love

Warnings: Slow Burn | Hidden Identity | Your Muse | Fluff | THIS MIGHT TRIGGER A FEW READERS AS IT GETS GRUESOME.

Word Count: 1.1k

Chapter 13 – The Devil’s Next Move

The tension in the room was suffocating. Eleven men stood in the grand hall of Seokmin’s penthouse, all eyes locked onto the ominous black box that sat at the center of the long wooden table. A second one. No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the slow, deliberate ticking of the antique clock on the wall, each second stretching unbearably long.

Seokmin’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. The first time had been a warning—brutal, sickening, and meant to rattle them. This one? This was a challenge.

Joshua exhaled sharply before stepping forward, flipping the lid open with steady hands. But even he tensed at the sight inside. A severed set of fingers of the lower class employees who worked under the twelve, tossed carelessly atop crumpled white cloth now stained crimson. The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

Hoshi clicked his tongue. “They’re toying with us.”

Joshua picked up the note placed beside the fingers and read aloud:

How many more pieces will you lose before you give us what we want?

Seokmin’s entire body went rigid. His heartbeat was steady, too steady. A dangerous calm settled over him as his mind processed the message. They want her.

He turned on his heel, walking over to the bar and grabbing a glass. The sound of ice cubes clinking against the crystal rang through the silence. Pouring himself a drink, he took a slow sip, letting the burn of whiskey slide down his throat before slamming the glass onto the counter with force.

The impact sent a sharp crack through the air. The room remained eerily still.

“You think they’re going to stop?” Wonwoo asked, arms crossed over his chest. His tone was unreadable, but his sharp gaze flickered between Seokmin and the box.

Seokmin scoffed, his jaw tightening. “No.”

“This is psychological warfare,” Joshua murmured, setting the note down. “They’re testing you. Seeing how far they can push before you break.”

Hoshi leaned back against the wall, arms folded. “They’re trying to make you desperate. A desperate man makes reckless decisions.”

Seokmin tilted his head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “Then we remind them who they’re dealing with.”

A silence settled before you—who had been watching all of this from the sidelines—stepped forward.

“They want me,” you stated, voice steady. “Then let’s make them regret it.”

The weight of your words hung in the air. Some of the men glanced at you in surprise, but Seokmin? He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, something in his gaze flickered—something dark, something protective.

He exhaled sharply. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You expected that answer, but still, frustration bubbled up. “You can’t keep me locked up forever.”

His gaze darkened. “You think this is a game?”

“I think I deserve a say in what happens to me,” you shot back.

His jaw clenched. “Not when your life is at stake.”

His words made your stomach twist, but you refused to back down. Instead, you stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”

His body tensed at your words. For the first time, he didn’t immediately respond. He didn’t need to—you already knew the answer. You saw it in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, in the way his breath hitched for just a fraction of a second.

“You have no idea what I’ve done to keep you safe.”

The words were barely a whisper, but they carried the weight of something heavy, something buried. And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with more questions than answers.

Later that night, the penthouse was unusually quiet. You lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the tension coiling in your chest.

Then—

The alarm blared.

Your heart nearly stopped.

The security lights outside flashed red. A sudden rush of footsteps echoed through the hallways as guards moved into formation. Panic shot through you as you scrambled to your feet.

A hand clamped over your mouth.

Your entire body froze.

“Not a sound,” a deep voice murmured into your ear. The cold press of a gun kissed your temple. “Unless you want me to paint these walls with your pretty little brains.”

Your breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as fear wrapped its icy fingers around your throat.

Outside, you could hear Seokmin’s men barking orders, but none of them knew—none of them realized that the enemy was already inside.

Your pulse pounded as the man holding you dragged you backward, his grip like steel. You struggled, but he was too strong.

The last thing you heard before the darkness swallowed you whole was the sound of Seokmin’s name being called—by someone who shouldn’t be here.

Seokmin was on the phone when the door to his study burst open. His men stormed in, their expressions grim.

He barely had time to react before Joshua spoke, his voice clipped. “Boss… they took her.”

Everything stopped.

For the first time in years, Seokmin felt a sharp, unfamiliar feeling coil in his chest—pure, unfiltered fear.

His fingers tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white.

Wonwoo stepped forward. “We have security footage. They were fast. Professionals.”

Seokmin didn’t move. He didn’t speak.

Then, finally, in a voice so eerily calm it sent chills down the room, he asked, “Who?”

Joshua met his gaze. “Triad.”

Silence. The kind that felt like the moment before a storm destroyed everything in its path.

Seokmin exhaled slowly, deliberately. The eerie calm remained as he reached for the gun resting on the table.

“Kill every single one of them.”

No hesitation. No mercy.

The Devil had just been provoked.

And now, there would be hell to pay.

...To Be Continued

---

Taglist: @lixisoul99

[blairwritingscript]

**Hunters of the Silent Moon p.3**

(part one) (part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (part six) (part seven) (part eight) (part nine) (part ten)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N sat on the sleeping platform, fingertips gliding over the unfamiliar texture beneath her. The material was firm, almost rubberized, lacking any real comfort but significantly preferable to the unyielding metal floor where she had previously been kept. The chamber around her was dimly illuminated, its walls composed of dark alloy etched with angular, almost ritualistic markings. The air carried a distinct metallic tang, underscored by an earthy musk that reminded her of damp stone and scorched iron. Embedded symbols pulsed faintly, casting an eerie glow over the array of weapons meticulously mounted on the walls—serrated blades, curved wrist gauntlets, and tools of unknown purpose, each a silent testament to the lethality of her captors.

Why had Vey’ta intervened on her behalf? And why now?

The Yautja remained an enigma—highly intelligent, brutally efficient, and bound to a code she did not yet understand. This shift in treatment was not born of kindness; she knew better than to believe in such sentiment. But it was calculated, strategic. There was a reason for it, and she needed to figure out what that was before it was too late.

A sharp chime reverberated through the room. The door slid open with a mechanical hiss, and Vey’ta entered, carrying a tray laden with unfamiliar sustenance. He placed it on a metal table affixed to the wall and took a deliberate step back, studying her with that same unwavering intensity.

“You are not consuming enough,” he observed, his deep voice resonating through the space.

Y/N eyed the offering. Though she had been given food before, she had barely touched it, her appetite suppressed by a constant undercurrent of tension. But survival demanded strength, and weakness was not an option.

She hesitated before selecting a piece of the alien fare, biting into its fibrous texture. It was denser than expected, the taste unfamiliar yet not unpleasant. She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then met his gaze. “You don’t have to do this.”

Vey’ta tilted his head in that distinctly inhuman way. “I choose to.”

That answer unsettled her more than she cared to admit. There was intent behind it, something beyond mere obligation. But what?

The silence between them thickened before Y/N finally broke it. “What happens next?”

Vey’ta did not answer immediately. His mandibles flexed slightly, as though he were selecting his words with care. “You will be tested soon.”

Her grip on the food tightened. “Tested how?”

His mask reflected the dim light as he regarded her. “You will see.”

Not exactly reassuring.

Y/N placed the tray aside, her stomach tightening with unease. “And if I fail?”

Vey’ta hesitated. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter, almost measured. “Then you will not require a room any longer.”

A cold finality laced his words. Y/N exhaled slowly, steadying herself before leveling her gaze at him. “Then I guess I’d better not fail.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. But he nodded once before pivoting toward the door.

As the panel sealed shut behind him, Y/N clenched her fists. Whatever awaited her, whatever this so-called test entailed, she would be ready.

Time passed in an unbroken cycle. The artificial lighting in her chamber remained unchanged, leaving her disoriented—uncertain of how many hours, or even days, had slipped by. Sleep was restless, fractured by an ever-present vigilance. She forced herself to eat, to maintain what little control she had left over her own body.

She had settled into a rhythm, however fragile—eating, resting, keeping herself alert. Uncertainty lingered, but she refused to let it consume her.

Then, the summons came.

The door slid open, but this time, Vey’ta was not alone. Ka’Thar stood beside him, his posture rigid with impatience, his arms crossed in a manner that suggested both skepticism and disdain. His mandibles flared slightly, as if doubting the worth of what was about to transpire. Where Vey’ta carried an air of measured observation, Ka’Thar radiated uncontained aggression. His presence alone was a warning.

Vey’ta inclined his head toward the open hallway. “It is time.”

Y/N exhaled evenly, keeping her expression unreadable. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it. She followed them out, her senses sharpening as they moved. The corridor was vast, lined with the same pulsating glyphs, its metallic walls carrying the distant, rhythmic hum of unseen machinery.

As they walked, Vey’ta finally spoke again. “You must survive.”

Y/N cast him a sidelong glance. “Survive what?”

Ka’Thar let out a low, guttural growl, clearly irritated by her insistence on questioning. “You waste breath.”

But Vey’ta did not dismiss her inquiry so easily. “A trial of strength. Training. You will be tested as we are. Prove yourself, and you will earn more than survival.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. There was no turning back now. Whatever this test entailed, she would endure it.

Failure was not an option. She would endure, adapt, and find a way to turn this test into her advantage.

Y/N walked in step with Vey’ta and Ka’Thar, her mind racing as they navigated the dim corridors of the Yautja vessel. The rhythmic hum of the ship’s systems reverberated through the walls, a constant reminder of the alien environment she was now confined to. Ahead, the passage opened into a vast chamber, its towering ceiling illuminated by the eerie glow of embedded glyphs, their meaning unknown to her.

The space was unmistakably an arena. The reinforced alloy floor bore deep gashes and scorches, silent evidence of countless combat trials. Weapon racks lined the walls, each holding an arsenal of deadly craftsmanship. In the shadows, several Yautja warriors loomed, their masked gazes trained on her, unreadable and unwavering.

Ka’Thar strode forward with deliberate steps, his towering form radiating an unspoken challenge. His shoulders rolled back in a display of dominance, and his mandibles flared slightly, a silent warning. Each movement was precise, calculated, as though assessing her worth before the battle had even begun. His mandibles flared slightly as he turned to her. "You are weak," he stated flatly, not as an insult, but as a fact. "You will learn. Or you will break."

Y/N fought back the impulse to lash out. Instead, she squared her shoulders and met his gaze. "Then teach me."

A brief pause. Then, without warning, Ka’Thar lunged.

Y/N barely reacted in time, twisting to dodge—too slow. A massive hand caught her shoulder and sent her tumbling. Pain ignited along her side, but she gritted her teeth, rolling to her feet before she even processed the impact. No reprieve was given. Ka’Thar was already closing in, his approach precise, calculated.

This wasn’t just combat. It was an assessment—a deliberate study of her limits, her instincts, and her potential. Every strike, every evasion was being measured, not just for physical strength but for resilience, adaptability. The Yautja valued the hunt, but this was something more; it was as if they were searching for something specific in her, something beyond mere survival.

She ducked the next strike, moving on instinct, though her body protested every motion. Muscles still weak from confinement, lungs burning, she forced herself onward. There was no alternative. Ka’Thar was relentless, each motion controlled, each attack testing her reactions. He was studying her, and through the pain, she understood: he wasn’t aiming to kill. He was determining whether she was worth the effort.

Time became a blur. Every failed dodge left fresh bruises, every successful evasion bought her only a fleeting second. Ka’Thar neither praised nor reassured. He struck—again and again—forcing her body to adapt, to react, or to crumble beneath the unrelenting assault. Each impact sent jolts of pain through her limbs, demanding more than endurance—demanding instinct, demanding transformation. There was no mercy, no hesitation, only the constant expectation that she would either rise to meet his blows or be broken beneath them. Yet, as exhaustion set in, something changed.

Her movements sharpened. She began to anticipate his attacks, even counter them—clumsy at first, but improving. And Ka’Thar noticed.

When she blocked his strike—truly blocked it—his mandibles clicked in what might have been amusement. His stance shifted, minutely, acknowledging something different about her now.

Vey’ta, standing to the side, remained silent, but she felt his gaze linger longer than before. There was no obvious judgment in his posture, no immediate sign of approval or disdain, but something about the way he watched her hinted at calculation—analyzing not just her performance, but perhaps her potential.

At last, Ka’Thar stepped back, signaling the end of the session. Y/N stood, her body aching, her breath ragged, but she had not fallen.

Ka’Thar studied her for a moment before offering a single nod. Then, without a word, he turned and exited the chamber.

Vey’ta approached, tilting his head. "You did not break."

Y/N exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from her brow. "I don’t plan to."

Something unreadable flickered behind his mask, but he said nothing. Instead, he gestured for her to follow. "Rest. You will need your strength."

As she fell into step beside him, she cast one last glance at the training ground. Ka’Thar had been ruthless, but she had seen something shift within him—something beyond mere indifference. His skepticism had not disappeared, but it had softened, tempered by what might have been the first glimmer of respect. The skepticism, the indifference—something else had surfaced beneath it.

Recognition.

[djloveyou3000]

Belladonna

Chapter seventeen

As they walked, soldiers stopped whatever they were doing to salute Perseus. “Sir,” they said with crisp respect, their voices unwavering. But when their eyes fell on Bell, their tones softened, their salutes accompanied by polite smiles. “Good afternoon, ‘Name.’” Bell nodded back shyly, still not entirely used to the respect they commanded simply by being at Perseus’ side.

Of course, there had been those who didn’t treat Bell with the deference they deserved. Perseus had handled those incidents swiftly and brutally, making examples of the offenders. The stories of his methods were whispered among the ranks like cautionary tales. No one dared repeat their mistakes. To everyone on base, Bell wasn’t just a child; they were Perseus’ child, and that made them untouchable.

Arriving at the meeting room, Perseus guided Bell inside, his hand never leaving theirs. The room was filled with high-ranking officers, each one rising to their feet as Perseus entered. The meeting commenced promptly, and Bell sat beside him, their small hands folded neatly in their lap as they listened intently. Though they didn’t fully understand every word, they clung to each phrase Perseus spoke, watching him with wide, admiring eyes. To Bell, Perseus was more than a father—he was their hero, their entire world.

As the meeting went on, Bell’s attention wavered. The long discussions and unfamiliar terminology were beginning to take their toll. They tried to fight it, rubbing their eyes and sitting up straighter, but the heaviness in their eyelids was winning. Perseus, ever observant, noticed immediately. Without breaking stride in his conversation, he reached down, scooped Bell up effortlessly, and placed them on his lap. His large hand rested on their back, gently rubbing in soothing circles. The unspoken message was clear: It’s okay to rest.

Bell hesitated for only a moment before surrendering to the comfort of his embrace. They nestled against his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the deep timbre of his voice as he continued the meeting. Within minutes, they were fast asleep, their small frame completely relaxed in his arms.

When Bell woke, they found themselves wrapped in Perseus’ jacket, the fabric so large it swallowed them completely. Its familiar scent was comforting, a mix of leather, smoke, and something uniquely him. They blinked groggily, taking in their surroundings. Perseus was seated at his desk nearby, his pen scratching against paper as he worked through a mountain of documents.

Noticing their movement, he turned to them, his stern face softening into a rare smile. “Ah, my child, you’re awake. Good.” He set down his pen and gestured for them to come closer. “I saw your test scores this morning,” he continued, his voice warm with pride. “You did excellent work. I’m very proud of you.”

Bell’s face lit up, a wide smile spreading across their face. Scrambling off the couch, they hurried to him. Perseus caught them effortlessly, lifting them onto his lap. He reached for a stack of papers on the desk and held them out for Bell to see. “Look here,” he said, pointing to the top score on the page. “You aced this exam. Truly remarkable.”

Bell clung to his words, beaming with pride. “Thank you, Perseus!” they said, hugging him tightly. His arms encircled them, holding them close for a moment before he patted their back.

“Come,” he said, standing and shifting them onto his hip. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

Bell nodded eagerly. “I’m hungry too! Can we have cake after, please?” They tilted their head, giving him their best pleading look.

Perseus chuckled, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “Of course. You’ve earned it today.”

As they left the office, Perseus reached over to a nearby table and picked up a small Hello Kitty plush. “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out.

Bell’s eyes sparkled as they grabbed the plushie, hugging it tightly. “Thank you!” they exclaimed, their voice full of happiness. His gaze softened as he watched them, but his expression returned to its usual unreadable blankness the moment they stepped into view of the soldiers. The gentle father figure was gone, replaced by the formidable leader. Still, the weight of Bell’s small arms around his neck and the sight of their delighted smile remained, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

The mess hall was bustling with activity, but the moment Perseus entered, the room quieted. Soldiers stood to attention, their conversations halting mid-sentence. Perseus ignored the stares, his focus solely on Bell, who was clinging to his neck and chattering excitedly about their day.

At the food line, Perseus selected a balanced meal for both of them, adding an extra slice of cake for Bell at the end. They found a quiet table in the corner, and Perseus set Bell down, helping them arrange their tray. The sight of Bell eagerly digging into their food brought a rare smile to his face.

After their meal, they returned to Perseus’ quarters, where Bell played quietly with their plushie while Perseus finished his paperwork. By the time the sun had set, Bell was back in his arms, dozing off with their head on his shoulder. Perseus stroked their hair gently, his usual cold demeanor melting into something warmer.

For all his ruthlessness and power, this small child had become his anchor, his one soft spot in an otherwise unforgiving world.

[ebongawk]

WAIT OK I HAVE ANOTHER ONE it’s prob cheating to send two so you can save this for another time but!!!! just chrissy fidgeting w eddie’s jewelry. his rings, his necklace. like she’s anxious abt smth and over time learned instead of like biting her nails or pulling hangnails or smth he’ll let her do that

Chrissy always had an issue with biting her nails.

As a child, whenever she was anxious about school, or nervous about dance competitions or cheer routines, her nails found their way between her teeth, chewed ragged and brittle.

Her mother called her disgusting. A ruler or wooden spoon was often produced, seemingly from thin air, to smack Chrissy across the back of her hands whenever they found their way into her mouth.

The main reason she started painting her nails was because the chemical taste of the polish made her nauseous. As her issues with food worsened, nausea became increasingly harder to control, and she found herself in the bathroom more often than not.

Her nerves, however, found new ways to ruin her.

Using those pretty nails she now sported, Chrissy dug into her cuticles. Picking at dry skin or tiny abrasions, creating hangnails she could then tear away.

Jason called her disgusting. Lightly smacking her hands with his own or with his school notebooks. Telling her constantly that every part of her was so pretty, but she was ruining her hands. Ruining the illusion of beauty he cast upon her by reminding him that she was human.

She couldn't break up with her mom. But she did break up with Jason.

Free of his oppressing weight, the urge to pick at her nailbeds lessened. It didn't disappear completely, of course, but she found healthy skin growing over her tiny scars.

Then she started hanging out with Eddie. And, for a little while, she didn't even notice how her fingertips stopped bleeding.

One day, sitting at the lunch table Eddie and his friends occupied, Chrissy's mind had been sloughing through the finals they had coming up. She was decently confident about most of them, but O'Donnell could be killer when it came to testing. Often asking things not covered by the study guide, so she and Eddie had spent the past four afternoons in his bedroom, textbooks open and flashcards made, trying to get one another ready for their teacher's unhinged brutality.

Her anxiety, during this thought spiral, had heightened exponentially. She stopped moving all at once when she remembered that Sandra had taken a bad scrape during practice yesterday – cheer season was over, but Chrissy was determined to keep the younger girls occupied through the year so they wouldn't be so rusty when they came back in August – and she'd used her last band-aid for the scrapes.

Sighing, Chrissy looked down to inspect the damage.

And saw Eddie's hand in her lap.

She glanced over. Eddie was still fully engaged in whatever conversation he was having with Jeff – his unoccupied hand twisting and twirling through the air to accentuate his points. But his left hand was loose between hers, one of his rings twisted to face his palm.

Chrissy twisted the ring back to right. Then did another circuit, finding it strange how natural it was to fiddle with his rings.

Looking up at Eddie again, he met her eye with a curious smile. Tilting his head to one side in silent question that she just shrugged at, instead scooting the tiniest bit closer and dropping herself seamlessly back into the conversation.

She didn't think of it again for a few weeks. Until she and Eddie were tucked up at his home, watching some British scary movie called Underworld and sharing a bowl of popcorn. They'd started the evening next to one another, but as the movie progressed, Chrissy found herself almost entirely in Eddie's lap. Curling into his side with every scary part, until her knees were tucked up to her chest and her feet were pressed between his thighs.

Every jump scare made her wince, shoving her face into Eddie's shoulder and peeking through one eye until the scary parts were over.

The movie was almost completely finished before she registered Eddie's hand in her lap. Her fingers twisting the rings around his over and over, slipping them up and down his knuckles.

Her nailbeds had never looked so healthy.

Remaining quiet until the previews ran, Chrissy slipped from Eddie's lap, standing and stretching as Eddie moved to flip on the light.

"What'dya think?" he asked, picking up the popcorn bowl and a few stray kernels before walking it into the kitchen. "Weird, yeah? Did I fill your weekly scary movie prescription, Miss Cunningham?"

She'd told him, ages ago, that she wanted to start liking scary movies, because he loved them so much. They now had a weekly movie date, watching something from his repertoire of slasher films before loading one of her favorite romance tapes into the VCR.

(Tonight, it was Breakfast at Tiffany's.)

"Yes, Dr. Munson, it was exactly what I needed," she said around a grin, walking into the kitchen with him. He had his back to her, squatting in front of the fridge for another movie snack, and Chrissy wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Hoisting herself onto his back and pressing her cheek against his neck.

Beneath her, Eddie let out a little chuckle. Something Chrissy turned her head to taste with her lips against his spine.

"That freaked out, sweetness?" he asked, grabbing a jar of the strawberry jam he kept just for her and a couple cans of Coke before standing. Keeping herself firmly affixed to his body with her legs around his waist.

"No," Chrissy answered. "Just wanted to be close to you, that's all."

Eddie huffed, setting his wares down and yanking her further up his back. Situating her to be a little more comfortable before he grabbed peanut butter and the half-eaten loaf of bread from the pantry.

"Yeah?" He paused in his actions, setting the clean butter knife he'd just grabbed next to the jam. "We can, uh. We can get a hell of a lot closer, y'know. If that's your real aim here."

Gosh, he could be such a boy sometimes. Chrissy snorted, burying her face in his neck.

"But what about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"

"Audrey Hepburn will be waiting for us when we're finished, sweet girl." The hand around her knee slid up, gently stroking the outside of her thigh. "Or we can put her on in the background. Make her bear witness to our incredible physical connection."

"Eddie."

"Chrissy."

Rolling her eyes, Chrissy tapped her healthy, wound-free fingertips against his collar.

"Bedroom," she finally said, laughing loudly when Eddie whooped and threw a fist in the air before sprinting down the hallway.

After, as they lay together in a sweaty pile of contentment, Chrissy snuggled into Eddie's chest. Eyes closed, relishing in the smooth, easy way his hand drifted up and down her side, from her hip to her ribs and down again.

"Eddie?"

"Hmm?" He took a final puff of his cigarette before ashing it.

"When did you notice that I pick at my nails?"

He hummed, rolling that thought around in his mind.

"I dunno," he admitted after a moment. "Early, I guess? Beginning."

Tapping her fingers against his stomach, she took his hand where it had continuously been drifting against her skin, bringing it up and pressing her lips against the rings.

"How come I didn't realize you distracted me?"

"I can't answer that, sweetness," he responded around a shrug. "I just figured you needed something to fiddle with. Better my hands than yours, in my opinion."

Chrissy paused, letting that sink in, before she opened her eyes and looked at him.

"What, so you were gonna let me pick at your nails?"

Eddie just shrugged again, a new grin stretching his cheeks. Dimples coming to life under her disbelieving grimace.

"If that's what it took."

"Eddie, that's so gross."

"Guess it's good you picked at my rings and not my nails then, huh?"

"Why would you let anyone––"

"Not anyone," he interrupted, taking her hand in his and letting her fingertips fall across his lips. "Just you."

Oh, the way he could so simply send a swarm of butterflies to flight in her stomach.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself," he said after a moment, honesty dripping like honey from his words. Sprinkling droplets of sticky sincerity across her skin, so she'd feel the mess of his truths for days and years to come. Waggling his eyebrows, he finished by saying, "But I don't mind if you hurt me a little sometimes."

"Eddie."

"Slap me, baby, I know you want to."

"Oh, my God."

[yumikk101]

The Start of Something Slow

Featuring wriothesley

Idea by jynxiebee

The heavy iron gates groaned shut behind you, their sound echoing down the cold stone corridors of the Fortress of Meropide The weight of imprisonment hit you immediately—not just the physical confinement, but the crushing atmosphere of tension that clung to every shadowed corner

Prisoners moved in packs, their eyes sharp and filled with quiet malice. You noticed early on which group seemed the most dangerous—a collection of inmates gathering influence like embers waiting to ignite. Staying out of their way seemed like the best choice, so you kept your head down and adapted to life in the fortress without complaint. For the first few days, no one seemed to care about your arrival. But Wriothesley noticed

You caught his gaze from across the yard a few times—blue eyes sharp and assessing He never lingered long, nor gave any sign that you stood out among the hundreds of prisoners under his watch, but there was something deliberate about the way his gaze always found you. It wasn’t kindness or concern. It was observation, like a man cataloging details for later

Weeks passed, and the tension in the air thickened. The group you’d been avoiding grew bolder with each passing day, testing the guards’ patience, plotting behind closed doors. You could feel it coming—the riot, the explosion of chaos they’d been stirring up since you arrived. It was only a matter of time before everything would snap

When the first fist was thrown, the riot erupted like a tidal wave, sweeping through the prison. The sound of shattering glass, roaring voices, and metal scraping against stone filled the fortress. Tables flipped, inmates clashed with guards, and a thick cloud of smoke from overturned torches began to choke the air

You had the chance to slip away unnoticed, to hide in the chaos until the storm passed But something stopped you. The sight of guards—young, tired, outnumbered—being dragged to the ground twisted something in your gut

You clenched your fists, cursed under your breath, and made a decision you’d later question

Instead of running, you fought

You grabbed rioters by their collars, yanking them off guards, kicking them back into the fray. One of the more violent inmates swung a heavy pipe at your head. You ducked, slammed your shoulder into their ribs, and sent them sprawling. But the fight was relentless. A sharp elbow caught your jaw, and someone shoved you into a wall, leaving your ribs screaming with pain. Still, you refused to stop

Through the chaos, you spotted Wriothesley at the center of it all, his movements controlled and efficient. He wasn’t just shutting down the riot; he was dismantling it piece by piece, breaking apart the rebellion with brutal precision. But even in the middle of the chaos, his sharp gaze found you again—and this time, it lingered

For one suspended moment, the two of you locked eyes across the riot. The look on Wriothesley’s face was hard to read—something between curiosity and disbelief Inmates swarmed around him, but his gaze remained fixed on you as if you’d done something he couldn’t quite fathom

And maybe you had

But that moment cost you. A rioter blindsided you, slamming into your side and driving you to the ground. You hit the cold stone hard, your head bouncing off the floor, and everything went blurry at the edges Pain throbbed in your ribs, sharp and merciless, making it hard to breathe

Before you could try to push yourself up, strong hands gripped your arms, hauling you from the ground. For a brief, disorienting moment, you thought another inmate had grabbed you—but the familiar scent of cold metal and saltwater told you otherwise

“Stay down,” came Wriothesley’s low, commanding voice, close to your ear

His arm was firm around your waist, holding you upright with surprising gentleness for a man who’d just taken down half a riot. The world tilted around you, your vision swimming as he pulled you out of the chaos. You leaned into him, the warmth of his coat a strange comfort amid the riot’s cold violence

The next thing you knew, you were lying on a cot in the infirmary. The room smelled of herbs and antiseptic, and your ribs were tightly bound in clean bandages. The throbbing in your head had dulled to a manageable ache, though every muscle in your body still protested with every movement

You heard footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approach your bed. Wriothesley stood beside you, arms crossed, his gaze as cold and unreadable as ever—but there was something different this time

“You should’ve stayed out of it.” His voice was low, but there was no anger in it. Just observation, as if he were trying to make sense of what he’d seen

You winced as you shifted to sit up, your ribs reminding you of the price you’d paid “Didn’t seem right to just watch”

A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—passed across his features, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. “You got yourself hurt for nothing. They don’t care”

“Maybe not,” you admitted “But it was worth it”

Wriothesley watched you for a long moment, his gaze heavier than before. It wasn’t just the weight of a warden assessing a prisoner; it was something deeper, more personal. For the first time, you sensed that the man before you wasn’t just a cold enforcer of rules. There was curiosity there—something that went beyond mere interest

He didn’t say anything more, but the way his gaze lingered made it clear: you were no longer just another inmate to him. You’d stood out, not just in the riot, but in a way that had lodged itself under his skin. And though he would never say it aloud, he was already thinking about you more than he should

“Rest,” he finally said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful “You’ll need your strength”

And with that, Wriothesley turned and left, his footsteps heavy against the stone floor

Days passed since the riot, and life in the fortress settled back into its cold, predictable rhythm—or at least, it tried to For you, the ache in your ribs served as a constant reminder of that night, but something else lingered, too—Wriothesley’s touch, the warmth of his arm around your waist, and the look in his eyes just before he pulled you from the chaos

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a warden doing his job. But the way his gaze followed you now, with more weight than ever before, suggested otherwise

At first, it was small things. You’d catch him watching you from across the courtyard, his gaze steady and unreadable. When the guards brought food to the cells, your tray somehow always contained more than the others. You told yourself it was a coincidence—until it happened again. And again

Then came the unexpected encounters Passing by him in the hallways, you'd exchange silent glances, and though no words were spoken, it felt like something was building between the two of you, slow and deliberate

One evening, after the day’s shift ended, you found yourself alone in the library—a rare moment of peace. The room smelled of aged paper and dust, dim light casting long shadows against the stone walls. You thought you’d finally escaped the heavy eyes of the fortress for a moment, only to hear the slow, measured steps of boots behind you

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was

“You’ve been keeping out of trouble,” Wriothesley said from behind you, his voice low and calm

You glanced over your shoulder, meeting his gaze. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

A hint of a smirk played at the edge of his lips, though it was fleeting. “You’ve been... different”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to laugh at the comment or be wary. “Different how?”

Wriothesley stepped closer, his presence casting a weight over the room. He wasn’t the kind of man to mince words, but something about the way he looked at you made you feel like he was holding back—not from cruelty, but from caution. As if he wasn’t sure what line he was about to cross

“I don’t usually meet prisoners who stop riots instead of joining them,” he said, his voice quieter now

You leaned back against the shelf, folding your arms across your chest. “And here I thought you’d be used to surprises”

His gaze didn’t waver, and for a moment, you both stood there in silence. The fortress walls felt a little less oppressive under his steady presence, and something unfamiliar stirred between you—a thread of understanding, tenuous but real

“Why did you do it?” he asked finally, as if the question had been sitting with him since the riot

You shrugged, though the memory of the chaos still weighed on your chest. “Seemed like the right thing to do”

Wriothesley gave you a long, considering look, and for the first time, you saw something soften in his expression. Not kindness exactly—more like respect, shaded with something else you couldn’t quite name

“Don’t make a habit of it,” he murmured “Next time, I might not be around to pull you out”

The words lingered in the air between you—more warning than joke. And yet, the way he said it made your heart trip over itself. There was concern buried in those words, no matter how much he tried to hide it

The days that followed were quieter. But the space between you and Wriothesley felt charged, like a storm gathering on the horizon

He never said much during your brief encounters, but his presence alone carried weight. When he passed by you in the halls, the brush of his coat against your arm was enough to set your pulse racing. When you caught him watching you from across the mess hall, his gaze seemed to linger, as if waiting for you to meet it. And each time you did, there was an unspoken exchange—a promise, or perhaps a warning, that neither of you dared to voice

Wriothesley wasn’t the kind of man to make grand gestures, but the small things were enough. The way he adjusted patrol schedules so you were spared from dealing with the worst inmates. How he made sure your work assignments weren’t as punishing as the others’. And the occasional flicker of amusement in his gaze when you spoke without fear in a place where silence was usually safest

It was slow. Painfully slow. But there was no denying that something was building between you—a connection stitched together by stolen glances, fleeting touches, and conversations that hinted at more than either of you dared to admit

And maybe that was enough, for now

One evening, after another exhausting shift, you found yourself sitting on the steps near the central courtyard. The night air was cold, biting at your skin, but you welcomed it—it felt better than the suffocating warmth of the prison

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt the familiar weight of his gaze settle over you

“Rough day?” Wriothesley’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant

You glanced up to see him standing a few steps away, his expression unreadable as always. There was no reason for him to be here—no riot, no trouble, no excuse to speak to you

“Something like that,” you replied, shifting to make room beside you

For a moment, you thought he might leave. But then, slowly, he sat down beside you. The two of you sat in silence, the fortress humming quietly around you, and the space between you felt smaller than usual

It was Wriothesley who broke the silence first. “I don’t usually get involved with inmates”

The words were a warning, but the way he said them didn’t feel like a dismissal

If anything, it felt like an admission—like he was trying to tell you that whatever this was, it was dangerous for both of you

You tilted your head, studying him. “And yet, here you are”

He let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh “Yeah. Here I am”

It wasn’t much. Just two people sitting on cold stone steps, sharing a moment that felt fragile but real. But it was enough to make you realize that whatever was happening between you and Wriothesley, it wasn’t going away anytime soon

*To be continued*

[darkenedroses-world]

Against the Edge — Smii7y x Reader

f!reader, semi-public, dom!Smii7y, brat!reader, dirty talk, hair pulling, choking (light), overstimulation, teasing, marking, begging, request🦋

The atmosphere buzzed with energy, the low hum of music and laughter spilling in from the other room. It was supposed to be a casual night in with friends—games, jokes, and way too much banter. But something in Smii7y’s eyes, the way he’d been watching you all evening, had sent a shiver down your spine. It was that look: sharp, teasing, and hungry. When he finally cornered you in the dim hallway, pressing you back against the wall with a firm hand braced beside your head, you were already a little breathless. “You’ve been pushing it tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Thought I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been teasing me?” You blinked up at him innocently, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, you don’t?” His other hand grabbed your chin, tilting your head back. “Then I guess I’ll just have to remind you who you’re playing with.” Before you could answer, his lips crashed into yours—hard, demanding, and without hesitation. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip as he kissed you deeper, swallowing the soft moan that escaped your throat. You gasped when he pulled back, only to feel his hand tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back further. “You like being a brat, don’t you?” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Always testing me. You think I won’t put you in your place?” A spark shot through you, heat pooling in your stomach as you bit your lip. “Maybe you’re all talk.”

Smii7y’s laugh was dark and rough as his hand tightened in your hair. “Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.” He didn’t give you time to respond. Within moments, you found yourself pressed face-first against the nearby table, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he leaned over you, his body flush against yours. “You’re gonna regret that attitude.” Smii7y was relentless. His touch was everywhere—grabbing, teasing, dominating—until your breath came in shallow, desperate gasps. He yanked your jeans down, his hand coming down hard against your ass with a sharp smack that left you squirming. “Still wanna mouth off?” he taunted, his voice dripping with satisfaction as you whimpered beneath him. “Fuck you,” you shot back, your voice shaking but defiant. Another smack. “Oh, you will,” he promised, flipping you over so you were staring up at him. His eyes were dark now, his control unraveling just enough to make you shiver. He reached down, his hand wrapping lightly around your throat as he leaned closer, his lips brushing against yours.

“Beg for it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you stared into his eyes. He waited patiently, his fingers flexing just enough to remind you who was in charge. “Please,” you whispered, your voice soft but needy. “I want you.” “Louder.” “Please, Jaren. I need you.” That was all it took. He crashed into you again, kissing you roughly as his hands roamed your body, leaving no inch untouched. His teeth dragged against your skin, leaving marks along your neck and collarbone that you knew would linger. When he finally pushed into you, the stretch was almost too much, and you cried out, gripping his shoulders tightly. Smii7y didn’t stop. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you closer to the edge until you were falling apart beneath him. “Look at you,” he growled against your ear. “You’re so fucking perfect like this—taking everything I give you.” Your nails raked down his back, your body arching as he continued, drawing moans and whimpers from you with every movement. He didn’t stop when you came the first time—or the second. Smii7y was relentless, pulling every sound, every reaction from you until you were begging him for mercy. “I can’t—” you gasped, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your body shook. “Yes, you can,” he said firmly, his hand tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him. “You’re mine. I’m not done with you yet.” When he finally let you fall apart one last time, your body felt weightless, every nerve lit up like fire. Smii7y slowed, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder and neck as he brought you back down from the edge.

“You did so good for me,” he murmured, his voice softer now as he gently pulled you against his chest. His hands traced soothing circles along your back, grounding you in the aftermath. “You okay?” You nodded weakly, letting out a breathless laugh. “I think you broke me.” Smii7y chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Nah. I’ll put you back together, don’t worry.” The two of you stayed there, tangled together in the quiet. His fingers brushed over the marks he’d left, a mix of pride and tenderness in his touch. “I like you like this,” he murmured, his voice teasing but warm. “Quiet. Sweet.” “Don’t get used to it,” you shot back, your voice muffled against his chest. His laugh was soft and full of affection. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

[hanmaitani]

Turn Me Into Someone Else

PAIRING - Tendou Satori x Reader WC - 1.0K GENRE - fluff What You Missed - seeing satori on a casual basis was supposed to have clear boundaries… unfortunately, the lines have long since started to blur between what you're supposed to be and what you are.

PREV PART | MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

Your laugh rang loudly through the restaurant, a barking sound that explodes out of you on accident and you quickly slapped a hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from causing any more chaos.

Your eyes widened as you looked across the table at Satori, heavy puffs of air coming from your nose against your palm as you tried to keep quiet.

"Tori! You can't say that about her!" You chastised him, but your quiet laughter didn't cease, shoulders shaking as you stifled your noise level.

"Why not?" He laughed, not caring who in the restaurant seemed to look towards the pair of you in your booth. "It's not like it's a lie, you know it." His laughter seemed to infect you, it was impossible to get away from its grip.

"Oh I can't stand you." You giggled at your own tease and messed with the napkin on your lap. "That's our professor." You huffed through your nose in exchange for another laugh, trying to look away from him in hopes that your laughter would die down.

"Your professor. Not mine anymore." He said in response, and you didn't have to look at him to know he was pointing his fork at you as he said it, a smirk on his face before you could hear the crunch of the utensil impaling another piece of lettuce from the salad you two had started the meal with.

You snuck a glance over at him, testing your ability to hold in your laughter. And quickly failed… miserably.

You broke into another fit of giggles and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips at the sight and sound of you across the table from him, laughing over dinner in a public place. A tugging on his heart that brutally reminded him of what the two of you were.

"Okay, okay no more making me laugh." You held your hands out over the table like the decision was final when your giggles died down. "If you make me laugh when our food comes out and pasta goes up my nose or something, I think I'd actually kill you and then myself out of embarrassment."

He snorted a bit at the statement, gleaming as he saw you wipe tears out of the corners of your eyes. "That'd be a sight, remind me to snap a picture before you kill me, yeah?"

Your jaw dropped open in disbelief at him, dramatically gasping. "You wouldn't dare!" Satori opened his mouth to respond but a voice above you interrupted before he could begin.

"Pardon the interruption, but your food." You smiled up at the waiter, mouthing a soft thank you as he placed your food down followed by Satori's.

You both were quiet until he fully left the table and then- "What was I saying again?" You tilted your head in confusion, studying your fork as you tried to recall the reason you were pretending to be so betrayed by Satori only moments before.

"Hmm? Oh. Not sure." Satori was quick to respond but the poorly hidden smirk enticed you to playfully glare at him. "Food came just in time, though. I'm starving."

"Dessert?" You asked, as the waiter took away your and Satori's plates. "I don't think I could eat another bite, but if you wanted some."

Satori was smirking over at you as you spoke, sipping on the sickly sweet drink he'd ordered as he did so. "I could think of one thing that I'd want for dessert."

His eyes trailed up and down your form and you laughed nervously, heat starting in your cheeks and crawling down to your throat, forcing you to cough a bit as you hurriedly looked around to be sure that no one else heard his bold remark.

"Satori." You hissed lowly, frantic eyes still looking around before you fixed a glare on him. "Not in public."

"Relaaax," he chuckled lowly and the sound seemed to rocket through you, finding its way straight to your core, "no one heard me."

You rolled your eyes slightly but smiled anyways at the playfulness in his voice. You cleared your throat a little bit when he grabbed your hand for attention. It seemed to burn at the contact point, you were sure that it might set the table on fire, but neither of you let go.

"Check?" The waiter asked, your cheeks burned more when you noticed him smiling down at where your and Satori's hands were connected on the table.

You quickly retracted your hand, wringing them in your own lap, missing the brief hurt that flashed on Satori's face when you did so. "Yeah, I think so." Satori nodded his consent and smiled when he was handed the check. "Hey!" You protested quickly, trying to grab the check from Satori's hands as he quickly tucked his card into the folder and handed it back to the waiter.

"What?" He laughed as you gave him an incredulous look. You gestured towards the waiter as he disappeared, mouth opening and closing, looking for words. "You think I'm gonna let you pay for a date I invited you on?"

Your chest pulled at the word date, clenching around the word, clinging to it as you smiled at him. "Whatever." You sighed and stood up, smiling when he scrambled to follow suit, following you towards the waiter as he was walking back with a receipt and the card. "I've got the next one then."

You weren't sure what compelled you to say it, to play into the scene that you and Satori played through. Going on dates wasn't something friends with benefits did. But here you were.

Satori was the one who felt the pulling this time. Smile wide on his face as he exchanged the waiter, his card for a cash tip. Next time.

"So… my place?" His hand slid down your waist, resting on your hip and pulling you closer. You swatted at his hand with a laugh but followed his lead nonetheless.

TAGLIST - OPEN

@faumpje @all-in-the-fandoms @pearl-blue-musings

[ofakillerwithin]

Quinn was the sweet and innocent act, but under that sparkling smile of hers was where she felt unhinged, where she was about to burst into darkness. She may play dumb from time to time, she may sit cross legged on the couch and smile but each time eyes scanned at the bodies of pretend friends; of girls that were responsible for her brother; his death she was plotting their demise. What’s the saying? Keep your enemies close. Quinn knew how she was supposed to act; smile and be polite. Act as if Sam and Tara’s history with mask ghosts didn’t matter. 

The brunette was her own evil; she’d make the cut where it hurt. She had her plan in motion the second she signed her name on the lease of the off campus apartment; Richie was her brother. He was messed up in the head yeah; had too much passion. But he never deserved to take his last breath. Quinn held grudges. Obviously why she was seen stuck in a diner booth with a boy she barely knew. But Richie trusted this man; he trusted him enough to be straight with him. And if anyone shared the vendetta that loomed in Quinn’s ears it was him. And seeing as her wick ideas; her smirk hadn’t scared Liam off yet; she was starting to feel the trust; well as much trust as she was willing to give him. Truth was; for now he was needed; she couldn’t be in two places at once. She couldn’t bare the idea of becoming a suspect so soon; which it why the default of faking her own death was in play, of course there was only one other person she’d entrust in pretending to attack her; blood shed, the screams, the pierced knife had to touch her skin. The thought nearly excite her; but first an attack of her own; one she was greatly looking forward to. Those stupid film geeks were were testing her last patience. 

Flirting; it was a habit; in the end it would get the boy to fall to her feet. Liam was gullible, he was easy to manipulate it was written on his smitten features. Fingers danced along his skin; with a delicate touch; head tilted to the side; as she let her hand drop to wrap around his palm. A touch that left a slight tingling sensation; not that Quinn of keeping track of the feeling. Because come on? It was a game no strings at all. “ Behind the scenes, It’ll be easier if we have one step in and one out. They don’t know you, you’re kinda invisible. Think of it as a sneaky game of hide and seek. They wouldn’t see you coming.’ Echoed words as she inched her closer across the table as voice dropped into a whisper. 

“ When the time comes for my death I’ll need you to be knocking down the door, I need you to be able to hold the knife and let it close enough to brutally hurt me. Can you manage attempt to kill the mastermind..?” Serious; Quinn needed to know the boy was able to handle blood; able to handle seeing fake blood on her bed; on the room. Or was he just a wimp holding onto her coat tails. Quinn knew if push comes to shove he was bait; she’d pull the trigger without a second thought but did he hold that sam ammunition. She needed a man; a leader; someone to keep up with her. 

Richie had faith in Liam; which was the only reason why she was letting him in; she didn’t want to be disappointed.

@ofakillerwithin

[Anger issues. I scoffed at the thought. Was I perfect? No. Did I get myself into sticky situations, from time to time, sure. Did some of the people on the receiving end of these situations end up needing medical attention? Yeah, but in my defense, they brought it on themselves. A defense that my parents didn't seem to understand... Well, adopted parents, to clarify, since it turned out my whole life was a compilation of lies, secrets, and scandal. It wasn't until nearing the end of high school that I realized the people I had been deceived into believing were my parents, were actually my biological aunt and uncle. If learning all of that wasn't enough to give a guy "anger issues," then I didn't know what was. Of course my aunt and uncle didn't see it that way. A fact that they unknowingly made known to me one night when I overheard one of their conversations. Okay, okay, so I roughed a guy up at school, but given all the shit he had been putting me through, he got what he deserved. To my aunt and uncle though, they overlooked the fact that the asshole had been bullying me and giving me shit for weeks, so when he came at me one night at a game, and I fought back, suddenly I'm the bad guy for breaking his arm, nose, and a few of his ribs too. Exhaling loudly at the memory. It was that same night that I learned my "parents" were actually my aunt and uncle, after overhearing my aunt ask my uncle if he thought I was turning into my father... My father? What the hell were they talking about? Of course I busted into the living room immediately to confront them that night, which was met with more lies and cover up attempts from them. Why the hell wouldn't they tell me the truth about who I really am? I had a right to know where I really came from! Their refusal to tell me the truth, and to add insult to injury, to feed me more bullshit, just made me even angrier with them for keeping all of this from me, for so long. Over time, and following a slightly physical altercation with the man I had learned was actually my uncle, my aunt confessed that my "cousin" Sidney, who visited the mountains here a few times a year, was actually my birth mother. Apparently she had me young, my father was no longer in the picture... Supposedly after learning she was pregnant with me, he bolted and left her on her own, so in order to give me the best shot at life, she turned me over to my aunt and uncle to adopt me. I confronted Sidney, and just like my adopted parents, Sidney also lied to me about my father; claiming he was just a one night stand, and she never heard from him again. Considering all of the bullshit my family had fed me over the years, I knew better than to believe this story either, which prompted me to do some research of my own on my birth father. This being the point where I made my first trip to Woodsboro to get some answers. I met Richie soon after arriving in Woodsboro, which was refreshing since he was the one who told me the truth about my life. Turns out my father wasn't some dead beat who slept with my biological mother, then bolted when he found out she was pregnant, like my adopted parents fed me. He also wasn't a one night stand like my biological mother told me. No, he was actually her long-time boyfriend, who allegedly turned out to be a mass murderer in the town of Woodsboro. Of course he never had the chance to defend the accusations made against him, since Sidney killed him first; costing me any chance to ever know my father. I was angry, to say the least, which prompted me to leave my adopted parents' home, and live on my own for awhile. Not long after high school ended, I learned my friend Richie had been murdered by some bitch named, Sam. Figures, the one person in my life I could trust was taken from me too. I had nobody now. Nobody! This fury and thirst for revenge bringing me to New York, where Sam and her group had moved to for college. I didn't know what I'd do or say once I finally came face to face with that bitch, but I did know, I'd make her pay for murdering my only real friend, Richie]

[kalixora]

“I’m death. Straight up.”

Gaz x reader (Kinda🦭)

. Uhhh surprise?

INSPIRATION: Puss in Boots: The Last Wish

I watched the movie again...

Codename: Death

“Task 141. The dangerous ones without guns, a secret force that hides in the shadows and takes down enemies far and wide… and yet here we are, like a cat on its last life.”

Price narrowed his gaze, taking in your presence was one thing. But speaking with you directly was a different matter entirely; it was like being in the presence of death itself.

And what you were / are Death. When it was to your advantage, you were cold, cruel, brutal, and at times empathetic. You were frequently kept under close observation since you had a reputation for making a statement, but that didn't deter you.

"Do you find this amusing?" Price inquired sternly.

“Very,” you mused.

“Why’s that?”

“Because, your standing in here with me alone with no backup.”

Price hummed, crossing his arms, a powerful bodily movement he knew wouldn't bother you, but he needed to get control of the situation. You were both aware that you had the overwhelming advantage, as you always did. This was body language to catch your attention, and you enjoyed a good test.

"Captain, why are you here?" You chuckled. "I can't imagine the strings you pulled to stand in a room with me; are you sure you don't want to smoke one of those cigars?"

“No,” Price leaned to the side and took out a little piece of paper and a pen. He set it on the table and slid it halfway to you. You took the paper and read it as you looked at him, mystified. Your sneer, on the other hand, never wavered. As you tap the pen against the table, a small chuckle escapes your lips.

“What’s this a permission slip?”

“You could say that, yes.”

You hummed as you leaned back in your chair, your gaze scanning the Captain's face, which was solemn. Without a doubt, serious.

"I'm flattered, believe me, but why me? You have Ghost don't you? Say how is Simon doing? Is he behaving himself? And how is Kyle? Still attractive?"

Price nods, “They’re fine.”

“Mmmm, so what’s the problem captain? Tired of your life flashing before your eyes?”

“Then I wouldn’t be good at my job, so here’s the deal- I want you to join my task force, your a powerhouse and from I’ve gathered a lone wolf, even lone wolves stray from packs yeah?”

“Correct.”

“I think it’s time we put that line wolf back with a pack, what do ya say?”

You began to snicker, “That was a cheesy analogy Price but, not to shabby, let me explain something to you, a wolf who distances themselves from the world is called a traitor but one who stays is called a deceiver.”

“That so? There’s a fine line between right and wrong, if the wolf becomes a deceiver and a traitor what do you make of the pack…”

“They meet death.”

“I see… so then do we all know death?”

“Only when it comes to you,” you say with the tilt of your head. “Even the strongest of us Captain will always live a life of fear.”

Price stood up and walked out of the room, where Kate stood on the other side. Price let out a rough sigh and shook his head, one more minute with you in there and it was a wrap. He lost.

“Well,” Kate hummed, “what they say?”

“Bloody bastard didn’t give an answer…”

“I told you.”

“I know…”

“They’ll come.”

Price turned to Laswell his expression was unreadable but she could tell he was irritated. “What makes you so sure?”

“Known Death for a long time, shows up when your in distress… don’t worry to much captain, they’ll show.”

…

The mission has gone to complete shit, Price didn’t know if this was a set up from the get go. Gaz had gone missing and Soap managed to tackle someone out the window and got shot at the same time. Ghost tried to contact Gaz for at least thirty minutes now but the only thing he got back was static. Price searched high and low but each trail of blood he followed they all lead to different bodies, but never Gaz.

Soap: Price how copy?

Price: Copy, report?

Soap: No sign of Gaz, just different bodies

Ghost: He may be unconscious somewhere

Price: That means we have a chance, cover more ground under.

Soap leaned against the wall getting ready to shoot the target unaware of everything about to unfold. He found Gaz the second Price said those words, Gaz was unconscious like Ghost said but, he wasn’t alone.

There was someone else nearby, and they were whistling?

Soap cringed slightly at the tone of the whistle it sounded creepy and off putting yet fascinating. The whistle came closer as Soap peered around the corner seeing the person standing directly over Gaz, Soap placed his finger in the trigger of his gun aiming at them.

“Relax comrade.”

Soap stepped out of his corner fully seeing that you had a blade directly in front of Gaz’s face inches away from inserting it.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m one of you,” you chuckle before standing up fully, you held eye contact with Soap as you got closer to him, “Go on, pick him up.”

Soap stared at you unsure, he wanted to call Price or Ghost, you stood on the side of him now glaring at him. “Pick. Him. Up.”

Soap kept an eye on you while moving quickly towards Gaz, he checked his pulse then began to lift him up placing his arm over his shoulder before turning back to you. You were gone. Without a sound.

Soap managed his way with Gaz and finally reaching it to the others and setting course for base. Soap didn’t say anything the whole ride over, his mind was racing of the thoughts of you, who were you? What were you? What did you mean one of them?

Once landed they all made way to see Laswell, where she stood outside her door waiting for them with a file in her hand. “How’s he doing?”

“Alright, doctor says he should be awake within the next hour or so,” Price answered he tone sounding relieved.

“Something the matter Johnny?” Ghost asked as the two began to head over to see Gaz in the infirmary.

“I don’t know how to explain it, it was so- bloody weird,” Soap says through his confusion. “Did Price mention having a new recruit?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ghost hummed.

Ghost opened the door to the infirmary stopping as he stared inside, Soap peered in the room seeing you again. Right by Gaz’s side. You had your hand on his forehead and you were whispering something to him. In which Gaz began to react to it, his chest moved up and down as if he was chuckling, and he was. His eye fluttering open being met with your piercing gaze.

“Y/N…” Gaz muttered giving you a small smile.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty, how are feeling?” You say as you look up at Ghost and Soap entering the room. You waved at the two of them, “Ah there you two are, was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Y/N…” Ghost said almost in disbelief.

“Simon,” you greeted with a smile. “You’ve seen better days.”

“Are you the new recruit?” Ghost asked.

“That I am,” you replied. “Soap right?” You said fixing your gaze on him.

Soap nods, “Bloody hell are ya?”

“ Death.”

“Death?” Soap chuckles, “As in what?”

“Not any other fancy way, I’m Death straight up.”

[toraashi]

𝙪𝙣𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

pairings/characters: scaramouche x gn!reader, il dottore, pantalone (mentioned), original characters (very briefly mentioned)

warnings: angst, descriptions of violence in a medical setting, descriptions of fear and anxiety, brief mentions of vomiting, blood, unhealthy relationships, minor character death, needles, torture (lightly described, heavily implied), unhealthy coping mechanisms, spoilers for scaramouche’s backstory, pretty dark, characters are very traumatized, dottore is extremely fucked up (obsessive, apathetic, erratic)

notes from tori: wrote this all tonight. i fully plan to write more, but i wanted to get this out there as a start! i’m not sure how good it is, or how in character dottore is. there isn’t much romance so far, but i will definitely get into it in later segments!

Over time, it became easy to cast a blind eye, to discard the guilt buried deep in your chest, to justify your compliance with something that felt like an excuse if you thought too hard about it. 

Sure, he tortured children, dragged them from their homes — their families — with the promise of safety only to betray their trust again and again in the vilest ways, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. If you defied him, it would be your life rather than theirs. It wasn’t exactly a choice to work under the second harbinger, but rather a position you’d been appointed to. It wasn’t your fault he took a disturbing liking to you, dubbing you as “wonderfully compliant” and “an excellent helper”, and by extension, it wasn’t your burden to bear that your actions aided in the brutality of the Doctor’s experiments.

Today it was a young girl, her hair a jubilant red, sharper than the sunset, lashes draping against her cheeks and constellated with tears as she cried silently. A glassy, empty haze settled over the dark browns in her irises, and you couldn’t help but avert your gaze, blinking aimlessly over the clipboard in your hands.

“Pay close attention, [name]. I need every aspect of this test closely documented.” the Doctor mused, flicking a long needle with his gloved finger. The sharp twang that echoed through the room made you flinch just slightly, blinking at the implication as he strode towards the exper— child. “It won’t be long before I have the answers I need.” 

Dipping your chin, you stared intently at the pale tile beneath your uniform boots, swallowing thickly when the child cried out, the sound dying the second it left her mouth. You looked up when the room fell silent, examining the way she lay loose against the table, the Doctor disposing of the needle in a bin nearby. He shimmied his fingers beneath the latex of his gloves, dropping them in before tsk-ing to himself quietly. “I will say, I rather enjoy when they put up a bit of a fight. Wouldn’t you agree?” You couldn’t. How could you? But you swallowed your opinions on the matter, remaining silent as the Doctor filed through his tools for this experiment. “Have nothing to say? You’re always so stiff. You act as though this is anything new.” 

“You’re right,” You started, leveling your voice, occupying a neutral headspace as you lifted your gaze, holding his amused gaze, the scarlet of his eyes piercing through your facade. “It’s nothing new.” Chuckling, he tilted his head, holding out his newly gloved palm in anticipation.

“The archon residue?” Your heart stalled, but you complied, reaching for the delicately balanced beaker of festering purple fluid and pressing it into his palms, avoiding his touch as best as you could. “Superb. We’ll begin this experiment by injecting the residue directly into the subject’s bloodstream. I wonder if the interruption to her blood flow will have a different effect than the brain. An even dispersal through the bloodstream will certainly garner results.” He loomed over the young girl, and you were fortunate to bear witness to his back rather than the crazed grin pulling his features. 

Exhaling evenly, you scratched his comments onto the paper, the medical lights above turning the sheet a glaring shade of white. 

“Trial number one…” 

You left your soul in the lab with the young girl. Jiang from Liyue, you’d learned, it made the walk back to your room even more harrowing. The experiment hadn’t been successful, they never were, but perhaps some piece of your heart was content with the fact that the subjects usually lived to see another day. Another hopeless day filled with pain and torture, but a day nonetheless. At least before you could say you didn’t directly take a life, but after giving it some thought, you weren’t sure if death was the worse option.

The halls of the Doctor’s base were nearly empty in the early hours of the morning — usually, you’d stay til the analog clock hanging above the door ticked past seven, but the results of the night had left the Doctor in a frenzy. The typically composed man had trashed the lab, glass beakers shattered into choppy waves against the tile. You’d stood in shock as papers rained around you, barely squeaking before he turned to you with a derganged look in his eye. The room had plummeted in temperature, and you’d run out without thinking, shaking in your uniform, tearing up against your will. Weakness was not welcome in the Fatui, but amid an angered panic by the third most powerful being in Snezhnaya, raw fear had sprung up, a feeling you’d stifled in your years under the second harbinger — in the Fatui.

The door to your room clicked closed, and it seemed to crack the cement wall around your tightly locked emotions. Mindlessly, you stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink until your knuckles turned white, fixing your reflection in the mirror with a hollow stare. Your eyes remained red and bloodshot from countless sleepless nights, a tremor contaminating your body until you were too weak to stand. With a shaky exhale, you collapsed to the cement floor with your fingers wrapped around your biceps, digging in until the skin bloomed with pain. 

How did this happen? You pondered, mind spinning with flashes of the girl’s ruptured skin, purple spotting across her entire body as if the archon residue had been rejected. How did you end up here, how could you contradict your morals so greatly?

Truthfully, the transfer from Pantolone’s jurisdiction had seemed beneficial at first glance. The Doctor, although famously deranged, was higher ranking: the benefits of working under him were rumored to be illustrious. It hadn’t been by choice, but the two harbingers worked closely together, and the Doctor needed more “assistants”. It was clear that the cons outweighed the pros, especially after you caught his eye. 

Should you run? Now that you were a bit older, you’d given up on the notion. There was nowhere for you to go, and with the secrets you knew, there was no way you wouldn’t be tracked and killed. Yet somehow, the concept crept up in the back of your mind after frightening nights like this, when the Doctor’s eyes pierced you so deeply it felt like he was picking at your insides, tearing apart your soul and inspecting each bit. 

You felt sick. 

There was nowhere to run. Perhaps it was better you lived with your sins anyway and let the guilt eat you alive.

It was a week before the Doctor called on you again, another Fatuus, a younger recruit named Sava, delivered the note to your room with an edge to his cadence when he addressed you. The Doctor’s elegant cursive curled around your anxiety, but you swallowed the tendrils, flashing Sava an empty smile (amicable, freshly dusted off) before waving him off. 

Mx. [name]

I’m regretful that our last parting left on such a sour note, but I require your assistance for a follow-up project. My recent trip to Inazuma bore some ripe fruit. I expect this puppet carries an abundance of secrets I will never find in the frail subjects of the past. Return to my lab as soon as this letter finds you.

Il Dottore

Puppet? 

Crumpling the paper in your hands, you blinked back an itch in your eyes, tossing it aside and reaching for your violet coat hanging beside the door.

It was hard not to be surprised. 

The Doctor hadn’t been lying. This test subject was truly unlike any other. 

He looked ethereal perched upon the examination table, his hair and eyes a beautiful violet, like that of the thunderstorms of Inazuma. He had a slim build and sharp collarbones, but his porcelain skin wrapped around lean muscle in his shoulders and arms, making the mystery surrounding his origins even more intriguing. In all his nude glory, he was blemish-free — flawless. The perfect subject for the Doctor. 

“Kunikuzushi will be joining our ranks with the understanding that I will be modifying his vessel.” 

Vessel. It took you a while to stop correcting the Doctor’s dehumanizing verbiage as you had as a recruit. Back when you had a spark of life behind your eyes. 

Kunikuzushi’s eyes dragged over your form, lax and uninterested. You couldn’t help but note the sharpness of his jawline, the piercing glitter in his eyes, and the contrast of his hair against the silver metal beneath him. 

“In your letter… you said something about a puppet. Were you referring to…” You trailed off, your voice soft. The man on the table scoffed under his breath, flicking his eyes back to the light above him. 

“Why yes, Kunikuzushi is indeed a puppet, despite his best efforts. A puppet created by the electro archon herself. It seems despite his years of living, the power vested in him has been sealed away, locked deep in his empty chest. I intend to release that power.” There was a seed of condescension in the Doctor’s voice you were keenly familiar with, and you figured that it wouldn’t be such a cut-and-dry experiment. This was a trove of answers, and now that such an ideal candidate for testing had presented himself, it was clear the Doctor would not let him go so easily. 

“Anything else you ‘intend to do’?” You probed, barely concealing the bitterness that had festered since the death of Jiang. “Surely you’re not just unsealing his power without any personal benefit.” That coaxed a laugh from the Doctor, who folded his arms across his chest, cocking his head at you.

“What a clever bird you are. We’ve gotten to know each other quite well during your time under me.” He practically cooed, but you kept your expression flat, casting your eyes on your notepad. “But yes, you are correct. I do have my plans for this puppet, but they will be revealed in time.” 

“Do you intend to get on with it? I’m growing tired of your crazed ramblings.” Kunikuzushi bit, and your heart seized in fear, bracing yourself for an aggravated reaction that never came. 

“You have an awfully sharp tongue on you,” The Doctor mused, stepping towards a silver cart, and plucking a scalpel from the top, the tip glimmering beneath the lights. “Now then. You already proved your durability when you trounced into that furnace without a care in the world, but I’m eager to test how far that will go.” 

Kunikuzushi’s face remained impassive at his ominous words, eyes fixed on the overhead lights as the Doctor pressed the blade to the immaculate skin of his subject. It divoted before the skin broke, a pinprick of luminescent violet beading below the cut. You watched, transfixed, as it dripped down his ribs, pooling by his side on the table.

‘Violet blood — or bodily fluid — seemingly containing a fluorescent glow,’ you noted, the pen shaking beneath your fingers. Kunikuzushi flinched gently at the sensation, and although the reaction twinged your heart painfully, you shut it out, fixing an empty, dissociated stare on the scene before you. 

The Doctor dragged the scalpel down from the puppet’s collarbone to just above his navel. Kunikuzushi’s gentle flinch morphed into a tight grimace, and you forced yourself to ignore the clench of his fists. 

“You’ll grow accustomed to the pain, I’m sure,” The Doctor breezed, a recognizable line that you weren’t sure was meant to soothe or disturb.  

“Pain means nothing. Do what you promised.” The tension between his syllables spoke otherwise.

Within a few moments, you watched in awe as Kunikuzushi’s skin stitched itself together, not even a thin white scar remaining. Unblemished. You made sure to make note of it. The Doctor seemed to take great pleasure in this finding as well, humming to himself in a way that sent shivers down your spine, like the feeling of small rocks beneath bare feet. 

“Delightful. It appears this body of yours won’t allow itself to be obstructed easily. I look forward to our time together, Kunikuzushi.” the Doctor doted, and you barely caught the fire in Kunikuzushi’s eyes flickering. Melancholically, you wondered how long it would take for it to fade.