#was the weak place and the breaking place for them

[whetstonefires]

Also the thing is, Jiang Cheng can't share how he threw himself out there as chum to cover Wei Wuxian, because it isn't a usefully reciprocal confession to the revelation about Wei Wuxian's core.

All it says is: there was a moment on the worst day of my life (up to that point) where I valued your life more than my own.

That's all. Arguably it says not even that, because Jiang Cheng is established as insecure enough that he very much cannot prove that this was an act driven primarily by affection and the will to protect, rather than guilt and shame and grief, and the desire to make a gesture that would prove his worth to himself, and let him opt out of the pain of having outlived the world he knew and almost everything he loved.

(after all, this self-sacrifice fairly directly followed an episode of 'strangling wei wuxian while blaming him for everything' and then being taken care of by wei wuxian like this hadn't even happened.

normally, jiang cheng is not someone who is physically violent. he is verbally violent all the time, but his physical violence is typically reserved for mortal enemies. that first time he came within throwing distance of murdering wei wuxian in a fit of grief-rage was almost certainly more traumatic for him than it was for wei wuxian, who is really good at compartmentalizing that kind of shit.

interesting element of mirroring there though, in that jiang cheng allowed wei wuxian to know about the murderous rage but not the self-destructive love, leading wei wuxian to misunderstand the exact shape of his place in jiang cheng's life and act on the basis of the rejection, in a way that encouraged relationship decay, just as wei wuxian's own secret-keeping would later lead jiang cheng to do in reply. vicious cycle!)

But the important thing is that this truth doesn't really explain anything.

Wei Wuxian's mute self-mutilation for Jiang Cheng's sake explained everything. All the withdrawal, the betrayal, what he thought was the rejection; the previously inexplicable decisions to abandon the teachings and home and allegiances that bound them in favor of death and the children of their enemies. Wen Ning's revelation explained it all, and recast it utterly.

It made the story different in a way that mattered a lot to the people in it.

What Jiang Cheng did...it shows he wasn't unworthy of that sacrifice in the way everything else about the narrative paints him. It's a grace note to his character.

It's not meaningless, exactly. It's just also not enough to actually change the weight of debt between them; it doesn't restructure the narrative.

It's not even, truly, new information.

Wei Wuxian knows Jiang Cheng loved him. Wanted to protect and keep him. He knows Jiang Cheng understood his abandonment as a betrayal, that Jiang Cheng felt he was owed better, and that this sense of being-entitled was a major impetus behind his increasing hostility.

Adding this little scrap of context for those reactions, for that rage--it's not enough. It gives Jiang Cheng a little more reason to have felt hard done by, validates a little of that wild resentment and makes it less of a spoiled young master reaction, lends it more dignity.

But your feelings being valid doesn't really go that far to justifying actions taken because of them. The hurt was already sympathetic; the choices aren't really changed by the context making it more so.

After all, he knew he'd lost his core protecting Wei Wuxian, but he also knew that Wei Wuxian risked his own life almost as foolishly extracting him again afterward, and 'knew' that Wei Wuxian freely gave away his only connection with his own dead mother and access to the help of an immortal for his sake; they were already square by rights in the world as he understood it, and he still acted the way he did.

And after all, Wei Wuxian's actions in his first life were always taking Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng's feelings into consideration, even when it didn't look like it; even when he fucked up, and Jiang Cheng paid for it. Right up until he lost his mind, and to an extent afterward.

'Consciously, on purpose choosing against someone out of spite' is something Wei Wuxian did not ever do to him, which he did do to Wei Wuxian. A lot. Escalating.

That doesn't become any less happened because at a prior time he did the opposite.

All the while not putting a lot of effort into worrying about Wei Wuxian's feelings, or how to spare them, because one of the norms of their relationship was that Jiang Cheng's feelings deserved to be privileged and handled gently, but Wei Wuxian was too tough to need that kind of consideration. Except about dogs.

That's a norm Jiang Cheng accepted and took for granted; it turned out to be the norm that broke their relationship, because Wei Wuxian treated 'protecting Jiang Cheng's delicate feelings' as such a mandatory task that he put it over things that logic would call much more important.

And so there's no way Jiang Cheng can talk about how he lost his core trying to die for Wei Wuxian without sounding like he's trying to justify himself, to wipe his deliberate-choice-to-harm off the record with a single act of goodness.

When Wei Wuxian has never once for a second tried to argue that his own goodness cancels out his crimes.

(He doesn't even argue that other people's crimes cancel out his crimes; the furthest he's gone is that since everyone involved did or abetted evil shit, it's inappropriate and bullshit to construct him as uniquely villainous and structure a concept of justice around that falsehood.)

So the only meaning that truth can carry now, after everything, coming from Jiang Cheng, is his saying: Please. I'm a better person than you think I am. I loved you more than you believe.

I was just as good as you, no matter what everyone always thought. I deserve for you to love me like you did before, in spite of everything, and I deserve not to have to say I'm sorry, and I deserve your respect, and and and--

And he is not gonna fucking say that.

[girl-lostconnection]

Hear me out

Bloodhound Knight Johnny x Witch!Reader.

Johnny who lived his whole life being a good instrument for his master, being a proper weapon in other’s hands.

Johnny whose training strips his words from him, his dignity, his honour. Dogs don’t have honour after all.

Dogs hear “bite” and they bite. Dogs hear “run��� and they run.

Dogs return to their owners no matter how cruel the hand feeding them is. Because that’s what dogs do. That’s how it works.

Johnny who gets his knee injured badly and suddenly after years of servitude and being a good weapon he’s useless. He’s broken. No one needs a dog that can’t run. No one needs a dog that can’t hunt for its master.

They drop him off somewhere in the wilderness, not letting him keep even his sword, the weapon that became part of him, the weapon hilt of which is soaked in his blood and sweat and tears.

It’s his bloody sword! It’s his weapon! He earned it! Why can’t he keep it? Why isn’t he allowed to keep at least this much?

Why isn’t he allowed to keep anything?

But he’s dropped off in the woods and he doesn’t even know where the fuck he is. He doesn’t know what to do — shame and humiliation choking him out, pain in his knee agonising whenever he tries to hobble somewhere.

Dogs in the wild either die or become feral. Johnny isn’t sure what is better for him. He doesn’t have anything left in him to fight more.

He doesn’t have a reason to. Nobody tells him to bite or to run or to break himself piece by piece.

He’s feverish from pain and he’s hungry, god he’s so fucking hungry.

He hasn’t been so hungry since he was a wee thing and his mum couldn’t feed them more than once per day.

Family too big in a place that’s too cold and too barren to feed them properly. Family without men other than him.

Johnny closes his eyes, looking up at the sky, lips chapped and dry.

He doesn’t really mind dying. But he doesn’t want to be hungry. God he doesn’t want to die hungry, he let people break him to fit in the dog hide so he doesn’t die hungry.

And at the brink of it all. You find him.

You smell like herbs and something citrus-y, sweet and homey scent. Warm scent. Delicious scent.

Johnny tilts his head, not sure whether it not you are another hallucination of his feverish mind. Maybe you are. Well, at least that’s something.

Small mercies for a useless dog like him.

You say something, brows furrowed and eyes wary but Johnny doesn’t have any more energy to attack. There’s no fight left in him.

But you tug on him for some reason, you make him drink something — sweet and tangy, his empty stomach clenching with renewed hunger.

“Look at the state of you. Come on, knight, it’s no place to die. Come on, you need to get up”, you hiss at him, forcing him up and make him drink a little more of whatever you have in the flask of yours.

It dulls his pain a little, it sobers him up, his jaws clacking together, almost biting the tip of his own tongue.

It’s humiliating. He’s been his master’s best dog, the leanest hound, the favourite fucking weapon and now he’s just a broken toy that reeks of sweat and blood and infection, knee throbbing.

You should just leave him here. You should let him die.

But you don’t.

You force him to walk, hissing back when he clacks his jaws at you — his leg making the hobble a right bloody adventure but you are relentless. Pouring your drink down his throat, pulling him further in the woods.

Johnny thinks he blacked out for a while because the next time he’s out of delirium he’s lying on the bed, fire cracking in the heath.

His armour propped on the chair next to the bed.

You didn’t take it away. Why didn’t you take it away? He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a bad dog, a weak dog, a useless dog.

Can’t you see his knee? Don’t you know that he won’t be a good weapon for you, witch? What’s use to save him if he’s not useful?

But you don’t allow him to wallow in his own misery, spoon feeding him your weird fucking medicine, making him eat and pushing out of the house so he sits on the fallen tree.

“Some fresh air will do you good”, you hum matter-of-factly and he snarls at you, but it’s half-hearted at best. More for the show and you know it so well it’s infuriating.

You thrust watering can in his hands when he’s out of the woods and no longer risking to fall when he stands up too fast. Johnny looks at it, bewildered and looks back at you, earning himself an exasperated sigh and “water plants around yourself, you big oaf. Yeah, these ones near the log you sit on”.

Johnny feels fucking ridiculous sitting on the bloody log and watering plants around himself. Who the fuck is he? A garden gnome?

Johnny who doesn’t know what use he is to you but you come up with tasks for him and even if he finds them ridiculous…he’s not gonna turn his nose away from work.

You feed him, you house him, you patch up his clothing and make a polish for his armour. You save him for some unknown reason so if you say “water the rosemary, oaf” he’s going to water the rosemary.

His knee slowly gets better but the damage unfortunately is irreversible. He doesn’t lose his leg entirely but you quietly announce that he’s not gonna be able to run again.

Johnny nods, swallowing down his anger and bitterness, back of his throat hurting and spasming, bile rising up.

It’s not fair. He was a good dog, he was the best dog. It’s not fair that he won’t run again.

But you still push him to move, lending your shoulder when he awkwardly stumbles and limps, making ointments for his knee, teaching him how to bandage the thing properly.

He lives through the whole summer with you — sleeping in your bed, eating food you grow, watching you silently.

It’s not until first snow he starts speaking again, the first time scaring the living day out of you — his voice a raspy and wrong thing.

He haven’t used it in 20 years.

But he does now. Starts with clipped “yeah” and “nae”, building up to “thank you” and “morning”. He doesn’t talk much but he does talk and that’s already more than before.

More than he was allowed.

You teach him proper sheep shearing and with your combined efforts he gets himself a warm winter cloak. Then a sweater. Then another one.

It’s foreign and the clothes are warm, keeping him from shivering in winds that grow colder when he cleans the pathway to your house from snow.

You keep him warm.

The thought is a sharp thorn that grows in his mind, poking from inside, something long forgotten inside of him watching you with new intensity.

He still sleeps in your bed with you taking a small cot in the kitchen which wasn’t an issue during summer but winters are cold and when he notices the slight shiver that goes through you…

You keep him warm. It’s only fair if he repays the favour.

You wake up warm and fuzzy from sleep, mind hazy, eyes bleary and you aren’t sure why are you so warm, kitchen cools off during the night. Usually you are shivering when you wake up.

Someone’s breathing tickles your ear and you freeze, turning your head — Johnny’s impossibly blue eyes staring right back at you. Watching you with the same intensity hounds do when they lock in on the target.

With the same quiet obsession stray dogs that adore their owners have.

“What are you doing?”, you murmur quietly, voice husky from sleep, eyes squinting at him.

“Nothing”

Johnny isn’t sure what to do with the hot shiver he feels at the sound of your voice, so he just nudges you back under the blanket and to his absolute delight you comply.

Face pressing into his chest, dozing off in a matter of seconds.

Johnny wraps his arms tighter around you, warm and comfortable. You are soft in his hands, his fingers sinking in the softer parts of your body and god, you still smell good.

Herbs and dried citrus. Homey. Delicious.

Johnny guards you while you sleep, starting to move only when you stir awake. You got your rest. Wonderful.

Johnny nuzzles in your neck, lips mouthing at soft skin and he’s not sure what he’s doing or where he needs to go from there. But you make a soft breathy sound when he licks a wet stripe on your skin and he growls in appreciation.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you were like his previous master. Maybe it would’ve been better if you told him to bite or to run.

Maybe it would’ve been better if you chose his new purpose for him.

But you didn’t. So he chooses it himself.

Johnny’s palms slide under the thin fabric of your shirt, his body nudging your legs open so he can settle in between — slowly sliding under the blankets.

Yeah, he chose alright. Maybe his pretty witch doesn’t need a weapon. Or a dog. Or an instrument to use.

But he needs you.

Johnny rumbles out “bonnie” when he looks back up at you, eyes heavy and hungry.

Didn’t you know that hounds sink their teeth into their prey and don’t let go? Should’ve known better.

Now you aren’t getting rid of him.

Continuation

[caughtthedarkness93]

Memory serves, executive orders also cannot overturn laws passed by congress and definitely can't override state laws.

Like yeah, Trump can say this shit but can't make it happen.

People are gonna tie this shit up in the courts for years, and we're only two years away from a midterm election that I expect the right is gonna eat shit on, and there's always the chance that Trump chokes on a big mac tomorrow.

Right now, the goal should be to be as annoying and obstructive as possible. Gum up the works. Make actually implementing this stuff as difficult as it can be, then gain as much ground as possible in the midterms.

And I'll reiterate the thing I've been saying from the beginning: I think fundamentally the American right is about to completely disintegrate. They have no consistent internal philosophy. They have no long-term goals. A party that used to be extremely unified is starting to show signs of intense infighting. Their biggest policy win was getting Roe v. Wade overturned, and it actually seemed to have backfired with how draconian a lot of the abortion laws it activated were.

And, most dangerously for them, they've basically been reduced to a cult of Donald Trump. And while that gives Trump himself a lot of power over them, that means they're also subject to his many, many weaknesses. Remember, this is a man who likes to have his associates constantly competing for his favor and enjoys cultivating chaos around himself. And in the last few years, Trump has become even more incoherent, unstable, and easy to manipulate. When he's gone, I think it's going to leave a power vacuum in the Republican Party that is going to break it. And Trump himself has no clear successor. I thought it was going to be Ron DeSantis, but voters loudly and clearly rejected him. So yeah. In two years, midterms happen. In that time, it needs to be as annoying as possible for Donald Trump. And once there's a more sane congress in place, things become much easier. Hell, maybe he even gets finally impeached.

I'll be real with y'all, I knew Donald Trump was going to do some henious, bigoted shit the second he sat down in that chair in the oval office, but - and I can't emphasize this enough - I didn't not expect him to immediately repeal the Equal Employment Opportunity Act.

Like I'm still stunned by it. We're back to the 1950's now. We on the left were trying to fight to maintain gains we made the past 10-15 years and trump comes in a sweeps the rug out from all of us. You can now be fired for being for your race, religion, sexuality, sex and gender, disability, or nation of origin.

Employers can now fire you for being black or brown or LGBTQ or blind or in a wheelchair or a woman or literally whatever characistic they want.

I can't convey just how fucked we are. The EEOC is one the most important win in the history of Civil Rights. He did it on MLK Day! That's extra fucked!

Y'all thought their anti DEI or CRT or whatever other acronym they were throwing out there crusade was going to start and end at stuff younger than a high schooler, but no they went after one of the bedrocks of civil rights.

The more I think about it the more my head spins.

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey author,

Loved your work! I have a request for a Max Verstappen fiction. Here's the idea:

Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

The Reader is a badass, known for her fiery press conferences and domination on the court, much like how Max is in racing. Despite being a power couple in front of the world, they are very vulnerable and weak for each other. They know the struggles both have been through—she understands the impact Max's childhood and his father, Jos, have had on him, and he knows the challenges she faces, including attacks and pressures from the media.

They are incredibly supportive of each other. Max attends all her Grand Slam matches, and she visits his races. They are deeply in love and very open with each other, understanding each other's feelings and experiences.

That's the type of story I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

Power Couple

Summary: Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

Song: Slow Down · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I hardly had any ideas for this one but I tried my best! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

It's messy, chaotic, and punctuated by the sharp thwack of a tennis ball and the roar of a finely tuned engine. It’s the story of you and Max, a whirlwind that started when you were both just fifteen, a story that’s still unfolding in the dazzling glare of the spotlight.

You were fifteen and a force of nature on the tennis court, even back then. Your name was already whispered with respect in junior circuits. You carried a racquet like an extension of your arm, and your focus was so intense it was almost palpable.

That summer, your training brought you to a small, dusty tennis club nestled in the Dutch countryside, a far cry from the manicured lawns of Wimbledon, but the perfect place to hone your craft.

He was there too. Not on the court, but lurking near the chain-link fence, a lanky boy with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a mop of unruly brown hair perpetually falling into his face. You'd noticed him, of course.

How could you not? He was the only teenager there whose attention wasn't glued to the endless practice sessions. Instead, he seemed more interested in the growl of the beat-up scooter he’d arrived on.

One day, during a water break, you were staring down at the worn-out grip on your Wilson when he spoke.

"That's a good shot," he said, his voice still cracking with that awkward teen timbre.

You looked up, surprised, and saw him leaning against the fence, an almost shy smile playing on his lips. "You mean the forehand?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you hadn't quite shaken off.

He shrugged, his eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite place. "I don't know. All of them, I guess? You look like you're trying to kill the ball."

A chuckle escaped you. "It's called intensity."

"Yeah, well, I like it." He pushed off the fence and walked a little closer. "I'm Max."

"You know, I've noticed," you teased, a smirk spreading across your face. "Always lurking by the gate."

His grin widened, making him look younger and somehow much more approachable. "Lurking? I prefer… observing." He paused, then gestured towards your racket. “Do you think you could teach me to hit like that?”

And just like that, a friendship was born, as naturally as the changing of seasons. You didn't actually teach him to play tennis, you decided, though, that he was far more enthralled with the intricate mechanics of his racing kart, and you found yourself drawn to the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke about the feeling of speed and control.

You spent the rest of your summer evenings not on the court, but tinkering with his kart in his garage, or racing against each other on the empty country roads, the roar of engines a stark contrast to the quiet thud of tennis balls you were used to.

You taught him a little about the precision and discipline you carried from your sport while he showed you how to embrace a more reckless, unbridled kind of passion.

As the weeks passed, those shared moments morphed into something deeper. One warm evening, after a long day at the track, you found yourselves lying on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and charged, until he turned his head, and his hand brushed against yours.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I can't imagine not having you here. You're… unlike anyone I've ever met."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had thought the same thing, again and again. "You're kinda different yourself, Verstappen," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face.

He picked up your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked, his stormy blue eyes searching yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You tilted your head slightly, and that soft, hesitant kiss was the start of something bigger than either of you could have imagined.

The next few years were a blur of teenage milestones, shared victories, and the quiet comfort of understanding each other. You traveled the world, following your dreams. You were winning Grand Slams.

You mastered the art of the backhand and the perfect serve, while he climbed the ranks in the world of Formula 1, learning the intricacies of high-speed racing and the relentless demands of the professional circuit.

You learned to navigate the complexities of a long-distance relationship, the bittersweet ache of goodbyes followed by the heady joy of reunions.

You’d meet in far-flung corners of the world, a stolen weekend in Monaco, a quick coffee in London, sharing late-night calls across different time zones, finding solace in each other’s voices.

You learned to listen, not just with your ears, but with your heart, understanding the unspoken language of ambition and dedication, of relentless pursuit, from someone who truly understood what was involved.

He was there in the stands when you clinched your first Wimbledon title, his applause echoing louder than the roar of the crowd, his pride radiating across the stadium.

You, in turn, were glued to the screen, every race day a nail-biting affair as you chanted his name like a magic spell. You celebrated his wins with unabashed joy, commiserated over his losses with a fierce loyalty that only a childhood best friend, a lover, could offer.

Your life now is a whirlwind of press conferences, sponsor obligations, and the unwavering pressure to stay at the top.

You glide across the court, a graceful yet powerful force, your focus sharp and unflinching, yet when you catch a glimpse of Max in the crowd, you allow yourself a secret smile, a silent reminder of your shared history, of the kid he was all those years ago. He is a reminder of that simpler time.

There are moments, like now, after another grueling day on the court, when you close your eyes and let the roar of the crowd fade away, replaced by the rumble of his scooter and the memory of his first shy smile.

You might be number one in the world of tennis, a name whispered in awe, but you know, the best title you've ever earned is his girlfriend. And that, you think, is the greatest prize of all.

And, as you’re getting ready for the next press conference, you're thinking of the next time you see him. The thought has you smiling again. . . .

The roar of the crowd is a familiar symphony, a constant hum beneath your focused breath. You adjust the headband, the familiar terry cloth a comfort against the glare of the stadium lights. Wimbledon’s Centre Court is your kingdom, the lush green grass your canvas.

You’re leading 5-3 in the third set against Elena Rybakina, a formidable opponent, your every move calculated, precise. A serve, a blur of motion – ace. The roar erupts, a wave of sound that threatens to lift you off your feet.

You know you've got this, the title within your grasp. You’ve worked for this, bled for this, every single grueling practice session, every sacrifice, all culminate in this moment.

You win the game, the match, and the crowd goes wild. The air crackles with energy, the taste of victory sweet on your tongue. You shake hands with Rybakina, a brief, respectful acknowledgment of the battle fought, then raise your arms in a triumphant arc.

Another Wimbledon title under your belt. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the familiar mix of elation and exhaustion. It’s a high like no other, but underneath that surge of victory there's another feeling, a quiet hum of anticipation.

You know who’s waiting for you.

The post-match media scrum is a blur - flashes, questions, microphone in your face. You handle it all with your usual icy grace, your well-honed responses a shield against the endless prodding.

You’re used to it; it comes with the territory of being the best. But you’re itching to escape its glare. You see your agent, Sarah, giving you a quick nod, and you know it's your cue. A few more polite words, another practiced smile, and then you're slipping away, finally free of the spotlight.

You find him in the players' lounge, perched on a sofa, his eyes tracking yours as you walk in. Max. He stands as you approach, a smile playing on his lips that makes your heart do that familiar little flip.

The harsh lines that often harden his face are softened when he looks at you. He gathers you into his arms, his embrace both fierce and gentle.

"You were incredible," he whispers against your hair, his voice roughened with emotion. "An absolute beast out there."

"Thanks, you," you murmur, breathing in his scent, the familiar comfort of it grounding you after the storm of the match. You pull back slightly, your gaze catching his. “Did you watch the whole thing? Even with your schedule?”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You were destroying her. Honestly, you're the most dangerous person I know." You laugh at that, a genuine laugh that’s rare these days, a laugh that only he can draw out of you.

Later, back at the house in Monaco, you sit side-by-side on the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the moonlight. He holds your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your knuckles.

In this serene space, the world outside fades away. The tension that always seems to cling to you both loosens, the relentless pressure of your careers receding into the background.

"You know," Max begins, his voice quiet, "sometimes I still can't believe it. You, the best there is. Not just in the world, but the best there could ever be.”

You turn to him, your eyes searching his. "And you?" you ask him, “World Champion twice? Sometimes I can't believe you’re not some superhuman entity.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze unwavering. "We both push ourselves to the edge, and beyond," he says. "It's what makes us who we are, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's also why we need each other." The silence that follows is comfortable, a space filled with shared understanding, a knowing that transcends words.

The days that follow are a brief reprieve, stolen moments away from the relentless cycle of competition. You spend them walking along the coast, laughing, rediscovering the simplicity of just being together.

But the respite is always fleeting, the demands of your respective careers always looming on the horizon. You’re due to fly out for a tournament in Washington D.C. in a week, and Max is scheduled for a race in Hungary two weeks after that.

The night before you leave, the atmosphere is thick with a quiet anticipation. You’re curled up on the sofa, your favourite movie playing softly on the TV, but neither of you is paying much attention.

Max pulls you closer, his hand slipping beneath your t-shirt, tracing the curve of your back. His skin is always warm against yours, a familiar comfort.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I hate being away from you."

You turn to face him, your fingers cupping his cheek. "I wish I didn't either, but we know how this goes. We’re just two very busy, very overachieving maniacs.”

He smiles, a flash of his boyish charm. "Yeah, but that's why I love you. You’re as insane as I am." He leans in, his lips finding yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.

The morning you leave, the goodbyes are short, a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to call every day. You watch his car disappear down the driveway, a small ache settling in your chest.

It's the same ache you feel every time you part ways, a reminder of your connection, a reminder of what you have to come back to.

The tournament in D.C. is a brutal battle. You're seeded first, as always, and the pressure is immense. You win the first few rounds with your usual dominance, but then come up against a rising star, a young American player who pushes you to your absolute limit.

The match goes to five sets, each point a war of attrition. You’re exhausted by the end, but you win, the taste of victory bittersweet.

That night, you’re in the hotel room, the city lights twinkling outside your window. You’re on a call with Max, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

He’s telling you about his practice sessions, the improvements he’s made to his car, and you’re listening intently, your mind drifting away from the exhaustion and the pressure.

“You were so close out there,” he says suddenly, “your match was insane, I was so nervous.”

“You always are,” you giggle, picturing his intense face watching your match on the TV. “Just like how I feel every race you’re in.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the hum of the call a gentle lull. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice soft, “you always make me so proud.”

“And I you,” you murmur, a lump forming in your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you feel like you're home again, all the way across the world.

“Love you too, always.”

You fall asleep with his voice still ringing in your ears. The next morning, you wake up to a phone call you weren't expecting. It’s Sarah, your agent, and her voice is strained.

"There's been an accident," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "Max... he was in a crash during practice."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. The room spins, the world blurring at the edges. Your breath catches in your chest, a cold dread gripping your heart.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, your voice shaking.

"We don't know yet," she says, the uncertainty in her voice doing little to assuage the terror that’s now flooding you. "You need to come home, now."

The next few hours are a chaotic blur. You’re on autopilot, racing through airports and boarding planes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You barely register the faces around you, the sounds of the world muted, as if you're underwater.

All you can think of is Max, his face, his smile, his voice. The thought of losing him is unbearable.

You arrive in Monaco in the dead of night. The house feels cold and empty, the silence deafening. You make your way to the hospital, your every step heavy, the weight of your fear pressing down on you.

You find him in a small, sterile room, his body connected to monitors. He’s pale and still, his face almost hidden by the shadows. You feel like you’ve been ripped open, the pain so sharp it steals your breath.

You rush to his side, your fingers reaching for his hand. His skin is cold, but his grip tightens around yours, a small, reassuring squeeze.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks at you, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Max,” you breathe, a sob catching in your throat. Tears are streaming down your face as you gently cup his face. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He smiles weakly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I knew you would be,” he murmurs, his eyes closing again, “always, even when I’m an idiot driving a race car.”

You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him, holding his hand, and watching him breathe, a silent promise passing between you, a bond forged in childhood, strengthened by shared triumphs and endured through deep pain - a love that would always, always persevere. . . .

The scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel clings to him even before the door shuts. You hear the familiar click of the lock, and then the heavier thud of his boots hitting the tiles of the hallway.

You’re sprawled on the couch, a worn-out copy of “Open” by Andre Agassi resting on your chest. Jimmy, the ginger behemoth, is purring like a motorboat on your left thigh, while Sassy, the sleek black panther, is curled into a perfect ebony question mark at your feet.

They’ve been your constant companions during the lull before your next tournament.

“Hey,” Max’s voice is low, tired, but a ripple of warmth underlies it. You open your eyes, the intense afternoon sun filtering in through the tall living room windows making the world outside a blur of gold and green.

You push Agassi off your chest, feeling the book’s weight leave a slight indent.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, the Red Bull logo on his polo a vibrant dash of color against the muted tones of the room.

He looks drained, the lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced than you remember from the last time he was home. You know those lines; they’re etched by the relentless pressure of Formula 1, the constant travel, the unending pursuit of milliseconds.

He kneels beside the couch, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Jimmy's ears. The cat pushes his head into Max’s palm, a rumbling purr vibrating through his frame.

“They’ve missed you,” you murmur, running a hand down Sassy’s velvety back.

Max glances up at you, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, are a little softer now, a touch vulnerable and definitely possessive. “Not as much as I missed you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on your face.

You feel the familiar warmth spread through your chest. It's crazy how after all these years, the simple act of him looking at you like that can still make your heart do somersaults.

He settles onto the couch, his long legs stretching out and nearly touching your feet. He pulls you into his side, and you nestle in, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby.

The tension in his body is palpable. “Bad race?” you ask softly, tracing small circles on his arm with your fingertip.

He sighs, a gust of air escaping his lips. “Third,” he replies, the single word carrying a weight that you understand completely. “Just… not good enough, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've had your share of crushing defeats, the sting of a missed shot, the frustration of an opponent playing out of their skin. You’ve both built entire empires on a foundation of ambition, a constant striving for perfection, despite the inherent impossibility of it.

You know how those ‘not good enough’ days can feel.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” you say, your head resting against his shoulder. There’s no need for platitudes or empty reassurances. He knows that you know.

A wry smile touches his lips. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically untouchable on the court right now.”

You chuckle, a low, confident sound that ripples through his frame. “Untouchable? Please. I just know how to make my opponents sweat a little.”

You raise your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. He is so well aware of the press conferences where you don't mince your words.

He lets out a genuine laugh then, the sound is music to your ears. It’s raw and real. “That's the understatement of the century,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The way you went off on that reporter after your French Open semi-final was legendary."

You roll your eyes dramatically, though you can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. “He asked if I was scared of my opponent. Scared. As if. I’d rather face a thousand of those volleys than go through another interview like that.”

He pulls you closer, his arm tightening around you. "You're fierce," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "On and off the court. It's... it's one of the things I love about you.”

“And you’re terrifying behind the wheel,” you tease, knowing that a lot of his race opponents are afraid of him on the track.

He chuckles again, a low rumble against your ear. “And you love that too,” he says, the teasing note in his voice back.

You don’t bother denying it. He knows you too well. You know him too well. You’ve built something that is so incredibly strong because it was always built together. You’ve seen each other through the highs and lows, the wins and losses, the triumphs and the heartbreaks.

You’ve navigated the pressures of fame, the relentless scrutiny, the isolating nature of being at the top – together. You were just kids when it started, two teenagers with big dreams and even bigger personalities.

You fell in love navigating the ups and downs of life, and you grew up together, which made things that much stronger.

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken language that only two people who have known each other for so long can share. You can feel the tension slowly leaving him, as if your presence is a balm to his weary soul.

“Tournament soon?” he asks, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Dubai. In a week.” You know the time change between Dubai and Europe will be brutal, but you’ve become accustomed to that aspect of your career.

He lifts his head and looks at you, his gaze intense. “You’ll crush them,” he says with absolute certainty.

You smile, the confidence in his voice a tangible thing. “Just like you’re going to leave them all in the dust next race, huh?”

He grins, that familiar flash of competitive fire returning to his eyes. “You know it.”

You trace the line of his jaw, your fingers lingering on the slight stubble. You could spend hours like this, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the noise of the world fading away.

There’s a vulnerability in him that only you get to see, a softness that he hides from the cameras, the reporters, the rivals. And in return, he gets to see a side of you that very few have been privy to, the quiet tenderness that lies beneath the fiery exterior.

“Want to order some takeaway?” you ask, the thought of cooking suddenly feeling like a monumental task.

“Pizza?” he suggests, his eyes already sparkling with the thought.

“Only if it has pineapple,” you tease, knowing that it is the most controversial thing you could possibly say.

Max groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “You are absolutely going to be the death of me,” he says, but the smile on his face belies his words.

You laugh, the sound light and free. You lean in, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s the taste of home, a place where you are both just Max and you, where the pressures of the world are just whispers in the distance.

You know that outside this space, you are both world-class athletes with unwavering determination, but in each other’s arms, you are just two people who grew up together. Who fell in love.

Who, despite the relentless demands of your careers, will always find their way back to each other. You are, after all, each other’s constant. You are, and will always be, each other’s home.

The roar of the engine was a familiar lullaby, a sound that had been a constant soundtrack to your life since you were kids, perched on the sidelines of karting tracks, watching Max whiz by in a blur of red and orange.

Now, instead of a flimsy kart, you were strapped into a beast of a car, the smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel filling your nostrils. You glanced at the familiar, focused profile of Max beside you, the set of his jaw a testament to his concentration.

This was supposed to be a fun exercise, a publicity stunt dreamed up by Red Bull’s marketing department – the world’s number one tennis player, and the reigning Formula One Champion, taking a joyride. Except, this wasn’t a joyride.

This was a terror ride, and you were pretty sure your heart was currently trying to stage a coup and escape from your chest.

“Max,” you started, your voice a little too high pitched, a far cry from the confident, booming voice that usually echoed through stadium press boxes. “You know I’m used to your speed, right? On the track, where it's meant to be, not on some random circuit at 300 km/h.”

He didn’t answer, just a subtle twitch of his lips hinting at a suppressed grin. You gripped the grab handle on your side of the car so hard your knuckles turned white.

It was no secret that Max, much like you on the tennis court, thrived on pushing boundaries. He was a master of controlled chaos on the track, and right now, you weren’t so sure about the "controlled" part.

The car accelerated, forcing you back into your seat. You let out a yell, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through you.

You were used to controlling your own trajectory, predicting your opponent’s next move, the satisfying thump of a perfectly placed serve. This, this was utterly out of your hands, at the mercy of Max’s foot on the accelerator pedal.

“Max! Verdomme! Slow down!” You bellowed, resorting to Dutch as your carefully constructed composure shattered into a million pieces. You could feel the g-force pressing against you, throwing your head against the headrest as he took a corner at an impossible speed.

You braced yourself, bracing your hands against the dashboard, trying to find something solid to cling to.

You could hear him chuckling, the sound muffled but distinct. You could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though you were looking straight at the dashboard.

“What, is the little tennis star scared?” He teased, his voice laced with amusement.

He downshifted, the revs of the engine screaming higher, and you swore you felt your stomach try to migrate up into your throat.

“Scared?! I’m not scared!” You shouted back, partially for his benefit, mostly for yours. “I’m just… concerned about the structural integrity of this car. And my very delicate internal organs!” You knew you sounded pathetic, not the self-assured athlete the world knew and feared, but you couldn’t help it.

This was Max Verstappen, after all. He had a unique way of bringing out your most ridiculous, human side.

He laughed again, a full, genuine laugh this time, the kind that made your heart flutter even while your stomach was performing gymnastics.

He glanced over at you, a grin playing on his face. “Relax, schatje. I have it under control.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did believe him, for a split second anyway. Then he slammed on the gas and you screamed again, a string of Dutch curses pouring out of your lips as you gripped the headrest with an iron fist.

Each turn was a rollercoaster, each acceleration a punch to your gut. You found yourself cursing in Dutch, English, and even a little bit of French, a linguistic mashup fuelled by sheer terror.

You caught glimpses of the blur outside, the landscape a streaks of green and brown. You tried to focus on breathing, trying to regain a semblance of control over your runaway emotions, but every time he hit the accelerator, you lost it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few minutes of extreme adrenaline, the car slowed, and pulled into a stop. You were slumped back in your seat, a sweaty, disheveled mess.

“That was… an experience,” you managed, your voice still a bit shaky.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling as he gave you a wide, triumphant grin. “Fun, right?”

You almost laughed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Fun? Max, I think I aged at least five years in that car.” You reached up and felt your pulse, which was still trying to break free.

He tilted his head, the playful gleam still dancing in his eyes. “But you said you're used to my speed."

You threw your hands up. “Yes, but I didn’t know you’d be trying to scare me, you… absolute menace.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in your chest, and then reached over and undid your seatbelt. As he did, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Maybe just a little.”

You felt yourself blush, despite the fact that you were also on the verge of throttling him. As he stepped out of the car, you took a moment to collect yourself, smoothing your clothes and trying to appear somewhat pulled together.

As you reached up, your fingers brushed something small and hard attached to the car’s dashboard. It was a camera, aimed directly at you.

Your eyes widened, and then everything clicked into place. The teasing laughter, the exaggerated acceleration, the playful comments – it had all been an elaborate, incredibly mischievous ploy.

You burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed around the open space. You couldn't help it. It was absurd, ridiculous, and completely, utterly Max.

You covered your face with your hands, still laughing. He watched you, his eyes sparkling, a smile playing on his lips.

“Did you get all of that?” you exclaimed, still chuckling. “The screaming in multiple languages? The death grips on the dashboard?"

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent, but the smirk on his face told another story. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice laced with amusement rather than anger.

“Only for you,” he replied, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

You lowered your hands, a smile now playing on your lips. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That you would never just do a normal lap with me.”

He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “Where’s the fun in normal, liefje?”

You knew he was right. Normal was boring. And as much as the terror of the hot lap had made you want to wring his neck, you also wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was another reminder of the chaotic dance you and Max had always been in, a dance of adrenaline, teasing, and a love that ran as deep as the engine roar that had been the background to your lives.

This was your Max, and despite your near-death experience, you wouldn't have him any other way. You stepped out of the car, ready to face the world, and whatever else he decided to throw your way. The camera might have captured your terrified screams, but it had missed the grin that was now plastered across your face.

You were ready for your next match but you were also ready for whatever chaos Max decided to unleash next.

Life with him was never boring, and you wouldn't have it any other way. . . .

The crisp December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the familiar rumble of Max's engine fading behind you. You pull your coat tighter, adjusting your beanie, a small smile playing on your lips.

The holidays. A welcome respite from the relentless pressure of the tennis circuit. A chance to breathe, to ground yourself before the Australian Open looms. And, most importantly, time with Max.

He's already by the padel court, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he bounces a ball. Lando and Charles are there too, bickering about something trivial, their usual competitive energy already buzzing.

“Took you long enough, slowpoke,” Max teases, tossing the ball to you.

“Traffic,” you retort, catching it easily. “Besides, someone had to pack the snacks, didn’t they?”

Lando groans dramatically. “Snacks? You brought snacks? This is serious competition, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your on-court persona flickering through. “Oh, I thought this was just a friendly get-together. Unless you’re scared, Lando?”

He splutters, Charles chuckling beside him. “Scared? Of you? Please. Just wait until I unleash my padel prowess.”

Max wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Don’t listen to him, liefje. We’ll crush them.”

That Dutch endearment always makes you melt, and a genuine smile spreads across your face. He knows exactly how to disarm you.

The game starts, and the air is filled with the thwack of the ball, playful taunts, and the occasional groan of exertion. You and Max move with a practiced synchronicity, years of playing (and bickering) together evident in your easy communication.

Max is surprisingly good at padel, his reflexes honed by years of racing, and you find yourself relying on his power, setting him up for winning shots.

“That’s cheating! You have your wife on your team,” Lando grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow after another point you and Max win.

“Jealous, are we?” you retort, grinning. “Maybe you should find yourself a tennis champion girlfriend.”

Charles snorts. “Good luck with that. Finding someone who can keep up with you is a challenge.”

You playfully shove Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not that intimidating.”

Max squeezes your hand. “Oh, you are. Especially when you give those death stares on court.”

He's right, of course. You can be ruthless. You have to be. The pressure to stay on top is immense, the media constantly scrutinizing every move, every word. The expectation is suffocating sometimes.

Later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court, you’re sitting on the bench, catching your breath.

The score is ridiculously lopsided in yours and Max’s favor. Lando and Charles have conceded defeat, blaming everything from the altitude to the snack selection.

Max sits beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there,” he says, his voice soft. “Like always.”

“So were you,” you reply, leaning into him. “You know, for a race car driver.”

He laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “It's all about reflexes, liefje. And a killer instinct.”

He understands that killer instinct in you, the drive to win, the unwavering focus. He sees it because he possesses it too.

It binds you together, this shared understanding of the relentless pursuit of excellence, the sacrifices required, the price you both pay.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. “With everything… the media, the pressure. Are you okay?”

It's a question he asks often, a constant check-in, a reminder that he’s there, always. It's a tenderness he rarely shows the world, a vulnerability reserved only for you.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s tough. The whispers, the judgment… sometimes it feels like I'm living under a microscope.”

“I know,” he says, his voice laced with empathy. “They’re brutal. They try to tear you down because they’re jealous of what you’ve achieved.”

He knows what it’s like to be under that kind of scrutiny, to have every mistake magnified, every victory questioned. He lived it his entire life, his father's relentless expectations and the constant pressure to perform.

You trace a pattern on his jeans with your finger. “It’s different for you, though. You have the car, the team… you’re surrounded by people who support you, who believe in you.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm. “And you don’t?”

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Of course, I do. But it’s… lonely at the top. Everyone wants something from you. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

He understands that too. The isolation that comes with success, the constant questioning of motives.

“You have me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You always have me. And I know it’s not the same, but Lando and Charles… they care about you too. We all see how hard you work, how much you dedicate yourself to your sport.”

He pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. “Don’t let them break you, liefje. You’re stronger than they think. Stronger than you even give yourself credit for.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, a reminder of your strength, your resilience. He sees you, truly sees you, the fierce competitor and the vulnerable woman beneath.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… sometimes it gets overwhelming.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Then let me carry some of the weight. That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and the air is getting colder. Lando and Charles are packing up their things, their boisterous energy subdued.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando calls out. “We’re heading back. You coming?”

You look at Max, a silent question in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand again. “Go. I’ll stay a little longer. I want to watch the stars.”

You nod, knowing he needs the quiet, the solitude. He finds peace in the vastness of the night sky, a reminder that his problems, his pressures, are small in the grand scheme of things.

You stand up, giving Max one last kiss. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

As you walk away, you glance back at him. He’s sitting on the bench, his head tilted back, gazing at the stars. In that moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable.

The weight of the world, the expectations of millions, seem to melt away, leaving only a man searching for solace in the vastness of the universe.

You know you would do anything for him, fight anyone who dared to hurt him. You are his anchor, just as he is yours.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, still staring at the stars. You join him, slipping under the blanket, pressing close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice soft.

He lets out a long sigh. “Just… everything. The season, the pressure, the expectations.”

You reach out and take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You’re going to be okay, Max. You’re the best. You always have been.”

He turns to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and tenderness. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”

You smile, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “With you by my side? Always.”

You lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that speaks of years of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of unwavering love.

In that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you are just two people, connected by a bond that transcends the pressures of fame and the demands of the world.

You are simply Max and you, a team, a partnership, a love that has endured the test of time and the scrutiny of the world. And that, you realize, is all that truly matters. . .

[chibinasuu]

Promises | Law x Reader

Summary: Law breaks the news to the Heart Pirates that he's going on a solo mission to Punk Hazard. Tags: sfw, angst-to-fluff, mutual pining, confession, first kiss, slight spoiler for punk hazard/dressrosa/zou, GN but written with F!reader in mind, no use of y/n

The dining hall of the Polar Tang was so silent you could hear a pin drop. 

Every member of the Heart Pirates was frozen in place. No one had the nerve to breathe a single word against the Captain’s orders, despite the strong urge to protest visible in their clenched jaws and fists.  

“Sail on to Zou without me.”

The Captain’s final sentence rang again and again in your head. The directive was straightforward and indisputable, but you just couldn’t wrap your mind around what he was asking his crew to do. 

You felt a pressure slowly building in your chest, a lump forming in your throat. An avalanche of emotions washed over you in quick succession, and you recoiled when you realized that the strongest was a feeling of betrayal.

Was he seriously telling his crew to leave him behind? Did he not trust you all? What good was a crew without its captain and a captain without its crew?

The more rational part of your brain eventually took over and you let yourself fall into a reluctant acceptance. Your Captain was a determined man. Once he had put his mind on something, there was nothing anyone could say that could change his decision. 

Law must have had his reasons for sending you all away to Zou while he confronted Caesar Clown by himself. You had your suspicions of said reasons, and you were screaming on the inside, begging him to not do this alone – to actually allow himself to depend on his crew for once. But, you kept your mouth shut, just like everyone else. 

You and Law had gotten close over the years since you joined the Heart Pirates, way back when it was a small band of six. Aside from his three childhood friends, you knew him more than anyone else on this submarine.

However, before all that, he was your Captain first, and you have always held a deep respect for his authority. The only thing you could do right now, as his crew member, was to follow his orders. As a friend, though, you could feel your heart clenching with immense worry for him. 

Law’s expression was stern and unyielding. He was holding his hat in his hands, leaving his eyes bare as he stared down his crew, daring them to voice an objection to his command. 

A sniffle broke the silence, and you looked to your right to find Bepo quivering as he tried to hold back his tears. You rubbed your palm softly against his back to console him, despite your being in emotional turmoil yourself.

You knew Law had probably told Bepo about the plan beforehand, seeing as he was one of the Captain’s closest confidants, and also the fact that his birthplace was supposedly the Polar Tang’s next destination. 

Penguin was the first to speak up. He took a deep breath and clapped his hands once to get the crew’s attention, “Alright, folks, you heard the Captain. We’re not far from Punk Hazard – should be arriving by dawn tomorrow. We’ll drop off the Captain there, then we’ll immediately set course for Zou.”

“Is that all, Captain?" Shachi stood up, the screech of his metal chair scraping the floor piercing the air, "I have some chores I need to get to.”

Law’s gaze softened in gratitude at his best friends’ effort to diffuse the tense atmosphere, “Yes, you’re all dismissed.”

A weak chorus of “Aye, aye, Sir” echoed throughout the hall as the Heart Pirates dispersed, clearing the tables and bringing their empty dishes to the kitchen sink. The crew had barely finished dinner when Law dropped the bomb with his announcement, but now, nobody could even recall what was on the menu anymore. 

You headed toward the sink. It was your turn to do the dishes tonight, and as much as you didn’t want to do it, a duty was still a duty. You unzipped your boiler suit halfway, took out your arms, and tied together the long sleeves on your waist, leaving your upper body in just a loose, white tank top. Then, you got to work.  

One by one, the Heart Pirates filed out of the room, until only one other person remained. 

Your Captain sat on the main table with his head clutched in his hands, still weighed down by the burden of telling his crew about his plan. Most of all, Law felt guilty for his selfishness. For ordering you all to leave him, when he knew that was the last thing his crew wanted. The Heart Pirates’ unconditional loyalty to him always left him abashed, but he also admired it. He truly couldn’t ask for a better crew, for better friends, for a better family... and now he was sending you all away. 

However, he also knew that he couldn’t in his right conscience involve his crew in his ridiculous ploy. This was not some random trouble the crew was used to while sailing through the Grand Line. This time, Law himself was going to purposefully stir the pot, inciting conflict that would have a warlord and an emperor going after his head. 

No, he couldn’t let all of you get caught in this mess. 

After a while, his eyes found you, watching your back silently as you worked. You didn’t acknowledge his presence, instead choosing to focus on your chore. Dishes after dirty dishes, your hands worked on autopilot while your mind was going a million miles per hour, trying to figure out what to say to your Captain.

The sound of running water died as you turned off the tap, plunging the room into an even more excruciating silence. You were drying your hands on the towel hanging above the sink when you heard Law softly call out your name. 

You paused but refused to turn around, afraid that your face would betray all of the emotions you kept bottled inside. 

The tap, tap, tap of his shoes against the metal floor of the submarine felt more deafening than a cannon fire, growing louder and louder as he approached you. 

He was close, too close. You shuddered when his breath tickled the back of your neck as he called your name again. 

When you stayed silent, he asked, “Are you upset? That I didn’t tell you first about the plan?”

You couldn’t contain the slight shakiness in your voice as you replied, “I trust you know what you’re doing, Captain.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

His voice sounded so vulnerable that it broke you.

Your lips started trembling as tears pricked your eyes. You blinked them back stubbornly, not wanting Law to know how troubled you actually were about him leaving – how worried you were that he was going off alone into what seemed to be an evil scientist’s secret lair. 

Law’s hands came to rest on the sink on either side of you, caging you in. He placed his forehead gently upon your shoulder. You noticed that his hat was still absent, abandoned somewhere on the dining table. 

One of his hands hesitantly moved to your hip, his thumb slowly drawing circles on your clothed skin.

You couldn’t help feeling like a line was starting to be crossed here.

That thin, delicate line between friends and something more that you and Law had always tiptoed around.

“Law–“ You started to breathe out, but he cut you off. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first. I wanted to. You know–“

It was your turn to cut him off as you shook your head, “You had no obligation to tell me first, Law. I’m one of your crew members, same as everybody else here. It was only right I found out when they did.” 

“I told Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi a few days ago.”

You rolled your eyes even though he can’t see it, “They’re different and you know it. I know how special they are to you.”

Law took his other hand away from the sink. His slender fingers ghosted over your waist tentatively, before he fully committed to wrapping both of his arms tightly around your middle. 

His uncharacteristically bold display of affection surprised you, leaving you breathless and your heart racing erratically. 

You and Law have had your fair share of casual hugs, but he had never held you so close like this before. 

He was holding you as if he never wanted to let go – as if you were the last life vest in a sinking boat. 

He shifted his head slightly, burying his face in your neck, and your face heated up at the feeling of his lips grazing your skin as he mumbled something unintelligible. 

“Come again?”

“I said,” He grasped your hips and turned you around to face him. Your breath hitched at the sudden closeness between your faces, and his eyes met yours as he confessed, “You’re special to me too. More than you know.”

His forehead creased as he calculated his next words. 

”You’re more than just my crew member,” he paused before adding softly, the words nearly inaudible, “And… more than a friend.”

Your heart was threatening to jump out of your chest at his honesty. Until now, you refused to even entertain the possibility of your Captain returning your long-hidden feelings, not wanting to ruin the pleasant dynamics that you two already had. But with this… was it okay for you to finally hope for more? To want more?

“You want to know why I didn’t tell you about the plan?” Law continued, “I knew that even a slight look of disapproval from you would have me throwing the whole idea out the window. And I really can’t do that right now, not when the opportunity is right there. Not when I’m this close to my goal. I can't miss this chance.” 

He drew a breath resolutely, “You understand I have to go through with this, right? For Cora-san.”

There it was, you thought. You had figured that was why he wanted to do this by himself.

After years of sailing together, you had come to know bits and pieces about Law’s past – about Flevance and his family, about his white lead disease, and how he cured himself with the Op-Op Fruit. 

But he never told you how he got his Devil Fruit. Not until the night of his 26th birthday. 

You had found him alone on the deck of the Polar Tang, sitting under the sky full of stars with a barely sipped bottle of rum clutched in his hand.

“I’m now as old as he’d ever be.”

He had collapsed into your arms and told you all about Corazon then, the bottle of alcohol passed back and forth between you. 

That was the first and only time that you ever saw him cry. 

How could you possibly stop him from avenging the man he owed his life to?  

“Law, I’m not opposed to your plan.”

He let out a pleased sigh as you reached up and threaded your fingers in his hair. You chuckled softly, “From what little you told us, I could already tell it’s quite a brilliant one.”

The corner of his lips turned up in a smirk at your praise, but you continued, “I just wished there was a way for you to include us in it too. We’re your crew. Your family. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He shook his head, “This is my mess. I can’t drag you all into this.”

“That’s what families do, Law.” You said with a small smile, “They drag themselves into each other’s messes all the time.”

You didn’t give him a chance to argue as you put a finger to his lips, “But, if you think this is the best way, then I trust you.”

His eyes shone with gratitude at your support, your understanding, and most importantly, the trust you had in him. 

He cupped your face in his hands and touched his lips gently to your forehead, “Thank you.”

The gesture somehow felt too much like a goodbye, and you didn’t like that. At all. 

Before he could pull away, you gripped the front of his sweatshirt, “Promise me you’ll come back to us.”

Law hesitated. 

And that was how you knew how little he considered his own safety in this grand scheme of his. He wasn’t even sure he could give his word that he’d safely return. 

“Law.” You said urgently, “Promise me.”

His heart fell when he saw your beautiful face painted with distress.

“The Heart Pirates need their Captain. We can’t lose you.” The tremble in your voice worsened with each word, “I can’t lose you.”

Law was a smart man, and the implication behind your emphasis was not lost on him. His hand found yours as he vowed, “I don’t know what will happen on that mission, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to get back to you.”

You let out a sigh of relief. You knew that once he put his mind to something, he’d damn well do anything to fulfill it.

“Can you promise me something too, then?”

You looked up at Law curiously, but nodded nonetheless. 

“Wait for me.” He said firmly, before continuing in a slightly lower voice, “Promise me you’ll be there for me. When this is all over.”

You knew that taking down Doflamingo would take a toll on him, even likely break him, physically and mentally. But, you’d be there for him – to help him pick up the pieces and rebuild them into something stronger – if that was what he wanted. Of course, you would. 

“I promise.” Your thumb caress his cheek tenderly, “I’ll wait for you at Zou.”

“Good,” Law said, and with that, he moved his hand to the back of your neck and pulled you to him. 

You gasped when his lips crashed into yours. 

His lips were warm, and soft – softer than you could ever imagine. 

In his kiss, Law poured out all of his unsaid feelings, of his desperation and yearning, of his regrets for not doing this sooner. 

Your arms circled his neck, tugging him in as close as possible. You kissed him back with equal fervor, hoping your lips would also tell him what your words couldn't. 

It was the need for oxygen that finally broke you apart. 

The intense gaze in which Law looked upon you was too much for your heart to handle, so you buried your face into his chest instead. You could feel the strong, quick thumps of his heartbeat, and it satisfied you to know that the kiss affected him as much as it did you.

“You’re not fair,” You mumbled into his sweatshirt, “Doing that the night before you leave.”

“Sorry,” Law chuckled as he held you tight against him, “I couldn’t help myself.”

You stayed in each other’s embrace in the empty dining hall, under the harsh fluorescent lights. The temperature inside the submarine was low, as always, but you didn’t feel cold at all, wrapped in your Captain’s arms. 

“Stay with me tonight.”

You could only nod and follow along as he led you by the hand into his quarters. 

You both knew he needed to rest – he needed all the energy he could get to begin his mission at dawn – but the adrenaline from your earlier moment and the anxiety for what was coming kept sleep away from the both of you.

Law ended up giving you a detailed review of his plans as you both lay on his bed, outlining every single step of his mission from the beginning to the desired end. You felt yourself growing more and more confident of his chances the more you listened to his cunning and meticulously crafted ploy. 

The room was plunged into silence when Law finished recounting his plans. The seconds ticked by, becoming minutes, then hours. But however long time passed with your arms around each other, it still wasn’t enough for you. 

At one point, he reluctantly disentangled himself from you and reached into the bag he had packed for his mission. He took out a pristine sheet of paper, ripped a small piece from it, and gave it to you. 

You watched as the Vivre Card on your palm inched slowly in his direction.

“I want you to have it,” Law said as he closed your fist over the paper, “As long as it stays whole, you’ll know that I’m alright.”

You flung your arms around his neck, “I swear if so much as a wisp of smoke comes out of this piece of paper, I will find you and kill you myself.”

Law only chuckled as he held you once more. He was just about to say something when the jarring sound of a knock interrupted him.

You and Law jumped apart as Penguin’s voice came from behind the metal door, “Captain, we’re in range of Punk Hazard.” 

“I’ll be right out.” Law replied, his voice steady despite trying to hold back a laugh as he saw the panic in your face. 

You buried your burning face in your hands as Law finally let himself laugh once Penguin’s footsteps were out of earshot. 

When you were sure that Penguin was gone, you told Law, “I should probably get back to the bunks before anyone else wakes up.” 

Law didn’t want you to go just yet, but he nodded anyway. He peeked out the hallway, giving you the all-clear when he saw that it was empty. 

Before you stepped out of the room, you couldn’t resist stealing one more peck from his lips, leaving him stunned and red-faced. 

“I’ll see you in a bit, Captain.”

After you freshened up – thankfully without anyone inquiring where you were last night – you joined your crewmates on deck to see Law off. 

Punk Hazard’s half-ice, half-fire terrain was a menacing sight, and instantly, the worry you felt for Law came rushing back in. You forced yourself to calm down. You had faith in him, and after all, he promised he’d come back to you. 

Despite the crew's frustration when Law announced his plan yesterday, they were all smiles now, preferring to send their Captain off with high spirits and support rather than reproach. Your navigator’s eyes were still glassy with tears, but you could tell he was also trying to put on a brave face for his Captain. 

“Bepo!” Law clapped the mink’s shoulder, “Lead them safely to Zou for me, yeah?”

Bepo clung to him, rubbing his face all over Law’s and shedding white fur all over the front of his clothes, “Of course, Captain! I’ll make you proud!”

Law turned to his two other best friends, “You two are in charge. Don’t burn down my submarine.”

Penguin and Shachi mock-saluted him, the redhead grinning mischievously, “You can count on us. No promises that I wouldn’t take over the Captain's quarters in your absence, though!”

Law rolled his eyes at the joke, then turned to address the whole crew, his lips drawn in a thin smile. 

“Safe travels.” He said, as if your journey was even half as dangerous as his, “I’ll see you all at Zou.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The formality broke away as the Heart Pirates smothered Law with hugs, pats on the back, and sloppy smooches on his cheeks. 

Law never seemed to show it, and he would rather die than admit it, but you knew he secretly enjoyed the attention from his overly affectionate crew. 

Once they all had their fill with the farewells, he turned to you at last. In full view of everyone, he pulled you into a tight embrace. 

Some eyebrows were definitely raised when he held you just a bit longer than what was deemed appropriate for a merely friendly hug.

“Promise me you’ll be careful.” You whispered into his ear. 

You had lost count of how many promises had been exchanged between the two of you since last night, but he simply nodded, “I promise.” 

He subtly pressed his lips to your temple – just a touch, not enough to be noticeable by the rest of the crew. With a last squeeze, he released you and walked toward the railing. 

“Room.” 

The Heart Pirates cheered their good lucks and farewells once more as a massive blue dome surrounded the Tang, extending all the way to the edge of the island.

His eyes locked onto yours with determination, silently reassuring you that he’ll remember your promises. You gave him a small smile and a nod of encouragement. 

Law put his hand out in front of him and uttered, “Shambles!”

And then he was gone. 

In his place was a small frozen pebble that he had exchanged positions with.

You picked it up and rolled it around between your fingers, feeling the ice slowly melt as it met your warm hand. Your other hand reached into the pocket of your boiler suit, ensuring the piece of paper was still safely in your possession. You hung on to it as if it were Law’s lifeline, which it might as well be if you thought about it.  

The Heart Pirates went inside, preparing for the imminent sailing to Zou. No one said a word when you stayed behind on the deck, watching Punk Hazard getting smaller and smaller in the distance until it disappeared from the horizon.

The pebble eventually lost all of its coldness, and you pocketed it alongside the Vivre Card.

“Oi, the course is set." Penguin’s voice pulled you out of your trance, "We’re ready to submerge.”

He and Shachi positioned themselves on either side of you, throwing their arms around your shoulders. 

Penguin cleared his throat and grinned cheekily, “A little heads-up: the whole submarine is abuzz with the newest hot goss. Apparently, someone didn’t return to the bunks last night after dish duties.”

“That long-ass embrace you shared with the Captain before he left isn't helping your case either,” Shachi added unhelpfully. 

You groaned, mortified that the crew had likely put two and two together and suspected where you had spent the night.

“But seriously, though, what the hell was that?” Penguin bumped his shoulder to yours, “Did something happen between you two?” 

Shachi laughed, “What, did he finally grow some balls and admit his feelings to you?” 

Your silence and averted gaze were enough of an answer for them. 

The two gawked at your bashful reaction, not actually expecting Shachi’s guess to be spot on. They both knew about your and the Captain’s feelings for each other, and were even at the point where they thought of interfering, but it seemed like the two of you didn’t need their meddling after all. 

You grimaced as you noticed them eyeing each other with matching shit-eating grins.

This was going to be a long, long journey to Zou. 

a/n: I've been working on this fic for so long, it's quite unreal that I'm finally letting it see the light of day. If you've read my fics before then you'd know I mostly just write fluff, so writing this was kinda an experiment for me. I do want to get better at writing angst, though, so please please please let me know what you think in the comments or tags! I really hope you enjoyed this fic <3

↳ masterlist

[swordscleric]

I'm only halfway through the second phase of Predathos (which, to be clear is an incredible vibe for a bossfight, love a good head & hands/multitarget-same-entity boss) but I cannot shake the feeling of disappointment and just dissatisfaction I have had with this campaign that definitely started with Dusk/Yu, got followed up handily with the first Delilah/Sun Tree fight and then has been unfortunately reinforced with every discussion surrounding the Prime Deities since Hearthdell. This campaign is fascinating to pick apart, I have been really enjoying pulling apart why it isn't working compared to C1 or C2. But as much as I'm having fun dissecting where the worldbuilding has led to the current weaknesses in the gods' argument or reading other people's incisive commentary on the lack of personalities on the Ruby Vanguard's end, the "girlfailure" nonsense, etc etc, man do I wish this campaign was better than it is.

There are so many avenues of improvement -

Matt telling everyone to prep and write characters for this campaign instead of a C2-esque character-focused campaign.

Matt working religious organisations into the world properly.

The cast engaging with Marquet as a genuine location rather than set-dressing.

Otohan, Ozo and the rest of the Vanguard having more than "*insert snappy line here*" for their personalities.

No Delilah.

Bell's Hells having an iota of curiosity for anything outside of their own selves, including but not limited to: the gods, religious worship, the Elemental Titans and why they were sundered, how the people of Exandria feel about the gods, Vasselheim and its role in suppressing information about Predathos, Ludinus Da'Leth's plan and how it would still break the world if they did it in his place

I don't know why all of this fell into place in the way that it did, but it did. We can endlessly speculate why - the cast resting on their laurels after C2, not having enough time between the animated shows and Daggerheart and Candela Obscura and, and, and - but at the end of the day I really do hope that whatever form the final campaign wrap-up takes, they burn the damn questions asking the cast "what if the world was made of pudding and this character and this character kissed?" and instead pick questions that get them to introspect for a potential Campaign 4. Otherwise I don't know what will happen, but it sure as hell won't be Mighty Nein part 2: Issylra Boogaloo.

[usercelestial]

What if Evan Buckley decides fuck it I quit my job because nothing makes me happy anymore and opens a bakery and then Tommy starts ordering pastries from him for the 217 and they finally reconcile after buck makes him the best damn chocolate muffins Tommy's ever eaten

Tommy's been ordering from this bakery for the last five years. After he was promoted to captain of the 217, he made it a point to bring in treats to win over his old coworkers turned employees. He orders a couple dozen muffins once every week to keep people happy. Originally, it was supposed to be one time but goddamn if they weren't the best damn muffins Tommy's ever had. His crew was happy enough with the incentive and it became somewhat of a tradition at Harbor that a delivery boy would show up at their door with a few pristine white boxes to hand over to Captain Kinard. 

Five years and he's never had a problem getting the pastries delivered on time. Early in the morning of the day of delivery, before the sun even came up, he got an email explaining that his delivery had been cancelled and a refund had been processed. 

"Shit," Tommy wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up. He has to get to work in a few hours and he knows his crew well enough to know how cranky they'd be if they had nothing to start the morning with. He fumbles out of bed, throws on his clothes, and heads down to the bakery to see what he can do. 

It's a little place not too far from Harbor. It's called something like Emergency Eats, it has a cliche first responder theme. First responders get a 15 percent off discount with each order so the weekly spending makes it a little worth it. 

Tommy rushes inside, the sun barely having risen and the cold morning air settling on his skin. The bakery is light and warm around him. It feels like one of those places someone would call home. The decor stays true to the theme and centers firefighters. On the wall behind the counter, there's a mural of a fire station. Along the wall in the dining area, there are pictures of different first responders. He recognizes Athena in one and smiles to himself. The tiles are black and white checkered and there's even a fire pole standing next to the counter. He walks up to it and rings the gaudy bell that hangs from the ceiling that says “pull for service” despite the immense amount of cringe he feels while doing it. 

“Be right there!” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

He knows that voice. He’s spent five years thinking about this voice, dreaming about it, being haunted by it. He’s spent five years feeling terrified of hearing it on the radio, at an emergency, on the street. 

Evan Buckley walks through the curtain that covers the entrance to the kitchen, holding a tray of pink and white colored cookies. 

“Oh fuck,” Buck’s face goes ghostly white and his knuckles strain to keep grip on the tray. 

The room is still and quiet in the soft morning glow. The black and white tiles are painted with the delicate shadows casted from the trees lining the sidewalk. The two men breathe the same air and let the shock wash over them. 

Tommy isn’t allowed to break the silence first. He relinquished that right when he walked out of Buck’s life five years ago. Buck seems to pick up on the fragile air between them and breaks the quiet for the both of them, “Are you here about your muffins?” He sounds apologetic, maybe a little weak. 

“Uh,” Tommy kicks up invisible dust on the ground, “Yeah, I was gonna see if I could order something else if you’re out of the ones I normally order.” 

“Okay, listen, I’m sorry about the delivery mishap, it’s just that normally I have more people delivering but most of them are out sick and I’ve been so busy lately and I just-” 

Buck continues babbling while Tommy only half listens, questions burning in throat. 

“Is this your shop?” Tommy interrupts. 

Buck’s face dances between expressions before landing on surprised, “I thought you-” he cuts himself off and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, this is my shop.” 

“You're not at the 118 anymore? You're-you’re not a firefighter?” 

Buck glanced down at his feet and puts the tray of cookies down on the counter. He takes a deep breath and speaks, “I thought maybe Eddie or Chimney would have told you.” 

Tommy furrows his brows, “We don't talk that much about-” he swallows, “you know…” About Buck. About them. About the breakup. He hasn't heard a word about Buck in five years. He hasn't even heard his name. 

“Yeah,” Buck nods his understanding. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. 

“Um, yeah, this is my shop,” Buck continues, “I opened it about five years ago. A few months after.” 

They're dancing around saying it. Tommy's not sure how much longer they can keep this up for. 

“Why’d you quit?” Tommy asks. That's the question at the center of this whole thing. Why, why, why. 

Buck blinks, like he’s got something at the tip of his tongue but it caught between his teeth, “Few reasons.” He looks down at his legs again, “Uh, I got into an accident a while back. It took me out of the field for a while and I-” Buck stops and searched for the words, “I couldn't think of many reasons to go back to how things were before so I figured it was time for a fresh start.” 

Tommy lets the information wash over him. He can't imagine Buck being content with being out of the field but this bakery- it's tribute to first responders, it's pictures on the wall of smiling firefighters and dispatch operators- it's peaceful. It's like he’s found the happiest middle ground possible. 

“P-plus, I teach on the side,” Buck adds like an afterthought, “Part time, it's good money. Only have class a few days a week so it gives me time to run the bakery and keep business up.” 

Tommy smiles at that. Buck was always a busy-body, constantly needing to be moving in order to stay stimulated. Without being a firefighter, Tommy had wondered how he manages with all the extra free time but of course Buck would fill the days however he could. He’s never been sedentary and he won't start now. 

“Sounds like you've been busy,” Tommy comments lamely. Like he's a stranger. Like this is just small talk. It's almost nice. The small talk- pretending these small intimacies are something he still gets to enjoy. 

A moment passes before Buck claps his hands, “Your muffins!” He disappears into the kitchen and bustles around. Tommy can see his shadow passing through the window in the center of the wall. 

When Buck re-emerges, he’s holding the signature box of muffins that gets delivered to his station. “For you. We had them, it's just that I couldn't get them to you. Sorry about that.” 

Tommy shakes his head and steps forward to grab them, “No, don't worry about it. They're just for my crew, I’m the captain now and I’m trying to keep everyone happy.” 

“Captain?” Buck quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head, and smirks. Tommy's heart hurts. “You've been busy too.” 

“You could say that,” Tommy tries not to overthink whether or not it sounds like he’s flirting. He doesn't know if he intends it or not. Instead he focuses on the way Buck ducks his head and hides his smile. Tommy feels like a wrong move here is going to cost him. He wants to be delicate, he wants to flirt, he wants to friend-zone him, he wants to reach across the counter and pull him in and never let him go. It's been five years, it's been seconds, it's been no time at all. Seeing Buck again feels like taking your first breath after being underwater for too long. His lungs are burning. The right thing to do is to keep burning. It's selfish to do anything else. To gasp for breath the way he wants to. But- 

“Listen, Buck, if it's easier on you guys,” Tommy mentally flays himself for starting the sentence, “I could swing by in person instead. So you don't have to worry about delivering to us.” 

Buck considers him. Tommy waits for him to say what they both already know. That it’s not a good idea, they should lose contact, forget each other. 

Buck sucks his teeth. Suddenly, Tommy feels a wall rise between them. Then he exhales and says, “On one condition.” 

Tommy shrugs, keeping himself nonchalant, “Of course.” Anything, obviously, I’d do anything. 

“You can't call me Buck. It’s Evan or nothing” 

Every alarm is going off in his head. Red, blaring sirens that have always told when to run sing through his skull and fall on deaf ears. 

“I can do that, Evan.” 

Evan smiles. For the time, the smile finally reaches his eyes. They twinkle like they used to. This is such a bad idea. 

“Same time next week?” Tommy holds the basket with one hand and does finger guns with the other. He’ll never stop embarrassing himself. 

“You know where to find me,” Evan leans against the wall, blue apron tied cutely around his waist. There's a pink tint to his cheeks that Tommy tries not to read into. Gentle is the name of the game and he’s trying not to let himself expect anything he shouldn't. They're just two old friends catching up once a week. Tommy's just a customer in Evan’s shop. They hardly know each other anymore. 

Maybe they’ll get to know each other better than before he cut loose and ran. Or maybe Tommy will just become a recurring customer. He’s nervous to find out which. Either way, he leaves the shop far too excited for the week to come to an end. His crew comment on his quote-unquote glowing cheeks and far off look in his eyes. 

Picking up muffins becomes Tommy’s favorite part of the week. 

[highdefhoetry]

interrogation.

disclaimer: although this is mostly fluff, the author is an adult & this is their kink. minors dni, do not like, do not reblog, do not follow.

cw: tickling, playful interrogation, verbal teasing, slight yandere/overprotective vibes because caleb is caleb

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your heartbeat quickens as he stares down at you with a gentle, yet eerie smile. You shift in place, rustling the bed sheets beneath you as you try to break free of the hands pinning your wrists down. Despite your best efforts, there’s little you can do now to escape. Caleb has always been stronger than you, and now he’s got you trapped, he won’t let you go so easily.

“So, pipsqueak,” he leers down at you, smirking. “You gonna tell me where you were last night?”

You pout and shake your head, earning a small chuckle from your childhood friend.

“Not budgin’, eh? That’s alright. I have ways of making you talk.”

His playful tone makes it hard to take him seriously. But when his free hand drifts to your side, right above the curve of your waist, a strike of terror shoots through you as the implications of his words finally sink in.

No! Not again! Anything but that! 

“Begging already?” he scoffs, his amethyst eyes focused on yours. “But I haven’t even started my interrogation yet.”

Long fingers wrap themselves around your ribcage, tapping them gently and causing you to jump slightly. He’s barely touching you, but it’s the anticipation of what’s to come that makes you squirm. His cocky smirk grows as he watches the panic overtake you.

Isn’t this what always happened? Childhood memories flash through your mind, scenes that played out countless times when you were kids. 

“Heeeey, did you eat the rest of grandma’s cookies?!”

“Where’s my black hoodie? Did you take it again?”

“You better give back the missing parts of my model plane, or else!”

Caleb would pin you down, ask a seemingly innocent question about something silly, then tickle you until you came clean with the truth. Back then, it was one of your favorite games to play with him. Sometimes, you’d be extra troublesome on purpose just to get him to do this to you. Other times you did it just to get his attention. He always played along with it back then, so it was no surprise that he was playing along with it now.

“If I remember correctly… your ribs are pretty ticklish.”

Caleb’s voice brings you back to reality, along with light clawing of your ribs. You howl with laughter and try to twist away, but are unable to break free of his grasp. He alternates between poking, prodding, and pinching, all of which make you giggle wildly. His face lights up with amusement as he watches you struggle.

“Aha! I was right. You always went crazy when I did this to you. Now, what about your underarms? Are they still super ticklish, too?”

His hand suddenly climbs upwards, scribbling the sensitive area that is your armpit. He laughs when you let out a loud shriek and stays there for a few seconds longer than you can handle, enjoying the pitiful little sounds he’s eliciting from your lips.

“Oh, man, this must reeeeeally suck for you. You know, this will all end if you just tell me what I wanna know.”

You splutter out something provocative that’s somewhere between a “fuck you!” and a cackle, which only spurs him on more. His nails tickle a path from your bicep back down to your pit, then back up again until you feel like you’re losing your mind. All while his voice coos in your ear, whispering playful threats with a gentle breath that tickles you even more. You can barely get out a word now, you’re practically screaming.

He stops for a moment and lets you catch your breath. You’re totally worn out and weak from all the struggling, so trying to break free is useless. But your few seconds of mercy ends quickly as his interrogation continues.

“You ready to talk now, pipsqueak?” he grins. “Or am I gonna have to get a little meaner?”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond. You feel his long fingers brush across your stomach, circling your belly button. Your giggles reignite, although they’re a bit more subdued since he’s taken a lighter approach. His nails trace your skin in random patterns, barely grazing you yet eliciting flurries of giggles with every touch. He hits a particularly sensitive patch of skin on your lower belly and lingers there for a bit, savoring the way you squeeze your eyes shut and bite your lip.

“If I knew any better, I’d say you were enjoying this,” he teases, slipping a finger into your navel. You arch your back and squeal, and he laughs at your expense. 

“Yeah, you definitely are. Looks like I gotta up the ante a little bit.”

His light caresses turn to purposeful strokes, quickening in pace as he tickles every part of you he can reach. The way he moves from one spot to another is so fast you can’t brace yourself and end up shrieking each time he switches things up. The worst comes when he squeezes your hips, with his thumb in your thigh crease and the rest of his fingers digging into your plump skin. The squeal that escapes is so loud that it’s downright embarrassing. 

“Aw, is this the spot? Riiiight… here?”

He tickles that damn spot over and over again, never slowing down, never granting mercy. Your begging is renewed, and you’re unable to hold out any longer. You finally relent and tell him that you’ll talk, that you’ll tell him anything, just please stop! You can’t take it anymore!

“Alright then,” he clamps his hand on the top of your thigh and gives it several firm squeezes. “Talk.”

You try your best to answer him through your frantic laughter, but you can’t get the words out with the way he’s kneading into you. 

“Hmm? What was that? Sorry, can’t hear you through all this noise.”

Asshole! You try to hurl insults at him, but your words turn into incoherent babbling. He torments you like this for a while longer, then finally lets up and gives you some respite. Breathlessly, you explain your whereabouts the night before in detail, knowing he’d probe you for them if you kept things too vague. You leave no room for further questions, desperate for release. When you’re finished, you lay there with bated breath praying that he’ll accept it. Then finally, after a few seconds of deliberation, he lets go of your wrists and gazes down at you with pure affection in his eyes.

“Really? That’s all? And here I thought you were out doing something you weren’t supposed to. Why didn’t you just tell me, pipsqueak?”

He smiles wide, cupping your cheek for a moment before tickling under your chin. You laugh and smack his hand away, and he responds by ruffling your already messy hair. 

“Still just as bratty as ever. Listen, if you want my attention that badly, just ask. I’m always happy to oblige.” 

He flicks your nose with his finger, then flashes a smile at you. A warm, familiar that you have always loved, and always will.

[nemesyaaa]

❝ no brain. only big arms and fat thighs.❞

featuring himbo!rafe x reader.

⸻★himbo!rafe who’s a beast of muscles, all beefy and heavy, literally the bulky man towering everyone around him. when he's not putting on his stupid preppy kook dressing, he loves wearing those little tight t-shirts that are too small to fit his big tits but shows off his well-shaped six pack.

⸻★ himbo!rafe who is the king of manspreading. you can be sure that his massive legs are always highly spreaded every time he sits down somewhere. bonus, when he's wearing one of those favorite shorts after going to the gym, and his thick thighs are naked enough to reveal his fleshy skin filled with hard stunning veins.

✦ He's HUGE so ofc, he's gonna take a lot of place. ⸻ “sit on my lap, baby. you don't need a seat. ”

⸻★ he's more a female magnet than a womanizer. attracts women as well as he knows how to catch them but it doesn't mean he's got a hard interest in them. you're the one he cares about. he's not smart enough to get them with his brain but like any good himbos, he knows how to use his physique to his advantage. ⸻ his pretty face saves his lack of culture.

⸻★ biggest and proud member of the thirst trap community. you can be sure that he posts hundreds of photos after the gym of his large thighs and strong arms, flexing his muscle on the bathroom mirror to get all those veiny lines bulging his thick biceps and pecs.

⸻ he likes to pretend that it's for his gym bros but will delete the story if you don't see or react to his post.

✦ of course, he's an attention whore when it comes to you. that's a true himbo.

( the rest under the cut...)

⸻★ himbo!rafe who will take every opportunity he gets to show you how strong he is.

no matter your weight, he's bigger than you so don't you dare worry about your body size. you're perfect. he's gonna lift you up so easily, and it's also an excuse to show you how well–builded he is.

✦ if your feets hurt, he will carry you a short distance as well as a long one. he will open all the jam jars for you, and carry all your bags and suitcases. with him, you won't move a finger and you can be sure that you won't break any nails.

✦ you are a princess to him, and he will treat you with all the respect a girl like you deserves. he doesn't call you his baby for nothing.

✦ and that man loves to smack on your ass but you immediately need to calm him down because he doesn't know about his heavy strength. like this man, he's kind of a beast, could bruise you with just one good slap.

⸻★ big addict when you touch and compliment his physique. like yes, praise him. you're the gool girl he craves and literally dreams of. huge simp when you've just done your nails and you're testing their quality on him. he loves having your wild marks on his skin. come on, he's big. ⸻ his huge size is literally not for the WEAK so he's begging at your feets for you to use your nails on him. he wants you to dig them so hard so that every time he looks at his broaden back in the mirror, he remembers why he's paying for any of your girls appointments.

⸻★ 100% jealous. he’s really is. he doesn't want to share you. even if you're not his girlfriend, he’s convinced that you are his and that you belong to him.

the problem with himbo!rafe is that he's not really that smart... even if you're the one who made the first move with this guy in the club, you can be sure that the innocent person with whom you flirted will end up in a hospital bed...⸻while you will have all the privilege of ending up in his bed. (women can do no wrong)

he doesn't want to hear or know the context. (be serious, he's not gonna understand it in any case.) like any himbos, he hates to think. he only trusts what he sees. so if he has to spend all the party breaking the jaws of all these guys around you, you can be sure he will do it.

you don't want to care about him ? he's gonna show you a reason why you should.

this man will literally fight. yea, he got muscles to show off but also to be sure to destroy his rivals.

he is proactive. he acts, he does not think.

⸻★ if you want to go out in a short dress, a mini skirt, any tiny piece of clothing, you can be sure that he won't say no but will be clinging to you like a leech. like he's okay with your outfit but you don't go anywhere without him. it's THE RULE.

✦ if you're not okay with that, fine. you're gonna cry about it at home.

and you can pout, he doesn't care. (you're still pretty so…)he will literally mock you by saying don't play games you're gonna lose if you want to win.

“ but raf…” you start. but he doesn't care. “ do not rafe me. you've done enough tonight. ” “ i want to go to the party ! ” “ no, you just want to get on my nerves so you stay here. ”

but if you're going out and the other boys want to look at you, there's no problem. you can be sure that in the next second, their faces will be too broken to continue staring at you.

⸻★ don't talk to him about things that are too complicated like politics, ecology or feminism, you're gonna waste your time. the only thing on his mind is you so don't confuse him with things he'll never understand.

⸻★ himbo!rafe who adores when you need him. like, if this man doesn't wait for your call every time.... that's probably the only reason he has a phone.

he loves when you need him, even for random things. you need a driver? he is there. you need money? give him the amount and it's done. you need advice on your new outfit? he's gonna worship you.

⸻★ himbo!rafe who always got a soft spot for you and called you by sweet nicknames like baby, princess, peach, and pretty. he's listening to everything you have to say, don't make you repeat even if he doesn't understand a single word of what you're saying. ⸻ “ rafe, you're not listening. ” you shouted softly, snapping at him. “ of course, i'm listening baby. ” “ okay so what did I say ? ” “ that you wanna hang out with me tonight ? ” he proposed with such an obvious smile that you're forced to laugh at his audacity. “ i didn't say that. ” “ okay, but do you wanna hang out tonight ? you can't say no. i mean, it's yes or yes. ” “ okay, i wanna hang out with you tonight. ”

if you hate some people, you can be sure he's gonna be the biggest hater of those people too. but easy girl, because he's also the biggest hater of boys that you love.

✦ himbo!rafe who loves when you cry on his arms because one, his ego needs to be the first man you think about when you're sad, but also because he loves to carry you against him. shush you everytime you sob, but also kiss your forehead dearly. he's so gentle at the moment, but the moment he knows the name of who makes you cry, he's turning into an evil man.

⸻★ when you show interest in him, he loses his mind. he's like a sweet giant puppy. he's not the type to blush when you look at him but he just wants to squish you in his big arms. like, you are so nice and pretty.

you make him feel so dumb ( when in fact, he's really stupid on daily and it's not about you.)

⸻★ it's also a sucker for the size difference between the two of you. like, you are so small compared to him. so, don't try to run away from him, he will always be faster than you. himbo!rafe loves to play around with it, resting his arms on your head when he's next to you, joking about your small feets compared to him, pretending to not see you when you're around.

it's all a joke until he finds that thing can be a kink…

and that you’re maybe into it.

⸻★ himbo!rafe who's is a BIG VIRGIN not because he doesn't get any opportunities to fuck some bitches but this man wants to get his first time with you and only you.

✦ not only he cares about his virginity, but he does checks on yours every time.

⸻★ he's got a nice cock if you ask, everything so good-shaped about him…but god, he's such an himbo. there is nothing in his brain, so don't expect your dumb puppy to know how to use his pretty dick.

[vespidclan]

What is kindness to 404?

I decided to make a whooole explanation on this from a comment I made. I thought it was interesting enough to further explain cuz it analyzes more of 404 while also keeping the rest of her lore hidden. And I’ll most likely make a second analysis once the next part comes out

This is already a no-brainer; There’s nothing kind about 404. I think I’ve established enough already that 404 is extremely cruel, sadistic, and she’s torturing cats in OOB like it’s a scene from Saw… She doesn’t just feel satisfaction from their pain, she LOVES fear. She gets a kick out of making cats afraid and seeing them break.

But in moon 27 I wanted to show her whole deal with morality. Technically, 404 does not believe in morality. She sees it as something ‘weak’ and to be taken advantage of once it’s exposed. She’ll go as far to reject any attempts of good given to her because it gives her nothing to benefit from. (COUGH also because no one ever gave her an ounce of sympathy and kindness taught her nothing good so she’s basically projecting her feelings COUGH COugh hACK!)

However… She DOES ‘aggressively care’… when she thinks it can benefit her. I explain this before but that’s what she’s doing with Stonepaw in M27; She doesn’t show any hostile intent. She praises Stone for ‘improving’ and ‘being someone her mom can learn from’. And then she outright says that Snake doesn’t like her and she should stay out of her way ‘so it doesn’t hurt her’. That’s like saying “hey, you’re doing great… it’s just a shame your mother can’t see that”. It’s condescending and a bit invalidating.

It should (hopefully) be obvious; 404 is manipulating Stone into avoiding Snake. That way, it’ll just be 404 and Snake without her in the way… She does this by showing a false sense of goodness but there’s still something vile underneath, and Stone is sure that there is something, but her head is not in the right place to ignore the idea that Snake blames her. It’s what she thought since she first accepted to be a medicine cat. And if this otherworldy creature, the one whose been there since day one, tells her it’s true, then it must be, right?

404 knows exactly what’s happening in Stonepaw’s head. She knows that if Stone ever finds out what she’s been doing with Snake (you’ll also find out next part), she’ll do something about it that could ruin her plan. Break her down she might, she’ll still give her a moment of compassion… with intentions.

[rose24207]

dtMF

Summary: Lando sits on a San Juan beach, holding a Polaroid camera, reflecting on his lost love and regretting the moments he took for granted, wishing he could tell her he still loves her.

Genre: angst, fluff

Lando x dead!f!reader

TW: Death, grief, coping, the song itself basically

A/N: I feel emotional about this one :( English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist pt. 2

The sunsets in San Juan were beautiful, like paintings brushed across the sky. Lando sat on a weathered stone wall overlooking the beach, the horizon awash with golden hues melting into soft purples. A faint breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed, rustling the palm trees that lined the shore.

It should’ve felt peaceful. It should’ve brought comfort.

But to Lando, it was just another reminder of what you were missing.

He gripped a Polaroid camera in his hands—the same one you’d gifted him years ago on one of your many adventures. "So we can remember the little things," you had said with a grin, snapping the first photo of him right then and there. That photo was still in his wallet, fraying at the edges from years of handling.

But tonight, it felt heavier than ever.

He tilted his head back, letting the fading sunlight warm his face. For a moment, he imagined you beside him, your laughter ringing out as you teased him for getting too sentimental. He could almost hear your voice.

“Enjoy the sunset, Lando,” you’d say. “Moments like these don’t come often.”

You were right—they didn’t. But now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to enjoy them. Not without you.

Lando still replayed the last time he saw you over and over in his mind. The memory clung to him, sharp and unrelenting. You’d been standing at the airport, a soft smile tugging at your lips as he hugged you goodbye.

“Don’t forget to take lots of pictures,” you’d teased, your arms tightening around him.

“As long as you don’t forget to answer my calls,” he’d replied, resting his chin on your head.

You’d laughed, leaning back to look into his eyes. “Never.”

But life had other plans.

The accident happened on an ordinary day, the kind of day that should’ve been insignificant. Lando had been across the world, standing on a podium with champagne in his hand and a grin on his face, completely unaware that his world was already breaking.

He hadn’t even been there when it happened.

That was what haunted him the most—the distance, the helplessness, the fact that he couldn’t save you. He couldn’t hold your hand, couldn’t whisper reassurances, couldn’t tell you one last time how much he loved you.

Now, he’d give anything to go back. To the last time he looked into your eyes. To the moments he’d taken for granted. To the kisses he hadn’t stolen, the hugs he hadn’t given, the pictures he hadn’t taken.

The nights felt endless without you. He filled them with distractions—races, interviews, dinners with friends—but nothing worked. The second he was alone, the grief swallowed him whole.

One night, he found himself in the car, driving aimlessly through the streets of San Juan. He didn’t even know why he’d come here. Maybe because it was the last place where you’d truly been happy, where the two of you had spent sun-soaked days exploring the island and dancing under the stars.

Eventually, he ended up at a small bar tucked away on a quiet street. The air inside was thick with the smell of rum and the sound of salsa music. Lando sat at the counter, ordering a drink he didn’t want but couldn’t bring himself to leave untouched.

The bartender, an older man with a kind face, gave him a curious look. “You’ve got the look of someone carrying a heavy heart,” he said.

Lando managed a weak smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The bartender nodded knowingly, sliding the drink toward him. “Grief is a heavy thing, my friend. But it means you loved deeply. That’s a rare gift.”

Lando swallowed hard, the words hitting too close to home. He stared into his glass, his reflection distorted by the amber liquid.

“I should’ve taken more pictures,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music. “I should’ve kissed her more, hugged her more.”

The bartender’s expression softened. “The regrets never go away, but neither does the love. Hold onto that.”

Later that night, Lando found himself back on the beach, the Polaroid camera slung over his shoulder. The moon hung low in the sky, its light reflecting off the waves that lapped gently at the shore. He dropped down onto the sand, his knees pulling up to his chest as he stared out at the endless expanse of water.

He thought about you—your laugh, your touch, the way you used to hum softly when you thought no one was listening. He thought about the way you’d wrinkle your nose when you were concentrating, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved.

“Tell me, love,” he whispered to the night, his voice breaking. “Where are you?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I’d meet you anywhere,” he continued, tears streaming down his face. “Just tell me where.”

He imagined what it would be like to see you again, even for a moment. He thought about all the things he’d say, all the things he hadn’t said before. He thought about the pictures he’d take, the memories he’d hold onto so tightly this time.

But no matter how hard he wished, you wouldn’t come back.

The Polaroid camera sat heavy in his lap. For a long time, he just stared at it, his fingers trembling. Then, with a deep breath, he lifted it to his face and snapped a picture of the ocean under the moonlight.

The photo slid out, the image slowly developing before his eyes. It wasn’t much—just the empty beach, the waves shimmering in the distance. But it was something.

He leaned back against the sand, holding the photo tightly in his hand. His chest felt hollow, the weight of your absence pressing down on him like a physical force.

“I hope you can see me,” he whispered. “Wherever you are. I hope you know how much I miss you.”

The waves continued to crash softly against the shore, a steady rhythm that matched the aching pulse of his heart.

“I’ll never stop loving you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even if it hurts. Even if it’s forever.”

And as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Lando sat there, the picture in his hand and your memory etched into his soul, forever a part of him.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris

[magnificentmiraclenacho]

The sister of the winner

Part 5= The scary stranger

Summary: When gi hun wants to take down the games he faces a lot of problems. But one problem he also has is his relationship with his sister minji ( reader ). Gi hun dosent want to tell her about the games do to her innocent. But what happends when the salesman lores her into the games, and the siblings finds them self fighting for their lifes

-------

The dormitory was heavy with people talking and planning on how they want to survive this nightmare. Y/N sat cross-legged on her bunk, her legs still trembling from the adrenaline of the six-legged pentathlon.

Gi-hun sat beside her, leaning back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Next to him, Jung-bae and young il laid sprawled out, and Player 222 just walking away with player 333 to talk about something.

The four of them let out simultaneous sighs, a mix of relief and exhaustion, as they reflected on their narrow escape from elimination.

“I can’t believe we made it,” Jung-bae said, his voice breaking the silence.

The air was tense, but there was a flicker of gratitude between them. They were still alive.

“Barely,” Y/N replied, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I thought we were done for when we almost tripped at the end.”

“It’s a miracle,” young il muttered, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

“I just want to go home,” yn whispered “I can’t keep doing this.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Gi-hun said, his voice soft but firm. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make it out of here, one way or another.”

Before anyone could respond, Kang Dae-ho, the man who had given up his spot on their team during the last game, approached. His face lit up when he saw them, relief evident in his expression.

“Barely,” Jung-bae said with a weak laugh.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but warm. “You guys made it.”

Dae-ho nodded, his eyes scanning the group. “its so good to see you.”

“Thanks to you,” Y/N said, offering him a small smile. “If you hadn’t let 222 take your spot…”

She glanced at Player 222, who was holding her belly just infront of the beds.

Dae-ho waved her off. “I’m just glad your all okay.”

They talked for a few more minutes, the conversation circling back to the games and their growing desperation to escape.

“They have to give us another vote soon,” jung beo said. “Don’t they?”

“They will,” Gi-hun replied, his voice heavy.

“But you know how it’ll go. Most of them won’t vote to leave. Not now. Not when they’ve seen how much money is at stake.”

Before anyone could respond, the dormitory door slammed open. Two guards entered, their presence commanding silence.

“Attention, players,” one of them announced. “The current prize money stands at 10 billion won.”

A gasp rippled through the room. Heads turned to the glowing piggy bank hanging above them, filled half way with cash. The guards continued.

“There are 140 players remaining.”

The reality of the announcement hit hard. Over half the players were already gone. The room felt colder, the weight of survival pressing down on everyone like a lead blanket.

Gi-hun let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And they’re all still blinded by it,” he said, gesturing to the money. “They see that, and suddenly nothing else matters.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one dared to speak.

“The next vote will now begin,” the guard announced. “Each player will step forward and cast their decision. A simple choice: to stay, or to go.”

The guards gestured to the large board on the wall, showing two glowing buttons—X to leave, and O to stay. As the players began lining up, Gi-hun stood and glanced down to his team.

“Vote for X,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something Y/N couldn’t quite place. “If we don’t leave now… none of us will.”

Yn stared at him as he turned to join the line. The sound of footsteps echoed in the room as players moved one by one toward the buttons, their faces tense and unreadable.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched Gi-hun step forward the first one voting. He pressed the X button without hesitation, his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

The vote continued, but the air was thick with dread. No matter how many pressed X, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough. The pull of the money, the desperation to win, was stronger than fear.

And as the line moved forward, the weight of Gi-hun’s words lingered in her mind: “If we don’t leave now… none of us will". She would vote X. She would go home. She thought to herself.

Gi-hun stood beside her, watching the line grow shorter. His hand was still resting on her shoulder, grounding her in the moment. His expression was unreadable, but Y/N could feel the tension radiating off him. He was exhausted, just like everyone else, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes—hope that enough people would see reason.

Jung-bae sighed, his head tilted back against a bed frame. “You think people will vote to leave?” he muttered, glancing at Gi-hun.

“No,” Gi-hun replied bitterly. “Most of them won’t. They’re too blinded.”

Il Young standing next to yn scoffed. “Blinded or desperate. What’s the difference?” Gi hun clancing at him strangery.

Across the room, Player 222 stood quietly next to player 333, her hands protectively cradling her stomach. Y/N couldn’t imagine what the woman was going through—carrying a child in this hellhole. It was unbearable to think about.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched the line shrink. One by one, players stepped forward, pressing their buttons with trembling hands. Some looked resolute, others terrified, but the room remained eerily silent except for the soft hum of the voting machine.

It was now her turn. She stepped forward. Her palms were sweaty, and her breath came in shallow gasps, but she didn’t hesitate. Her eyes locked onto the X button. “This is the way out” she whispered to herself.

Her hand came down on the button, and the red light flared to life. A robotic voice confirmed her vote, and she stepped aside.

Jung-bae voted next, followed by young il and Player 222. The group reconvened near the corner beds, watching as the line continued to dwindle.

“Do you think it’ll be enough?” Y/N asked quietly, her voice barely audible.

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the voting platform, his expression grim. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But at least we tried.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the last players cast their votes. Finally, the guards stepped forward, and the screen on the wall lit up, displaying the results.

X: 62 votes

O: 68 votes

The room erupted into murmurs, cries, and gasps. Y/N felt the air leave her lungs as she stared at the screen. It wasn’t enough.

Gi-hun clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “I told you,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. “They are all stupid, every single one of them.”

Y/N sank onto one of the bed, her head in her hands. She had done everything she could. They all had. But it wasn’t enough. They were trapped here forever, and the games would continue.

The guards began filing out, leaving the players to their despair. The glowing piggy bank above them seemed to mock their suffering, the pile of money growing larger with every death.

Gi-hun sat down beside Y/N, his hand resting on her shoulder again. “We’ll figure something out,” he said softly. “We have to." " we aren't going to be here till the end, okey" he said as he put his hand on her shoulder.

Y/N didn’t reply. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the floor, her mind racing with the knowledge that no matter what they did, survival was never guaranteed becouse people are naive and selfish.

Gi-hun sat deeper down on the bed, his voice serious as he looked at the group. "We need to stick together tonight. No one sleeps alone. People are desperate, and if anyone’s looking to thin the numbers, they’ll target groups like ours."

Jung-bae nodded grimly. “Makes sense. Safety in numbers.”

Young il stretched his arms, his face tense. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We stay here,” Gi-hun replied. “Build a secure area with the bunks and sleep in shifts. That way, we’ll know if anyone’s coming close.”

Player 222 shifted “You really think someone would attack us? Just to keep the games going?” Gi-hun gave her a sharp look. “Do you think they wouldn’t?”

The group fell silent, the reality of his words settling over them. Slowly, everyone began gathering supplies—pushing bunks together to create a barrier, arranging blankets and pillows in the center to form a communal sleeping area.

Y/N stood for a moment, watching the others before stepping away.

“Where are you going?” Gi-hun asked very sharply and protectivly.

She turned back, her tone calm. “I’m just going to get my pillow and blanket from my bed. It’s on the other side of the room.”

Gi-hun frowned, his expression uncertain. “You sure? I don’t like you walking over there alone. I can come with you.” dropping the sheets in his hands on the floor.

Y/N shook her head with a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a quick trip. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He hesitated, glancing toward the dimly lit expanse of the dorm. The shadows seemed to shift and move, and the other players loomed like ghosts in the distance. After a moment, he exhaled sharply. “Alright. Just... be quick, okay? And don’t talk to anyone.”

“I won’t,” she promised, her voice steady.

As Y/N turned and walked toward the far side of the room, her footsteps light but purposeful, Gi-hun wasn’t the only one watching.

Young il, who had been adjusting the makeshift barrier, paused and looked up, his gaze following her as she moved further away. His sharp eyes narrowed slightly, studying her retreating figure as she weaved through the maze of bunks.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but his lips pressed into a thin line. His expression was hard to read—calm, calculating, and perhaps a touch wary. He glanced briefly at Gi-hun, who was still watching her intently, before returning his attention to the barricade.

“Hope she’s fast,” young il muttered under his breath, almost to himself, as he adjusted the frame of a bunk. Though the words were quiet, they carried a weight of unspoken tension.

The further you moved from the safety of your team, the more you felt the tension in the air. Every shadow seemed to loom larger, every sound seemed sharper.

Reaching your bed, you crouched down and grabbed your pillow, tucking it under one arm as you reached for the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. But as your fingers brushed the fabric, you froze.

Muttering. Low and conspiratorial, coming from the far corner of the room.

You turned your head slightly, peering through the dimly lit maze of beds. At first, you couldn’t see anyone, but then your eyes landed on them—Player 230, the man with purple hair who had stirred up trouble on the very first day, and Player 124, a wiry man with shifty eyes. They were sitting close together on one of the beds, heads bowed as they whispered hurriedly.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you crept closer, keeping low and moving as quietly as possible. You ducked behind a bedframe a few feet away, straining to catch snippets of their conversation.

“…the next game… can’t risk it,” Player 124 was saying, his voice barely above a whisper.

Player 230 leaned in closer, his hands fidgeting with something around his neck. “That’s why we need to—” He stopped abruptly and looked around, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold metal of the bedframe, praying he wouldn’t see you. After a tense moment, he relaxed and continued.

“Look, I’ve got this,” he said, holding up what looked like a necklace. But as the light hit it, you realized it wasn’t just jewelry. Tiny capsules were embedded within the chain—capsules that looked suspiciously like drugs.

Your heart raced. Drugs? In here?

As you slowly began to back away, your foot scraped against the edge of a bedframe. The sound, though quiet, seemed deafening in the tense silence.

Player 230’s head snapped up, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he shot to his feet, pointing a finger at you. “HEY, YOU!”

Your breath hitched, and adrenaline surged through your veins.

Your instincts screamed at you to run, so you turned on your heel and started walking quickly toward the safety of your team. Panic surged through your veins as your footsteps quickened, but you knew better than to break into a full sprint—it would only draw more attention. Your mind raced with thoughts of what you had just seen, your heart pounding in your chest.

You were just a few beds away from the main area where others might see you when a hand suddenly grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking you backward with a force that sent you tumbling to the ground. The shock of pain shot through your scalp as you gasped, but before you could let out a scream, a heavy hand clamped over your mouth.

Player 230 loomed over you, his purple hair falling messily over his forehead, his expression twisted with fury. “You shouldn’t have been snooping,” he hissed, his voice venomous.

He straddled you in one swift motion, pinning your body to the cold, hard floor. His hand stayed firmly over your mouth, muffling your panicked cries, while his other hand wrapped around your throat. His grip tightened, cutting off your air, and your vision started to blur around the edges.

You clawed at his arms desperately, your nails digging into his skin as you tried to pry him off. Your mind was a whirlwind of terror and disbelief. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not like this. You shoud't have come to your bed, not atleast alone.

You kicked your legs frantically, but he pressed his weight harder against you, making it almost impossible to move. His furious eyes bore into yours, and the malicious grin curling at the corners of his lips only made your fear worse.

“Stay quiet,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “If you make a sound, you’ll regret it.”

The pressure on your throat intensified, and you could feel the air slipping away. Your body screamed for oxygen, and your head spun as you tried to think of a way out.

I need to do something. I can’t die like this. All the things ypu havent told gi hun yet rushing true your mind.

our lungs burned as you struggled beneath his weight, but Player 230 was far stronger than you. Every frantic attempt to escape his grasp was met with even more pressure, his hand like iron around your throat. Your nails scratched at his arm, but he didn’t even flinch.

The room seemed to fade around you, your world narrowing to his sneering face and the suffocating grip cutting off your air. Then he did something unexpected—he stopped choking you just long enough to let you take a shaky, gasping breath, his hand still covering your mouth.

And then he laughed.

A low, cruel chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head tilting slightly as he stared down at you like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, this is perfect,” he said, his voice laced with mockery. His grip on your throat relaxed slightly, but the weight of his body still pinned you in place. “We’ve got the winner’s little princess.”

Your eyes widened, your heart hammering in your chest. That pet name shivering down your spine.

He smirked as he leaned back a little, still keeping you firmly beneath him. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. Everyone’s seen how that old man dotes on you. Gi-Hun, the big hero, doing whatever he can to keep you safe. It’s pathetic.” His grin widened, sharp and full of malice. “I wonder how he’d feel if he knew you were in a situation like this. Screaming and crying under the mighty thanos."

Your stomach twisted in horror as his words sank in. He wasn’t just toying with you—he was threatening to use you as leverage against Gi-Hun.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” he continued, tilting his head to the side as if he were considering something. Then he bent down, his face so close that you could feel his breath against your ear. His next words were barely more than a whisper, but they sent a even more cold shiver down your spine.

“Wouldn’t that be sweet, pumpkin?”

The sickeningly sweet tone of his voice made your skin crawl, and you felt a wave of nausea rise in your chest. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to fight, to escape, but he had you completely trapped. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your mind raced, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare. But was there even a one....

-----

Ps: i had to stop it there before this chapter became too long.

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[cursedwretch]

What Lurks Beneath - Chapter 5

GIF by featherlumina

Viktor x AFAB!Reader; Word count: 4948 Words; Rating 18+ MDNI

AO3 | Prev

The smut is here, the smut is here! Content warnings below: CW: A smidge of soft dom!Viktor/switch!Viktor if you squint, Vaginal sex, Vaginal fingering, praise kink

Chapter also contains canon-typical (implied) violence, and mentions of injury/blood.

In the cramped confines of Heimerdinger’s carriage, I avoid Viktor’s eyes at all costs. I ignore how his finger traces his lower lip as he stares absently out the window. Realistically, I should be grateful for ride home, but right now I’m half-convinced it was some contrived torture method.

Gods, help me.

Heimerdinger fills the air, ensuring there are no pregnant pauses throughout the journey, rattling off plans for the remainder of the month. Meetings, meetings, meetings.

One such meeting, uncharitably, is apparently taking place at 8 the following morning. Perfect. A board meeting, Heimerdinger informs me, so not one I can skip. Naturally. He’s practically immortal, I remind myself. I doubt he’s ever experienced a hangover, or even needed to sleep in a day in his too-long life.

“Thank you for the notice,” I clip, though it’s a struggle to come across neutral. I paste on a weak smile for good measure. From the edge of my vision, I catch Viktor’s shoulders silently shaking with laughter, shifting to face the window fully. The little shit.

It isn’t until Heimerdinger exits, hopping out with a bright ‘see you in the morning,’ that Viktor looks at me. His hand sliding from his lips as he turns my way.

Lidded eyelids and a lazy smirk. My heart lurches. And there’s something about the way he fixates on my mouth has me following that tug—stumbling across the distance to scramble into his lap. His hands meet my hips, holding me steady as he looks up at me, his head tilting back with a soft exhale. Whisky. Another taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? My hands float up to hold his face between them, thumb swiping across the mole on his cheek.

“I don’t live far,” he warns.

I dip down, pulling his lips to mine, watching as his eyes flutter closed. Strong hands pull me tight against him, one shifting to splay out flat against the small of my back. I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue. He gives me access with a groan, tongue running along mine.

The hand on my hip roams up, tracing along the side of my body, into the dip of my clavicle, before coming to rest on the nape of my neck. I breath in, deep, smiling against his lips as our teeth click. One of those little snags when things are still new. He laughs in turn as he pulls back, hand in my hair holding me in place.

My eyes fluttered open to find his earlier bravado replaced by a shy curve of his lips. “Almost there,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Would you like to come up?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He cranes up once more, pulling me into another kiss—slow and soft and heady. He sucks on my bottom lip and it sends my head spinning, whining softly into his mouth.

The motorcarriage jostles as it comes to a stop. I’m hesitant to break away. Greedy. My fingers clutch at his lapels, pulling closer.

“Up,” he smiles against me, guiding me off of his lap.

It’s an awkward scramble out of the carriage. Viktor’s the first to step out, leaning to the driver to shake his hand with a quick thanks. I’m fairly certain he slipped some coin his way as well. Good. I follow without decorum, stumbling out, taking Viktor’s hand as he offers it.

Its quiet. And something electric hums through the air as he leads me to his front door. The feeling thickens when we reach it. With a swallow, his eyes glance my way for a split second before he unlocks the door, propping it open.

Black currant tea, warm leather, and wood envelope me. It smells completely, utterly, like Viktor. Comforting, complex.

His apartment is messy; not health-risk messy, but certainly cluttered. Half-finished projects and knick knacks line the shelves, a discarded mug left on just about every surface. A daunting little pile of coats sits atop the chair at his writing desk. Clearly, he doesn’t pen many letters. I can’t help but laugh as I take a look around.

He regards me with a quizzical brow.

“I thought Jayce was the messy one,” I tease.

Color dusts his cheeks as he continues in, leaning down to set his keys on the table, haphazardly tidying what he could within reach. “He is,” he insisted, “in all fairness, I didn’t anticipate company tonight.”

I smirk, walking behind him, hands sliding around his waist as I press my mouth against his shoulder. His hands still, and his tense shoulders melt under my touch. His fingers intertwine through mine, and he peels them away, turning in my arms.

“So impatient,” he smirks, voice growing low and rough. I raise my eyebrow in a challenge he gladly takes.

The kiss he pulls me into is searing, bruising, as he ushers me backwards. He leads me blind through his apartment, my steps falter, stumbling, until the back of my knees hit something soft. A push, and I’m seated, his bedding a silken whisper against the palm of my hand. He’s out of breath already.

I reach up, tugging at the collar of his shirt; greedy hands fussing with the buttons, exposing more and more to my touch as his legs slot between mine. His hands traces along my thigh, knee nudging against my core and a white hot need curls in my stomach.

“So perfect,” he whispers against my skin, shifting his weight fully onto his knee. Another push, and I’m on my back. A vague clatter goes ignored as it rings through the room. My mouth parts.

He watches me, drinking in each hitch and gasp as his fingers trace up my bare thighs, pushing the hem of my dress up with the movement. His lips part. My heart skitters at the look in his eyes—focused, gentle.

His hand skates to my inner thigh. Tracing up, up, up; parting them with each inch. There’s a hitch, so soft, almost imperceptible, in his breath when he catches the first glimpse of the lace that lies beneath.

Dipping between, he presses his fingers against my still-clothed sex. I arch into his touch. More. He’s slack-jawed and sly, mouth quirking up as he watches his fingers slip beneath the side of my underwear.

“Gods,” he rasps, “you’re soaked.”

I keen. He’s going to be the death of me. I grind against his hand, shameless and desperate for friction. Any foolish hope of maintaining any demure air now cast to the wind as I reach forward, tugging at the button of his slacks, “off.”

He peels my hands away, pressing them down against the sheets; fingers twining through mine as he presses wet, hot kisses down my neck.

I gasp, “fuck.”

“Patience,” he chides.

He takes his time with me—languidly pushing my dress up as his own mouth works its way down. Dizzying. I can feel his smirk with every strangled noise I make. When the hem of my dress pushes past my ribs, he pauses, pressing a kiss to my shoulder, pulling me to sit up before peeling it up past my head.

“Lay down,” he says softly, gesturing towards the headboard.

I slide my underwear off, and quickly resist the urge to cover myself, feeling suddenly bare at his hungry eyes roaming my form as I scoot back. My head hits the pillow. His own tilts to the side as he pushes his shirt down his arms, shrugging it off. His lips quirk at the face I make—pinched brows, lips parted—while I watch him make short work of his pants. He’s lithe, lean, with an elegant cut of muscle. As I drink him in, I spot the metal brace lining his leg. I wasn’t even aware he wore one. He smiles, a little shyly; color dusting his cheeks. Still, he doesn’t shrink away.

“I wanted to do that,” I pout. Which is true. I’d undress him with my teeth if he let me.

He laughs, half-crawling onto the bed, “another time.”

He collapses onto his side beside me, bed doing a little shake before his fingers are curling around my knee to part my legs. His unbraced leg hitches forward, holding mine open as his nails rake up my inner thigh. It’s torture.

“Viktor,” I gasp, a warning.

He hums, craning forward to watch his own hand intently as it slides higher. So close. I turn to look at his face, and I’m struck by just how long his eyelashes are, kissing his cheek with contented blink. When his fingers hit the juncture of my thigh, I whimper. He relents, thank the gods, amber eyes lifting to mine while his fingers brush against my core.

“Good?” He asks. He knows the answer.

My hips buck against his hand, “yes, please.”

His eyes widen, blown-black as his fingers sink inside. I keen, writhing at the delicious curl. Well-practiced. My own fingers find his hair, searching for purchase as he dips down, lips pressing against my ear. I can feel the heat of his gaze, watching my hips stutter and grind against his palm.

“That’s it,” a ragged groan tears from his throat as he whispers into my ear, “so perfect.”

I cry out, that familiar heat building in my core as a litany of praises fall from his lips. So fast. Teeth scrape at the skin beneath my ear, fingers curling within me in time with the roll of my hips.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

My hips stutter with another whine, “Viktor, please.”

He hums, but is cut short as my hand snakes down to his underwear, palming him. “Gods,” he chokes.

My fingers wrap around him through the fabric, thick and weighty in my hand. I let out a strangled noise. Gods. I tug at the waistband, a quick yank and his cock springs free. Gorgeous. I’ve never found a cock gorgeous before. I trace up the underside with a light touch, wringing a sharp breath from him.

“Need you,” I swallow, throat suddenly dry.

Another groan, and he’s falling onto his back, bringing me with him, tugging me forward until I straddle him. My legs quivering, I prop myself up with my palms flat against his chest.

For a beat, we catch our breath.

He looks so soft, wavy hair splayed out on the pillow beneath, staring up at me like a man starved. It’s nearly overwhelming.

So I break the spell; my fingers wrap around him.

His hips buck up into my hands as I give an experimental stroke, pausing to press my thumb against his cock to collect an errant bead of cum. I bring my thumb to my lips, bringing another lovely curse from his lips. He’s salty-sweet and intoxicating. My eyes flutter closed, making a show of it and—

Was that a growl? How interesting.

He grabs my hips, fingers bruising as he pulls me down against him, cock grinding against my clit. I fall forward, hips stuttering with a cry. How on earth does he keep pulling the rug out from under me?

“All this for me,” he rasps, rocking my hips against him, “and I haven’t even fucked you.”

I mewl his name, reaching down with unsteady fingers to line him up with my entrance. He slides into me with a rough, insistent thrust that makes me gasp. I clench around him, the unfamiliar stretch of him sending a dizzying wave of pleasure through my core.

“That’s it,” he gasps, guiding my hips to roll against him. His eyes burn into mine, rapt. There’s a flush to his cheeks, dusted pink as he pants up at me, fingers making their way up the length of my body.

It’s by the nape of my neck that he pulls me down into another crushing kiss, each thrust up into me stoking the flame. He’s all tongues and teeth as I cry against his mouth. A hand snakes between us, thumb circling my clit. With each motion I feel an aching pulse. Intoxicating. I could get drunk off the feel of his cock hitting that spot—that perfect fucking spot—alone.

“You take me so well,” he gasps, breath catching, “so perfect, so needy.”

Each word sends fire through my veins. Thumb brushing against the base of my ear, he presses my forehead against his, our broken breaths mixing in the air between. He gulps as I clench around him, “I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

“Don’t care,” I shake my head, thighs shaking as his thumb picks up the pace against me, “me neither, fuck, Viktor—“

“You going to come for me, hm?” He hisses, his own thrusts growing uneven.

I nod, a feeble little motion as I moan out. He chases the noise with his lips, pressing to mine, drinking in each little noise that slips out. Every rough thrust of his cock up into me bringing me closer to the edge, that heat building until I’m mewling, babbling against his lips—

“That’s it,” he groans, “good girl, just let go.”

My back arches as I cry, waves of pleasure coursing through me as I fall apart at his command. He’s close behind, a high-pitched strangled noise tearing from his throat as he fills me, hips jerking erratically. He chants my name, holding me against his chest as I slump forward.

“Gods,” I pant.

With a content hum his lips brush against my temple, hand tracing soothing shapes along my back. I cant my head towards him, pressing a kiss to his jaw as I slide off of him—eliciting one last hiss.

He turns to his side to face me, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. Though his eyes hold something else—keen and alert, looking into mine like equations were written on a blackboard within. My eyes widen.

Too bare.

I stretch, retreat; eyes sliding shut. A chaste kiss to his cheek and I’m slipping out of the bed with a quick, “be right back.”

When I return he’s half-awake, heavy lidded eyes and a lopsided smile as I tuck myself beneath the sheets. His arms slide around me, tugging close to his chest, enveloping me fully. I sink into the feeling; safe.

As the clutches of sleep find me, I hear him mumble, “I am.. glad you decided to stay.”

- - -

I’m the first to wake. Surprisingly.

The rising light peaks through the windows of his apartment, setting those brown locks aglow—a halo of orange and gold. His mouth was slack, lips softly parted. I leaned in, admiring the way his long lashes kissed his cheek. He sleeps like the dead, which is, honestly, rather unexpected.

Birdsong—a loud, twittering call—rings through the room, as if on cue. Time to get up.

I have that blasted meeting a 8. And the academy was a twenty minute walk away. And I needed a change of clothes. And a shower. Shit.

I really needed to leave.

I pressed a kiss to Viktor’s cheek, murmuring, “gotta get up.”

He groaned, eyelids heavy as they fluttered open. His mouth tucked into a pout as I slipped from his arms. He mumbled, “mh, leaving?”

I nod, rifling through his closet. “Meeting,” I explain, shrugging on one of his shirts.

He’s all limbs, taught and elongated, stretching out. He takes it a hair too far, apparently, as his face pinches into a brief wince. I frown, fingers faltering on the buttons. There’s another muffled groan as he shifts to his side, hand slipping beneath his pillow to stare back at me.

I fish a pair of pants from the closet, slipping them on.

“Little thief,” his teasing voice is rough, warm and gravely.

“You’ll get them back,” I laugh, “walking home in a gown at 7 am feels a bit indecent.”

He hums, “eh, a convenient excuse.”

“Careful, I may pilfer more on my way out,” I pad over towards the bed, leaning down to pull him into a kiss. Soft and slow and sweet. He hums as I retreat once more. “See you, Viktor.”

- - -

The board meeting turns out to be, as always, entirely unnecessary. Bloviation and repetition. I continuously find my mind floating back to Viktor’s apartment: to soft brown hair and fleeting touches and gentle lips. I float through the rest of the day this way; half-present, swept up in the whirlwind that inevitably comes after Progress day.

I manage to carve out a moment for myself to pen a message to Cassandra, taking it alongside the veritable mountain of pending correspondence that’s grown throughout the day. It’s only a quick jog to the pneumatic tubes, thankfully. I’m half-surprised he didn’t have one installed in his office. A suggestion for later, perhaps.

When I return, I’m surprised to find Viktor and Jayce loitering in the office. The events of last night come flooding back at the sight, a fire licks through my veins, curling in my stomach. Low, needy. My face heats as my eyes meet Viktor’s, judging by the tug at his lips his thoughts are the same.

“Afternoon,” Jayce smiles.

He seems… unexpectedly oblivious. Nonplussed, at the very least. I raise a brow to Viktor before I turn Jayce’s way, “good afternoon, Jayce. Meeting with the councilor?”

At his nod, I smile, pivoting on my heels. “One moment, I’ll see if he’s available.”

For his star mentees? Of course he is.

Heimerdinger insists I sit in on their discussion—on next steps, which was, apparently, loosely scheduled the night previous—to take meeting minutes. From the spare seat in the corner of the room, I keep my eyes glued to the page, doing my best to ignore the fleeting glances Viktor keeps casting my way.

“We anticipate, mh, twelve months to complete construction on the Hexgate,” Viktor says, coolly crossing his ankle over his knee as he shifts in his seat.

Hm, interesting.

Heimerdinger’s eyes practically bulge out of his head, exclaiming, “that’s quite an aggressive timeline!”

It really isn’t. Still, I hold my tongue; I’ve learned long ago that it’s better to nudge Heimerdinger in the right direction from the sidelines, rather than advocate in public.

There’s a pause as Viktor’s tired eyes meet Jayce’s, a wordless little exchange that seems to say ‘you deal with it.’

“We’ve worked on these plans for years,” Jayce leans forward, eyes bright and full of promise as he speaks, “you have my word, sir, that we will continue to take every precaution.”

Heimerdinger narrows his eyes before sliding them closed in an animated little nod. “Fine, fine. It’ll have to be discussed with the council, of course. But, you’ll have my vote.”

Viktor is quick to stand, reaching forward to shake his mentor’s hand, “your support is.. appreciated, sir.”

His smile is pleased, peaceful, as he turns towards the door. I go to follow him and Jayce out, steps halting as the councilor calls my name.

“A moment,” he says.

- - -

Cassandra Kiramman is quick to respond, and a date is set for one week later.

Cassandra Kiramman’s estate smelled of freshly-cut lilac mixed with sandalwood and vanilla. Buttery and altogether intoxicating. I bring the tea provided—white with honey and some secret, delectable third taste layered within—to my mouth, savoring each sip. I very much doubt I’ll taste something so fine for a long time.

Her office is bright, ornate. Filled to the absolute brim with flowers and plants of every kind. All quite rare. All exceedingly difficult to keep alive in Piltover’s climate. This room, however, is warm, hospitable, and teeming with life.

Cassandra Kirraman, however, is quite cold. Not unfeeling. But, proper. A woman of process and propriety. Currently, her shrewd eyes are on mine, watching me take in the room.

“You’ve a lovely home,” I say, and I’m sure my smile comes out more grimace-like than I intend.

“Thank you,” she says, “and thank you for sending your materials in advance of our meeting.”

“Of course, I assume you have questions?”

Jayce, who was kind enough to help prep me for the meeting, warned me that she would be more hands on with her patronage. In recent years, at least. I can’t imagine why.

She nods once, curt and to the point, “yes. My primary point of concern lies in your ‘runoffmitigation’plans.”

Ah. As anticipated.

She continues, “You don’t have any sites determined yet, and I don’t expect you’ll find the industrialists of the undercity to be jumping at the opportunity to collaborate.”

“Of course,” I cross my legs as I speak, “but the benefits are great enough that I’d be remiss if I didn’t try.”

She nods, thumbing through the packet of papers.

The arduous pause that follows has me shifting in my seat, leaning forward to add, “nailing down where is my next step.”

She hums, “and your estimate on this? Will you have this determination made soon?”

“That,” I squirm, “is difficult to say.”

She tilts her head, “In that case. let’s aim for 3 weeks.”

Final answer, then.

- - -

It’s an aggressive timeline.

Perhaps it’s time to have a conversation with my boss—one thats been haunting the back of my mind these few months. On my return from my meeting, I march directly into his office; I’m fairly sure any delay would dry up the remaining dregs of my courage after my morning.

I clear my throat, propping the door open, “sir, may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Of course, my girl,” he straightens in his seat.

I reach down to pet his poro, who excitedly circles me, as I take my seat. I shift, throat suddenly dry—

“I’m fairly certain I can take an educated guess as to why you’re here,” he narrows his eyes.

I nod, a bit feebly. The words snag in my throat.

Charitably, he continues, eyeing me with his ever-shrewd gaze as he speaks, “time is about to become quite the premium for you.”

So he heard about my meeting, then. I swallow, “Yes, I expect so, sir.”

“Of course, it’s not lost on me that meeting minutes and correspondence are a waste of your talents—“

“Not at all, sir, I—“

He narrows his eyes at me, hushing me immediately. With a curt nod to himself, he continues, “I’m glad you came to me. I’ve been thinking it’d be prudent to adjust your role—let a student take over the mundane tasks for you to focus on your work. In exchange, however, I do have a request.”

I frown, tilting my head, “sir?”

“I’d like you to be a pair of extra eyes for me—primarily on any Hextech progress.”

Ah. I’ve had assignments like these as his assistant before, of course. I’ve never been a fan of them—hounding scientists to ensure they’re keeping to the ethos. Still, it’s a fair trade. I nod, “yes, of course sir.”

He fixes me with a neutral, if assessing, stare. I shift in place, finger carding through the edges of my notebook.

“Our boys have hit their fair share of snags,” he finally speaks, “I’m also aware you have grown quite close with Viktor, I expect you remain neutral.”

I nod, swallowing thickly. That was quite the emphasis. Did he mean that in a stay-away-from-my-star-pupil sort of way? Perhaps. Perhaps, I’m paranoid. Either way, I’m thrown. Something else scratches at the edge of my mind, and I ask, “Why, sir? Keep accommodating me, I mean.”

It’s a foolish question.

He blinks, mustache tucking into a frown as he considers my words. “It is the greatest importance, my girl, to focus on our future, to shape young innovators such as yourself.”

I’m not sure I enjoy the idea of being molded.

I chew on my lip, nodding. “Thank you, sir.”

- - -

The first two weeks pass far too quickly. I dive headfirst into my project, and visit the Hextech lab a few times. Okay, I’m fairly sure Heimer only meant for me to check in every so often. Call it an indulgence.

Viktor is keeping busy, as well. Relegating us to subsist on stolen glances and fleeting touches. The heat eats at me each time regardless, and I’m still a little unsure whether Heimer’s warning was purely about professionalism, or pursuit.

So, we’ve been careful.

It doesn’t stop the visits from being pure, blissful torture. It builds on it, really.

- - -

“Hello, boys,” I beam at the threshold of the Hextech lab.

Jayce’s greeting is warm, much warmer than Viktor’s—who opts for a soft ‘mmh’ with a wave of his hand, eyes glued to his notebook.

I scoff, teasing, “I’m doing fine, Viktor. Thanks for asking.”

His shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“So, any interesting progress?” I turn to Jayce.

He readily walks me through their latest developments—planning, materials they’re sourcing, the few more tests left before construction kicks off. They’re moving fast.

“Why the hurry?” I tilt my head, finger tracing it’s way down the schematics laid out before me. Jayce has returned to his project, welding what appears to be two small metal sheets together.

He hooks a thumb in Viktor’s direction, “ask this one.”

“I would like to move forward,” Viktor pipes in with a sigh, “the Hexgates are just the surface of Hextech, and will likely only impact Piltover’s elite.”

I hum, he had a point. I step away from the table, crossing the room.

“The undercity will feel the effects too, V,” Jayce says.

“Eh, do we know that, Jayce?” Viktor stands, watching me as I approach his desk, “better to quickly satisfy our benefactors and move on to measurable, tangible impacts.”

His amber eyes shine, hopeful. Up close, however, I can see the purple kiss of dark circles blooming beneath his eyes. He’s been working too hard again.

Jayce hums in reply, not bothering to look up from the soldering iron in his hands, “I know, V.”

This was a regular conversation, then.

It’s quiet for a moment, Viktor silently watching the back of his partner’s head. I shift from foot to foot, drawing idle shapes against the desk top. The soldering iron kicks on.

Viktor’s eyes slide to mine, and my lungs stop. A careful step forward and he’s caged me between his arms, back against the table, breath hitching as he whispers against my hair, “you are incredibly distracting.”

His hips press against mine, driving the point home. My hands find his waist as I struggle to steel myself. I swallow, “I’m going back to the undercity soon.”

He presses a kiss to the corner of my jaw, voice low and amused. “Is that so? And do you require an escort?”

He seals his sentence with a nip at my skin.

“No,” I say, voice airy as I try to maintain an even reply, “I should be fine.”

Jayce clears his throat, “V.”

Viktor backs away, utterly nonplussed as he sits beside me on the table. I take the opportunity to step back, to put some distance between us.

Viktor looks at me, suddenly earnest as he speaks, “you’ve been going to the undercity a lot recently.”

I nod, blinking. I still have yet to find a suitable factory in the Undercity, each visit turning up fruitless. I murmur, “I’m on a tight deadline.”

Viktor stares at me for a moment, lips forming a thin line, “Careful.”

I shrug, giving him a lopsided smile, “of course.”

- - -

One such factory sits conveniently in the higher levels of the undercity, not-so-far from the very spot I ran into that odd man at. It’s partially why I’ve been avoiding it. The sigil lining the exterior of the building, however, was not the same. I’m still not sure if that is a boon, or not. The sense of unease twists in my gut.

I round the exterior of the factory, nose pinching. Smoke plumes up from one of the stacks towards the center, cloying and thickening the very air around me. There’s just enough space between the factory itself and the river, jagged rock and cobble smattering the land between. The ideal location for my work.

I cross around the back of the building, sticking towards the river. The closer to the other end, the more cumbersome the earth becomes: Manageable boulders turn to smaller, frail jagged shards. It’s a scramble. The factory itself is surprisingly quiet—windowless, devoid of most signs of life—save for the guard posted on the other side of the building. A silhouette in the distance, lax posture.

One wrong step. That’s all it takes to send me cursing as I tumble onto the sharp rocks below. A pain tears through my hands. Then, blood. I struggle to my knees with a hiss, investigating the source—broken slivers of shale embedded in my palms. I cry out as I peel the first away.

Swallowing, I manage to muffle the worst of it. My heart leaps into my throat. I risked a glance at the guard, paranoia singing through my blood. Had he heard me?

He shuffles on his feet, leaning against the wall.

I exhale, looking down to tug out another; this one deeper. I glance at the door to the factory, still closed. The guard still leaning there, unmoving. My nostrils flaring, I stand up on wobbly legs. I can deal with the rest later, when I get home. Was that a noise? No, I’m being paranoid. I stagger forward—

There’s a crunch of feet against stone behind me, and I whip around just in time—a glimpse of metal, a resounding crack, the tilt of the horizon.

Darkness.

[celestialtarot11]

Astro Observations

Hey friends! Im back with another astro obsv after getting settled in Uni. I've had a great week focusing on my new classes, and yeah my brain is working overtime to read and study haha. Im taking 2 marketing classes and antisemitism/ racism, and psychology :) learning so much already! I hope you enjoy the post below! Feel free to like, reblog, and share your thoughts.

Moon at 1 degree—Often this represents someone who is learning about emotional stability, processing and releasing in this lifetime. They may struggle with escapist tendencies, or even using drugs to compensate (hard aspects) with the moon aspecting Chiron, Saturn, mars, negatively this can happen, its even more pronounced when at the 1st degree.

Sun-uranus—Could have had a father who thought the native lied a lot, or the father imposed assumptions, for example the native stealing their money. The father figured could have been frugal, paranoid and absent in the natives life for a period of time, only to randomly pop back in.

Venus aspecting Pluto in a males chart—Can make him obsessive with women, and not in a healthy way. He can objectify women, sexualize them, and behave passive aggressive when it comes to making moves sexually. He may confuse sexual attraction for romantic attraction easily. If Pluto makes a hard contact with mercury, he is more likely to be passive aggressive and will objectify women without considering the consequences. He is weak in his approach towards women. If Pluto touches the sun, he will act dishonorably and his reputation will be stunted by his behavior towards women.

Lilith Aquarius 12h in a males chart, with Uranus, and Neptune—Can find himself in a group of friends or community that is considered taboo, unconventional, and unhealthy. This can signify, though not always, selling drugs, or being around those who sold. It can even signify being around sex work. I knew a guy who participated in selling drugs from a young age, because his friends were doing the same, and Aquarius rules networking, and encompasses social aspects of our lives, and when it is in the 12h, he associated with ''underdogs,'' at a young age, those who were considered the black sheep of the family as a way to cope. Lilith here signifies a break through with the mind, a need for agency. But this can turn into unhealthy coping mechanisms as a result, and he does smoke weed everyday to get by.

Mercury opposing Pluto in a male--The native can often struggle with speaking up, making a move, and being clear and concise in their intentions especially in romantic scenarios, though not limited to. They tend to like it when others finish their thoughts for them, and they may project themselves as highly wise in a certain area, but lack knowledge of said topic. The Donning-Kruger effect is common here. Even with a gemini/virgo mercury, if negatively afflicted, this can produce issues with the way he thinks, and how he process his thoughts. Pluto is all about the subconscious and so, some men derive power from projecting what they think they know to others. Reminds me of the quote: you should be scared of not those who have read books, but those who have books on their shelf that they've claimed to have read.

Moon in Aries male--He can be fickle, quick to judge, quick to leave and exploit for his personal gain. I've noticed this is common with men who have a negatively placed moon, or it is afflicted, or both. Especially if the moon makes contact with Chiron, he will project his fears, anxieties, and desires (including sexual) and create tension and confusion in the connection. The sexual part from what I understand is a way they try to inflict intimacy, even though the connection is nowhere near that stage, or the other person does not want it. Aries moon men, if negatively afflicted won't care for your boundaries and can be callous, and cowardly, and can seek to find loop holes.

Weak afflicted sun in males--Tends to talk a big game, and doesn't live up to it. A lot of these guys have a lot to say to look like a contributor of society, especially if they are trying to make an impression, but if you ask them a deep question about a topic, they'll fumble.

Taurus affliction--I've noticed these natives struggle financially, even though in the astro community we see Taurus as sustainable, a provider, and quite materialistic. A large amount depends on the aspects in the chart, I think we sometimes overlook this. An afflicted taurus sun, moon, Venus, mercury, can all impact financial gains. Emotional stability and physical, and can even signify struggling with losing a home, or having bills or loans to pay at a young age. Or having to ''contribute,'' to the house, to prove yourself as good enough.

SN in Capricorn, and NN in cancer--Someone with this placement who I knew had to pay the bills in the house, because their mother was impaired on drugs. Usually this placement indicates the mother playing an important role in the natives lifetime, and it isn't necessarily good or bad. The native was parentified a lot, whilst the mother made excuses for not wanting to step up. The native can also experience a codependent bond with their mother. Even though they have been hurt by their mother, they still admire and respect their mother, even if others don't understand why. These NN natives also tend to cling to nostalgia, the past, and perhaps they think of all the good times they have with their mother and cling to that. It also happens a lot outside the mother, they'll think of the friends they used to be with. SN and NN is also at 8 degrees, and this person went through a lot of loss financially, and they still struggle with building stability. Almost left and right they face struggles with abandonment, so in a way their mother's inability to find financial stability fell in their hands. If you look at the moon you'll see the relationship with the mother in detail :)

Gemini women have an inclination to be in theatre, acting, or film making or photography of some kind. Even song writing, play writing, or directing plays. It's no lie gemini women are exquisitely charming, and when paired with heavier placements such as Saturn 1h/12h, 8h/12h moon, Chiron 4h, Chiron 12h/8h, they can easily reenact roles from the depths of their soul, or write about experiences people find themselves reveling in. Their charm, plus their ability to transform their pain of the past creates for an alluring, powerful and intimidating presence.

5h scorpio, 5h Sagittarius, or 9h moon/sun, or Jupiter 9h, may want to adopt children at some point in their lives or have considered it. These placements know the systematic issues that lie in the government and instead of wanting to have their own kids, they may want to rescue kids already lost to the system. I had a friend that said why have kids when she could be saving one already, and she has a 5h scorpio which conveys a deep need to connect with children who have been hurt, and giving them a new home. Very healing and transformative. She specifically said she'd rescue teenagers since they are overlooked by a lot of people.

Also these placements are known for helping children, even creating fundraisers for children in need. Angelina Jolie has Jupiter 9h conj moon and she has an innate need to help children, and has adopted 3 children, and 3 of her own. She's a protector driven by instinctual maternal desire to help those who are considered ''helpless,'' by the systems fault.

Also her moon is in Aries, and after dropping Maddox, Angelina said she couldn't continue her self sabotaging tendencies. So in a way, she healed a lot of control issues within herself by becoming a mother. It's not because of the label. Her need to set an example and show up for her kids is what helped her change, by giving them the best, she ended up giving herself better. Her moon sign, instead of leaning into its fiery, consuming depths, she learned to create structure, embrace her passions and seek healthier forms of expression.

Venus in cancer is not all what the astro community has portrayed it to be, for ex: ''crybaby, sensitive,'' in the means of demeaning the sign and its expression. I think it's easy to get hung up on these words without understanding its importance on a deeper level. These natives are one of the most in tune, and empathetic natives I've met. It takes an immense amount of courage to be in touch with one's feelings in a society that encourages us to abandon this. Their softness is their strength, and for those who can't see it, this intuitive energy asks them to go inward as to why they can't.

4h scorpio came from a turbulent, deep, enigmatic family of troubles and despair. The native learned to pick up habits such as hiding from the light to protect themselves from criticism, because being seen at home just wasn't allowed, and it was shunned. It creates for an interesting complex, because people may view these natives as liars, cold, and shut down and whilst outside of astrology this can be true, this isn't always the case. 4h scorpio is private for reasons such as protecting their energy. Not everyone should have the privilege of knowing the things so sacred to them.

4h scorpio natives can go on to become open about adverse experiences, the things society tells us to pack away and hide. They begin to see the necessity in sharing their voice, and the raw power of awareness. Sometimes the light isn't so bad, after all.

Moon opposite Pluto 3h--Makes the native a deep thinker, a philosopher, and may see suffering as a crucial force in self growth. They can go on to share their wisdom in the world and make a profound impact. Often this placement to me indicates beauty and brains. I also feel as though these natives surpass beauty norms, they challenge it in a lot of ways. especially if they are a woman with this placement they will find ways to move away from the whole sexualization and objectification of women. They can be part of the LGBTQ.

Lol, my friend also stumbled on astrology and found nothing resonates, because all those sites do is talk about sun sign shit, and then when I looked at her chart she has Venus 8h, scorpio moon, and Saturn 1h. And yes, she has been through a lot of Big Trauma moments.

Extra

Thanks friends for being here and reading! Leave a like, reblog & comment if you found it informative 🤍

Paid readings 🤍

[tunnelofdusk]

mdzs, 3zun, sentinel/guide au

Empathy is a burden in a brothel. Meng Yao knows better than to let himself feel anything when he still cannot look at adult men the same way he had before. He is always wiping himself off with a wet cloth and scrubbing at his skin until it is pink and painful. His mother will tut over him reproachfully but he will smile at her, sweet and dimpled, until she enfolds him in her thin, shaking arms.

“What a shame,” Meng Shi will murmur, “that you were born a guide.”

Meng Yao will still smile at her and dig himself deep into her embrace until fabric is the only barrier between their bodies. Home is where his mother is, he will think fancifully. Home is in his mother’s arms, and his weak mental shields will greedily draw her mind in. He likes to bask in the warmth of her love, and in the coldness of her schemes.

He does not know how to reconcile the disparate parts of himself when she dies. He had loved her too much and had been too greedy with her. When she died, a small part of himself died too—a mental imprint too deep and too connected to his mind to escape unscathed. He will never be a powerful guide, but his mind is clever enough to make up for the deficit.

Too clever.

He endears himself to both Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen.

It is a mistake.

-----

And Meng Yao makes the first folly of his mother—loving a man enough to place him on a pedestal. Nie Mingjue, famously so righteous that he would rather break than bend. Meng Yao looks at himself distorted in a bronze mirror, hating iron for not becoming steel. The breadth between them is great—sentinel and guide, clan leader and clan member, gentry and commoner…

The Nie cultivation style makes it difficult for a guide to soothe a Nie sentinel. To soothe a Nie sentinel is to soothe their saber. It is overwhelming for low-level guides. Meng Yao soothes Nie Mingjue and Baxia scrapes at his mind. Sometimes, he loses himself in the tide of her bloodlust until the chill of Nie Mingjue’s concern awakens Meng Yao.

(At night, Nie Mingjue encases Meng Yao in his arms and Baxia whispers to Nie Mingjue, Ours, ours, ours. Her desire blazes through Nie Mingjue; she wants to slice Meng Yao. She wants his blood and his blood sings to Nie Mingjue. Gusu Lan beautifies this desire, calling it a heartsong, but the Nie know bloodlust better than any clan.)

The second folly of his mother is loving to the point of delusion. Meng Yao meets Lan Xichen—kind and beautiful even with a lingering melancholy to his gentle smiles. A Lan sentinel, so it is said, does not need a guide; there are no guides in the Cloud Recesses. Thousands of rules to control a man, his morality, and his sentinel nature. So it seems that Lan Xichen wants Meng Yao as a man, not as sentinel and guide; and Meng Yao falls.

(The sentinels of Gusu Lan agree; they do not need guides. But they want guides as fiercely as any other sentinel does. They just know better than to expose their guides to the world and endanger them. They know better than to leave their beloved unprotected.

(Love, for a Lan, is all-encompassing.

(Love, for a sentinel of Gusu Lan, is like religion.)

-----

Meng Yao is not a powerful guide, and yet he guides two sentinels (and a saber) until there is no demarcation between their souls. His two sentinels are sect leaders, and yet Nie Mingjue still finds time to visit the Cloud Recesses where Lan Xichen keeps him cloistered. (Bird in a cage—do you not long for the woods? Fish in the pond—do you not miss the deep?)

[echo-riot]

✞⛧Fading Love (Abby x Reader)✞⛧

Warnings: graphic violence, emotional distress, angst, infection (zombie-related), grief, sad ending

An: Another one from the drafts ✌️😎

The air is thick with dust and the heavy scent of decay. You can feel it in your bones, that oppressive weight that only the world after everything has crumbled can bring. Every scavenger’s mission is filled with the possibility of danger, but you and Abby have become efficient at navigating the wasteland, like two hunters in sync. That’s why this feels different. You didn’t expect to feel so… vulnerable.

The two of you have been out all day, the sun now dipping low, casting long shadows through the overgrown streets. You hadn’t thought it would be a problem, at first, when you spotted that small building—just another old store, its windows long shattered, half-buried under vines and debris. But now, standing with Abby by your side, you wish you had listened to the gnawing sense of unease.

You’ve been in worse places, done worse things, survived worse situations. But as you step into the dark interior of the building, your foot catches on something hidden beneath the layers of rotting wood and scrap metal. You curse, but before you can steady yourself, the creature comes out of nowhere. A click of claws against concrete, followed by the guttural hiss of an infected, and then—pain.

The sting hits your leg first, a hot burst of fire shooting up your calf as the infected’s teeth sink into your flesh. You scream in shock, stumbling backward, but Abby is there—always there—pulling you away, her strong arms gripping your shoulders. She swings her crowbar with precision, the infected’s skull cracking open in an instant. But by then, it’s already too late.

“Shit,” Abby mutters, her voice strained with that raw edge you know so well. She’s already kneeling beside you, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “You okay?”

The world feels slow, like you’re watching from somewhere far off. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, but you know what’s happened even before you look down at your leg. The deep puncture marks are already swelling with a sickening tinge of purple, blood welling around the wound. Your fingers tremble as you touch it, knowing full well that the infection is already starting to spread.

“Abby…” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Her eyes are wide, and you can see the panic clawing its way up from the pit of her stomach, but she’s fighting it. She’s always so strong, so composed in the face of danger, and yet right now, you can see how utterly helpless she feels.

“Don’t worry,” she says, though it doesn’t sound convincing. Her fingers graze your cheek, and you can feel the tremble in her touch. “I’ll get you back to camp. We’ll figure it out. I’ll fix this.”

But you know. You’ve known from the moment that bite sank into your leg that there’s no coming back from this. The infection spreads too quickly. There’s no cure. No matter how hard Abby tries to save you, the end has already been written.

You force a small, weak smile, but it’s hollow. “It’s okay, Abby.” The words are barely above a whisper, but she hears them, her brow furrowing, a fresh wave of panic clouding her gaze.

“No,” she breathes, her voice tight, almost pleading. “Don’t say that. I can get help. We’ll find a way.”

You want to tell her that there’s no point, but you can’t bring yourself to crush whatever hope she’s clinging to. So instead, you look up at her, your vision starting to blur at the edges. You can see her trying to steady herself, her jaw clenched as she pulls you into her arms. You know what she’s thinking: she’s already planning a dozen ways to save you, even though she knows there’s no saving you from this. The thought of losing you is enough to make her break, to make her desperate.

But there’s a finality to this moment, something that both of you have been trying to deny for months now. That unspoken thing that’s always hovered between you, ever since you first met. The way you felt when her eyes softened just a little too much when you laughed, when you caught her lingering glances. You’d never said it out loud, but you’ve been waiting for it, just like she has. Waiting for the right moment to bridge the gap between you.

You don’t have time for that anymore.

“Abby…” you murmur, your hand weakly reaching for hers, your fingers trembling. She looks down at you, her face drawn tight with worry, but there’s something else too—a quiet sorrow, as if she already knows what you’re going to say.

You reach up, your other hand pulling her closer, your lips brushing against her cheek. You can feel the warmth of her skin against yours, the familiar strength of her body. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever needed, and you’re not sure why you waited so long to let her know.

“I love you,” you breathe, the words tasting like bittersweet honey. They come out so easily, and yet you’ve been holding them in for so long, waiting for a moment that never came.

Abby’s breath catches in her throat. “Don’t,” she whispers, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “Don’t say that. Don’t leave me. Please.”

But you know it’s too late. You can feel the infection crawling up your veins, darkening your skin, numbing you from the inside out. Your heartbeat is slowing, and there’s nothing either of you can do to stop it. The world around you seems to be closing in, but in the distance, you hear her voice, soft and filled with a desperation that makes your chest tighten.

“I’ve wanted this too,” you say softly, your eyes locking with hers, and for the first time in months, you can see the same truth reflected in her gaze. The pain of knowing that it’s too late for anything more, but the desire to feel the closeness before the end.

Abby hesitates, just for a moment, her eyes searching yours, but she knows. She knows what this is. And as she lowers her lips to yours, the kiss is soft at first, tentative and unsure, as if neither of you wants to let go of the moment, even though it’s fleeting.

But the kiss deepens, and everything you’ve been holding inside spills out. The love, the longing, the ache of knowing it’s not enough, that this moment will be your last.

When you pull back, her eyes are shining with unshed tears, her face a mask of anguish, but you can see the understanding between you. The kiss was everything it needed to be: a farewell, a final act of love in a world where so little of it remains.

The world around you fades, the edges of your vision blurring, darkening. Your body grows heavier, the cold creeping up your spine. You know what’s coming, and as much as you want to cling to the fading warmth of Abby’s touch, you feel the sickness crawl deeper inside you. Your heart is slowing, the infection taking its toll on you. You can feel the numbness spreading, and you know, with every heartbeat, that there’s no coming back from this.

You hear Abby’s voice again, shaking with desperation, but it’s too far now. “Please, don’t leave me. I love you…” Her hands are still cupping your face, her fingers trembling as if she can hold on just a little longer, but you know the truth. There’s nothing left to hold onto.

“I love you,” you repeat, barely able to force the words out. It hurts, every breath feels like a weight, but you need her to know. You need her to hear it because you’re not sure she’ll ever hear it again. “Please… just remember that. You’re… everything to me.”

The world continues to darken, and you feel her lean closer, her lips brushing your forehead. She’s crying now, her tears falling on your face, and it’s like her heart is shattering with every drop. But you know it’s inevitable. You know she’s doing what needs to be done, even though it’s killing her inside.

“I’m so sorry,” Abby whispers, her voice breaking between each word. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I can’t— I can’t let you turn. I can’t lose you like this.”

Your eyes flicker open one last time to meet hers, her face a blur of emotion, her features twisted with grief, but you see the love in her gaze. It’s the same love you’ve felt all along, but now there’s nothing you can do to change the outcome. You’ve run out of time.

“Please,” she says again, her voice trembling. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. All you can do is squeeze her hand weakly, trying to tell her it’s okay, that you don’t blame her. But you don’t think she’s listening anymore. She’s shaking her head, her face twisted in anguish as she pulls away from you, her breath ragged, raw with pain.

The sound of her sobs fills the silence, and then you hear the distinct, sharp click of a gun being cocked.

Your heart stops, but you know what’s coming. You know what she has to do. You want to tell her it’s okay, but the words die on your tongue. She’s already made the decision for both of you.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, almost too soft to hear. Then, there’s the deafening crack of the gunshot, and everything goes still.

It feels like your world ends in a single, violent second. There’s no pain, no more fear, just… nothing.

Abby’s voice, barely a broken breath, drifts through the empty space that’s left. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you go like that. I’m sorry…”