#Beam Ring Setup

[srjsteel]

How Construction Rings Strengthened Krupasindhu Commercial Complex – A Case Study

When the Krupasindhu team envisioned their twelve-floor commercial complex in the heart of Maharashtra, one problem loomed large—structural reliability under constant commercial load. Weak foundational systems often haunt developers like bad design haunts good architecture. In this case, the solution came down to a trio of engineering reinforcements: construction rings, hot rolled coil, and bar dowel systems—all critical in keeping the structure rock-solid.

The Risks of Underestimating Structural Load

Commercial buildings face unpredictable stress from high footfall, machinery, and shifting loads. Without the right reinforcement strategy, even the best architectural design falters. Poor quality materials or old-school rebar alignment can't hold up against dynamic movement or expansion-contraction cycles.

This is why choosing high-durability components like construction rings isn’t optional—it’s foundational.

The Krupasindhu Challenge: Going Taller, Safer

Located in a high-traffic zone, the Krupasindhu Commercial Complex needed reinforcement that wouldn’t just meet code—it had to exceed it. The building’s central spine, meant to hold elevators, HVAC systems, and multiple floor loads, demanded a solution that could distribute stress evenly across vertical columns and beam junctions.

This is where SRJ Steel’s construction rings entered the blueprint.

Construction Rings: The Silent Strengtheners

Think of construction rings as the ligaments in a building’s skeleton. They bridge joints and columns, ensuring the entire frame moves as one, not in isolated shivers. In the Krupasindhu project, these rings provided:

Enhanced shear resistance in beam-column junctions

Balanced tensile strength for vertical load bearing

Reduced risk of crack propagation under thermal expansion

More importantly, their precision fit meant faster installation with minimal on-site modification.

Hot Rolled Coil: The Backbone of Flexibility

Let’s talk material quality. The hot rolled coil used in these construction rings wasn’t just any generic steel. SRJ Steel sourced coils known for:

High ductility, allowing structural elements to flex without snapping

Uniform surface finish, which makes welding seamless

Consistent grain structure, ensuring load distribution under varying temperatures

These properties gave the Krupasindhu team the confidence to go taller without compromising lateral stability.

Bar Dowel Placement: Anchoring the Load

A structure is only as strong as its weakest transition. For Krupasindhu, this meant focusing on the slab-to-column transitions and expansion joints.

That’s where bar dowels came into play.

These dowels were strategically placed to:

Absorb and distribute floor load stresses

Prevent slab lifting or separation

Allow controlled movement between concrete sections

They essentially allowed the structure to “breathe” without breaking.

Why the Trio Worked: Harmony in Reinforcement

One part doesn't solve the puzzle. It’s the combination of precision-engineered construction rings, hot rolled coil, and bar dowel systems that made Krupasindhu’s build seamless. Each component played its part in:

Increasing seismic resistance

Speeding up construction timelines

Reducing long-term maintenance costs

That synergy helped SRJ Steel deliver more than just material—it delivered peace of mind.

Lessons from Krupasindhu: Building Beyond the Blueprint

Krupasindhu Commercial Complex stands today not just as another real estate addition—but as a case study in how smart material choices lead to safer, more resilient builds.

And this isn’t just about skyscrapers. Whether it's mid-rise housing, hospitals, or industrial parks, incorporating construction rings, hot rolled coils, and bar dowel connections can mean the difference between mediocre and masterpiece.

Looking Ahead: Smarter Steel, Smarter Structures

Projects like Krupasindhu didn’t cut corners—and it shows. As more developers focus on longevity and structural integrity, the demand for tested reinforcements is rising.

Reinforcement that holds firm when pressure rises? That’s what SRJ Steel’s materials delivered.

Projects like Krupasindhu trust advanced reinforcement solutions—shouldn’t yours?

[dcxdpdabbles]

For The next part of freelance inventor, you should do more parent trapping(if you want, of course) I was just picturing cartoon level schemes trying to get these two to kiss.

On the flipside, what would happen if the two of them had a fight? I can see the kids and Alfred just kind of trying to make Bruce agree how wrong he was.

"Bruce?"

His heart stops at the sound of that voice, and then it speeds up before he can look over his shoulder. Not that he needs to. He already knows who called out to him.

Only one person in the world adds a certain ring to his name when they speak it.

Bruce turns away from his laptop, displaying some spreadsheets of the upcoming term, coming face to face with Danny Fenton's beaming smile. Behind him, the ocean gleams like liquid sapphire, highlighting the brightness and warmth in Danny's aqua-blue eyes.

He once thought Danny wasn't human; surely, no human could have eyes like those. The sunlight bounces off the dark of his hair, swaying in the breeze, and it somehow calls attention to the laughing lines around his eyes and mouth.

He's shirtless, showing off a physique that would fit a swimmer. His black swimming shorts are covered in the NASA symbol, which is such a Danny thing to do that it makes Bruce's heart skip a beat.

It's odd. As one of the wealthiest bachelors in the world, Bruce had always been surrounded by gorgeous people. Usually, women and men flung themselves at him, whispering false claims of eternal love while displaying teasing hints of the bodies. It was a tool they wielded to charm him into doing what they wanted, but none of them could even compare to Danny's looks.

Perhaps it was due to how effortlessly beautiful Danny was. He didn't spend hours and hours on his looks. Bruce had heard people claim the inventor was plain, but he could never see it.

Bruce had always thought he was pretty from the moment Dick wandered to his table. The gentleness with which he spoke to his then nine-year-old son with respect and full attention as he explained his first intention- the portable charger. How could anyone not be memorized by him?

"Danny? What are you doing here?" He asks after realizing he is gawking like a fool.

His friend's eyes crinkle further as he laughs. "On vacation. Jay and Dick told me about this place, and since I had a conference on the island, I thought I would spend my off time at the private huts. What about you?"

Oh, those little rats. This was all a setup. He should have known something was up when they all forced him to accept it.

"The kids bought me a private hut for a weekend." He answers, moving his eyes away from Danny's lips with great effort. "They said it was a gift and a means to follow my doctor's orders."

"Dami told me about that. The doctor said you have been putting too much stress on your heart, and yet, here you are, working on vacation." Danny planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head in mock pity. "I bet you haven't even frolicked through a field of flowers or jumped over waves since you arrived."

Bruce feels a burst of amusement and slight anticipation tickle the bottom of his stomach. "Well, I just don't know how to do any of that."

"Since we're hut neighbors, I could show you how to have fun. You rich people know what that is, right? Fun?" Danny asks, reaching down to grip Bruce's wrist. Where he touches, tringles of flames light up his skin, and Bruce fights to keep the blush off his face. "I suppose you don't. The first lesson must be how to frolic through the ocean waves, and it starts right now!"

"I thought it was a field of flowers?" He laughs, allowing the shorter man to pull him toward the blue water.

"It's a hybrid course, Bruce," Danny laughs, splashing through the first wave until they are waist-deep and spinning around to grin at him. Bruce practically swallows his own tongue as the man shines in the sunlight, with a beaming soft smile that makes him feel like the only man in the world. "Prepare for the best weekend of your life. No kids. No work. Just us, the ocean, and some tasty meals!"

"That sounds like heaven," Bruce tells him, wondering if Danny can tell how soft his eyes have become or the yearning in his voice. He just knows somewhere in Gotham, all his children are high-fiving each other and scheming up another ill-fated attempt to get Bruce with the man of his dreams.

It's not that he's unaware of their goals. But over ten years after he'd known Danny, silently pinning for him, Bruce realized it would never happen. His friend didn't feel attraction like that.

If Bruce had told him how he felt, he would have lost Danny forever. He would rather live with this buckling longing for the rest of his life if it meant he could be gifted with Danny's friendly smiles and presence.

Danny reaches back, cupping his hands to gather water and splashing Bruce with a gleeful "What are you standing around for? Come! Frolic!"

Bruce grins, throwing back some water in a bigger splash as the young man screams, attempting to escape. He follows close behind, trying to drown the other between gasps of laughter. For a brief moment, he allows himself to live a fantasy life where this was a real romantic getaway, not a setup by his less-than-subtle children.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Fine! Be that way! Excuse me for having a fucking opinion!" Danny hisses, swinging around and stomping out of the room. Bruce's chest feels hot with anger; the angry words that had fallen from his mouth taste bitter and satisfying simultaneously. It's a whirlwind of contradicting emotions that he does nothing when the other man slams the door behind him.

He slams his hands over his eyes, willing himself to calm down but it's hard when Danny is the one who set him off. Danny is the only one in the world that made him feel everything like an explosion.

Both the positive and negative emotions.

How did things come to this? The conversation was going well until the two started talking about the Joker. He's always known his friend had a less white and dark point of view regarding the clown, but to actively claim that Batman was a coward for not killing him when he had the chance?

Yes, Danny didn't know Bruce was Batman, so when he tried to explain that the superhero was afraid that if he started taking lives, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop Danny had grown dismissive. It wasn't meant to attack Bruce, but he knows that logically.

But it still felt like the man he was in love with was calling him a coward straight to his face, and Bruce grew defensive. He tends to lash out when he's on the defense, and before long, the two were in a heated debate about vigilantes in general.

Suddenly, Danny was his face, sneering and growling, when Bruce pointed out that Phantom was the small-town hero of Danny's boyhood and someone he felt jealous of. Danny obviously held the hero in high regard to the point it felt like he was in love with him if Danny was inclined to such emotions- he was just if not more dangerous than Batman would ever be.

It went even worse when Bruce spoke his support for the Anti-Eco Acts that were currently being discussed.

A lot of hateful words were spoken in ten minutes, and by the end of it, Bruce couldn't even figure out how it ended, with Danny's eyes watering up with angry tears or his chest heaving with the screaming.

Why did he even say that? Bruce had a lot of issues with the Anit-Eco Acts. They were far too seated in bigotry to be anything but an excuse to hunt a different race.

He regretted his words, though he doubted he could ask Danny for forgiveness soon. That man was known for holding a grudge and giving the cold shoulder when angry.

Bruce would have to grovel later.

The door to his study slams open, and his children crowd the entrance, looking alight and outraged.

"Why did you make Dad cry!?" Jason demands, crossing his arms and looking ready to throw down. The kids started calling Danny Dad a few months ago when Tim accidentally slipped it into a conversation, and Danny thought it was sweet.

They played it off as a joke, but Bruce knew they liked referring to him as Dad. Bruce was Father in formal events, B in casual moments, and when angry with him, the kids simply referred to him as B.

B for Bitch since you act like one, Dick once explained, eyes burning with anger and a smile as sharp as broken glass.

"You better have a good reason, B." Tim hisses, voice low and anger tightly coiled like a snake ready to strike. It's a violent reminder of Danny that Bruce can only place his hand over his eyes again and groan.

"We had a disagreement."

"What did you do?" Damian demands next, tapping his left foot impatiently. He picked that up from Jazz the last time Danny's sister was in town. "Before claiming innocence, just know you're always at fault. Dad can do no wrong."

"Hear, hear," Steph, Duke, and Cass say together, glaring daggers at Bruce.

Great. The kids have unionized against him.

"We had a disagreement on the Anti-Eco Acts." He grits through clutch teeth, trying to get his shimmering anger to calm down. The children are not helping, and his frustration rises slowly at the avalanche of noise his children release.

"How dare you!"

"Those acts are a blatant disregard of human decency!"

"I always knew you were a white privilege asshole but this!?"

"I will stay with Danny for the rest of the month! I can't believe this!"

"Look here, you Father. You will not support those act,s especially at the expense of Dad!"

"You blue-eyed demon."

Bruce puts his head into his hands and screams. Danny returns to talk this over hours later, but Bruce is right.

He has a lot of groveling he needs to do. His kids still lock him out of his room. They have a sleepover with Danny, dragging in their mattress and watching movies late into the night.

He sleeps on the couch, listening to their merry-making with a heavy heart. Aflred refused to let him sleep in a guest room once Dick informed him that Bruce was in the dog house with Danny.

Betrayed in his own home.

The Anti-Ecto Acts are rejected primarily due to Bruce Wayne spearheading their resistance. Danny hugs him when he reads the paper, and all is right with the world. The Kids still don't let him sleep in his own bed, and for a month, Bruce's back hurts from the lumping couch cushions.

Clark tells him jokingly the children would choose Danny in a divorce, so he starts carrying around Kryptonite.

[rootedinrevisions]

All I Want for Christmas is a Cowboy

SUMMARY: When a night of playful banter and teasing turns into something far more intimate, you find yourself crossing every line you swore you wouldn't with Jake Seresin - the cocky, infuriatingly charming pilot who's always had a way of getting under your skin. Between stolen kisses, soft confessions, and moments that blur the line between lust and something deeper, it becomes clear that this isn't just a one-time thing. But as Jake's Stetson wearing, sweet talking side leaves you breathless, you'll have to decide if you're ready to risk your heart for the man who's never been one to play it safe.

A/N: This is a combination of my love for Megan Moroney and her song "All I Want for Christmas is a Cowboy" as well as a request that I received in November for the prompt "One kiss won't ruin the friendship, right?" and "Can I sleep with you tonight?" Hopefully whoever requested the prompts enjoys this! Thank you all for your patience with me as I write and get through the requests that I have.

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. Smut (PinV. Mentions of biting/marking. Fingering.)

WORD COUNT: 12.4k (I'm ovulating and rewatched TGM a few days ago and fell back in love with Jake. Please don't judge me.)

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

The Hard Deck was alive with the hum of Christmas cheer. Twinkling string lights wrapped around wooden beams, and a small but charmingly crooked Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with red ornaments and what looked suspiciously like aviator sunglasses. The jukebox was cycling through a mix of classic rock and Christmas hits, creating an oddly festive but fitting soundtrack for the evening.

You sat at a table near the back, surrounded by familiar faces—your chosen family. Natasha sat to your left, nursing a whiskey sour and laughing at something Bob had just said. Reuben and Mickey were on your right, engaged in a heated debate about the best holiday movies. Bradley leaned back in his chair across from you, his mustache twitching with amusement as he chimed in occasionally, and Javy was at the bar grabbing the next round.

It had been months—maybe a year—since you’d met the Dagger Squad through a mutual friend, but somehow, they had adopted you like one of their own. Now, invites to their gatherings were automatic, and evenings like this one were the norm.

Phoenix nudged your arm, pulling you out of your thoughts. “Alright, enough sitting on the sidelines. We’ve decided it’s time for a little holiday intervention.”

You raised a brow, taking a sip of your drink. “Holiday intervention?”

“You’ve been single for far too long,” she declared, gesturing dramatically with her drink. “It’s time we find you someone.”

Reuben snorted. “This again?”

“Yes, this again,” Phoenix shot back. “I mean, look at her.” She motioned to you with a flourish. “She's smart, funny, gorgeous—”

“Don’t forget stubborn,” Bob added with a grin.

“Exactly,” Phoenix said, unbothered. “We’re not letting you ring in another New Year without at least some action.”

You rolled your eyes, a laugh slipping out despite yourself. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m good, really.”

“Uh-huh,” Natasha said, unconvinced. “You know, we could always ask Jake—”

“Ask me what?” The smooth, teasing drawl interrupted her, and you didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin strolled up to the table, pool cue slung over one shoulder, that infuriatingly perfect smirk already in place.

Natasha didn’t miss a beat. “We’re trying to set her up with someone. Know any decent guys who are single?”

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe?—passed over Jake’s face before he quickly masked it with an exaggerated scoff.

“Decent guys? Here? Good luck.” He leaned on the back of an empty chair, his green eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before he addressed Natasha again. “Besides, she doesn’t need a setup. She’s clearly too good for anyone in this dump.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, taking a sip of your drink. “Seriously. I don’t need a relationship right now.”

Natasha’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t need or don’t want?”

“Both.” The lie rolled off your tongue easily, but the weight of the unspoken truth settled in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t want a relationship. You just didn’t want one with anyone who wasn’t Jake Seresin. Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

“Sure,” Natasha drawled, clearly unconvinced. 

“What about that guy over there?” Payback’s girlfriend suggested, nodding toward a tall man leaning against the bar. He was handsome, you supposed, but his eager smile didn’t stir anything in you.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said quickly.

“Okay fine, let’s figure out what you’re looking for. What is your type?” Natasha pressed, leaning in with a grin that told you she wasn’t going to drop this anytime soon.

“I don’t have a type.”

“Everyone has a type,” Mickey chimed in, his tone far too amused for your liking. “Dark hair? Light hair?”

“Light hair,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

“Tall or short?” Natasha asked, clearly enjoying herself.

“Tall.”

“How tall?”

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice rising slightly in exasperation. “Six feet? Six-one, maybe?”

Natasha grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Anything else? Beard? No beard? Tattoos? Come on, give us something!”

You hesitated, suddenly very aware of Jake still leaning casually nearby, listening to every word. “I don’t know. Tall. Hot. In a Stetson?”

The table burst into laughter, but Jake rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Yeah, good luck finding a cowboy here. Closest you’ll get is someone in boots and a flannel at line-dancing night.”

His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something you couldn’t quite place. Before you could overthink it, Natasha leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, he’s not wrong, but maybe you should branch out. Broaden your horizons a little.”

You shook your head, brushing her off with a laugh. “I’m fine, really. No setups needed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Phoenix said, clearly not convinced. “We’ll see.”

Jake’s smirk returned as he straightened up, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual before he turned to head back to the pool table.

“Good luck, ladies,” he called over his shoulder.

You watched him go, trying not to let your eyes linger too long. If only they knew the cowboy you wanted wasn’t some hypothetical stranger—it was the one person you couldn’t have. Not that it mattered, you reminded yourself. Jake Seresin didn’t do relationships. And you? You didn’t do casual. It was better this way. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The night carried on, the crowd at The Hard Deck growing as more people trickled in, filling the space with laughter and music. You were mid-conversation with Phoenix and one of the guys' girlfriends, your drink in hand, when the first guy approached.

He wasn’t bad-looking—dark hair, decent smile—but you could tell right away he wasn’t your type. And the way he glanced over at Natasha before walking up only confirmed your suspicions.

“Hey,” he started, a little too confident. “Can I buy you another drink?”

You smiled politely, shaking your head. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

He lingered for a second longer than necessary, clearly waiting for you to change your mind. When you didn’t, he shrugged, muttered something under his breath, and walked away.

The moment he was out of earshot, Phoenix grinned. “What was wrong with that one?”

You gave her a look. “He wasn’t my type.”

“You’ve got to stop using that excuse,” she teased. “We’re just trying to help you out.”

“I don’t need help,” you said firmly, though your tone stayed light. “I’m not looking for anything right now.”

The other woman smirked knowingly. “Sure you’re not.”

Over the next hour, two more guys approached you. Each time, you managed to slip away gracefully, making it clear you weren’t interested without causing a scene. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Natasha—or maybe one of the other girlfriends—was behind it.

By the third attempt, you shot Phoenix a pointed look. “Seriously?”

“What?” she said innocently, but her smile gave her away.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“It’s because I care,” she said sweetly, raising her glass in mock toast.

Jake chose that moment to stroll over, his timing impeccable as always. “Everything okay over here?”

Phoenix grinned. “Oh, everything’s great. Just trying to find her the perfect man.”

Jake raised a brow, glancing between the two of you. “Perfect man, huh? Sounds like a tall order. I thought we were just going for someone to take her home tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, he nodded toward your now-empty glass. “Need a refill?”

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. Just my usual, thanks.”

Jake gave a quick two-finger salute before heading toward the bar.

Phoenix watched him go, her expression unreadable for a moment before she turned back to you, her grin returning. “Wow. Hangman buying you a drink? That’s new.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s not like that. He’s just being nice.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced.

One of the guys at the table chimed in, smirking. “Yeah, he’s real nice, isn’t he? You know he’s from Texas. Could probably pull off that cowboy look you’ve been fantasizing about.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, rolling your eyes again. “It’s Jake. He’s not trying to get in my pants.”

“That’s what they all say,” Bob joked, earning a round of laughter from the group.

Jake returned a moment later, handing you your drink with a small, knowing smile. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” you said, brushing off the teasing from the others as you took a sip.

You couldn’t help but notice the way Jake’s gaze lingered on you for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he turned back toward the pool table. And despite everything, you couldn’t stop your heart from skipping a beat.

The hours slipped by, the bar gradually thinning out as the night wore on. You’d lost count of how many rounds of pool Jake had won or how many times Phoenix had tried to steer a random guy in your direction. 

Despite it all, you’d actually had fun, laughing and teasing the squad like always. But now, your head felt a little too light, and your body a little too warm from the alcohol.

You glanced at your phone, noting the time. “Alright, I think I’m calling it,” you announced, sliding off your barstool.

Most of the group groaned in protest, but you waved them off. “Some of us have to be functioning humans tomorrow.”

“You sure you’re good?” Natasha asked, her sharp gaze flicking over you like she was scanning for cracks.

“Yeah, yeah,” you assured her, pulling on your jacket. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But as you turned toward the door, your balance wavered slightly, the ground tilting just enough to make you grab the back of your stool for support. No one else seemed to notice, but Jake did.

You didn’t even realize he’d followed you outside until you felt the cool night air and heard his voice behind you. “You sure you’re good to get home?”

Startled, you turned to face him, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m getting an Uber.”

Jake’s expression darkened slightly, his hands settling on his hips. “An Uber? You’re telling me you’re gonna get into a car with some random guy you don’t know and let him take you home?”

You raised a brow, amused by his sudden concern. “Yes, Jake. That’s how Uber works.”

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he studied you for a moment, his jaw working like he was turning over a decision in his head. 

“I don’t like it,” he said finally. “Come on, let me drive you home.”

You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “Please tell me they didn’t convince you to try and ask me out too.”

Jake let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “No. This isn’t a setup. I’m just being your friend.”

You squinted at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. “You sure about that?”

“Promise,” he said, holding up his hands like he was swearing an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

You hesitated, the stubborn part of you tempted to insist you didn’t need help. But the truth was, the idea of being in a car with Jake felt a hell of a lot safer—and less awkward—than riding home with a stranger.

“Alright,” you relented, sighing. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to get me to admit I like you or something, I’m going to be really annoyed.”

Jake grinned, gesturing toward the parking lot. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you home before you overthink this to death.”

The drive home was quiet at first, Jake’s truck rumbling softly as it cut through the stillness of the night. You leaned back in the passenger seat, the cool air from the open window doing wonders to clear your head. Jake glanced at you occasionally, his hands loose on the wheel but his focus unwavering.

“You gonna tell me what that was all about back there?” he asked finally, breaking the silence.

You turned to him, your brows furrowing. “What what was all about?”

“Natasha and the girls,” he clarified. “Trying to set you up like it’s a speed dating event.”

You groaned, letting your head fall back against the seat. “Oh, that. Yeah, I don’t know what got into them. They’re convinced I’ve been single for too long.”

Jake smirked. “And what? You just let them keep at it?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” you said with a laugh. “Trust me, I tried shutting it down, but Nat can be very persuasive. Plus, I think she roped in some of the girlfriends for backup.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking between you and the road. “So... are you looking?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. “Looking?”

“For someone,” he said casually, though there was a hint of something else in his tone—curiosity, maybe.

You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Not really,” you admitted. “I mean, it’s not that I’m against the idea, but I’m not actively looking for anyone either. And definitely not the way they’re going about it.”

Jake chuckled, his smile pulling up on one side. “Fair enough.”

He was quiet for a moment, the hum of the truck filling the space between you. Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “You know, I think Coyote might know a guy on one of the boats—he’s from Kansas or something. Probably got that farmer-cowboy look you’re into.”

You couldn’t help but smile, his attempt at helpfulness both endearing and a little amusing. “That’s sweet, Jake, but I really don’t think I’m looking for a farmer or a cowboy—or anyone, for that matter.”

Jake glanced at you briefly, his lips curving into a small smile. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

“Why’d you bring it up, then?” you asked, tilting your head to study him.

He shrugged, his eyes on the road. “Just thought you might like to know your options.”

“Thanks,” you said softly, your smile lingering. “But I think I’m okay with where I am right now. I'll find someone eventually.”

Jake nodded, the conversation settling into a comfortable lull as he turned onto your street.

The glow of the streetlights flickered against the windows of Jake’s truck as he slowed to a stop in front of your apartment building. You unbuckled your seatbelt, your phone buzzing against your thigh just as you reached for the door handle.

Pulling it out, you glanced at the screen. A message from your roommate lit up the display: Just a heads-up—I’ve got company tonight. Might want to keep the earbuds handy 😉

You groaned audibly, letting your head fall back against the seat with a dramatic thud.

Jake shot you a curious glance, his brow lifting. “What’s wrong?”

You waved your phone in his direction with a weary sigh. “Roommate’s got a guy over. And from the sound of it, I’m going to need noise-canceling headphones or a place to sleep that isn’t directly next to her room.”

Jake chuckled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Sounds like it’s going to be a rough night for you, huh?”

“You have no idea,” you muttered, reaching for the door again.

Before you could hop out, Jake’s voice stopped you. “You don’t have to go in, you know.”

You turned to him, your hand frozen on the handle. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, his gaze soft but steady as it met yours. “I mean, if you don’t feel like dealing with... that,” he gestured vaguely toward your phone, “you can come crash at my place. It’s quiet, and I’ve got a couch you can take over if you’re not ready to head home yet.”

You hesitated, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your phone. Spending more time with Jake wasn’t exactly going to help your unspoken crush, but the alternative—trying to sleep through your roommate’s extracurricular activities—was far less appealing.

“Are you sure?” you asked, your voice laced with doubt. “I don’t want to impose or anything.”

Jake rolled his eyes, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “You wouldn’t be. Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer through that?”

The word friend grounded you, loosening the knot of uncertainty in your chest. You smiled softly, nodding your agreement. “Alright, Seresin. But if you don’t have coffee in the morning, I’m going to rethink our so-called friendship.”

Jake laughed, the sound warm and low as he shifted the truck back into drive. “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll even make you breakfast if you’re lucky.”

Jake unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped aside to let you in first. The place was clean but lived-in—soft lighting, a comfortable couch, a TV mounted on the wall, and just a few hints of his personality scattered throughout: a Navy ball cap tossed on the entryway table, framed photos of his family, and what looked like a pair of cowboy boots sitting by the door.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, flicking on the lights and heading toward the kitchen. “Want a beer?”

You nodded, shrugging off your jacket and folding it over the back of a chair before settling onto the couch. “Thanks, Jake.”

He returned a moment later, two beers in hand. Passing one to you, he dropped onto the couch beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him. You took a sip, the cold drink soothing against the warmth still lingering on your cheeks from the night’s events.

Jake leaned back, his arm casually draping over the back of the couch. “So,” he started, his tone playful, “what was that whole ‘tall, hot, in a Stetson’ thing earlier really about? Got a cowboy crush I don’t know about?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s just a preference.”

He tilted his head, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh. You sure about that? Because it kind of sounded like you were describing someone I know.”

Your brow furrowed as you turned to look at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

Jake’s grin widened. “Tall? Blonde? Hot? I mean, you might as well have just said my name.”

You rolled your eyes, but you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. “Oh, please. You’re so full of yourself, Seresin.”

Jake’s gaze flicked to your face, his sharp eyes catching the faint blush blooming across your cheeks. His grin softened into something more thoughtful. “Wait a second,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not,” you said quickly, shaking your head and avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, you definitely are,” he teased, his voice low and amused. “Tell me—do you have a little crush on me?”

You scoffed, your heart racing as you tried to deflect. “What are we, in middle school?”

Jake chuckled, but his expression didn’t shift. He studied you for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes fading into something quieter, more serious. “You didn’t answer the question.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could come up with a denial, Jake leaned in closer, the space between you narrowing. His lips hovered close to yours, close enough that you could feel his breath ghosting against your skin.

“Jake,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest, “what are you doing?”

His eyes locked with yours, intense and unwavering. “I’m kissing you,” he said, his voice low and steady, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Unless you tell me to stop.”

“Jake…we…we can’t.”

“You know,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, “one kiss probably won’t ruin the friendship, right?”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t move away. Instead, you sat there, frozen as the space between you vanished. When his lips finally touched yours, it was soft at first—almost tentative, like he was giving you the chance to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

Jake’s hand came up, his fingers brushing along your jaw before cupping your face. His touch was firm yet gentle, anchoring you in place as the kiss deepened. His lips moved against yours, confident and unhurried, like he’d been waiting for this moment and was determined to savor every second of it.

Your hand found its way to his chest, the firm muscle beneath his shirt making your pulse race even faster. You felt him exhale, a soft, pleased sound escaping him as your fingers curled into the fabric. Without even thinking, you shifted closer, your body leaning into his as the kiss grew more heated.

Jake pulled back for the briefest moment, just enough to catch his breath, his thumb brushing across your cheek as he looked at you. His eyes were darker now, filled with something that made your stomach flip. 

“You’re killing me, darlin’,” he murmured, his Texas drawl thicker than usual.

You didn’t give yourself time to overthink it. Fueled by a mixture of nerves and adrenaline, you swung a leg over his, settling yourself onto his lap. Jake froze for half a heartbeat before his hands found your waist, his grip firm and grounding.

You reached up, your fingers threading your fingers into the hair at the back of his head, your nails grazing lightly against his scalp as you leaned in and kissed him again. Jake groaned softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer.

The kiss turned fervent, all soft restraint melting away as your bodies pressed together. Jake’s lips were hot and insistent, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further. Your fingers fisted in his hair, his skin warm beneath your touch as his hands began to roam, sliding from your waist to your hips, holding you securely in his lap.

Your heart was racing, your senses overwhelmed by the feel of him, the way he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough. Every brush of his lips, every press of his hands against you, made you feel like you were burning from the inside out.

When you finally pulled back, gasping for air, Jake’s forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven. His hands stayed on your hips, his thumbs brushing idly against the fabric of your shirt. 

You then reached down and started to tug at the hem of your shirt, but he reach out and caught your wrists, halting you.

“Whoa, hold up,” he said, his voice low but firm.

You pulled back slightly, confused, your gaze searching his. His hands stayed on your wrists, gentle but unyielding. 

“What?” you asked, blinking at him as your pulse raced.

Jake’s lips twitched into a small smile, but his expression was serious. “I’m not doing this. Not yet.”

You frowned, sitting back on his lap, your legs still straddling him. “You’re not doing what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “I want to buy you dinner first.”

You stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “Dinner? Like a date?”

Jake nodded, his hands resting lightly on your hips now.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, you couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that escaped you. “Jake, you don’t do dates. Or dinners. Or follow any kind of rules when it comes to sleeping with women. What’s changed.”

Jake chuckled, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that made your stomach flutter. “You’re not just some hookup for me,” he admitted, his voice soft. “I want to do this right with you.”

Your mouth opened to respond, but no words came out. You weren’t used to seeing Jake like this—so earnest, so serious. The guy who flirted shamelessly, who rarely stuck around for more than a night, was now telling you he wanted to take you on a proper date before anything happened between you.

“You know,” you said after a beat, your tone teasing but your heart pounding, “you did technically buy me a round earlier at the bar.”

Jake shook his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Nice try, darlin’. A beer doesn’t count as dinner.”

You sighed dramatically, leaning back slightly and crossing your arms over your chest. “Jake, it’s late. It’s literally Christmas Eve. Nowhere that you would deem worthy of our first date is going to be open.”

Jake laughed, his hands still resting on your hips. “Guess we’ll have to wait then.”

“Or,” you said, sitting up straighter, an idea forming in your mind, “you can give me your phone.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Why?”

“Just trust me,” you said, holding out your hand.

He hesitated for a moment before sighing and reaching into his pocket to hand it over. You unlocked the screen, your fingers moving quickly as you opened the Uber Eats app.

Jake leaned forward slightly, peering over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering dinner,” you said simply, scrolling through the options for one of the few places still open this late on Christmas Eve.

Jake watched as you added something to the cart, then handed the phone back to him. “Go ahead, pick something for yourself.”

Still looking slightly bewildered, Jake glanced down at the screen, his brow furrowing as he scanned the menu. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” you said, smirking at him. 

Jake sighed, clearly still confused, but he added an item to the order and placed it. As soon as the confirmation screen popped up, he turned to you, shaking his head. “All right, now you’ve got to tell me—what was the point of all that?”

You grinned, leaning forward slightly so your face was inches from his. “Because now you’ve technically bought me dinner,” you said, your tone teasing but your eyes locked on his.

Jake stared at you for a moment, then threw his head back with a laugh. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you said, your voice dropping to a softer, more serious tone. “But now that you’ve fulfilled your ‘dinner first’ rule, are you going to fuck me or not?”

Jake’s laughter died down, replaced by a look that made your stomach flip. His hands tightened slightly on your hips as his gaze darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. 

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “But if we’re doing this, darlin’, we’re doing it my way.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him curiously. “Your way, huh?” you teased, the corner of your lips quirking up. “And what exactly does your way mean?”

Jake didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hands tightened on your hips, and before you could even process what was happening, he stood up with you still straddling his lap.

“Jake!” you yelped, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for balance as he stood effortlessly, holding you against him like you weighed nothing.

He grinned down at you, completely unfazed by your reaction, and started walking down the hallway. “First rule,” he drawled, his voice low and steady, “your first time with me is not going to be on my couch.”

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks as his words sank in. “Oh,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he carried you with ease, the hallway narrowing around you. “You deserve better than that, darlin’,” he continued, his tone softening slightly. “So, my way means I’m going to take my time with you. Do it right, starting with getting you on a bed.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. The way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world—was enough to leave you breathless.

When he reached the door at the end of the hall, Jake shifted you slightly in his arms so he could turn the handle, nudging the door open with his foot. The room beyond was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting warm shadows across the space.

Jake stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a soft thud. He finally set you down, your feet touching the plush carpet, but his hands didn’t leave your waist.

You glanced around, your nerves and excitement battling for dominance. “So…what’s the second rule?” you asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably as your voice wavered.

Jake’s lips quirked into a smirk as he leaned down, his face so close to yours that his breath fanned across your skin. 

“The second rule,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp, “is that I’m going to make sure you enjoy every second of this.”

Your breath hitched, your hands sliding up his chest almost instinctively. “That’s…a pretty good rule,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake’s smirk widened as his hands slid from your waist to your hips, pulling you flush against him. “Good,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes dark with intent. “Because I don’t break my own rules.”

With that, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the heated kisses you’d shared earlier. His hands roamed your back, his touch firm but careful, like he was savoring every moment.

You melted into him, your arms looping around his neck as the kiss deepened. His tongue slid against yours, drawing a soft whimper from you that only seemed to spur him on.

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of your waist. But instead of rushing to remove it quickly, he took his time, his touch reverent as he pushed the fabric up inch by inch.

You broke the kiss for just a moment, your breath coming in soft pants as you let him pull your shirt over your head. His gaze raked over you, his eyes darkening as he took you in.

“Goddamn,” Jake murmured, his voice husky. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could respond, he was kissing you again, his hands sliding up your back and pulling you closer.

Jake’s lips broke away from yours, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Slowly, he trailed his kisses along your jaw, the gentle scrape of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. His lips moved lower, finding the sensitive curve of your neck.

At first, the kisses were light, teasing. But then he began sucking and biting softly, testing different spots until he hit the one that made your head fall back with a soft gasp, your fingers tightening in the hair at the nape of his neck.

The sound you made—the small, unrestrained moan that escaped your lips—had Jake pausing for the briefest moment before he let out a low groan of his own, his mouth returning to the same spot with renewed focus. This time, he nipped a little harder, drawing another reaction out of you.

“Jake,” you warned softly, your breath hitching as you tugged at his hair. “Don’t leave a mark.”

You felt his lips curve into a smirk against your neck. 

“Why not?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as his teeth grazed your skin. Before you could answer, he added in a quiet whisper, “I kinda like the idea of everyone knowing you’re my girl.”

That pulled your head up, and you gave him a look, arching a brow. “Your girl, huh?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat, his green eyes locking onto yours as he leaned in close, his lips brushing just below your ear. “My girl,” he repeated, his voice filled with a confidence that made your heart race.

You barely had time to process his words before his mouth was back on your skin, moving lower this time. He kissed along your collarbone, his lips pressing against every inch of exposed skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

When he reached the strap of your bra, his fingers deftly reached around your back. With a practiced ease that had you smirking slightly, he unclasped it. He pulled back just enough to slide the straps down your arms, his hands warm and firm against your skin as he discarded the lacey fabric to the floor.

Jake’s gaze dropped, and his lips parted slightly as his eyes roamed over you. For a moment, he said nothing, his expression somewhere between awe and hunger. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

“This is what you wore to the bar?” he asked, his voice playful but edged with disbelief.

You blushed, rolling your eyes even as you smiled. “It’s laundry day,” you mumbled. “All the comfy stuff was in the wash.”

Jake chuckled, his hands sliding up your sides to rest just below your chest. “Laundry day, huh?” 

“Yes, why? Do you have a problem with my choice of undergarments?”

“Not exactly,” he teased, his grin widening. “But that…is way too sexy for just a casual night out with friends.”

His thumb brushed just below the curve of your breast, sending a spark of warmth straight through you.

You rolled your eyes again, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. “It’s just a bra, Jake,” you muttered, though your voice wavered slightly.

He didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, he leaned forward, his mouth finding the soft skin of your chest. His lips were warm and gentle, kissing along the swell of your breast before his tongue flicked against your skin.

Your breath hitched, and Jake’s hands shifted to your hips, holding you firmly in place as he continued. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin, his lips and tongue working in tandem to explore every inch. When he finally reached your nipple, his mouth closed around it, drawing a soft moan from you that only seemed to spur him on.

His hands tightened on your hips as his other hand slid up, cupping your other breast and giving it the same attention. Jake groaned softly against your skin, clearly enjoying himself, and the sound sent a shiver through you.

Jake pulled back for a moment, just enough to glance up at you with a wicked grin. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he teased, his voice low and rough. “Didn’t know you were hiding these under all those sweaters and jackets.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers sliding into his hair. “Shut up, Jake,” you muttered, pulling him back to you.

He laughed softly but didn’t argue, his mouth returning to your chest with renewed enthusiasm. Jake Seresin might have had a reputation for being cocky and playful, but in this moment, he was focused, almost reverent, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

Jake's lips were still warm against your skin, his tongue flicking over the same sensitive spot on your chest that had you squirming against him, when a sudden thought crossed your mind. You realized how uneven the situation was—your bra was already on the floor, and yet here he was, still fully dressed.

Not one to let such an imbalance slide, you tugged at the hem of his shirt. Jake pulled back, his green eyes flicking to yours in question, his mouth curving into a smug smile when he caught on.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t respond, simply giving the fabric another tug. Jake let out a quiet laugh, sitting up slightly so he could pull the shirt over his head. The movement was so fluid, so effortless, that it was almost infuriating. And when he tossed the shirt aside, your mouth went dry.

Your eyes trailed over him slowly, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the defined lines of his abs, and the way his skin seemed to glow under the dim light of his apartment. You’d known Jake Seresin was fit—anyone could tell just by looking at him—but this? This was something else entirely.

Your hands moved instinctively, sliding over the hard planes of his chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips making your pulse race. You traced the subtle curve of his muscles, your thumb brushing over a faint scar just below his collarbone, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

Jake caught the sound, his brow lifting as he smirked. “What’s so funny, darlin’?”

You shook your head, trying to find the words but failing. Instead, you blurted, “You’re not real.”

That caught him off guard, and he chuckled, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. “Not real, huh?”

You gestured vaguely at him, your hands hovering just above his abs. “Nobody looks like this in real life. I mean… how? Do you, like, live in the gym or something?”

Jake laughed again, clearly amused by your reaction. He leaned back slightly, his hands resting on your thighs as he regarded you with a playful gleam in his eyes. “It’s all just good genetics, sweetheart,” he drawled, his smirk widening. “But if you wanna keep admiring, don’t let me stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the blush creeping into your cheeks. “Cocky,” you muttered, though your hands betrayed you by continuing their exploration, tracing the ridges of his muscles like you were committing them to memory.

“Confident,” Jake corrected, leaning forward again so that his face was just inches from yours. “And besides…” His lips brushed lightly against your jaw, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “You’re not exactly keeping your hands to yourself, darlin’.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your blush deepening as his teasing smirk only grew wider. His confidence was maddening, but it also sent a rush of heat through you that you couldn’t ignore. Finally, you huffed and muttered, “You talk too much.”

Jake tilted his head, his smirk softening into something more mischievous. “Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

Without missing a beat, you leaned in close, your breath brushing against his lips as you whispered, “Shut up and kiss me, Seresin.”

His eyes darkened at your words, the playful light in them replaced with something deeper, hungrier. He didn’t hesitate. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck as he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours.

His hand at your neck tilted your head just enough to deepen the kiss, while his other hand tightened its grip on your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short hair at the back of his head. When he nipped at your bottom lip, your soft gasp gave him the perfect opening, and his tongue swept into your mouth, stealing whatever clever retort you might have had.

Jake broke the kiss just long enough to guide you backward. His strong hands shifted to your hips as he maneuvered you gently, lowering you onto the bed as if you weighed nothing. His lips found yours again before your head even hit the pillow, his body following as he braced himself over you, one forearm resting beside your head while his other hand remained at your waist.

The bed dipped slightly under your combined weight, and you felt the cool sheets against your back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between you and Jake. His kisses grew slower, deeper, his mouth moving over yours in a way that made your toes curl. His free hand slid up your side, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as it found your cheek, tilting your face toward his for better access.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak—all you could do was feel. The warmth of his body, the intoxicating way he kissed you, the steady weight of him pressing you into the mattress—it was overwhelming in the best way.

Jake finally pulled back, just enough to look down at you, his lips red and swollen, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. His gaze was molten as it roamed over your face, lingering on your kiss-bruised lips before meeting your eyes.

“You’re something else,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. His thumb brushed gently over your cheek, and his lips quirked into a softer, almost reverent smile. “You know that?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared up at him, the sincerity in his expression taking your breath away all over again. You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, but all that came out was a whisper. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Jake’s lips hovered above yours, his breath warm against your skin, but his hands began to move, dragging your focus away from the way his mouth made you feel and to the steady path his fingers were tracing. They slid down your sides with a deliberate slowness, his thumbs brushing teasingly over your hips before they stopped at the waistband of your jeans.

He shifted back just slightly, his hands working to pop the button open and tug the zipper down. His green eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the spark of mischief in them sent a jolt of anticipation straight through you. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.”

You did as he asked, and he made quick work of guiding your jeans down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin in a way that left goosebumps in their wake. The denim hit the floor, and Jake’s gaze swept over you, lingering when he noticed the lacy underwear that matched the bra he’d already discarded.

A slow smirk spread across his face, the kind that made your stomach flip and your cheeks flush. “Now this,” he said, his voice dripping with that signature cockiness, “is a sight I could get used to.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, and with one smooth motion, he slid them down your legs and discarded them on the floor beside your jeans. His hands returned to your thighs, his touch featherlight as he traced patterns over your skin. 

“From now on,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of your knee, “you only wear these for me. Got it?”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at the sheer audacity of the man in front of you. “And what makes you think this will be more than a one-time thing,” you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Jake didn’t even blink at your question. Instead, he leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his knees as his hands slid higher up your thighs. “Because you don’t do casual,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. His hands stilled just shy of where you wanted them, his thumbs brushing agonizingly close to the heat pooling between your legs. “You don’t do one-night hookups.”

His words were confident, but then that cocky grin returned, and he leaned down just enough that his lips hovered above your skin. His thumb trailed teasingly over your inner thigh, not quite touching you where you needed him most, and it was maddening.

“And because,” he continued, his voice low and teasing, “I’ve barely touched you, and you’re already trying to get more.” His thumb brushed a little closer this time, still not quite enough, and the sharp intake of breath you let out didn’t escape his notice.

Your hips tilted up instinctively, desperate for more contact, but Jake pulled his hand back just slightly, his grin widening as he caught your movement.

“See what I mean?” he teased, his voice dripping with that infuriating self-assurance. “One night’s not gonna be enough for you, sweetheart. You won’t be able to get enough of me.”

Jake’s smirk deepened as he continued his slow, agonizing teasing, his fingers dancing closer and closer to where you needed him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he drawled, his green eyes glinting with amusement as he leaned down to press a kiss to the curve of your hip. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Your head fell back against the pillows, a frustrated groan slipping from your lips. You felt like you were about to combust, every nerve ending on fire as Jake toyed with you like it was some kind of game. The worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Jake,” you started, your voice laced with exasperation as you lifted your head to glare at him. “I swear to God—”

Before you could finish your sentence, his fingers finally moved, pressing against you in just the right spot. The sudden surge of pleasure ripped the words right from your throat, replacing them with a sharp, breathy moan that had Jake’s grin widening in satisfaction.

“That’s more like it,” he murmured, his voice low and smug as his fingers began working in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing another soft sound from your lips. “Knew you’d sound pretty, but damn, sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d sound this good.”

Your hands fisted the sheets beside you, your back arching slightly off the bed as the pressure built, wave after wave crashing over you with every precise movement of his hand. “Jake…” His name came out like a plea, your voice trembling as you tried to catch your breath.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “I’ve got you, darlin’. Just let me take care of you.”

His free hand slid up your side, his thumb brushing along your ribs in a soothing gesture that contrasted sharply with the fire he was setting off with every calculated touch. Your hips tilted toward him, desperate for more, and Jake was quick to oblige, his fingers pressing harder, moving faster, drawing out the kind of pleasure that had your head spinning and your thoughts unraveling.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter inside you, and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, Jake shifted slightly, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was every bit as intoxicating as the way his hands worked your body. It was messy and consuming, his tongue brushing against yours in a rhythm that matched the movements of his fingers, as if he was determined to pull every last sound from your lips.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, your forehead pressed against his, your fingers gripping his biceps for support. He didn’t stop, though, his lips trailing down your jaw, over your neck, and back to the spot on your collarbone that had you shivering.

“You doing okay there, sweetheart?” he teased, his breath warm against your skin as he chuckled softly. “Seem a little… speechless.”

Jake’s fingers slowed just enough to pull you back from the edge, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath him. A frustrated whimper escaped your lips, and you opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, his lips were at your ear, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmured, the heat of his breath against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. “Have you ever thought about this before? About me? About my hands on you like this?”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you could feel your face heat, your body betraying you as a rush of arousal coursed through you. Of course, you’d thought about it. You’d thought about it far more times than you cared to admit, in moments you’d never expected and in ways that had left you wondering what it would feel like to have Jake Seresin in this exact position.

But you weren’t about to tell him that.

“No,” you managed to say, though the breathiness of your voice betrayed your attempt at indifference.

Jake chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pressed a kiss just below your ear. His fingers started moving again, slow and deliberate, building that fire inside you all over again. “Liar,” he whispered, his tone dripping with confidence.

Your breath hitched as his hand worked you over with maddening precision, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I think you’ve thought about this a lot,” he continued, his voice soft but insistent, like a secret he was unraveling. “About me touching you like this. About me kissing you. About me making you fall apart.”

Your hips bucked against his hand involuntarily, a quiet gasp slipping from your lips. Jake’s smirk was audible in his next words. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

“Jake…” you warned, though the word lacked any real heat, your voice shaking as he pushed you closer to the edge again.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he urged, his voice still low and intimate, as if the moment was just for the two of you. “Tell me the truth. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body told a different story, arching into his touch, chasing the release he kept pulling just out of reach.

“Still not talking, huh?” he teased, his lips ghosting over your neck. “That’s okay. I think I already know the answer.”

You let out a frustrated groan, your head falling back against the pillow as Jake’s fingers slowed again, denying you the release you so desperately craved.

“Jake, I swear to God—”

“Say the word,” he whispered, his voice dark and tempting. “Say you want this. Say you want me.”

Your resolve crumbled under the weight of his touch, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the teasing rhythm of his fingers sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You couldn’t take it anymore, the denial of release driving you mad.

“Fine,” you blurted out, your voice a mix of desperation and surrender. “I’ve thought about it. About you. Happy now?”

Jake froze for a moment, his smirk widening as he absorbed your confession, his ego clearly basking in your words. “Damn right I am,” he drawled, his tone as smug as ever. His fingers picked up their pace again, but this time with a newfound determination, his touch deliberate and calculated as he pushed you closer to the edge once more.

“Have you thought about my hands doing this?” he murmured, shifting his hand ever so slightly, his movements slow and precise as he watched your reaction.

Your body arched involuntarily, a strangled moan escaping your lips. You couldn’t lie even if you wanted to.

He chuckled, his lips brushing against your neck as he continued. “Or maybe this?” He changed the angle of his touch again, his fingers finding just the right spot that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Jake,” you panted, your voice trembling with need, but he wasn’t done yet.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he pressed, his tone both teasing and possessive. 

“How many nights have you thought about this? About me making you feel this good?”

You let out a whimper, the pressure inside you building to an unbearable intensity. “Please, Jake,” you finally begged, your voice cracking as you tilted your hips toward his hand, desperate for the release he was holding just out of reach.

“Please, what?” he whispered, his voice dark and enticing.

“Please, just—”

Before you could finish, he gave you exactly what you needed, his fingers working you over with perfect precision, sending you hurtling over the edge. A cry tore from your lips as the tension snapped, your body trembling under the overwhelming wave of pleasure.

Jake didn’t stop, his hand staying steady as he guided you through your release, murmuring soft praises in your ear.

“That’s it, baby,” he said, his voice softer now, the teasing replaced with something more intimate, more sincere. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Your hands clutched at him as you rode out the high, your breathing ragged and uneven as he slowed his movements, easing you back down. His free hand caressed your side, grounding you as you came back to yourself.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

As the intensity slowly ebbed away, you opened your eyes to find Jake watching you. The cocky smirk you'd expected wasn’t there—instead, he was looking at you with something softer, something that made your chest tighten. His hand brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his touch lingering for just a moment before pulling back. He gave you a small, almost shy smile, one that you’d never seen before.

“What?” you asked nervously, returning the smile as your heart pounded for an entirely different reason now.

Jake shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into something more tender than teasing. “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You blinked at him, caught completely off guard. He wasn’t grinning or smirking or full of his usual bravado—he was just Jake, looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you didn’t know what to say. “Oh,” you whispered, your voice soft as his words settled over you.

The moment stretched between you, and for the first time, Jake looked away, almost as if realizing how vulnerable he’d made himself. But instead of pulling back, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a gesture so tender it made your chest ache.

“Let’s get you some water,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. But as he moved to stand, his fingers brushed yours, lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter all over again.

And at that moment, you knew—this wasn’t just some casual hookup with him. You weren’t sure what it was yet, but it was more.

Jake disappeared into the walk in closet, leaving you alone in his bedroom for a moment. When he returned, he had one of his shirts in hand—soft, worn, and smelling distinctly like him. He tossed it to you with a crooked smile.

“Figured you’d be more comfortable in this,” he said before turning toward the door, giving you a bit of privacy to change.

Once you slipped into the oversized shirt, you padded out to find him in the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. He twisted the cap off and handed it to you as you approached.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking a long sip.

Jake nodded toward the couch. “Come on. Sit with me.”

You followed him over, sinking into the cushion next to him, leaving a respectable amount of space between you. Jake glanced at the gap and raised an eyebrow, smirking just slightly.

“You scared of me now or something?” he teased, his voice soft but warm.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could come up with a response, Jake reached over and tugged gently at your hand, coaxing you closer. “C’mere,” he said, his tone so inviting you didn’t think to resist.

You shifted over until your thigh brushed against his, and Jake draped an arm along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He didn’t push for more, didn’t try to crowd you—he just held you there, close enough to feel his warmth.

“You good?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, leaning slightly into him. “Yeah. I’m good.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the couch as you both shifted to get more comfortable. Eventually, you rested your head against Jake’s shoulder, and you could feel him relax beneath you, the tension in his body melting away.

This—whatever this was—felt easy. And for now, you were content to let it be.

The silence between you settled into something soft, the kind of quiet where you could hear your own thoughts but didn’t mind sharing the space with someone else. Jake absentmindedly brushed his fingers along your arm, his touch light, comforting.

But then the thought hit you, and you started to feel a twinge of guilt. Jake had gone out of his way to make sure you felt incredible, but you hadn’t done the same for him. The realization sat heavily in your chest, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted slightly, sitting up to look at him.

"Hey," you said, your voice quieter than you expected.

Jake tilted his head toward you, the corners of his lips quirking up. "What’s on your mind, darlin’?"

You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip for a second. "I just... I feel bad. You—you got me to, you know, but I didn’t—"

Jake’s low laugh cut you off, his head tipping back for a moment before he looked at you again, his eyes warm and amused. "You feel bad about that?"

"Well... yeah," you admitted, your cheeks heating. You glanced away, feeling the awkwardness creep in. "I mean, do you... want me to...?" You trailed off, unable to meet his gaze.

Jake reached over and gently tipped your chin up so you had to look at him. His expression wasn’t teasing this time, but soft, almost tender.

"I don’t need you to do anything," he said, his voice steady. "Tonight was about you. I wanted to make sure you felt good. That’s enough for me."

You blinked, a little thrown by how sincere he sounded. "Really?"

He nodded, leaning back and letting his arm settle across your shoulders again. "Really," he said, the hint of a smile still tugging at his lips. "But I appreciate the offer. Makes me feel pretty special."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small smile that broke through. "You’re impossible."

"Yeah, but you like me anyway," he quipped, his grin widening as you shook your head and settled back against his shoulder.

The room fell into a quiet lull, the kind that was filled with comfort rather than awkwardness. Jake’s arm rested across your shoulders, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. You let your head rest against him, but the words you’d been mulling over stuck in your throat.

Finally, you worked up the courage to look up at him, your voice soft, almost hesitant. "Jake?"

"Hmm?" He turned his head slightly, his green eyes meeting yours.

"Can I..." You paused, nervousness creeping in, but you pushed forward. "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

Jake’s grin spread across his face almost immediately, cocky but somehow still sweet. "Where else would you sleep?"

You shrugged, suddenly feeling shy under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t know. The couch maybe..."

Before you could finish the thought, Jake leaned in and kissed you, his lips soft and warm, pulling you right back into the ease of being with him. When he pulled away, his grin had softened into something tender, something that made your heart skip a beat.

"You can sleep with me every night," he murmured, his fingers brushing another stray piece of hair from your face.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, you just smiled, leaning into him as his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. In that moment, the thought of waking up next to Jake every morning didn’t feel so crazy after all.

* * * *

The morning light streamed through the blinds, coaxing you awake. Your head throbbed faintly—a mild reminder of the last beer you probably shouldn’t have had. Blinking against the sunlight, you looked around, disoriented for a moment. This wasn’t your apartment.

And then it all came back. Last night. Jake bringing you home. The teasing, the kissing, the way he had pulled you close and told you that you could sleep with him every night. The memories brought a mix of warmth and guilt as you realized just how many lines of friendship you had crossed in a single evening.

Sitting up, you glanced over at the other side of the bed, half expecting Jake to still be there. But his side was empty, the covers slightly rumpled. You pushed them off and padded out of the bedroom, your bare feet cold against the hardwood.

As you stepped into the living room, you froze in place, utterly speechless at the sight before you.

Jake was lying on the floor, one arm propped up to support his head, his body stretched out lazily. He was barefoot, in jeans that fit a little too well, no shirt, and a Stetson cowboy hat perched on his head.

Your mouth opened, then closed, your brain short-circuiting. You weren’t sure whether to laugh, blush, or scold him for how ridiculous he looked—and how ridiculously good he looked at the same time.

“What,” you finally managed, “are you doing?”

Jake’s lips curved into that signature smirk of his, the one that always got him into trouble and, apparently, you as well. “What does it look like? Tall, hot, in a Stetson. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Your jaw dropped as you remembered your flippant comment from the night before, and a laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Are you serious right now?”

He stood up in one smooth motion, the hat still perfectly in place as he strolled toward you. “I’m Texan, darlin’. Born and raised. Owning a Stetson is a right of passage.”

You shook your head, laughing harder now as he stopped in front of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned down, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ridiculous enough to make you laugh this hard first thing in the morning?”

“Yeah, well…” You tried to form a witty comeback, but the way he was looking at you—half playful, half something much softer—made your words catch in your throat.

Jake’s smirk softened into a smile as he tilted his head closer. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, before leaning in to kiss you.

And just like that, the absurdity of the morning melted away, leaving only the feel of his lips on yours and the flutter in your chest that you weren’t quite ready to name.

Jake’s hands slid to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle as he deepened the kiss. His lips moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, and you swore you felt his smirk against your mouth when your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders for balance.

Without breaking the kiss, Jake’s fingers tightened slightly on your hips, and he murmured, “Jump.”

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second before doing as he asked. His hands were steady as they guided you, and your legs wrapped around his waist naturally. He held you effortlessly, the warmth of his skin against your thighs making your breath hitch.

“You’re way too good at this,” you whispered against his lips, your voice teasing but a little breathless.

Jake pulled back just enough to flash you that cocky grin you knew all too well. “Darlin’, I was born good at this.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto your face. Then, just like that, he was moving, carrying you down the hallway as though you weighed nothing.

The hat was still perched on his head, slightly tilted from your movements, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “You’re seriously keeping the hat on?”

He glanced at you with a raised brow, that grin still firmly in place. “You said tall, hot, in a Stetson. I’m just giving the lady what she wants.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, but your words were swallowed by another kiss as he carried you into the bedroom.

Jake lowered you onto the bed with care, the playful edge giving way to something more deliberate, more intense, as he hovered over you. His green eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the room felt still, the air between you charged with something electric.

“Guess that makes me your cowboy now,” he said softly, his voice low and teasing, but there was a hint of sincerity there that made your chest tighten.

And before you could respond, his lips were back on yours, and nothing else mattered.

Jake kissed you with a hunger that sent a spark straight through you. His hands slid up your thighs, the warmth of his palms setting fire to your skin as he pressed you into the mattress. The Stetson, still sitting askew on his head, was the perfect blend of ridiculous and sexy, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing softly against his lips.

“What’s so funny, darlin’?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that made your stomach flip.

You reached up, plucking the hat off his head, and twirled it in your fingers with a smirk. “Just trying to decide if this thing makes you hotter… or if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jake chuckled, pulling back slightly, his weight still braced above you. “Go on then, put it on. Let’s see if you can pull it off.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully, accepting the challenge. Sliding the Stetson onto your head, you tilted it just slightly, giving him a mock-serious look. “How do I look?”

Jake’s gaze darkened instantly, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “Like trouble,” he drawled.

The heat in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. Emboldened by the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted—you took a deep breath and gave his chest a small push. Jake raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but he rolled to his back without protest, his hands guiding you along with him until you were straddling his hips.

His smirk grew as he settled beneath you, his hands resting on your waist. “This what you had in mind?” he asked, his tone a teasing challenge.

You didn’t give him time to comment further before you rolled your hips slowly, teasing him. You reached down and grabbed the bottom of his shirt that you had slept in and quickly slid it off, leaving you completely bare. You reach for the hat that had been knocked off and carefully placed it back on your head.

Jake groaned, his head falling back for a moment as his grip on your waist tightened. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, darlin’.”

“Am I?” you teased, leaning forward just enough that the brim of the hat shadowed your face, leaving him staring up at you like you’d stolen all the air from his lungs.

Jake’s hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing over your ribs as he guided your movements. “You’re wearin’ nothin’ but my hat and lookin’ like that,” he muttered, his voice low and ragged.

You laughed softly, but your amusement quickly faded as the heat between you grew. The way his hands moved over you—possessive yet gentle—was making it impossible to keep the pace slow.

As you shifted and leaned forward again, Jake reached up, tipping the brim of the hat slightly. “You’re somethin’ else,” he said softly, his green eyes locked on yours.

For once, the cockiness was gone from his voice, replaced with a raw honesty that left you breathless. You didn’t respond, couldn’t, as you captured his lips again and let the heat between you consume every other thought.

The heat between your bodies was electric, every touch and movement sending sparks skittering across your skin. You shifted slightly, lifting your hips just enough to position yourself over him. Jake’s breath hitched, and his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, steadying you as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

For a brief moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Your eyes locked with his, and the teasing glint in his green gaze had softened into something deeper, something that made your heart skip a beat. Without a word, he let his hands glide up your sides, the warmth of his palms grounding you as you slowly sank down onto him.

A shuddered groan escaped Jake’s lips, and you couldn’t hold back the small gasp that left yours. The sensation was overwhelming, but it wasn’t just physical—it was the way he looked at you, like you were something precious, something he wanted to memorize with every touch.

Jake sat up slightly, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, pressing his forehead to yours as your breaths mingled. For a moment, neither of you moved. The intimacy of it, the closeness, was almost too much to bear. His thumbs traced small circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment.

When you finally began to move, it was slow, deliberate, like the two of you were trying to savor every second. Jake’s lips found yours, and the kiss was anything but hurried. It was deep, consuming, a perfect match to the rhythm you’d set. His hands explored your back, your sides, your hips, mapping every inch of you like he never wanted to forget.

As the pace quickened, so did the intensity. Jake’s lips left yours to trail along your jaw, down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that sent a shiver racing through you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you tipped your head back, surrendering completely to the moment.

His grip on your waist tightened, and his lips found the hollow of your throat. Every movement between you spoke louder than words ever could—the way his hands caressed you, the way your body arched into his, the way his lips lingered on your skin like he couldn’t get enough.

This wasn’t just a fleeting moment, and you could feel it in the way he held you. He wasn’t just here for now—he was here for you, wholly and completely. And though neither of you spoke, the weight of that realization settled between you, amplifying the passion that had consumed you both.

As the rhythm between you grew more urgent, Jake leaned back, letting his head hit the pillow as his hands guided your hips. His eyes were locked on you, full of heat and awe, like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your gaze softened as you leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. The way he looked at you, touched you, kissed you—it was like he was unraveling every fear you’d ever had about being vulnerable, about letting someone in.

When the moment finally crested, your head fell forward, your lips finding the crook of his neck as he held you close, his hands splayed against your back to steady you. You stayed like that for a moment, tangled together, neither of you willing to pull away.

Jake’s fingers brushed over your spine, his touch gentle as your breathing began to slow. He tilted his head to press a soft kiss to your temple, and you felt the tension in his body ease as he cradled you against him.

No words were spoken, but they weren’t needed. Everything you felt, everything he felt—it was all there, in the way he held you, in the way you lingered against him, unwilling to let the moment end.

The silence in the room was peaceful, broken only by the sound of your slowing breaths and the faint rustle of the sheets. Jake’s hand skimmed lazily along your back, his touch soothing and warm as you rested against his chest. For a moment, you both just lay there, content in the afterglow of everything that had passed between you.

But of course, Jake couldn’t let the moment stay quiet for too long. His fingers danced lightly along your spine, and you felt his chest rumble with a low chuckle.

“So,” he drawled, his tone laced with that familiar cocky edge, “was it everything you imagined it would be? Or do you need another round for comparison purposes?”

You let out a soft laugh, lifting your head to look at him. His grin was downright smug, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, even as your lips tugged into a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered for what felt like the tenth time since you arrived at Jake's place last night, propping yourself up on one elbow.

Jake smirked, clearly unbothered by your comment. “Ridiculous, maybe, but you like it.”

“Debatable,” you teased, your tone light and playful as you reached up to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

His grin only widened, and he gave a small shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Hey, I don’t blame you for falling for the whole ‘hot guy in a Stetson’ thing. Happens to the best of ‘em.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Mm, maybe,” Jake said, leaning in just enough to brush his lips against yours. “But I think you like me anyway.”

You wanted to argue, to fire back some witty retort, but the softness in his gaze stopped you short. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin as he smiled at you—not his usual cocky grin, but something quieter, more genuine.

“I mean it,” he said softly, his voice carrying none of the teasing from before. “You’re…amazing.”

You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze, and you dropped your eyes, suddenly shy. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jake chuckled, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist as he pulled you closer. “Not so bad, huh? I’ll take it.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy as you settled back against him, your head resting on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as the playful banter faded into a comfortable silence.

As your eyes began to drift closed, you felt Jake press a kiss to the top of your head, his voice soft and warm as he murmured, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything might just be exactly as it should be.

[kiyawritesforf1]

PADDOCK PROPOSAL

Nothing just two cutieeesss being cuteee 🥰����✨✨

Pairing : Carlos Sainz x Wife!reader

You’ve just finished a long day of pre-race preparations in the Williams garage. The hustle of the paddock has settled into a hum as teams make their final checks, drivers prepare to head to their cars, and family members and friends mingle around, catching up in between the madness of race weekend.

You and Carlos are standing near the pit wall, chatting with a couple of engineers about car setups. Your 3-year-old daughter, Isabella, has been playing with Lando’s son, Theo, while their parents work. It’s not unusual for the kids to run around in the paddock, giggling and causing a ruckus as everyone else prepares for the race.

You can hear their laughter even as the roar of the engines fills the air. Isabella and Theo have become fast friends over the past couple of years, often seen holding hands and whispering secrets, though their conversations mostly consist of giggles and playful nonsense.

And then, just as you and Carlos are about to finish up, you feel a tiny tug at your leg.

You look down, expecting to see Isabella grinning up at you, as usual. Instead, she holds out her little hand, beaming with pride.

“Mamá, mamá, look!” she says, her voice filled with excitement. You kneel down, her big eyes sparkling as she opens her palm to reveal a dazzling diamond ring. You blink for a moment, stunned, before breaking into a giggle.

“Oh my gosh, what is this, little one?” you laugh, trying not to laugh too loudly.

Isabella is practically bouncing on her heels, eager to show you her “treasure.” “Theo gave me this! We’re going to get married! Like you and daddy!” she exclaims, holding the ring up proudly.

At that moment, Carlos walks over, his brow furrowed in concentration as he chats with one of the engineers. His eyes soften when he sees Isabella, but when they land on the ring she’s holding, a flicker of concern crosses his face.

“What’s this, amor?” Carlos asks, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. His eyes go straight to the ring, then back to Isabella.

You can’t help but laugh. “Carlos, it’s just a little toy ring—Theo’s ring from his mom. They’re just playing around.”

But Carlos isn’t laughing. He’s staring at the ring as if it’s a bomb about to go off. You can see him fighting to keep his composure. His hand unconsciously tightens around his clipboard, his eyes narrowing.

“Who gave you this, Isabella?” he asks again, his voice dangerously calm.

Isabella, blissfully unaware of the growing tension, looks up at him with a huge grin. “Theo, daddy! Theo is my boyfriend, and we’re going to get married and live together!”

Carlos freezes. His jaw clenches. He looks at you as if asking for some kind of confirmation that this is all a joke. But the twinkle in Isabella’s eyes and the innocent excitement in her voice make it clear that she’s completely serious about this “engagement.”

You can’t help it. You burst into laughter. You cover your mouth, trying to hide your amusement, but it’s no use. The sight of Carlos’s face—a mixture of confusion, shock, and maybe just a little heartbreak—is too much to handle.

Carlos looks back at you, his protective instincts kicking in. “I... I just... What do you mean, ‘boyfriend’? The boy is *English*, Y/N. English,” he mutters, clearly in a state of disbelief.

You laugh even harder, trying to stifle it. “Carlos, it’s just a game! They’re three and five years old. They’re pretending, cariño.”

Carlos’s gaze is fixed on Isabella and Theo as they happily dance around, oblivious to his internal panic. He watches, his hands crossed in front of him, his protective nature taking over.

“An English boy,” he repeats, as if it’s some kind of tragedy. “Does he know how to make a proper *paella*?” He shakes his head, more concerned about the boy’s culinary skills than anything else. “*Muy educado*, I’m sure. But does he know how to make a real *tortilla española*?”

You almost choke on your laughter. “Carlos, seriously?”

Carlos looks back at you, his face trying to maintain some sense of dignity. “He has no business giving my daughter a ring. And what’s this ‘marriage’ talk? She’s three!”

Before you can respond, you hear Lando’s unmistakable laugh from a few feet away. You turn to see him, casually leaning against a nearby workbench, his arms crossed with an infuriatingly smug expression plastered on his face.

“Well, well,” Lando says, stepping into the conversation like a man who’s enjoying every second of Carlos’s discomfort. “Looks like the wedding is already in the works. I mean, the kids have made up their minds, right?”

Carlos shoots him a glare, but Lando isn’t phased in the slightest. He walks over, his grin widening. “Theo’s already got the ring. What are we waiting for? Should we start planning the *boda*? I can handle the RSVP.”

Carlos turns his full attention to Lando now, his arms folding across his chest, his lips pressing into a thin line. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but it’s obvious that Lando is enjoying every minute of this.

“You think this is funny, Lando?” Carlos growls, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice despite the tension.

Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m just saying, Carlos... Theo’s got great taste. He’s got the ring, he’s got the moves. I mean, Isabella is already the most beautiful girl in the paddock, so I think they’re off to a good start.”

Carlos, now fully frustrated, glances at you for support. You can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head. “Carlos, it’s adorable. Theo’s a *kid*. They’re just playing. And if they do end up together, it’s not like we’re going to stop them, right?”

Carlos looks at you with that familiar look—half-exasperated, half-smiling. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for this. I mean, an *English* boy? What if he starts teaching her the wrong things?”

Lando, ever the cheeky one, leans in with a grin. “You mean like how to *drive* a Formula 1 car? Yeah, that would be a shame.” He laughs at his own joke, clearly enjoying Carlos’s discomfort.

Carlos lets out a heavy sigh, trying not to show how much the whole situation is bothering him. He looks at Isabella, who’s spinning around with Theo, both of them laughing in delight. His expression softens just a little.

“Well,” Carlos mutters, looking at the ring in Isabella’s hand, then back at Lando, “I suppose if the boy knows how to make a good *paella*... I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Looks like we’re one step closer to a paddock wedding.”

Carlos looks at you, his protective nature slowly fading into reluctant acceptance. “I’ll let them play... for now.” He pauses, glancing back at Isabella and Theo, a small, resigned smile on his face. “But no *paella* until he’s learned the basics.”

You step closer to Carlos, smiling softly as you place a hand on his arm. “Carlos, she’s growing up, and someday she’ll find someone who’ll treat her right, whether they’re Spanish or English. And for now... let her have this.”

Carlos, still a little unsure, watches Isabella, who runs over to him with her tiny hands outstretched. “Papa! Look at my ring! Theo gave it to me! We’re getting married!”

He smiles, albeit reluctantly, and takes the ring from her hand, gazing at it for a moment before looking back at you with a deep sigh.

“You’re right, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice softening. “But I’m not ready to give her away just yet.”

Lando chuckles in the background, clearly relishing the moment. “Don’t worry, Carlos. We’ve got plenty of time before the big day. I’ll be sure to save you a seat at the wedding.”

And with that, Carlos gives Lando a look that could melt steel, but there’s no hiding the soft smile on his face as he hugs Isabella close.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll come around to the idea of his little girl getting married someday—*just not yet*.

---

**End.**

---

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part thirty: daniel

word count: 6.5k (the longest yet!)

warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

twenty-nine | thirty | thirty-one

“It’s an ambush! You guys need to get out, now!”

It hit like ice in the chest.

Lando didn’t flinch, but Max tensed beside him. Across the space, Yuki caught the movement, eyes narrowing.

“Something wrong?” Pierre asked, still smiling.

Lando didn’t answer. His hand had already shifted slightly inside his coat, fingertips brushing the handle of the gun holstered at his side. His gaze swept the site—not panicked, but fast and sharp. Calculating.

He saw it now. The strategically lengthy tirades, the disproportionately coy smile, the knives hanging from Tsunoda’s belt. The very way Pierre had come crawling out of the woodwork so many years after the two of them knowing each other, bearing grand promises of riches and partnerships one random night as if by some happenstance of the universe.

It had been clean. Too clean.

They’d been setting him up from the start.

For a second, there was silence.

A beat where everything held still—where the unfinished beams of the club echoed with the sound of wind and the faint hum of construction generators. Where the world hesitated.

But the moment Oscar’s warning hit his ear, Lando knew it was already too late to leave clean.

And then—

Gunfire cracked through the air like a whip.

Chaos shattered the night.

He didn’t move a muscle—but Max did. A flicker of instinct. He reached beneath his jacket just as the first gunshot cracked like thunder, shattering a window high above them. Concrete dust rained down like snow.

Max Fewtrell was the first to move, shoving Lando sideways behind a stack of cement bags just as bullets ripped through where he’d been standing seconds before. Lando rolled, coat flying back as he drew his weapon, ears already ringing with the sudden roar of violence. He could hear yelling—Pierre barking orders in French, someone screaming from the upper levels, the grinding roar of an engine kicking to life from outside.

Max was crouched low beside him, already firing back.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, reloading with quick, trained hands. “This is a setup. Gasly sold us out.”

“No shit,” Lando snapped, voice tight. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, voice low but sharp. “Oscar—”

“I’m– I’m pinned,” Oscar replied, breathless, the sound of a sniper rifle clattering. “They knew I was up here. One on the roof, at least. Maybe two?”

The space proceeded to explode into chaos.

From the shadows behind the scaffolding, two men emerged—automatic rifles raised. Ocon opened fire, bullets chewing into the rusted metal frames just a few feet from Lando’s head. Max shoved him hard behind a steel beam, returning fire in tight, disciplined bursts.

Another shot. 

Closer this time. 

Sniper–?

No, two of them. 

Oscar was pinned.

Lando’s voice was calm in the comms. “We’re lit up. I want eyes on every goddamn angle. Now.”

Outside, Logan heard it and reacted instantly. Tires screeched as his car skid right to the construction fencing, engine still running as he jumped out with his Glock already in hand.

Pierre stood there, unmoved in the middle of it all, not flinching as bullets flew overhead. Just watching. A slow smile curling over his lips.

“I told you,” he said quietly, as Yuki ducked and slipped out of view. “Like old times, eh?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed.

“You dirty fucking bastard. You set this up!”

Pierre shrugged, the smirk never falling. “Hmm, well, not all the credit is for me.”

From the mezzanine above, another figure emerged—calm, tailored, hair brushed back like a goddamn crown prince.

Charles Leclerc.

The bastard walked like it was a catwalk, not a warzone. Confident. Inevitable. Behind him, his two brothers flanked him like twin lions, guns in hand, their eyes on Lando.

Charles’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. “You are not stupid, Lando. You knew the drugs were not yours to touch. You thought your little poison had wings? Thought Noxium would not be noticed, would not clip into our market?”

Lando’s blood turned to ice.

The Leclercs.

This wasn’t just about territory. It was a message, a reckoning.

“Lando Norris, you made yourself a Reaper,” Charles said, tone dropping to something low and sinister. “Now I’m here to remind you who builds the coffins.”

Then, all hell broke loose.

Blood already smeared across one cheek, Logan crashed through the door like a thunderbolt, gun drawn, firing clean and fast. He shoved one of the Leclerc brothers – the younger one, Arthur– near the scaffolding before yelling, “They’ve got snipers in the east lot too. I knifed one, but there’s another crawling the perimeter!”

Another voice cut in—Carlos, gritting into his own comm, “We are three minutes out. Hold your ground.”

“They brought a whole bloody army,” Max spat, ducking behind a crumbling pillar. “What the fuck happened? What– What’d we miss?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed. His mind, even under fire, was already stringing the pieces together.

Pierre—too smooth, too cooperative. That sly grin, the way he stalled in the beginning. He hadn’t been offering a deal: he’d been buying time.

And now… now Lando understood why — Charles Leclerc.

He didn’t look rushed or angry. He looked like he’d been waiting for this – like he’d dreamed of it, like vengeance was a dinner he planned to eat slowly.

“Lando Norris,” Charles sang, casual as if greeting an old friend, a gun loose in his right hand as he searched to see where the response would sound from. There was something gleeful hidden in those dark eyes as he smiled, his accent curling like smoke. “You’ve been trespassing.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t touch any of your shit. I kept my hands to m’self.”

“You used to,” Charles said, walking closer to the sound of the Brit’s voice, hunting him down. “Clubs, casinos, protection—yes, those were yours. I left them to you, quite generous of me.”

Lando and Max panted under their breaths, exchanging a glance as they hear the sound of vintage Italian leather shoes echoing through the structure.

They did not come here to die today.

“But the drugs, Lando? Your precious Noxium? That’s our family’s lifeline. That was supposed to be ours. You knew that.”

A beat.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

And just like that, the game changed.

This wasn’t about territory. This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Pierre hadn’t betrayed Lando for profit. He’d done it for Charles. – the two of them childhood friends, tied in blood and sweat and secrets.

The entire fucking meeting had been a blood-stained invitation.

A time and place for the Reaper to bleed.

More of Lando’s men were beginning to come into view—Carlos barreling in from the back alley with Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo at his heels. The air turned molten, full of dust and fire and bullet heat, as the fight exploded across the half-built club.

Lando didn’t flinch.

He stood up from behind the scaffolding, straining his stance, eyes locked on Charles across the smoke with a gun pointed directly at his face.

“You made your point,” Lando said. “Now let’s see if you can survive it.”

Carlos burst in through a side entrance, firing clean and close-quartered, and with Daniel Ricciardo coming in hot behind him. “They’re on all sides! There’s more behind the loading dock—three minimum!”

Oscar’s voice snapped through the earpiece, breathless: “I’m compromised! This idiot came for the high ground first—fucking amateurs, but I got my hands full. Someone need to cover Lando!”

Max reloaded beside him, jaw tight, knuckles bloodied. “We’ve got five minutes if we’re lucky. Less if the Leclercs brought every cousin they’ve got.”

Logan dragged a wounded shooter behind a stack of pallets and pressed Lando’s spare piece into his hand. “What’s the plan, boss?”

Lando stood, finally—face unreadable, coat streaked with dust, his hand steady on the grip of his weapon. His eyes locked with Charles’s above.

“You wanted a Reaper?” he growled, voice low and lethal. “You’re about to meet him.”

Gunfire erupted through the half-constructed club, lighting up the darkness like a battlefield. The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the heavy, oily stench of fresh concrete and steel, filling the air with a metallic tang. Every corner was a potential trap, every noise a chance at death. Shadows flitted across the space, their movements quick and deliberate. The chaos was alive, its pulse thumping in time with the gunfire.

Carlos crouched low behind a hole in the drywall, his hands working fast and fluid as he reloaded, exchanging one clip for another. The sharp, precise motions were second nature—no hesitation, no mistakes. Daniel, grimacing in pain, leaned against a load-bearing column to catch his breath, blood beginning to stain his shirt.. Still, his finger never left the trigger, a smug grin permanently etched into his face, like he was still having fun.

Across the battlefield, Yuki’s voice crackled over the opposing team’s comms. The orders were clipped, cold, spoken in rapid Japanese. They were well-organized, methodical—an efficient machine moving in perfect synchrony.

But Lando’s men were just as sharp.

Lando finally backed Charles into a corner, smirking as he pulled the gun from his holster. Charles was a smart enough man with enough experience to recognize that glimmer in the obsidian of Lando’s eyes.

It was the call of death.

A sign of the true Reaper.

For a split second, everything went quiet. Around them, the usual chaos felt like it slowed, or at least faded into background noise. The silence was only a moment, a breath, but it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Lando’s neck rise. It was the calm in the storm, the strange lull that only ever happens in real fights—everything paused for that single heartbeat.

Somewhere around him, he could identify the distant sounds of Logan holding the line at the loading bay, steady shots ringing out from his position. Oscar, with what was probably a broken rib, was still picking off targets from above, his shots sharp and deliberate. Daniel and Carlos surveyed in overlapping circles, ready for the next of their attackers to come from almost any direction. Max Verstappen had his hands full, the sound of each merciless blow Pierre received echoing through the surrounding structure.

Logan. Oscar. Daniel. Carlos.  Max Verstappen.

Max.

Max.

Where’s Max?

That was when Lando Norris made his only mistake. He glanced beside him to check for Max Fewtrell – just a flick of his eyes, barely noticeable at all.

But it was enough.

From where he stood, Charles Leclerc saw it instantly. It wasn’t much—a small crack, a human moment, the briefest flicker of emotion. 

But it was too late for Lando to take it back.

“Go for him,” Leclerc barked, the command bellowing even from where the Monagesque stood cornered. “The one he looked at!”

Instantly, both Lorenzo and Arthur Leclerc turned and began flanking from the left. Yuki Tsunoda circled from the right. The rest moved like a pack of wolves, closing in with a singular focus.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“Shit– Fewtrell!”

Max had just ducked back into cover when he noticed the incoming attack. The men moved with precision, intent on isolating him, forcing him into a corner.

Without a second thought, Lando moved. He slid behind a piece of cover, coming up just enough to fire two quick shots— forcing Gasly’s rookie to drop to clutch at the new gaping wounds in his thigh. Lando sprinted, reaching Max just as bullets began to ping off the exposed rebar behind them.

Max coughed, wiping dust from his face. “Just for me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Lando shot back, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him closer towards Logan’s position. “Get moving. Don’t stop.”

They barely made it to safety. Barely.

But Lando wasn’t done yet. He was hit—a baton crashing into his ribs. He hadn’t seen Lorenzo closing in. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, sending him crashing back against the cold concrete floor. Pain exploded through him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Bootsteps. One set, then another. 

They were too close.

Lando blinked through the haze of pain, looking up just as a shadow fell over him. The silhouette of a dark figure, the distinct profile of his Monagesque rival with his pistol raised.

Ready.

For a heartbeat, Lando’s world slowed. The figure took a fraction of a second too long, but it was enough.

Then, instinct took over.

With a brutal twist, Lando wrenched a utility knife from his boot and drove it into the man’s calf. There was no finesse – just raw, brutal violence. Charles screamed in agony, and consequently,  his grip on the gun faltered.

Lando knocked the weapon away with a vicious swipe, rolling to his feet, grabbing the gun as it fell. Two rounds rang out—straight into the man’s vest. Another figure lunged from the side. Lando ducked, the movement fluid, his elbow slamming into the attacker’s ribs before he shot him down, quick and efficient.

It wasn’t quiet enough.

A bullet ricocheted off the metal overhead, only narrowly missing Lando’s head. The noise echoed in his skull, ringing in his ears.

Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the blood—his own, someone else’s. His arm shook, barely holding onto the gun, but he didn’t lower it. 

Not yet. Not until they knew.

Lando stepped back, firing two shots into the ceiling—loud, commanding.

The message was clear.

Back. The. Fuck. Off.

The remaining attackers hesitated, then one by one, they began to pull back, retreating beyond the skeleton of the unfinished building like rats scurrying for cover. Lando blinked, and Charles Leclerc was already gone.

Oscar’s voice crackled in his ear, rough and breathless. “They’re, uh– They’re clearing. We can pull back now.”

Slowly, carefully, the team began to regroup. Every move felt like a struggle. The adrenaline was still coursing through their veins, but they were all battered, bruised. 

Alive, if only just.

Even as they watched their adversaries disappear into the night, the air still crackled with the aftershocks of violence.

Carlos was the first to lower his weapon fully. His face was split open at the brow, blood crusting in a jagged line down the side of his temple. His shirt, ripped at the sleeve, clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled shakily, then staggered to one knee beside the busted crate he’d used for cover.

Oscar emerged next—limping, rifle slack in his grip, sweat-soaked curls stuck to his forehead. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes unreadable behind the dim flicker of overhead bulbs that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the first shot. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down against the nearest concrete pillar and pressed the heel of his palm into the ribs he’d likely cracked during the fight.

Logan was the last one in.

He slid in through the back corridor, bloody knuckles and bruises blooming along his arms like mottled paint. There was a cut just beneath his jaw that he hadn’t bothered to wipe. “I got two of ‘em,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Lost one. Maybe.”

No one answered.

Max sat crumpled on the ground, elbows propped on his knees. He kept his head down, hands open in front of him like he wasn’t sure what to do with them now. His shirt was half torn, the side of his face swollen and bruised. One of his fingers was bent at an odd angle, but he didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

Lando stood at the edge of it all, his black pistol still in hand, his shirt torn at the collar, his left cheekbone already beginning to turn a shade of yellow. His breathing was steady, but his pulse was loud enough to feel in his teeth. He hadn’t spoken since the last shot fired.

The silence between them was almost reverent, but it wasn’t quite relief yet.

Carlos coughed, winced, and forced himself upright. “Everyone—?”

Oscar glanced toward the far corridor. Then shook his head, once, sharply. “No one else came in after us.”  

Logan’s lips parted, but he didn’t ask the question they were all thinking. He didn’t have to.

There were five of them here.

Just five.

Lando still hadn’t moved. His eyes scanned the wreckage—the spent shells littering the ground, the smear of blood across the broken wall, the shape of his own shadow in the flickering light.

He finally turned toward the group. His expression was quiet and composed, his eyes dark. 

No one spoke for a while.

The dust settled like ash around them, and all they could hear was the distant thrum of city life bleeding back into the broken building—the sirens, the grind of tires, some fuckin’ bird chirping in the aftermath of what felt like a warzone.

Lando drew a breath, and it tasted like copper and regret.

His palm was still stained with someone’s blood. Maybe his, maybe not. Everything felt too wrecked to tell.

He turned.

Carlos was seated now, his head leaning back against the unfinished wall, his arm slung across his torso with a long-sleeve shirt acting as a makeshift bandage. His lip was split, those large brown eyes of his glassier than his boss had ever seen them. But he gave Lando a weak thumbs-up when their eyes met, and Lando didn’t have the heart not to give him a small smile back.

Carlos, who could’ve gone anywhere. NASA, Mercedes — any of the places that would’ve worshipped that brilliant mind of his. But he stayed—for his dad. He wanted to give the old man the life he’d always dreamed of, something to reward him for all he’s given up for a boy of the same name.

The Spaniard had definitely made Lando proud today.

Logan was also crouched nearby, his jacket torn, his knuckles split. His shoulders were tense, but his eyes kept darting, sharp and alert. He’d never let himself rest before the job was done. Lando remembers the kid he met years ago, straight outta Florida, all sunburn and bright eyes and nerves. The kind of kid who wanted to be someone. Lando had seen himself in that hunger. When Lando looked at him, Logan looked at him with a bright smile, eager to show how unaffected he was.

With their complementary shiners, Lando could see a bit of himself in Logan tonight too.

Oscar was still perched on the stairwell, holding his ribs. It seemed he preferred the higher vantage point, even now. There was blood on his shirt, darker closer to the part near the hem that covered his hip. Lando couldn’t tell how deep the wound was, but Oscar hadn’t let go of his rifle. He’d never even blinked when the chaos had hit. In fact, he was the reason they weren’t all dead.

Oscar was the reason Lando got the warning at all.

Then there was Max Fewtrell, slumped against the doorway as he pressed a cold cloth to the side of his head. He’d nearly been hit. No, he was hit—grazed across the temple, just enough to make Lando’s heart stop when he had seen the blood.

Fewtrell had always been different. It would be untrue to say he was just the same as the others. Even Lando knew, deep down, that he was different – not just a soldier, not just a friend. He was the only one who could get under Lando’s skin in a way that felt familial. He was the only one who could call him out on his shit and still get a small smile after. And today, Lando had almost lost him. 

All because of one second – one look. 

One look had almost cost Lando the only man he considered his brother.

He dragged a hand down his face, smearing dust into the blood on his skin, and counted again.

Carlos. Logan. Oscar. Fewtrell. Verstappen.

His gaze swept the room again.

Wait.

Where’s—

Where the fuck is Daniel?

He turned around, his eyes scanning the place again—back over the entryway, the busted scaffolding, the stairwell. He pushed himself to remember. 

Where had Daniel been when the shooting started? He was right behind Lando, wasn’t he? Left side?

“Anyone seen Ricciardo?” Lando asked.

No one answers. Max looked up, blinking. Logan shifted uncomfortably. Carlos doesn’t move at all. Oscar just swore under his breath.

And that’s when it really hit Lando.

He didn’t see it coming. He missed the trap. He was smarter than that, for fuck’s sake – he’d known there would be one. But he let himself get cocky, and now someone who mattered —someone who trusted him— might be gone. Because they’d gone for his soft spot, and once again, he didn’t even realize it was exposed.

He stares at the cracked floor for a second. The sharp sting in his lungs returns, but it wasn’t from the smoke.

It was guilt.

“Keep eyes out,” he mutters, and then louder, firmer, “Find him.”

They’d only just begun to search—Logan darting toward a side hallway, Oscar cautiously peering around a corner, Carlos gritting his teeth as he pushed himself upright—when a figure emerged from behind an unfinished stairwell.

“Daniel?” Max’s voice cut through first, rough and tight with disbelief.

The others turned, and there he was.

The Aussie was dragging one foot behind the other, his shoulders hunched, his arms limp at his sides. His shirt was torn, stained dark with blood and soot. Cuts lined his jaw and temple. His face was pale, slack with exhaustion. But he was there. Alive. Moving—if just barely.

“Daniel, where were you, mate?” Fewtrell was already beginning to approach closer, concern overtaking the limp in his own step. “We were all—”

“I don’t know how it happened,” Daniel mumbled, the words tumbling out slurred and slow. His eyes were wide and glassy, not really seeing them.

“What?” Logan called, squinting toward him through the dark and the dust that had yet to settle. “Daniel—what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t know how to get it out,” Daniel said again, voice starting to hitch. His breathing was shallow now, labored. “I tried… heh, I tried—but, em,—”

Lando stepped forward, cutting through the rest of the voices. He moved fast, closing the distance and bracing Daniel by both shoulders, steadying him before he could collapse. His grip was firm, but his touch betrayed a flicker of fear—trying to keep Daniel upright, keep him here.

“Daniel,” he said, locking eyes with him. “What the fuck are you talking ‘bout, mate?”

Daniel wavered again. His knees buckled slightly, and Lando instinctively pulled him closer, adjusting his stance to hold him better.

And that’s when he saw it.

The hilt of a kris dagger protruded from between Daniel’s shoulder blades, dark metal glinting beneath the soot and blood. It was carved—elegant, almost ceremonial. A sickle curve, buried deep enough to split ribs and tear through anything in its path.

Lando froze, his breath caught hard in his lungs. The others hadn’t seen it yet, the wound still hidden from view. But he had.

Daniel was starting to sag forward now, strength draining from his limbs as his blood soaked through Lando’s hands. His eyes lost focus. His breaths came in short, wet gasps.

“Oh my god…” Lando whispered, arms tightening around him, desperate to keep him from slipping any further. “Daniel…”

Daniel blinked, as if trying to stay awake. His jaw trembled. “I didn’t know how to tell you, mate,” he whispered, broken and shaking. “Didn’t wanna ruin your win…”

Lando’s head dropped, throat closing up around the swell of panic. He shook his head, once, fiercely.

This didn’t feel like a win.

They didn’t go home.

There was nowhere to go. Not until they knew, at least.

So they dragged Daniel back to one of their safehouses, a cramped, peeling basement below a now-closed tailor’s. By the time they set him down, Oscar was already yelling for gauze and towels, trying to stop the bleeding that wouldn’t comply with his will. Carlos had the med kit ripped open before Oscar could even finish asking, and Max Verstappen pulled his navy hoodie off, balling it up and handing it over with a trembling hand that no one commented on like it was the only thing that might help.

Lando followed in silence, pale and smeared with blood all over. Even after he yanked that godforsaken blade from where it had embedded itself deep into the flesh of Daniel’s back, his hands never quite stopped shaking.

And Daniel? 

Daniel was still cracking jokes, sense of humor still just as intact as the day Lando had found the only mechanic on Monte Carlo who was open at 3 AM. The Brit had searched every nook and cranny of this city in hopes of finding someone, anyone, who could save his precious car – that first McLaren he’d ever bought with his own money.

Daniel always did know how to fix the unfixable.

“'S not that bad, right?” he slurs, eyes fluttering open. ���I mean— m'still prettier than Max,” he quips with a bad wink in the direction where he has to assume his old friend is.

Someone laughed — maybe Verstappen. Maybe it was a choked sob.

It was hard to tell, really.

Oscar worked fast, just as he always did. But even he hesitated, just for a second, when he peeled Max’s hoodie back so he could get a better look at the wound again. It wasn‘t just deep—it was designed to stay. The kris’s path was cruel and clever, curved to tear what couldn’t be stitched.

Still, no one said it, because saying it would make it real.

Carlos hovered nearby, quietly wringing a rag in a bowl of water that had long since turned red. Max knelt by Daniel’s head, talking to him softly in English when the familiar Dutch didn’t stick. Logan paced the length of the dimly lit room like a caged dog. Oscar wouldn’t stop moving, fidgeting with his makeshift tools, his sleeves, anything he could reasonably reach.

Lando didn’t have the heart to tell the kid off.

Instead, Lando just sat there, his hands coated in Daniel’s blood, his jaw clenched so tight it clicked.

Every so often, Daniel would stir – breath hitching, jokes fading.

Then one hour became two. Two then became four. When Max stroked his curls away from his forehead where they were matted with sweat, he could feel his friend’s skin grow colder. The silences began to stretch longer.

But still—at least he was breathing.

That was the spark – that was what kept them from falling apart.

“He’s strong,” Max blurted out, the sincerity of his words making him sound younger, more innocent. “He’s– He’s fucking strong, alright? He’ll pull through.”

“His color’s holding,” Carlos added, cautiously optimistic. “This is good, yes?”

Oscar didn’t say anything. He’d seen too much to lie.

Lando refused to blink. In all the hours they spend there, he refused to sleep, refused to even think of a version of this scenario where Daniel didn’t wake up and make fun of them all for being so damn dramatic.

From his seat by the head of the table turned makeshift bed, Lando just kept whispering, “You’re fine. You’re fine, Danny. We’re gonna get through this. You’re gonna be okay.”

But everyone else knew what a wound like that meant, what a life like this meant for each of them. They all knew what Lando couldn't say.

It was only a matter of time.

They all knew what business they were in.

No one got into this line of work thinking they���d make it to fifty with a pension and a neat little garden. Nobody had gotten here by accident. Not a single one of them could claim ignorance. They were in the kind of game where exits came in body bags, and grief was a cost you factored into the ledgers. They were gamblers, all of them—risking limb and life on a daily basis, trading safety for control, comfort for power.

But Daniel was different. 

He always had been, really.

He knew the darkness, saw it clearer than most, in fact. But still—somehow—he stayed good, better, kinder. He always laughed harder, held on longer. Daniel Ricciardo carried hope like a flare he refused to drop, even when the wind howled and the rain came in sideways.

He was, despite everything, the best of them.

That made it worse. Because none of them were surprised that he’d gone down for them, only sickened by how easily it could’ve been anyone else. That it was him hurt in their place.

The truth was that, despite everything, none of them ever imagined it’d be Danny.

Not Danny Ric, with his crooked grin and dumb jokes and the kind of laughter that made you forget how goddamn dark it always was. Not Daniel, who remembered birthdays and brought back stupid souvenirs and called them all mate like it meant something.

He wasn’t soft—God, no. He was ruthless when he had to be. Everyone knew that Ricciardo could flip a man with a wrench and a grin and walk away whistling.

But still, he was hopeful. The great tragedy of Daniel Ricciardo was that he was the most hopeful of them all. He was the brightest, the one who cracked the darkest rooms open with his smile and made them forget, if only for a moment, that they were criminals. He knew the worst of them and still chose to be the best of them. He was the one who, even after watching what this world had done to people, still somehow believed they were worth saving.

So when he took the blade to the back—a fucking kris, curved and cruel and ancient like some sick ceremonial final blow—something shifted. Something broke, not just in his body, but in all of them.

He was light, in a world of shadows, and now, the light was flickering.

The way they moved—the urgency, the silence, the glances they exchanged—it was in the air like blood in the water.

Oscar got up to do the bandaging again. His hands were steady, but his jaw ticked with restraint. Max kept shifting on his feet like he wanted to hit something. Carlos leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes glassy but dry. Logan sat on the steps with his head bowed, silent.

Lando went to kneel by Daniel, stripped of the usual iron-clad armor he wears around his boys. There was no sharp grin, no cocky tilt of the chin – just open pain in his eyes as he watched one of his oldest friends fade in front of him.

Daniel’s hand was clammy in his. His lips parted, then closed again like he was trying to say something and forgetting what.

Lando leaned in. “Still with me?”

Daniel smiled, just barely. “Yeah, boss.”

It gutted him, that smile. 

That fucking smile.

Blood loss. Organ damage. Shock. Oscar had said the words without flinching, clinical and grim. But Lando saw the way his hands shook when he stepped back. The way Logan had to steady him without making it obvious.

Carlos sat with his elbows on his knees, silent. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed too tight, jaw locked. Even he looked like something in him was unraveling, thread by careful thread.

None of them were crying, but there was rawness in the air. This was part of the life. But that didn’t mean they had to like it.

Lando cleared his throat. “We’re gonna get them for this. Tsunoda’s gonna pay. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Yeah?” Daniel murmured, barely audible. “You better.”

“I will,” Lando promised. “Don’t you worry, yeah? They’re already dead.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a laugh. “Tell Leclerc I said… ‘fuck you.’ In French.”

Carlos smiled, just a little. “Pretty sure he speaks English too, mate.”

They all chuckled, but just a bit – if only because Daniel would’ve wanted them to, even now.

Max Verstappen stepped closer and crouched down beside him. “You remember the job in Monza?” he asks.

“God…” Daniel sighed. “The bar fight?”

“You did start it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathed. “But I ended it too.”

Lando grinned despite the ache in his chest. “Damn right you did.”

More stories followed after that, each of them giving a piece of their memory, something bright, something bold, something that felt like it’d live on in the stars even after tonight. Each anecdote was an attempt at trading grief for something warmer, at holding on with words when their hands couldn’t seem to do enough.

It was Lando who took charge, just as it always has been. So they each spoke to him now — not over Daniel, but to him. Around him, as though he were already halfway out the door.

He was still breathing, but it was slower now. Softer, like even his body knew it was time to rest.

Daniel coughed again—wet, weak, red trailing from the corner of his mouth—and Lando stood.

He moved like he wasn’t thinking anymore. The muscles of his body moved purely on instinct, some muscle memory he developed over the year, the rhythm that helped him embody his role.

The Boss. The one who made the calls when no one else could.

He crouched by Daniel’s side, his own hand firm on the older man’s shoulder. Lando’s thumb brushed over his knuckles, his voice steady as a dying star.

“Daniel,” he said softly. “Stay with us.”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered open. “M’trying.”

“I know.” Lando swallowed, glancing briefly at the others, then back. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he looked paler than he did a moment ago, almost sickly. “You did good. You hear me? You did everything right.”

Daniel gave the ghost of a smile. “Always do.”

Max huffed. “Liar.”

Carlos looked up. “Worst liar I ever met.”

Daniel laughed. It shook his whole chest and sent him into another coughing fit. Logan was there instantly, cloth in hand, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Daniel blinked slowly. “We… Did we win?”

Lando nodded once. “We’re alive. You did that.”

Silence fell again. Then Daniel sighed, a long, low exhale like he’d finally finished something. His eyes slid closed again, lips parted. Still breathing, but lighter now, quieter.

“Is this it?” Logan asked quietly, not to anyone in particular.

But they all looked to Lando, because that’s what they did. That’s what Daniel had always done, too. They trusted Lando to lead.

Perhaps that was Daniel’s fatal mistake.

Instead of looking back at them, Lando stood slowly, his gaze on Daniel and his face unreadable. A long moment passed, Lando taking a deep breath before he spoke.

“Let him rest.”

They knew what that meant. None of them argued. None of them begged or made some desperate play for hope. 

Instead, they took turns stepping forward. Each of them said their piece in quiet tones, fragments of affection, of memories. Carlos pressed a kiss to his forehead. Max Fewtrell squeezed his uninsured shoulder in a gesture that he could only hope conveyed everything he could barely bring himself to say — a lifetime of gratitude and camaraderie and unspent love in a single gesture.

Oscar took off his watch and set it beside him—the same way Daniel had done once, years ago, after Oscar’s first mission went sideways. Max just sat down beside him and said, “Thanks for being better than us, Daniel.”

Logan lingered the longest. The young boy held his hand, told him a joke that made absolutely no sense, laughed for both of them, then walked out without a word.

In the end, it was Lando that remained.

Lando stayed until the others were gone, until it was just him and Daniel and the silence that pressed against the windows like night fog.

He crouched down again, brushed back a curl from Daniel’s sweat-matted hair.

“I’ll take care of them,” he told him. Even though he wore a smile, his voice was raw now, lower. “I swear to God, I’ll take care of all of them.”

A pause. Then—

“I’ll miss you, mate.”

He waited.

No reply came — just the smallest, shakiest breath.

“Alright, mate. It’s okay now.”

Daniel’s eyelids fluttered, the last spark of awareness lingering. Lando raised his hand, pressing it to his forehead gently.

“Sleep.”

And so, Daniel did. As he complied with his boss’s command one final time, he finally sank into a long, long sleep, and the room, once full of ghosts and grit and blood and noise, fell silent.

Lando stood, let out one long, shaking breath and walked out the door.

Behind him, Daniel Ricciardo lay still at last.

He didn’t remember the turns he took to get there.

The streets blurred past in streaks of black and neon, headlights beaming through the fog, buildings bleeding into one another like a watercolor left in the rain. The ringing in his ears hadn’t yet stopped since the ambush, low and echoey. Blood clung to what remained of his button-down in thick patches, sticky where it soaked through the torn fabric at his ribs. His knuckles were raw, the skin rough and dark, and the gash at his eyebrow had reopened, leaking warmth down the side of his face.

But still, somehow, he made it.

His hand shook as he raised it to knock. He missed the first time, fingers grazing the metal plate: 307. He tried again, firmer this time. The wood felt solid under his palm. He leaned on it, barely upright.

When the door opened, she stood in the frame like a ghost from a better life—oversized hoodie, messy bun, the kind of comfort he didn’t deserve. Her eyes went wide. She didn’t move.

His name—the wrong one, but right enough for now—fell from her lips in a cracked, breathless whisper.

“Oh my god! Liam—!”

He swayed, shoulder bumping the frame. That was all it took to snap her into motion.

“Here– Come in. Just, come in—”

She reached for him instinctively, one arm around his back, the other catching his wrist. He let her guide him inside, his weight leaning heavy on her as she pulled the door shut behind them. The lock clicked into place, and for the first time all night, something inside him uncoiled a little.

She was already scanning him with wide, panicked eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

Her fingers ghosted over the edge of his shirt, where the blood was streaked all across his side. “Are you—oh my god, are you shot?”

“No.” His voice was wrecked, low and frayed. “Not really. Just… tired.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in the pinch of her brow. But she nodded, just once, and steered him toward the couch. He sank into it like a man unspooling, body slumping under the weight of pain and adrenaline finally running out.

She crouched beside him, her eyes rapidly tracing every scrape, every bruise, every place he flinched when her touch came too close. Her hands hovered, unsure—his temple? His ribs? The blood at his collarbone? Where was she supposed to start–

He caught her wrist gently.

“This was the closest place, and I…”

“And you...?” she asked softly, worry swirling in those eyes he hadn’t seen in so long.

He swallowed, his voice shaky for a different reason entirely when he looked up to answer her.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

a/n: and so there it is — my pièce de résistance! this chapter is probably my favorite that i've written so far lol. i'd love to hear what you guys think!

[irisfixation]

an invite to a show

(experimental writing piece. cw: trance-y language and a gently unsettling atmosphere, perhaps.)

Having a local kinkster acquaintance (in the midst of a play party, no less) ask if you'd like to go see a dance together was somewhat unusual, you'd thought at the time. Even more surprising was the here and now, as you passed between stall and stage, past tent and warehouse, through the local fringe festival, only to find yourself set up in front of a relatively regular theater stage.

Same half-ringed stage. Same curtains; same rows of seats (lower than usual, and with less capacity); same lights, set and framed just as any other, just beyond eye level. They nearly blind you as you step in from the mid-evening blues beyond.

There were other things in the festival you could have expected them to take you in. Adults-only shows, bondage showcases, risque dances in skimpy outfits, stage hypnosis routines, et cetera.

This was clearly not one of those. The banner image just outside the entrance was some classical ballet routine - you didn't recognize it off-hand - and aside from you and your friend you didn't particularly notice anyone else from your little band of Weird Horny Folks™.

Why the hell here in particular? The question bemused as much as it fascinated, really. Was it some elaborate setup, was one of the actors someone they knew? Was this merely an attempt at socializing that went too far? Is this a date?

You look to the one who invited you here. You phrased some of these confusions already when they told you, of course, but they'd just smiled and said a few words of consolation. "I dunno, it could be a date if you wanted it to be" - that kind of flirting, just vague enough to be played off.

Well, either way, you'd be finding out soon enough. A stagehand in shades of burgundy pulls the entrance door to, filtering out first the last streams of sunset light from the entryway, then the chatter and commotion of the festival beyond. The susurration of fellow viewers' friendly chatter dies down to whispers, then naught. The lights dim, slowly yet fluidly.

The curtains pull fully back, the shifting of fabric sliding smoothly across your ears. A beam of light alights upon the very center of the stage. Upon a woman.

She stands there with purpose, the stillness of a bowstring pulled taut, meeting the gaze of the audience before her. Meeting your gaze, within it.

Wordlessly, her chin dips; her arms move to the side as she curtseys. A slow, deep movement.

And then she begins to dance.

You watch, waiting, as she moves. It is a slow thing; hardly a fast-paced spectacle, but possessing of a certain confidence in each of its movements. A turn. A stretch. A slow stride across the stage, each step made as if in slow-motion.

She continues on; somewhere between a ballet and the movements of a sleepwalker. There's a certain sense of autopilot within it, like that of an automaton carrying out procedures done many times before. Of a familiarity that rejects haste.

There's always a certain intentionality to art; a piece of art preserved in a gallery is not so different from something placed on the street, after all. (As the old adage on abstract art goes: "I could have made this!" "But you didn't.") The woman's movements, you think, are similar; you could have easily passed the person in front of you in the street and barely notice. But right now, as you sit and watch, there is an intent clear and pure enough to reject any attempts to turn away.

Her movement winds down. She drifts to the center of the stage, and slowly but certainly ceases her movement.

The moment is heavy, hushed, oppressive. Her gaze holds above it almost tirelessly.

You and her remain there; you rooted to your seat, her anticipant in place, the outside world less than a whisper.

Slowly but surely, she raises an arm. You watch each micromovement as it happens, as her fingers splay out and knucklebones play against taut skin, the muscles across elbow and shoulder tensing, as tufts of her hair brush aside and she places a sole outstretched finger upon her cheek.

There is no music as she moves. None of the crowd says anything, and looking at them would mean missing whatever might come next, so you remain as you are, a body waiting in place for more of the act.

Her index finger, outstretched, traces down slowly but surely, a record needle's slide across grooves intended for teardrops. The edge of her nail moves with painstaking time, alights upon the edge of the lips, sways nigh-imperceptibly to and fro as it waits to move down again. You watch, focus more directed into making sure you see the next moment than it is your body.

It moves down again, slipping across to just beneath the chin. The stage seems to flutter, dreamlike; a buzzing inside scalp and forehead. A tension.

Further downwards, continuing its inexorable journey to just atop her sternum. You watch. (Some part of you wants to watch further down still, but it relents for the time being.) She raises it, phalanges pulling back, the tension within and without building, a bowstring drawn back;

She taps, just once, and you exhale, and the moment is broken and released from tension, and the world sucks in a breath all at once, and the buzz in your head slowly, patiently falls away.

឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵឵ ឵឵ ឵឵

A warm crescent moon and the warmer lights of the festival greet you as you leave. Your friend flicks their eyes to you momentarily as you exit the building, trying to prompt your opinion out of you.

You don't know. The stint of time inside the theater seemed to slip by before you could process through it all. You tell them simply that it was neat enough; that seems to sate them, and it's not nearly as important as things such as getting back on route after all.

It's gotten late far darker than you expected, after all. Time has moved by and left you in place, and you need to get home.

You'll have time to think properly another day.

[journalsfromjupiter]

𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝟥: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾𝗌

Synopsis: Dead van. Five friends. A haunted hill that’s way more trouble than it’s worth. When the engine dies, the real nightmare begins—and the only way out is forward, into the unknown.

[First Gen Black Dragons x Implied!Fem Reader x Scooby-Doo AU]

Part 1. | Part 2.

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The inside of the mansion…was weirdly empty.

No furniture. No dust-covered portraits or creaky old chairs. Just walls. Endless walls, stretching down a narrow corridor like the house had been hollowed out.

Everyone stood frozen near the doorway, dripping and shivering slightly, gear in hand.

Wakasa had slung a coil of rope over one shoulder like he was ready to rappel down the chimney. He also had a flashlight tucked into his waistband, a crowbar in one hand, and a ghost-hunting app on his phone that he swore definitely worked.

Takeomi, naturally, had the most practical setup—salt packets, a pocket knife, a deck of paper talismans, and a hip flask full of “emergency water” (AKA whiskey).

Keizo carried a massive backpack full of everything but common sense: snacks, two walkie-talkies, a flare gun he definitely wasn’t licensed to carry, and an entire roll of duct tape “just in case.”

Shinichiro, however, stood at the front with his flashlight gripped in both hands like it was a sacred weapon. His eyes scanned the hallway, expression tense, protective.

“…Hello?” he called softly.

His voice echoed off the walls and bounced back at you like a whisper from a hundred ghosts.

“No way we came here for nothing—” Wakasa began, but you quickly raised a hand and shushed him.

“Wait.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped forward, boots crunching lightly on the dusty floor. The flashlight beam swayed as you moved to the far wall, eyes narrowing. Something wasn’t right.

The walls weren’t just old—they were carved.

Delicate, labyrinthine patterns curled along the surface like vines made of shadow. Swirling lines, geometric etchings, and faintly glowing sigils moved in and out of view like the house was breathing.

You reached out to touch one—then stopped.

“…This is a puzzle,” you murmured.

You stepped back, motioning behind you without looking. “Shin—your flashlight?”

Shinichiro was at your side in two seconds flat, practically tripping over Keizo to get to you. He handed the light over with both hands like he was offering a diamond ring.

You took it, flashing it across the wall.

Now illuminated, the carvings pulsed faintly in the beam of light. Some were symbols. Others were shapes—circles that fit into squares, patterns that seemed to shift when you tilted the flashlight.

“They’re responsive,” you said, eyes locked. “Not just decorative. It’s a locking mechanism.”

“Ooh,” Keizo said, leaning over your shoulder. “Like a hidden chamber?”

Wakasa perked up. “Treasure?”

Takeomi snorted. “Probably just a rat nest.”

“Help me trace these symbols,” you said, already pulling your notebook out. “There’s a pattern here. Symbols repeat—some glow. Some don’t. And look—” you aimed the light lower— “there are four circles missing.”

“Four…” Takeomi muttered. “Like a combination.”

The group fell into a focused hush as you all began scanning the wall, testing sections, carefully touching glowing sigils and avoiding anything too cursed-looking.

Piece by piece, you figured it out. The symbols matched zodiac signs and corresponding dates. A wheel of seasons. A puzzle of time.

“Got it,” you said finally. “We need to press the tiles in the order of the solstices. Winter, spring, summer, fall.”

Keizo raised his foot. “Like this?”

Click.

You heard it.

A tiny mechanical shift. A subtle hum beneath your feet.

You turned just in time to see Keizo blinking down at the panel he’d stepped on.

“…Uh,” he said.

And the floor gave out beneath you.

“WAIT—” Shinichiro shouted, lunging forward—

Too late.

The trapdoor dropped. The light disappeared. And you fell.

Straight down.

————

CUT TO: ABOVE

“NOOOO—!” Shinichiro dropped to his knees like a soap opera widow.

Wakasa grabbed his collar. “Bro, calm down. She dropped like five feet.”

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” Takeomi asked, deadpan, as Shinichiro slammed both hands onto the trapdoor.

“WE HAVE TO FIND HER—WE HAVE TO GET HER OUT—” he yelled, already pawing at the floor like he could rip it open with raw emotion.

“She didn’t die, Romeo,” Wakasa said.

Takeomi looked unimpressed. “Shin, you’re acting like you’re about to write her eulogy.”

“I just—!! I’m panicked, okay?!”

Everyone stared at him.

“You like her,” Keizo said, monotone.

“No, I don’t.”

“You screamed like someone stabbed you,” Takeomi said.

“I was being expressive!”

Wakasa exhaled smoke. “You wanna jump in there after her? Hold hands on the way down?”

Shinichiro said nothing, looking away with an aggressively casual shrug.

Keizo peered into the hole. “Reader? You okay down there?”

Your voice echoed faintly back up: “I landed on some bags. I’m fine.”

————

CUT TO: BELOW

You landed surprisingly softly. 

You rolled, coughed, sat up—and looked around.

Stone. A dark chamber. Strange, glowing markings on the walls. The air smelled like earth and old secrets.

And somewhere in the distance—you could hear music. It was like….a lullaby?

Well, that and Shinichiro’s hollering. 

You stood up slowly, brushing dust from your sleeves.

“Reader? You okay down there?” You heard Keizo faintly call from above.

You cupped your hands around your mouth and called back up, “I landed on some bags. I’m fine.”

There was a long pause.

“Like garbage bags or body bags?” Wakasa shouted.

You frowned, gently poking one of the bags beside you. Soft. Dusty. Burlap?

“…Burlap bags,” you called back. “Full of—I don’t know—beans?”

“Cool,” Keizo quipped helpfully. “Snack stash.”

You rolled your eyes and turned in a slow circle. The room you’d landed in was much larger than you thought. The ceiling was low, supported by thick wooden beams covered in… claw marks?

There were four doors spaced evenly along the stone walls. Each one was different.

The first was made of rusted iron bars, cold and wet to the touch.

The second looked like someone had boarded it shut from the inside.

The third was made of faded white wood, child-sized handprints smeared across it in faint ash.

And the last door? It was wide open. Pitch black inside. Something cold and whispering just beyond.

You pulled out your flashlight, only to find it flickering violently.

“Of course,” you muttered. “Classic horror-movie tech fail.”

Somewhere to your left, a small music box began playing.

Plink. Plink-plink. Plink-plink-plink.

A slow, twinkly lullaby. One of those old-fashioned kinds you’d hear in a haunted nursery right before something ghastly blinked open a pair of glowing eyes.

You took a step back. “Absolutely not.”

Behind you, something creaked. You turned—just as the sacks shifted.

Okay. Not what you needed.

You could hear the boys chattering up above. “Hey guys!” You called. “The sacks are moving! Can you hurry up and get down here-” 

WHUMP. 

Something landed in the pile beside you with a heavy, groaning thud. Dust flew. One of the burlap sacks exploded in a puff of mystery beans.

You blinked. “…What the hell—”

Shinichiro sat up in the rubble like a soggy action hero. His hair was crooked. His jacket was inside out. His flashlight was in his mouth.

He spat it out. “I panicked.”

You stared at him. “You jumped after me?”

He cleared his throat and tried very hard not to make eye contact. “Tactical descent.”

“Tactical—Shin, you literally swan-dived into a bag of legumes.”

“I knew they’d break my fall.”

“Did you?”

“…No.”

You sighed, helping him up with one hand as your other kept a death grip on your flickering flashlight. The lullaby was still playing. The sacks were still shifting. And the open door behind you? It was breathing.

He finally looked at you—really looked. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. But we should move. This place feels like it’s watching.”

As if on cue, the music box wound down with a slow, final chime.

Plink.

Plink…

—click.

Behind you, the door slammed shut.

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[wanderlustqueen-writes]

Merry Christmas! This is my gift to my lovely friend and secret santa @youre-ackermine. I hope you like it Val ❤️🎁

@levihanweek thanks for organizing this event!

Meet Cute (But Make It Scary)

Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Hange Zöe (Attack on Titan)

Ratings: SFW.

Warnings: Swearing; Well-meaning tackling (?)

Genre: Fluff

Additional tags: Attack on School Castes AU

Wordcount: 2,1k

Summary: Levi Ackerman gets locked inside the School one night, completely alone. Or so he thinks...

Once again, Levi Ackerman was the last person to leave the workplace. The new hire of Paradis High stood in the employee’s locker room as the world outside ended in deluge. The noise of heavy rain filled the empty room, and the droplets hit the egress window so fast that it was nearly impossible to discern anything through the glass.

The image of the other janitors stranded in a bar waiting for the water to stop invaded his mind. He told them it was going to rain…

Except he’d just lucked out with that prediction. The sky could have been clear and still, he would find an excuse to go home. Alone. It was just the way he was.

Levi started to zip down his janitor uniform with one hand, bringing the other one inside his locker to feel for his umbrella.

“Shit” he mumbled under his breath when he came up short. 

As if on cue, a blue light descended from the sky. The whole room was engulfed in black. 

“Shit!” Levi slammed the metal door, only to jump out a second later when the reverberating rumble of the thunder finally hit.

It was starting to feel like the setup for a bad horror movie.

Levi cursed Flagon, one of his chummier colleagues, for telling him those stories about the school.

Don’t take too long to leave after you clock out, Levi. This place is full of ghosts, especially at night. Did I ever tell you the story of the student who died in…

“Asshole” Levi mumbled.

***

The cleaning crew had used a flashlight to work on a darker section of the school’s basement the week before, and that’s what Levi was crossing the corridor to retrieve. The path wasn’t pitch black, as the emergency lighting had kicked in, but it was still far from ideal.  The lamps barely illuminated the narrow space, creating an eerie atmosphere. 

When he reached his destination, the room was so dark it didn’t matter if his eyes were open. Levi closed the door behind him with a click.

“Who is there?” a hesitant voice called from the darkness ahead of him.

Levi froze. His blood felt like liquid ice and his heart started pounding hard inside his chest in the second of silence that followed the question. His breathing picked up.

It wasn’t his imagination.

He shut his eyes hard, taking in a deep breath as quietly as he possibly could, though he was sure his heart could be heard from a mile away. Levi slowly backed up with his hands behind him, until he felt the light pressure of the wall against his fingers. His movements were silent and calculated. He slid his body to the side, always slow,  hands always lightly on the wall, until he was met with harsh resistance. He felt around the edge of the desk, lowering his digits when he found the drawer.

Levi cringed at the light noise of wood sliding against wood as he carefully pulled on the handle. From the opposite side of the table, came a choked gasp.

Fuck caution! Levi reached inside the drawer, but the only thing he felt was cold fingers wrapping around his.

“AAARGHH!!” they yelled in unison.

The hands repelled each other immediately! Levi opened the door wide and sprinted through it, stumbling on his own feet. Suddenly a dancing yellow beam revealed the corridor before him. Levi took the opportunity to run faster, no longer hindered by the low lighting.

But the ring of light kept moving forward too. In fact, it seemed to be going faster than him. And the sound of steps he thought were just from him now seemed to also belong to someone else, someone close.

“Wait!” the voice called from close behind him. He looked back for a split second. White clothes. Brown hair all over the place. Crazy wide eyes. Fuck. Levi boosted again.

“Slow down!”

“The fuck I will!”

“I swear, I won’t hurt you!”

He didn’t respond, all his energy on his feet. Running. Running. Run-

He crashed flat on the ground like a starfish, crushed by the weight of whoever tackled him. Levi struggled like a bull trying to knock over a cowboy, to no avail. The weight lifted off of him for one second, enough for Levi to turn over and face his assailant. He was met with a blinding light.

“Who are you?” the voice sounded more composed now. It was low and rich, Levi tried to free himself again. The person above him sighed.

“I’m Hange. I work here." The flashlight turned 180º. Through the yellow stains in his vision, left behind by the light, Levi got a look at the person straddling his hips. Strands of brown hair were glued to their face. Ghosts don’t sweat, right? And the white clothing he got a quick look at before was a lab coat. “I’m the chemistry teacher. And you are a janitor, I assume?”

Levi remained silent.

“I’m sorry I tackled you.” Hange began explaining “It’s just that you were running in the dark and the doors of this corridor are locked” then pointed the light at the double doors not 3 meters before him “Good thing I stopped you, or It would’ve been bye bye to this perfect face.” Hange booped his nose.

“Tch. Get off of me” he struggled under the strange teacher again.

“If you tell me your name.”

He grunted.

“Levi.” 

Hange smiled, finally de-straddling him. Levi staggered up to his feet, moving towards the corridor doors.

“It’s locked.” Hange warned. Still, he tried to push them open.

“Told you.”

Levi clicked his tongue and began walking in the other direction.

“I’ve tried that one too. We’re stuck here.”

“Huh?” He frowned.

“It happens sometimes to workaholic idiots who don’t know when to clock out,” Hange sighed.

Levi’s head was spinning. It was all too much. He stumbled back. 

“Are you okay?” Hange was up in a second, hands all over him, lifting his arms, patting his sides and his face, searching for injuries. Levi flinched when two fingers simultaneously pressed on sore spots on his cheek and forehead.

The light was on his face again.

“Oh, you hit this side pretty hard.” Hange muttered, “This one is going to leave a nasty bump.”

Levi pushed the hand that held the flashlight away but allowed the other to rest gently on his cheek. “There’s a fridge in the teacher’s lounge, we can get you some ice! Come on!”

Several seconds of silence passed, but Levi eventually sighed in defeat.

***

“Voilá” Hange opened the door in an exaggeratedly cordial movement. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Does su casa have any food?” Levi let his body fall on the two-person loveseat that occupied one corner of the room. Hange approached him moments later, bearing gifts. 

“Iced tea and soufflé cake or ice cream?”

Levi reached for the right, grabbing the bottle with one hand and the small Tupperware and fork with the other.

“Don't these belong to someone?”

“The power is out, so it’s our moral imperative to save this food from waste!”

Levi shrugged, leaning in to take a bite out of the treat.

“I think Nanaba has some candles in here from the rising water experiment her class did last week!”

Levi took a few sips of his drink as the strange teacher jumped from cupboard to cupboard, fleshlight in hand. Soon, the room was covered in dancing shadows cast by candlelight. The heavy rain outside created a soothing symphony. Levi crossed his legs, supporting the cake on one of his thighs. Hange sat next to him, with a few ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth.

“Is this clean?”

“Of course! Fresh out of the cupboard.”

Hange laid the improvised cold pack gently on his cheek, then on his forehead.

“You think we’ll be in trouble for staying in?” He took a sip of his drink, looking at his new acquaintance out of the corner of his eyes.

“Only if we get caught” the reply was casual “I usually hide in the teacher’s bathroom when I hear someone coming. Then I just have to wait a few minutes and make sure no one else is in the room before I  exit. The timing is tricky though, no room for errors.”

He almost choked on his iced tea.

“How many times have you done this?”

“Don’t know. Lost count.” Hange shrugged.

“Why?”

“The lab is my favorite place in the world. Well, that and this lovely room right here” Hange joked but something vulnerable lurked behind the feigned chuckle. Levi turned to face the teacher, who continued “I also don’t have much else going on in other parts of my life. This is the closest thing I had to a date in… I don’t know… a year and a half?”

Levi’s cheeks felt warm, and he was grateful for the warm tones of the lighting in the room. To his surprise, he found himself saying:

“Eight months.”

He tilted his bottle to touch Hange’s ice cream cup.

Hange laughed, sincerely this time. The sound was low, bubbly, irregular. It was the weirdest combination of strange and familiar that made something resonate deep within him.

“What a couple of losers we are.”

“Yeah,” Levi replied, still stunned by the feeling.

***

“We should try and get some sleep.” Levi proposed, as the rain died out, and Hange nodded.

Except they didn’t. For some reason, whenever one of them stopped talking, the other broke the silence. Hange talked excitedly about the experiments the class did that day. Then Levi complained about the mess of the students and how some of the staff half-assed the cleaning. Hange nearly died laughing when Levi explained he ran because he thought he was being chased by a ghost but, for some reason, he didn’t mind. He liked it. 

***

“I guess we won’t be needing these anymore.” The chemistry teacher blew the candles on the little center table before them, as the morning light entered the room, filtered by the blinds.

“I guess we won’t.”

“So, we’ll be out of here soon,” Hange commented.

“Yeah, I guess we will.” Levi turned to face his newfound friend. Now that the sun was up, he could see Hange’s features clearly. Smooth light skin. Strong, slightly convex nose. Brown chaotic hair that somehow fit the whole picture. Deep brown eyes one could get lost in and lips so full, so soft looking.

He averted his gaze when he realized he was staring, but it was too late. There was already a strange charge in the room, hovering over them. It was slightly uncomfortable but also exhilarating. The tension that precedes a leap into the unknown. Levi gulped, creating the courage to look at Hange again. Brown eyes stared right back at him. His heart picked up the pace as he moved forward. Hange moved too, tongue peeking out to moisten those lips. He could feel the heat emanating from them. Any second now.

A loud clanking outside made them jump in surprise.

“It’s the doorman!” Hange whispered. They both ran for the window. As one man unlatched the gate, another stood behind him.

“That’s Erwin, the history teacher!” Hange whispered as though they could hear them talking from that distance. “He always comes here first thing in the morning! Quick! Hide!”

They ran to the bathroom, hiding behind the partially closed door.

There was a creek. Then slow steps. Then the sound of a refrigerator door opening. Then silence.

“Is he gone?” Levi mouthed.

The chem teacher peeked through the crack and nodded negatively. Then frowned.

“What is it?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, in what can only be described as an oopsie face, Hange mouthed “I think he’s looking for his souffle cake”.

Levi caught the laughter last minute, letting out only a strangled snicker. Meanwhile, Hange was all silent open mouthed-chuckles, which intensified when Erwin rested his chin on his hand in a stoic pose while examining the empty fridge.

By the time the room was clear, they were both out of breath. Levi and Hange stepped out of the bathroom, looking each other in the eyes. The moment was gone, but there was a tinge of promise in the air. Hange spoke first.

“So, I’ll be bumping into you from now on?”

Levi shrugged. “if you’re lucky.”

Hange laughed and, once again, they ran out of words. Levi moved towards the door, but as he took a step out, he heard the teacher speak again.

“Hey, Levi!” He turned back to find Hange with the fingers of both hands crossed. “See you around!”

“See ya.” Levi stepped out this time, a smirk hiding on the corner of his lips. Maybe socializing with his coworkers wouldn't be so bad, after all.

[chaos-chloe]

Lucky Pack

Summary: It was a bright Saturday afternoon, and the small but cozy room was filled with the low hum of excitement and the soft glow of LED lights that illuminated the gaming setup. The camera was rolling, and you could feel the anticipation in the air as you prepared for yet another Pokémon card pack opening on Pezzy’s stream.

TW: Kissing, language, established relationship,

I had recently gotten my nails done, each finger adorned with intricate designs that shimmered like a treasure trove. Pezzy couldn’t help but beam with pride, his eyes sparkling with admiration as he often referred to me as "his hand model." I was hoping that today was special because I wanted to pull something fantastic from the packs, slightly wishing that he didn’t buy anymore packs.

As the packs were stacked on his desk, the aroma of cleaner and nostalgia wafted through the air, curling around me like a playful spirit. The chat was abuzz, a mixture of viewers cheering for your luck and a few teasing Pezzy about how he was just as excited to see you as he was about the cards. I smiled, my fingers gliding over the shiny wrappers, feeling the thrill of the hunt. I thanked a couple of chatters for complimenting my nails and my rings; reaching for the next pack.

With each pack I opened, I revealed cards filled with magnificent Pokémon illustrations, and the energy in the room heightened. I could hear Pezzy narrating, his voice laced with excitement, encouraging me with every flip of a card. The viewers echoed his enthusiasm as they guessed what card would come next.

And then it happened. As I peeled back the final card from a Fusion Strike pack, my eyes widened in disbelief. “Is that…?” I gasped, barely able to contain my excitement and slight relief. The Gengar full art card glimmered under the lights, its vivid colors and stunning artistry mesmerizing the audience. 

Pezzy’s reaction was instantaneous “OH SHIT!”— he erupted into a nearly uncontrollable frenzy of joy. The man who was usually calm and collected had lost his cool. “No way! No way! You got it!” he exclaimed, his voice reaching an octave that made even the viewers giggle. 

And before I could fully register the monumental card I had just pulled, Pezzy was wrapping me in a tight embrace, lifting me off the ground as he spun me around like a whirlwind. My laughter filled the room, infectious and pure. "You did it! You really did it!" he blurted out between kisses, the sweetness of the moment overwhelming.

His chaotic joy felt like fireworks, vibrant and illuminating. I could hardly process what was happening as he showered me with affection, his kisses warming my cheeks, his voice a mismatched blend of excitement and adorable nonsense. “We’re going to be done with this pack! You’re the best in the world! I can’t believe this!”

“Guys, chat, wait let's look at the centering is not that bad. BUT WE GOT THE CARD CHAT!” He sagged into his chair, pulling me into his lap; holding me like a childs’ favorite stuffed animal. “We can finally rest, I feel complete. I’m throwing the rest away.”

“UH uh sir, you spent money on those, you gonna open.” I say with sass while reading chat, they were all happy that Pezzy finally got his card, some were laughing at my response to him. “C’mon on beautiful grab another pack then.” He gestured as he laughed and laid his head on my back. 

[mactavishwritings]

Roxanne - moulin rouge inspired fic

Simon "ghost" Riley x cam girl! Reader

smut but no sex?, fluff, a teeniest bit of angst

this fic is my birthday present for myself. Happy birthday to me

“Roxanne... You don't have to put on that red light."

Simon's eyes were stinging as he waited for the 'LIVE' notification on your freecamcast.com channel. Simon didn't know why he spent his off time obsessively waiting for the fake attention of a woman who had no idea who he was until 4 months ago. He sighed desperately as the notification still hadn't come. You didn't have a typical routine; you were never consistent with when you were live.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, growing tired as it got later. He knew you lived within the same time zone as him because you would say it was the same time for you as it was for Simon. He was relatively new to your channel, you were one of the most popular camgirls on this site, consistently within the top 5 % of creators. He weirdly felt a sense of pride, that his favorite creator was so popular.

Finally, Simon's computer chimed, alerting Simon that you had finally gone live. He smiled softly as he clicked into your livestream. There were already a few thousand viewers on your stream and when he saw you, his heart fluttered. There you were; your hair pulled back into a thick ponytail with a light pink bow on top and the baby pink lingerie set he bought and sent to you. Told you he wanted you to wear it for your birthday and here you were, all dressed up for him. Simon was one of your top viewers and top tipper.

"Hi everyone!" Your soft voice came over Simon's speakers and he sighed happily. He instantly found relief in your voice and the deep centers of your endless eyes. He leaned forward, taking in the appearance of your body in the babydoll dress.

"Thank you all!" You giggled as the chat filled with birthday messages all flying past, everyone hoping to get their message noticed first. You giggled as you watched all the messages go by. You leaned back in your seat. You had a full setup, looking like a professional Twitch steamer setup. You had a soft ring light that cast a very romantic glow on your presence. It made you look ethereal and angelic, more so than you already were.

You hummed along to the soft music that played in the background of your stream. Your chin was tilted up, exposing your jawline and your neck. "How's everyone's night going? Are we having a great time?" You mused, sighing happily. Simon sent off a $50 tip, the first of many of that night. Your stream made a chime to notify you of the tip. You perked up and read the happy birthday message Simon attached to the tip. "Oh! Mr. Ghost! Thank you for the tip. I wore that outfit you got for my birthday, just for you." You beamed, sitting up to show off the lingerie that lay on your body. He sent a message to the chat, smiling as he typed out the message.

Mr. Ghost: looks good on u

You spun your chair once as if to twirl. Your giggles filled the room, making Simon chuckle with you. He felt as if you and him were the only ones on this call. You pushed your chair back and batted your eyelashes at the screen.

Mr. Ghost: so pretty. Glad u like it

You nodded happily, grinning ear to ear. "Of course I like it! How could l not? I just love everything you send me." You winked before moving on to greet the other viewers and Simon sunk back into his seat. He was excited for tonight's stream because he had a private, one-on-one chat with you after. Because he was one of your top tippers, he got special privileges that got him special benefits, like private chats and access to more actions like buying you outfits to wear on stream.

Simon zoned back and returned his focus to you. The stream took a drastic turn, you had shifted your hips back and popped them up, your feet now resting on the armrests of your pink gaming chair. Your eyes were wide and had a hint of innocence to them. Simon watched the screen intensely and his eyes followed the slow movements of your hands. Your hands traced down your thighs and your nails scratched up them. You sighed dramatically and tilted your head to the side, maintaining eye contact with the camera the whole time.

"It's just so sad I'm here all alone on my birthday, a little girl like me, all alone." You fluttered your lashes and the chat went insane as your hand tipped down towards your clothed center. The set Simon got you came with a pair of panties that barely covered your center. You whined, hand slipping over your center and Simon felt his mouth water. You sighed again, sitting up and you returned your feet to the floor. "Whatever is a girl like me to do!" You giggled again as your stream was flooded by anonymous men tipping you anywhere from $20 to $100, just to get a glimpse under your panties.

-

Simon's stomach was in knots. You had sent Simon the link to the private video calls so he could join. The only thing different about this call, the thing making him so nervous, was that he promised to finally get on camera for you to see, just for your birthday. He readjusted his hair one last time before joining the call.

"Mr. Ghost! I was starting to worry that you were gonna ghost me." Your giggle was the first thing he heard and it immediately made him relax. "I'd never do that to you. You know that." He answered you simply and took in your appearance. You had cleaned up from the stream, fixed your hair, and put away all your toys. You were still in your lingerie and Simon smiled. "You look cute."

"Thank you, Mr. Ghostie! A cute guy dressed me." You winked at the camera and Simon chuckled. "Well, he has good taste. Wanna give me a twirl, love?" Simon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Your face lit up and you nodded, standing up and shuffling to get your whole body into frame. He felt himself laugh at your fluffy, white socks. You did a slow spin, showing off the whole outfit. "Very nice…I like it."

"Thank you…Now, I think you have something to show me." You sat back down, resting your elbows on the desk, your chin resting on your hands. "Yeah…right." Simon nervously rubbed his neck and he watched your eyebrows knit together, a worried expression appearing. "You don't have to! I'm not pressuring you." Simon felt his heart flutter and he leaned forward to turn his camera on. Like you, Simon had a semi-profession streamer set up, being big on PC games while on his leave.

He pushed his curls back and smiled as the camera clicked on. "Oh thank fuck. I was hoping you were secretly hot and not some old fuck." You immediately sat up and scootched up to the desk to stare closely at him. He turned his chin in each direction to show off his face to you. You sat back in your seat with the biggest smile on your face. "Happy birthday." Simon smiled back and you pushed yourself up to sit cris-cros on your gaming seat. "Will you do me a favor tonight?" Simon asked, watching you shift around. "Tell me." You twirled a hair on your finger.

"Want you relaxed. Go change. Still gonna make sure you're taken of, but not tonight, angel." He made sure to make pointed eye contact and you had a genuine smile on your face. "Thank you. I didn't want to work on my birthday." You stood up and you left the frame. Simon took a deep breath and adjusted his headphones. He didn't know why he requested this, but something just told him to. He couldn't help but feel like you treated him differently than your other viewers.

You two had done a couple of sessions like this, where he asked for the non-performer you. Simon loved those sessions because it made it feel real. Like he wasn't paying you for friendship, for just a sense of intimacy. You soon came back into the frame, dressed in a light pink hoodie and sweatpant set. Your hood was pulled up on your head and you had slippers on your feet.

"Hey, pretty girl." Simon smiled as you placed your headphones on your head and then your hoodie over the headphones. "Hey." Your soft voice made Simon nearly melt. "Thank you, ghostie." You giggled and Simon leaned back in his chair, finally able to relax. "Simon. I'm Simon." He felt his chest pounding as your eyes softened, testing the name on your lips. "Okay, Simon." You hummed and your eyes scanned a screen off to the side. "Did you wanna just talk or watch a movie, or something?" Simon just shook his head. "It's your birthday. Pick."

"Okay! I have questions about you." You sat up and clicked a couple of things on your end before turning back towards Simon. "Okay, hit me."

The two of you went back and forth for a few hours and Simon was able to determine a few things. You two lived in the same area, pretty close actually. You recently got a kitten, and he told you a little about his job. You both slowly opened up to each other, progressively sharing more and more personal details.

It was nearing 2 am and the both of you were talking like Simon wasn't paying you. Your feet were resting up on your chair and your hoodie was slowly falling off your shoulder. You sighed and looked over towards the window in your streaming room. "Thanks for hanging out with me on my birthday. Would've spent it alone." You smiled and Simon nodded, happy to make you happy. "Of course. I would do this every night if I could." Simon said, cautious for your reaction.

You looked away for a moment before taking a deep breath. "If I…gave you my number…Do you promise me you won't use it for a free session?" Your voice had a desperate tone to it, Simon felt his heart shatter. He nodded, staring at you with a concerned look written all over his face. "I swear on my life." Simon couldn't breathe, your eyes searched his for anything to prove different.

-

His addiction to you got worse. He swore that he wasn't going to be one of those people who couldn't put their phone down, but here he was, desperately waiting for your next message. His day practically revolved around you, more so than it already did. He felt so much closer to you than anyone else who watched your streams. He got a more personal look at you, to see who you were beyond your body.

Simon was lying in bed, phone next to him open to your messages. You weren't streaming that night due to an injury that you didn't say more about and it was driving him nuts not to know about. His eyes flicked back and forth between your messages and the show that was passing time between the next text. Simon was on a one-month leave and was happy to finally have time to relax.

Simon felt a constant buzzing and his eyes whipped down to his phone. Your caller ID was staring back at him and his mind went silent. You never called him out of the blue, always asking before if it was okay.

"(Y/N)? You alright?" Simon sat forward, nervously shifting his weight. "Um…yeah. I'm okay." Your voice gave you away, shaking, and the sniffles you tried to hide came through. "You're lying to me." Simon tried his best to not sound freaked out, trying to sound confident to help you. "No, I'm not okay. I got kicked out of my apartment. Leasing manager found out what I do and ended my lease."

-

Simon felt like he was going to puke. You gave Simon your number 2 months ago and you trusted him with your life. The night before, you called him when you needed support. You called him, explaining that you had been forced out of your home and didn't know what to do. He talked you through the fear and got you placed in a hotel for the night. He didn't know what came over him, his suspicions being confirmed that you lived in the same town as him.

Once you got settled in the hotel, you called Simon back to let him know that you made it to the hotel. He wanted you to have a moment to decompress before anything else happened. He made you promise that you would call you in the morning and he would help you figure out the next steps.

He was already awake when you called the next morning. You sounded better, having a night to think everything over. "You feeling okay?" Simon's voice held a softness that he never heard from himself before. "Yeah, I'm just hungry." You giggled tiredly and sighed. "I'll send you breakfast, what do you want?" Simon offered like it was nothing. "How about you and I go to breakfast instead?" Simon felt his stomach dance and he chuckled. "I would love to. Give me 5 and I'll come grab you. If you bring a wallet, I'm not coming."

You were so much prettier in person. You smelled even better than Simon imagined and your smile was so bright. Simon pulled up in front of you at the hotel and rolled down the window. "Get in, doll." You got in the car and put your favorite breakfast spot in the GPS.

Simon was trying his best to control his nerves, feeling his hands shake like he was back in basic training. He occasionally looked over at you, just to make sure that you were real. At breakfast, he could barely contain his smile. Your humor matched his perfectly and he never wanted you to leave his sight. "If I offered for you to move in with me until you get your footing, would it ruin everything?" Simon asked you and your eyes softened, leaning forward. "Never."

-

Simon watched your stream from the other room but heard everything. He watched the chat, messages flying by as you put on your performance. You made him promise you that he wouldn't donate that night since he was letting you stay with him. He did slip a $50 in your purse that afternoon. He listened to the soft sounds of your moans, knowing the stream was coming to an end soon.

As soon as you came, you giggled and sat back in your chair to do your sign-off. Simon shifted in his seat as you fake-flirted with the other men in your chat, feeling a sudden urge of jealousy. He didn't like the attention you were giving away and that he couldn't receive any himself until after you finished with the others. When you got off and cleaned up, you exited the room with a bashful look on your face. and nervously sat down next to him. Simon smoothed your hair and looked over your face.

"How much?" He whispered, not wanting to say it out loud, not wanting to completely ruin everything he spent so long to build. "How much what?" You looked at him confused, fidgeting with your manicured nails. "How much for you to stop camming? I'll pay anything…" He ran his hand over your hair and your shoulders dropped and he panicked.

"I can't keep watching you show off to other men. I need to keep you for myself. Please (Y/N)…You don't have to go live anymore…Let me take care of you. Let me make you mine." Simon finished his sentence with a deep breath and waited for your response. He couldn't take the silence as everything processed in your mind. He opened his mouth to speak again when you surged forward.

Your lips connected with his and your hands wrapped around his neck. You sat up on your knees and pushed yourself against his chest. Simon took a moment to catch himself before his hands made their way to your hips, kissing you back with a desperation that made him embarrassed. He pulled you onto his lap and pulled you closer. "Simon…" You gasped and he immediately needed more as he squeezed your hips. "Stay with me." He begged and you nodded.

"Always."

[coldgoldlazarus]

Okay, mostly done screeching in excitement, now it's analysis time.

First point: That purple blast of the turret getting taken out looks great.

Looks like we're opening hot, a lot like Corruption's beginning. Hopefully won't be quite as protracted as the Norion battle, though, lol.

Also, I've seen some jokes already about how this section will end with Samus getting depowered like the openings of Prime and Echoes, but given how barebones her arsenal seems to be here, (missiles and morph ball, which sometimes she just starts with and keeps, maybe bombs too) I don't expect that to happen.

The HUD and helmet edges are a lot more dialed back this time, pushed as far into the corners as they can go. Probably better for visibility this way, but I am gonna miss the more wraparound feel of the previous setup, with the missile count and hazard meter along the sides. But this isn't a bad look by any means, and we still have a fair few items here.

A & B: My bet is this is the replacement for the old hazard meter. In addition to keeping it out of the way, putting it right next to the motion tracker is a good move. I may actually remember to use that more this way.

C: Health bar is obvious, of course, but I really like the move of tucking it away into the notch on the top of the Echoes/Corruption/Beyond(!) helmet visor. The lines around it suggest an empty row above, undoubtedly for the energy tank pips once those are picked up.

D & E: Minimap is present as usual, not really much to say there, but I love the addition of a compass direction scroll beneath it, which should be helpful for putting places in context of the broader map. (Tallon IV's elevator label system, anyone?)

F: Missile count has been shunted down from the side to the bottom corner. I'm interested to see if it will grow upward, or just stay in its present spot and scale accordingly, as you collect more expansions.

G: This is the one everyone's already pointed out, but it seems that we won't have a visor OR beam swap readout.

Scan Visor is still an option as shown in the next bit, but based on the lack of an indicator in the hud, it's probably just going to be a toggle between that and combat, without anything else like X-Ray or Thermal or Echo or what have you. (Or it could be that that would only get added to the HUD after picking up a third visor, but I won't hold my breath for it.) Kinda disappointing to deemphasize one of the cool new mechanics the Prime subseries brought to the table, on one hand, but I'm still grateful to have the Scanner, and the extra ones always did struggle a bit to see much use.

Similarly, a bit disappointed this means we're probably looking at a stacking beam like in Corruption and the 2D games, (unless of course beam swapping is still there and just being left off the HUD until relevant for the sake of cleanliness #copium) but not entirely surprising; I'll live.

But what is interesting is what's there instead. The D-Pad seems to be tied to non-Beam weapons or tools instead, with the missile launcher as the only one available at present. I'm really curious to see what the other items will be; I imagine this is going to be Prime 4's unique spin on things. I saw someone suggest affinity weapons like in Hunters, but given those all function like Beams, it feels weird to me to set them against Missiles instead, ammunition requirements notwithstanding. I'm not going to rule those out, of course, but I could see this being something completely different entirely.

Again, I am very glad to see the Scan Visor is still here at least. Even better is that it uses the full-body highlighting of objects like Echoes and Corruption instead of Prime 1's icons. Pretty minimalistic layout, all told; I like that the scanning bar is a ring now. And it doesn't reflect Samus's face by default like in Corruption, which makes sense since we're not liable to have the same kind of mutation shenaniganry happening here.

I forgot to snag a screencap of this bit on my computer, so forgive the lower quality, but this scene is interesting for a few reasons.

The Pirates' breaching charges letting them into this room just as Samus passes through a gap in the wall overhead is a nice touch, and also remniscent of some sequences from early on in Corruption.

The Federation guys in here seem to be wheeling away someone or something on a stretcher in a hurry. That could be important.

Energy tank up in the rail section, but blocked by a box. Are we just going to bomb through to get it right away, or will we drop down into the room, and have to come back from the other direction to pick it up? (Please be the other direction)

Samus looking spiffy here, even at a distance. And as some have pointed out, looks like she's walking out of a portal instead of a door, pointing to either more dimension-hopping shenanigans like in Echoes, or possibly the time travel elements I recall hearing Tanabe wanted to play with at some point. (This plus the black hole look of the logo makes me think this could be more likely.)

Whatever the nature of the portal, though, the interesting thing to me is the sort of circular structure in the rock around it, suggesting a doorframe almost. A lot of the portals on Aether seemed to actively cut into the environment at random, the rock carved out in perfect spheres with fucked-up edges, and interrupting the pre-existing architecture or geology. In contrast, this looks like it was put here on purpose, implying a more controlled creation. Potentially really fascinating implications in that.

I also kinda wonder if these portals will be replacing elevators as a way to get between regions.

Ignoring the big numbers in the middle, (though they do kinda mess with my prediction that Prime 4 was going to be a 2024 holiday title to avoid getting eaten by Switch 2's inevitable 3D Mario launch title,) a couple things stand out to me here.

Giant tree in the background is giant, and I love it for that. Also looks like it's not the only giant tree here, even if still probably the biggest. I hope we get to go there later.

But in addition, we have a bridge in the middle distance, and a tunnel opening in the foreground. I will eat my hat if we don't get to cross that bridge, and my bet is that they're going to pull a similar trick here as with Skytown, letting low-poly versions of other "rooms" be visible from the current one, but dividing them with interior sections for optimization reasons, allowing for amazing landscapes of all traversible terrain. I loved that there, it looks great here, I can't wait to go explore all this myself next year.

[glitch-after-dark]

Animal Handler Rodimus/Merformer Thunderclash #4

More setup and a quick overview of the Rehab Center! Plus a surprise for Rodimus!

@sticky-mecha Not much Thunderclash yet, but he returns soon and we'll get more from his side!

@valve3nthusiast and @mychlapci, I hope you enjoy since it was partially inspired by the merformer posts.

Series TW: Noncon (Past), Treating a Sentient Person Like An Animal (Unknowingly on Rodimus's Part), Exhibitionism, Unwilling Public Sex, Abuse, Domestication, Kidnapping, Harassment, Stalking By Media, Mildly Genital Injury (Nothing Explicitly Described), Forced Orgasm, Mechpreg, Alcoholism (Briefly)

PART IV – Recovery and Reunion

Rodimus likes his new job, even if it does keep triggering moment of guilt and horror when he sees what an actual healthy setup from the studies should be. The Rehab Center doesn’t allow a lot of public visitors outside of the educational front area and small viewing areas, but there is nothing close to the actual merformers themselves. The facility takes up most of the west side of the island they are on, built into the ocean and cutting it off, allowing for large expansive areas designed for them as well as areas within the building. While it specializes in merformers it does have other animals rehabbing on the land facilities and Rodimus gets to meet them and sees the obvious differences.

The merformers in the facility as well are much healthier, plumper, more lively, less anxious, their colors and biolights brighter.

They have some that are temporary and intend to be released that they are more off hand with but others are more permanent due to injuries or socialization issues.

Drift is the most famous. After Rodimus got out and read more freely about merformers and the debates on their levels of sentience he heard about Drift who was famous for learning Hand though many debate it is a scam or due to the oddness of the field with merformers reading differently he isn’t communicating but just responding with the same pulses he’s receiving. They’ve tried to release him, he’s healthy, an experienced hunter, socialized, popular among his peers, but he absolutely refuses. He’s been caught before and was famously rescued from a merformers fighting ring by the head of he facility Ratchet and imprinted on him. When he was discovered years later caught up in a spill from a factory that caught up a nearby merformer nesting grounds he was evacuated to the Rehab Center for treatment.

While there he reunited with Ratchet and “imprinted” on him. He absolutely refused to leave despite all his group leaving (including Wing) and kept making courting behaviors and doting on Ratchet. He helps with socializing new captures and rearing orphaned pups to be released back into the wild after he raises them so he has a purpose there. Everyone jokes how he pined after Ratchet for years and only let him take care of him.

The Hand thing was a joke but he got so excited about it the interns showed him. They all knew he was intelligent and would come up with tests for him to do and tech but no one expected him to latch onto it and pick it up immediately. Or that once he learned some words he would terrify everyone by dragging Ratchet into the water to grab his hands and start screaming “RATCHET RATCHET RATCHET!” over and over with Hand while snuggling him beaming. Ratchet got things more organized and kept teaching him more and more complicated concepts and has been petitioning to change the sentience guidelines because Drift is proof just because merformers can’t speak Neocybex and have more instinct coding doesn’t mean they can’t communicate or have higher levels of thoughts.

It's been complicated due to them not being able to pass the Ambus Test and a lot of misinformation about Drift and lack of being able to repeat the experiment out of Ratchet’s facility because, as he keeps emphasizing, the merformers do not feel safe or inclined to account for them and some of the facilities are terrible. Dominus Ambus was actually involved as he was working to revise his own test to account for its own flaws which would he in his own alt mode couldn’t pass.

The other merformers in the facility except for Drift’s occasional pups also aren’t inclined to learn Hand. Most simply aren’t there long enough. Or don’t agree. Another issue with repeating the test.

Whirl refuses and his hands aren’t in a good shape for it though his caretaker Cyclonus is trying to adapt a different communication since he noticed that Whirl uses colors to communicate and Whirl is intelligent enough to build and rebuild things and socializes well with the janitor, Tailgate too. Whirl isn’t exactly one they want meeting the public though, given his general aggression.

Getaway is a menace who keeps breaking out every place they put him and has sired way too many pups. He was released but keeps showing back up in one of the cages whenever he wants, like a seasonal bother, during breeding season. Mostly to harass Skids, who is currently their other lead project trying to learn Hand from Drift. Though it has some difficulties because they are different subspecies which have different fields again so they are trying to adapt it and the fact they keep having to break due to Getaway knocking him up and distracting him. They’ve made some headway with a new Praxian hire Bluestreak adapting door wing language to match Skids’s fin wings.

Other members of the Rehab Center include: Overlord (who is kept carefully under lock and key and is not to be approached unless by trained and approved individuals, because he was a mech killer and actively hunted them. He was slotted to be put down before someone decided, in Ratchet’s words, to make him their problem), Sunstreaker (who was injured and grew attached to an Insecticon recovering in the land facility and they bonded and refuse to leave so they had to make a hybrid enclosure), Tarn (a siren-type with a similar backstory to Overlord and is one of the only times one with his ability was captured alive and is under strict care), Nautica and her sorority (slotted to be released though with how much Nautica has bonded with Skids and her caretake Velocity she is likely going to voluntarily stay), etc.

Rodimus meets many of them and is excited to help out. It makes him feel like he’s making up for accidentally mistreating Thunderclash. Then when he gets read in on the they are probably sentient as we are but that’s being debated and meets Drift, things get even more wobbily for him emotionally. He has a lot of dreams and nightmares mixed up with memories about his time with Thunderclahs. Ratchet and he bond though Rodimus is a little terrified of him finding out about his past.

It’s very good for him and he is making friends and a life for himself, but his libido hasn’t died down and if anything has gotten worse, leading him to regularly hookup most nights and still feels weirdly unsatisfied and craving something. For all he’s mentally recovering he is also eating a lot more and emotional regulation wise he’s getting occasional mood swings, sore back, and he’s started to have his pain dull and get exhausted as the craving in him increases that his hookups are not satisfying.

Ratchet’s the one who finally sits him down to confront him, having been a former doctor in Iacon, and tells him he needs to talk to his doctor because its obvious he needs to increase his transfluid donations because they are not meeting his frame needs and if this keeps up he’ll start cannibalizing himself. Ratchet after enduring Rodimus’s obvious confusion realizes Rodimus doesn’t know he is pregnant. The facility had all kind of largely known because of Drift’s treatment of him. Drift is good for pegging when someone is carrying and treats them accordingly. Since Rodimus wasn’t talking about it though they were respecting his privacy.

Ratchet takes Rodimus to the hospital and hooks him up with a doctor, they estimate how along he is and realize he is much, much too small and behind on building materials so he is put on a strict diet and twice daily donations unless he want to abort. Ratchet calms him down and lets him talk out his emotions and Rodimus figures it happened during his post-trial sex marathons. After awhile thinking about he decides to keep it, Orion, despite Rodimus’s protests, did set him up a trust fund so he never feels pressured to fall into a bad situation again and Rodimus hasn’t been touching it due to complicated feelings but it would allow him to support himself. Plus he likes this area, far away from anyone who knows him and Ratchet goes ahead and tells him they were planning to offer him permanent position once his trial ended and his certificate was granted. The facility has a onsite daycare something Ratchet pushed for when he was pregnant with Medix and Minerva, his sparklings.

Rodimus has a support system and slowly tells everyone, getting healthier (but still feeling unsatisfied sexually), no longer seeking out hookups as often (it was mostly the cravings and the island is a bit too small population wise to keep things from getting awkward and people are more wary now that he has a belly unless they are really into it), and dealing with everyone openly being happy and supportive for him and weirdly enough the merformers reaction to when his belly pops changing.

They are all, without exception, preening for him or doting on him in equal measure. His coworkers explain that it’s a pretty normal reaction and merformers themselves commonly find signs of fertility attractive and, they point to Drift and Ratchet, are known for cross species attraction. There are quite a few jokes about how Drift was when Ratchet was pregnant that people then skirt away from when Ratchet approaches. Drift is the most excited for it and grabs Rodimus’s hands to project congratulations and even pets his belly, before grinning, crookedly and pressing Rodimus’s hand to his own and feeling a hardness there. Rodimus is startled but supposes that for all Drift’s imprinting he does still socialize and share the pool with other merformers, who Rodimus has learned are not shy about public sex and it is incredibly common to the point he’s desensitized at this point and visitors have to sign waivers to acknowledge they might see them getting frisky.

Things are actually going pretty well when they get news about a transfer request from another facility. Rodimus doesn’t think much of it until Ratchet sits Rodimus down and explains, seriously, that it would be Thunderclash transferring.

Rodimus feels like he’s been hit by a truck but says he’ll be fine especially after hearing the reason behind the request is that Thunderclash has health issues, and they want him comfortable because they are convinced he is going to die from complications and Ratchet’s Rehab Center is famous for care. Rodimus is deeply upset because he’d made a point to not investigate it at first and when he’d tried later couldn’t find out and couldn’t bring himself to mention it to Ratchet because that would mean telling about his past. Ratchet, during the talk, reveals he already knew. He just had been respecting Rodimus’s privacy.

Rodimus braces for Thunderclash’s return and hopes for the best. He’s taken to talking the Drift about his feelings while doing rounds and confesses everything that happened to him while Drift makes sympathetic chirps and coos and eventually grabs Rodimus’s hands to convey just pure comfort and support wordlessly, which Rodimus appreciates.

[countrymusiclover]

4 - Siphoning Princess

Part 5

The Siphoning Princess

Tag list [ @mystrey101 @melvia-ito @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @onentaien-kwara @maximedallas @melvia-ito @child-of-of-the-sunshine

Charming and I had nearly made the whole way to the bridge in total silence.  Tugging on the sleeves of one of my blue gloves out of nervousness I was thankful that he broke it asking a question into the forest air.  “So just out of curiosity how do you know the bandit that robbed me and also knew where they sold them?” 

“It’s because of who my father is.  His name is Rumplestilskin.  Otherwise known by most as the Dark One.” 

The prince paused in his steps.  “My father made a deal with him.  That’s how I took my twin brother's place as Prince James.  Why didn’t you feel like you could tell me that the night we met at the ball?” 

“It’s complicated, Charming.” I brushed it off not really wanting to discuss it with him.  In the back of my mind I didn’t see any problem with telling him since we would likely never see each other again.  Slumping my shoulders I lowered my gaze to my combat boots finishing my rant.  “If you wish to know, I didn't tell you because I didn’t want you to look at me like everyone else does.  Every time in my life someone learns who my father is, they treat me differently, or just don’t give me the time of day.  I - I just want one person to not treat me like I’m so kind of-“ 

“Villain.” Charming finished my sentence.  His gaze met mine where he lifted his hand wiping away a fallen tear from my cheek.  “I’d never look at you that way.” 

“Well then you’d be the first.  Uh - we’re here.  Let’s get your jewels.” Clearing my throat I drew my body away from his, trucking up the hill seeing the bridge with three large Trolls.  The group was bickering about something until I whistled, getting their attention holding up a large bag of gold from my fathers spinning wheel.  “Hey there, boys.  I was just passing through and was thinking I could double whatever amount those jewels are worth.” 

The head Troll stepped over to me where I lifted my head since he towered over me.  “What do you want, girl?” 

“I wanna make a deal.  I’ll trade you this whole bag of gold for the tiny pouch of jewels.” Raising the bag into the air I smirked at the head Troll. 

The second troll growled at the prince with me.  “Who is he?”

“He’s not anyone you have to worry about.” I glanced between the three trolls sensing they didn’t trust us being here.  “Just give me the ring. You can keep the whole bag of gold.” 

Another troll takes out the pouch and goes to give it to the prince. “Thank you. We appreciate the help.”

The second troll growled at the prince. “He’s too eager. This is a setup.”

“It’s not!” 

The lead troll shoved the Prince against the wall rummaging through his clothes finding his sword attached to his belt.  “He’s a royal!” 

“Agh! Don’t hurt him.” I winced getting shoved harshly away from the group.  Barrel rolling across the ground seeing the two trolls overpowered the prince and had given his sword to the lead troll.  

Charming grunted, getting forced to his knees.  The tip of his sword is now being pressed to the back of his neck.  “Jaide, get out of here.” 

“I - I - hey.” I whispered under my breath feeling a tightness in my chest.  Regardless of the very short time I’ve known this man I can’t let him die.  Laying on my stomach I pulled off one of my blue gloves, pressing my hand into the stone ground I winced feeling a large amount of magic enter my veins.  “I said hey!” 

The three trolls sharply looked in my direction, noticing my whole hand turn red simply by touching the stone underneath our feet.   Before any of them could move I raised my hand blasting the three with a yellow beam of magic.   The three laid on the stone groaning in pain giving me the chance to get up from the ground and check on the prince who was slowly picking up his sword. 

“How did you just do that, Jaide?” 

Walking past the man I glared down at the three trolls who were starting to get up.  “I’m giving you the chance to leave with your heads attached.  Because if you lay another hand on me or my friend I will call upon the Dark One.  Now get out of here.”

The trolls scrambled to their feet disappearing into the woods behind them.  Raising my hands above my head I ran them down my face releasing a breath I didn’t know I was holding inside.  “I can’t believe that really worked.” 

“Would you mind telling me what exactly you just did to those trolls?” Charming questions me sliding his sword back into its holder on his hip. 

Slightly turning my body around to face him I tucked hair nervously behind my ear.  “I forgot to mention that I have magic.” 

“What kind of magic?  The good or bad kind?” He questions me simply. 

“Either option could describe me.  I’d prefer to be a good witch.” 

Charming glanced to the previous area I had blasted the trolls from.  “So what happened over there?” 

“Basically I don’t have powers of my own like my father does with his dark magic.  I have to siphon magic from other things first, for example the ground or magical objects.” 

He shifted his eyes down to my abandoned blue glove at his feet.  “Why do you wear these gloves then?  Do they block out your siphoning?” 

“I’m not exactly in control of not siphoning all the time in a land with magic everywhere.” Gesturing with my other hand that still had the glove covering it I asked him nicely.  “Could I have my glove back?” 

Charming walks up to me taking a hold of my wrist sliding the glove on.  “I finally came up with a nickname for you.” 

“What did you come up with?” I lifted my head up, caught off guard with how close our noses were from touching one another. 

He chuckled with a bright smile.  “Siphoning Princess - Jaide, what’s happening?” 

“What are you - David!” I didn’t follow what he meant until a puff of purple choke surrounded me and I disappeared from his view. 

The prince frantically looked around eyeing a note on the ground that he picked up.  “Stay away from my daughter - Rumplestilskin.” He unfolds the paper reading the written words. 

The little bell rings when we entered Mr. Gold's Pawnshop that windy afternoon.  I made a point to always deliver my rent to him in person. For some reason I enjoyed his company more than anybody else in this town.  Closing the door gently with my boot, my daughter ran up to the counter smacking her hand on the little bell he had sitting on the countertop for customers.  “Mr. Gold.  Mr. Gold!” 

“Careful sweetheart.  Don't break his shop bell.” I touched her shoulders gently tugging her away from it. 

The curtain that concealed the backroom following the tapping of a cane against the wooden floor before we could see Mr. Gold coming into our line of sight.  “Hello Ms. Hunter and little Tessa.  What brings you two in my shop this afternoon?” 

“I'm just dropping off the month's rent.” 

Mr. Gold took the envelope from my extended hand.  “Thank you very much, dear.” 

“I meant to tell you earlier than now but I truly appreciate that you found us an affordable house.  Most people in this town don't like you but I am grateful that you helped us out.” I sent him a smile clasping my hands together in front of my chest. 

The Pawnshop owner nodded in agreement.  “I enjoy when you bring in your little girl.  She always brings a smile to my face.  In fact I have something for her.” He bent down, opening one of the boxes inside the glass case and taking out a stuffed animal and showing it to me and my daughter. 

“Unicorn! Thank you.” She squealed, taking it from his hands snuggling it against her body. 

Reaching inside my purse I dug for some money.  “How much do I owe you for the unicorn?” 

“It's free of charge, Renae.” Mr. Gold smiled down at my eight year old.  “O hope you enjoy your toy, Tessa.” 

She beams squeezing the fluffy unicorn some more.  “Thank you.” 

“Thank you for giving her the stuffed animal.  Have a good night, Mr. Gold.” Taking my daughters freehand in mine we exited the shop with the man watching us closely, for he knew more about the two of us then we realized at the time. 

[criminalmindswhore]

Computer Whiz

Agent Emily Prentiss, a dedicated FBI agent known for her tenacity and precision, finds herself in a whirlwind of danger and emotion when her latest investigation collides with her personal life.

TW: angst, computer crimes, mention of pedophiles

There was only one person whom Emily truly felt safe with and that was her girlfriend Y/n. Y/n was a ray of sunshine and love in her life and coming home to you after a dark case made her days easier. You were always there to welcome her home with a tight hug, a cheek kiss, and a whispered, "I missed you, sweet girl." You worked from home most of the time so her crazy schedule wasn't an issue.

You were a computer analyst for the Department of Defense, you were up there with Penelope when it came to computers and technology. You could hack into chatroom, computer, phone, blog, anything. You had an office in your shared apartment with 3 monitors and a setup that would make any tech nerd drool.

You were working away at your desk on cracking open a chatroom for an underground weapons ring when Emily came in the door, "Y/n, I'm home love." You didn't answer so she assumed you were focused, she was right. As she turned the corner into your office the sight in front of her made her feel weak in the knees. You were sitting in your chair with one leg pulled up under your other leg. You were wearing her FBI hoodie, leggings, and the banana socks she bought you as a gag gift. The messy bug on top of your head made it apparent to her that you have been here for a while. "Hi, love." You could hear the dopey-ass smile in her voice.

Finally stopping your work you turned your chair around to face her, "Hi beautiful girl." She walked over to you before leaning down to give you the sweetest kiss you've ever had, the kind of kiss that makes your head spin around. She cupped your face with her hands before pulling away. She held your face and just looked at you like she was trying to memorize every millimeter of you. Your eyes just watched her eyes as they slowly scanned your face. "Do you want to run and grab our dinner while I finish?" She frowned, "I was hoping you would let me watch you again. It's fun watching you work." How could you ever say no to her, she had this look in her eyes that drove you crazy and she knew it. "Fine, but you can't profile the case." You pointed a finger at her as she pulled up a chair beside yours.

"Fuck yes, I'm in." Your finger kept moving furiously, "I need to download all of this now before I get kicked out." A ding came from your computer and you threw your hands in the air. "New record bitches. They really need to learn it only takes me 3 seconds to get everything." Emily just stared at you in awe, there were about 50 different codes and buttons pushed in those 3 seconds. "I will never understand how you and Penelope do that." She chuckled at herself and you beamed at her. "Dinner?" She nodded and stood up pulling you from your chair. She wrapped her arms around your waist fingers gripping your hips. She leaned in close and whispered in your ear, "I think I know what I want to eat now." Your breath hitched and you craned your neck to expose it to her, she took the bait and started leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.

The next week, Emily was sitting at her desk trying to find a single clue in her case. A computer whiz was hacking into pedophile chatrooms and finding their addresses. This person was then hiring hitmen to take them out. Looking at the messages sent to the hitmen trying to find something, anything. There was a soft knock on her door, Penelope timidly stuck her head in, "Em we have an issue." She sat in a chair in front of her desk, file in hand. Prentiss set down her pen immediately noticing how serious Pen looked, "What's going on Garcia?" Penelope swallowed hard and handed the file to Emily. "Y/n is our unsub." Emily threw open the file looking for a way for it to not be true. "I was trying to find the IP address of the person contacting the hitmen, which was difficult because she was using a device to bounce her IP around every 20 seconds. However, I was able to get through the device and it pinged in your apartment for almost a minute. Unless it's just a coincidence, she is our unsub." Penelope looked up at Emily from her heels, Emily had a single tear on her cheek. The map showed so clearly apartment 3B, the most left corner where your office is. Emily's heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest, this could not be happening.

"No no no no." You kept repeating the word no like a mantra. The alert on your computer still going off, letting you know that Garcia broke your security system. "Fuck!" You had 20 minutes tops to get the fuck out of there. You threw your most important items in a bag and opened up your computer to a Word document. Hands shaky and teary you typed out a letter for your Emily, you knew her heart was broken by now. The letter was full of apologies for breaking her trust, for letting her love you, for running away. As you booked it towards the door of your apartment you stopped for a moment looking at the picture of you and Emily above the kitchen doorway. She had her head thrown back laughing as you were telling a story to JJ. Both of your smiles were wide, eyes sparkling with love. Rossi can be seen in the background smiling at the two of you. You took the photo off the wall and shoved it into your bag. As the apartment door shut behind you, you were officially on the run. Feet heavy, palms sweaty. You could hear the sirens coming towards the building, you got into the second car you had without Emily knowing and slinked out of the parking lot.

It wasn't long before you were caught and thrown into the back of an SUV. Alvez didn't say a word outside of your Miranda Rights the entire ride to Quantico where you knew Emily was waiting. As the doors to the elevator opened she stood there. Arms crossed around her chest, eyes visibly puffy and red. She stared into you with an anger you had never seen before, how could you? Emily's head was going a million miles a minute trying to find a way for you to not be responsible. As Alvez walked down the hall to the interrogation room you saw Emily holding a printout of the letter you wrote to her. Luke didn't bother cuffing your hands to the table, you wouldn't hurt any of them, you wouldn't even think about it.

You could feel Emily's eyes on you from the other side of the glass. You could guess exactly where her head is at, questioning every part of your relationship, looking for signs. She wouldn't find any, she never had any reason to believe this was going on. Emily stared at the guilt so apparent on your face. She knew you truly believed you would never get caught, you are the smartest person she knows. There was a lot of hurt circling her mind. Not only did you do this, but you hid it so well from her. She trusts you more than anyone on this planet, more than she trusts herself, and you hid this.

Emily took a deep breath in and then entered the room. Your eyes shot from your hands to her face, trying to read her. She sat at the other side of the table, hands in her lap, file on the table. "Y/n, why?" You could hear the broken trust in her voice, "I don't truly know. It started with me trying to find them for a case and once I realized how easy it was, I lost control." Your anger was rising, "How could I just live my life knowing these fucked up men hurt children. Children Emily. I couldn't." Your hands were shaking, and her mind was racing. "It's not your job to serve justice, your job was to find them." Her voice was quiet but strong. You swallowed the lump in your throat, "I know that." There was a tension so thick in the air. "I have to send you away Y/n. You put me in this position. I also now have to move. I have to pack your things and move from that apartment." Emily's voice was getting louder and angrier. She laid her hands on the table, and you noticed how her cuticles were bleeding, she was picking at her nails. You felt so guilty for making her start doing that again. "You have broken all trust you created with me, this family. I will forever love Y/n, but not the person sitting across the table from me." Her eyes finally met yours, "I'm sorry Emily." Her hand slammed on the table, and you jumped, "Don't say my name." She stood up and left, leaving the file behind.

You opened it. There were images of the men YOU killed. You didn't know how they were killed, just that they were dead. Your stomach cramped, your cheeks got hot and you slammed it shut. Luke came in to take you to arraignment. Emily watched from the bullpen, still grasping the letter in her hand. She watched you mouth 'I love you' as the elevator doors closed. She watched as Alvez stared at you in disgust, your best friend.

Emily entered her office and closed the blinds. She closed the door and sat down chewing at her thumb. She laid the letter down and began reading it for the 34th time since Garcia gave it to her.

'My love, I'm sure by now I've already been arrested. I can't explain why I did this or how it happened. You know how I am with crimes against kids. KIDS. I will never be able to erase the damage I have created. I made a promise to you that I wouldn't hurt you like your parents or JJ did, but I did worse. I did more damage than they ever could. I'm sure this is your worst nightmare.

I will hold onto the memories you allowed me to create with you, like when we went to Key West and sweat so much we lost weight. I'll hold onto the way your hands fit in mine, how your lips perfectly fit mine. I'll hold onto the way you giggled when you saw me after a case, how you would press a kiss to my cheek and say that you're okay before I had to ask.

You learned me and my brain so fast and well. I swear you knew me better than I did until this all started. I cannot apologize enough for the mess I've created. Not just for you but for your team. Spencer loved my hugs which says a lot. Luke is my best friend. Penelope, sweet loving Penelope. I can't imagine the hurt and pain they are feeling. I'm so sorry to all of you.

I hope you can move on. I can't say I'm sorry enough Em.

-the girl you knew, Y/n"

A drop of blood fell onto the paper, Emily snapped her eyes to her thumb. "Fuck." A tear fell from her eye. She can't wrap her head around this at all, but she'll have to learn. She took the ring off her hand, the promise ring you gave her, she slipped it into her desk drawer.

[freya-at-law]

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Disclaimer: This account is not run by a professional lawyer. This account exists because the mod brain said do it. Yes, as the mod, I will try my best to be factual and accurate.

But if you're having an actual legal problem in the real world, please reach out to an actual professional.

Thank you

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Name: Freya Bjornsdottir

Age: 30

Birthday: August 5th

Height: 5 foot 6 inches

Pronouns: She/Her/They/Them

Languages: Three types of Norwegian (spoken, Bokmål and Nynorsk), Dutch, English

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Brief background:

Origanly from Ålesund, Norway. She went to the Americas for education and a job. Currently lives in New York. She has a dual law degree for civil and criminal law, spending 5 years to acquire her degree at Yale, and has practiced in the state of New York for 5.

She works primarily freelance. Sure, she does have a personal office setup. It's not too large, only consisting of three rooms; entry, office and storage, and a restroom. Though she hopes that one day she can find courage to interview at a high-end law firm.

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Civil law-

Criminal law-

(Will update once mod can explain in their own words)

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Aperance: Her eyes green with trace of hazel, brown curls kept in a messy up do. Freckles adorn their face. Where her face meets her neck on her right side, amongst the triangl, lies a tattoo of the Nordic symbol for protection. She also has a nose ring, bull style.

Out fits

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Relationship dynamics:

She would most likely end up being acquaintances with Matt Murdock and Jennifer Walters.

And if I feel like making them for other dimensions, Harvey Dent as well.

Though Freya profers to keep work and personal life as separate as possible, that's why they would be acquaintances and not friends. But even the stubborn can change.

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Ability simple:

How mod sees it:

-Shadow manipulation: creation of shadow, and being able to control their; location, size, and shapes.

-Create light: able to create a light source up to the brightness of high beams.

-Combined scenario: is the definition of a flash bang. Aka, drowns opponent in complete darkness, then creates a powerful light source practically blinding the opponent.

Acquiring it/lore:

When she was around 15, when she noticed this mutation flourish, she wanted to be alone in the dark, and she got just that. If it weren't for the passing of her father, she possibly would have never known.

Over experiment with such a gift she has accidentally blinded themselves with their own powers enough time that she taught herself how to function and fight without needing her eyes, but not as well as Daredevil. Sure, she can roughly make out people's positions enough not to get knocked out, but that's about it. It's hard to counter someone if you can't see it coming.

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Mod bits-

I am Osi, best found at @osi-inn .

Inspirations for this blog, civil law and general; Daredevil, Night Court (original), Matlock (original), and Suits.

And for the criminal law side of inspiration; Phoenix Wright Ace Attorney, Murder She Wrote, Criminal Minds, High Potential, and any other crime shows i have watched.

[wooliguns]

Act V: Fragments of Cold Beauty

Mualani and Dahlia. Mualani and Furina. Mualani and Venti. And then—to be sure—Kinich, hovering at the periphery of this improbable constellation, a weary astronomer who’s long since lost control of the stars he once thought he understood. The dynamic is, in a word, unhinged. Kinich, sprawled like a reluctant saint on the dormitory sofa, watches the surreal chemistry unfold with mounting disbelief. If fate had flung her into this school instead of him, she would’ve conquered it in a week.

She belongs. Somehow. She giggles through Venti’s implausible stagecraft, rolls effortlessly into Dahlia’s half-serious talk of fashion cults and gala infiltrations, and accepts Furina’s melodramatic declarations with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for sainthood. Kinich can’t decide if it’s unnerving or deeply admirable how easily she slips into their baroque nonsense, as if she were born not into a village but a fuzzy opera box.

“Darling,” Dahlia drawls, perched diagonally across his chair, half-melted like Dorian Gray, “if we hosted a midnight masquerade on the rooftop next weekend—hypothetically—would you attend in diamonds or blue spinels?”

“Both,” Mualani beams, without missing a beat. “I’ve got a theme already. Venetian spirits meet tropical storm.”

“See?” Dahlia exclaims, whirling to Kinich like he’s been proven fundamentally inadequate. “That’s the spirit! When’s the last time you said yes to anything not tragically mundane?”

“Probably the last time you didn’t get us nearly expelled,” Kinich counters, rubbing his temples. (He’s simply a man who’s seen horrors.) (Experienced it firsthand.)

“Oh, he’s hopeless,” Venti sighs, flinging himself across the cushions with actorly agony. “Every day it’s just this: stoic glare, tragic eyebrows, refusal to dance! Mualani, you’re a gem. Can we keep you?”

“You can’t,” Kinich says, a gutter of a grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s not part of your collection.”

“But she’s delightful,” Furina coos, looping an arm through Mualani’s with what can only be classified as genuine affection. “You’re like fresh wind through these halls. We don’t get that often. Everyone here’s either scheming or posturing.”

“I’m just here for the mayhem,” Mualani laughs, eyes glinting. “And possibly the flamingos.”

“Flamingos,” Kinich repeats flatly. “This is where we’re at now.”

Dahlia lights up. “Speaking of! Our plan for next month—a yacht, pink birds, champagne fountains. I want fireworks that spell our names.”

“I’m in,” Mualani says, already plotting.

Kinich groans. “Every time I think I’ve reached the edge of absurdity, you all push me off the cliff.”

“Live a little,” Venti croons. “Try falling with flair.”

But then Furina springs up like a jack-in-the-box struck by divine inspiration. “Wait! I have the idea. Mualani won’t be here long, so we must throw a proper sendoff. I’m talking pool party cinema! Horror movies, floating recliners, underwater speakers—screaming, snacks, total havoc!”

Mualani gasps. “YES. Absolutely yes. Horror movies in the pool? That’s so weird and wonderful, I could kiss you.”

Kinich mutters into his hands, “Here we go.”

“We’ll need inflatable flamingos,” Dahlia intones like a prophet. “And possibly an exorcist on standby.”

“You’re catching on,” Venti says with wicked delight. “We’ll screen The Conjuring. Furina will scream like a banshee.”

“I do not scream,” Furina huffs, clearly offended.

“Right,” Dahlia deadpans. “Last time we played the trailer, you hid behind my cashmere coat.”

Mualani leans forward, bright as a comet. “Okay, I vote for The Ring, but only if we’re all floating when the creepy girl crawls out of the screen.”

“You people are insane,” Kinich sighs, not moving to leave.

“You love us,” Venti sing-songs. “And you’ll be the first to shriek when something touches your foot in the water.”

“Don’t tempt me to drown myself instead.”

“Dahlia’s already ordering the setup,” Furina says smugly, watching her friend tap commands into his phone like a Bond villain deploying minions.

“Done,” Dahlia declares. “They’ll be here within the hour. Screen, speakers, gourmet popcorn, emergency marshals—if needed.”

Kinich closes his eyes. “Of course. Marshals. Why not.”

“I’m calling it now,” Dahlia adds with a mock-grave voice. “You’ll scream first, Kinich. You’ve got the face for it.”

“I hate how right you probably are,” Kinich says. But his lips betray him, curving upward, against his will.

And in that moment, surrounded by three eccentric disasters and the childhood friend who somehow fits with them like a hand-stitched glove, Kinich realizes: yes, this is imbecilic. Yes, this is chaos.

But it’s his chaos now.

And he’s not leaving the pool.

**

Dahlia is back on the phone, spinning sugar-dusted nonsense into reality with the ease of someone who’s never been told “no” with conviction. His voice, lilting and velvet-laced, carries just enough mockery to make even bureaucracy blush. Meanwhile, Mualani hums beside Kinich, her gaze drifting skyward as they lounge in the dorm’s sun-drenched atrium.

“This place is massive,” she murmurs, eyes wide, her voice honeyed with awe. “People here. . . they don’t even feel real. It’s like we’re living inside a fever dream stitched together by someone’s idea of wealth.” She pauses, brow furrowed in thought. “Hey, remember that guy we saw the other day—cold as ice, like he’d stepped out of a holy sanctuary? What was his name again?”

The name arrives uninvited in Kinich’s mind, bitter and covered with gold: Scaramouche.

He says it aloud.

The effect is immediate, overdone almost. Venti, who’d been horizontal and half-asleep in a nearby chair, jolts upright like a seer at the mention of a cursed vestige. Furina, mid-scroll, suddenly looks up with slow, serpentine interest. Even Dahlia, rambling on the phone, casts a sly glance over his shoulder, eyes gleaming like a cat who’s just heard the canary confess.

“What about him?” Furina asks, voice all innocence, the tone one uses when tiptoeing over landmines.

Mualani, blissfully unaware of the tremor she’s caused, simply shrugs. “He was. . . haunting. Gorgeous in that impossible way. Like he wasn’t even real. You know the type—porcelain skin, those eyes. I thought he might be some kind of actor, or a living sculpture. I mean, people that symmetrical should come with a warning.”

Venti’s laugh is light, hollow, crystal knocking against crystal. “You’re not wrong. Around here, Scaramouche’s not just a person. He’s practically folklore. The boy’s made of silky fabric and shadow—artifice down to the marrow.”

Kinich’s stomach turns. Royalty. Venti had said it like a joke, but the word lingered in the air, perfume on a love letter.

“What do you mean?” Mualani asks, frowning.

Before Kinich can answer, Dahlia saunters over, finally free of his call and full of unsolicited clarity. “You don’t know?” he gasps, feigning scandalized. “Scaramouche’s stepmother—Albedo’s mother—owns half the academy. The estate. The marmoreal. Heck, the ghosts in the walls!”

“Half of it, yes,” Furina affirms, her voice now submissive, her posture like someone reciting scripture. “And his reach—Scaramouche’s—goes beyond just property. His family’s legacy built Fontaine’s elite. And his mother. . .”

She lets it dangle, deliciously.

Kinich has an iota of what’s coming, but hearing it still feels like a slap enfolded in textile.

“Raiden Ei,” Venti murmurs, almost piously.

Time hiccups. The world subdues.

Raiden Ei. The Raiden Ei—embossed in every way that matters. A name carved into alabaster theaters and crystal trophies. An actress so mythologized that her performances were archived, treated as religious articles of virtue. Curios. A woman untouched by time, by stain, by affection.

Mualani’s hand flutters to her mouth. “That’s. . . that explains it. The way he looked. He didn’t feel human. Like something carved by the gods to make the rest of us feel small.”

Kinich doesn’t speak. He’s too busy remembering those eyes, those snowy, bottomless eyes that had swept over him like a butcher measuring meat. Coldness was never just a personality trait with Scaramouche—it was lineage.

Furina leans forward, conspiratorial. “They say Raiden Ei never raised him. Just. . . placed him. In mansions. With caretakers. A porcelain son for a porcelain life.”

“Even now,” Venti adds, “with his army of admirers, you can see it in him; that absence. Like he’s performing solitude, but somewhere in there, he’s begging to be seen.”

Kinich wants to protest, to claim there’s no way Scaramouche could be so hollow. But he can’t. He’s seen that void himself, framed in sculpted cheekbones, tucked into sardonic smiles. That emptiness wasn’t faked. It was etched into him.

“And you go to school with that,” Mualani breathes, stunned.

Dahlia hums. “Everyone worships the surface. But the cracks. . . well, those are private. And they’re deep.”

“Cracks?” Kinich echoes.

Dahlia’s tone dips. “They say Raiden Ei never loved him. That he was an accessory. A cursed inheritance. The boy grew up adored by strangers and abandoned by blood.”

Furina nods. “He’s like a puppet in the shape of a god.”

The room falls silent, and for a moment, Kinich thinks he can feel the pressure of Scaramouche’s existence pressing against the walls. Not just the prettiest face in the academy, but the loneliest. A prince cast in fair ivory light, perfect to the eye and ruined underneath.

“Gods and monsters,” Mualani whispers, voice tight. “Sometimes. . . they’re the same thing.”

And Kinich, staring at the floor, whispers the only word that fits.

“Haunting.”

A pause. Then Venti, solemn now, speaks as if recounting an epitaph:

“Beautifully tragic. And utterly unprocurable.”

And Kinich wonders—achingly—what it means to love something so unreachable. And whether, perhaps, it’s worse to be the unreachable one. . . waiting, always, for someone mad enough to try.

**

The pool party, of course, is harebrained. The sort of decadent farce that might scandalize a sensible poet and delight an unprincipled one. Inflatable cinema screens wobble gently atop water like grotesque lily pads, blinking with images of teenagers making doom-laced decisions in 1080p. Venti and Furina squabble over which horror film will grace the night—The Ring or Hereditary, ghosts or grief. Kinich can’t tell the difference.

Dahlia, concurrently, has transformed the pool’s perimeter into a Bacchanalian buffet: champagne chilling in silver buckets, pyramids of pastel macarons stacked like small monuments to hedonism, and bowls of grapes glistening under fairy lights as though auditioning for a Caravaggio still-life. He’s outdone himself—again. Even the popcorn is truffled.

And there, reclined like a sun goddess with mortal tolerance, is Mualani: clad in an oversized robe, legs crossed, sipping a lavender soda through a gold straw. She wears the title ‘honorary guest of tumult’ like an heirloom tiara, Furina’s words still fresh in the air.

It should be fun. Kinich should be laughing, yelling at the screen, half-drowning in fizzy drinks and saltwater and Dahlia’s drama. But instead, he’s adrift.

His mind isn’t here.

Or rather—it’s elsewhere. With him.

Scaramouche, son of formidable actress Raiden Ei.

That damnable name clings like smoke to the edges of his thoughts. Kinich keeps trying to exhale it, to let it wash off into the seethe and shrieks of cinematic murder, but it clings, stubborn and phantom.

He can still see it—those midnight-blues: the impossible barrenness of them. Visions made not for seeing, but for being seen, and yet bereft of anything that suggests life beneath. Kinich has been surrounded by beauty since he arrived at this ridiculous school, but Scaramouche’s beauty is something else. It’s a kind of violence. Frosty. Assured. Designed to cut.

And no one sees it. They call him perfect. Regal. Untouchable. But Kinich can see the fractures—can hear the thrum of emptiness under the porcelain.

Maybe I went too far, he thinks, absentmindedly tracing a drop of condensation along his glass. Maybe next time, I won’t bait him. Maybe next time, he won’t jab the wound just to watch it flinch.

“Kinich,” Mualani says, elbowing him with the force of a hummingbird. “You’re missing the good part. That guy just opened the creepy basement. Classic mistake.”

He blinks, following her gaze to the screen. “Right. Idiot.”

Dahlia tosses popcorn into the pool like divine communion. “Honestly? These people deserve it. Darwinism via dumb decision-making.”

Furina lounges in her float, voice giddy. “They always split up. I mean, really. Who does that?”

Venti twirls a wine glass, then points it at the screen. “These people die because they’ve never met us. We’d survive a horror movie. Mualani’s got Final Girl energy.”

“I’d survive out of spite,” Mualani declares. “Also, because I don’t run toward the sound of chainsaws.”

Kinich huffs a laugh. A small one. The kind that bubbles out accidentally when you forget to be miserable for a moment. He appreciates them—these people. Their silliness, their commitment to nonsense. They keep the gravity from swallowing him whole.

But his thoughts loop again, always back to the prince.

He doesn’t understand it, this abiding sympathy. It’s not as if they’re close. They’ve exchanged fewer words than a bad date, most of them barbed or passive-aggressive. And yet, the image of him—so composed, so cruel, and yet so frighteningly empty—won’t leave.

Venti waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey. You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Kinich asks.

“The dramatic brood,” Venti deadpans. “Are you having a moment? Is the scary movie too much for our gallant knight?”

Kinich forces a smile. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking?” Mualani parrots, nibbling on popcorn. “What’s there to think about in a pool full of flamingos?”

Kinich shrugs. “School stuff.”

Dahlia barks a laugh. “School! Darling, what school? No one here actually studies.”

“It’s true,” Venti adds. “You’re the last academic left in a world of beautiful, well-dressed anarchists.”

They mean well. He knows they do. But how can he explain it? That something about Scaramouche’s coldness doesn’t repel him—it unsettles him. That he doesn’t want to fix him, exactly, but the idea of him being this inaccessible, unloved, unliving thing feels oppressive.

And maybe—maybe—Kinich sees something of himself in all that frost.

He turns his eyes to the screen, where a character predictably slips, falling to their doom. Screams erupt. Water laps gently at the edge of the pool. Mualani chucks a gummy shark at his head.

But all Kinich can think about is a boy with a too-perfect face and no one to call his friend. A boy bundled in the myths of others, swallowed by legacy. A boy who moves through the world like a painting in a room with no windows.

Perhaps I’ll go easy on him next time.

Perhaps.

Because sometimes, a haunted face looks too much like your own in the right light. And no one should have to drown alone. . .no matter how pretty they look doing it.

**

The party proceeds to buzz on, quivering and fracturing around Kinich, a phantasmagoria caught in the surface of a lake. Colored lights pirouette over the bobbing movie screen, projecting screaming teenagers across chlorinated water, as though their deaths were ripples. Mualani floats by on a flamingo raft, laughing as Furina tries to balance a tray of macarons on her stomach. Venti, glass in hand, delivers a speech on why ghosts are probably just “emotionally constipated air molecules.” Dahlia sits at the edge of the pool, legs trailing through the water, negotiating (loudly) with some hapless assistant on the other end of his phone.

Kinich, though?

He stews.

He scrolls listlessly through his phone, pretending to exist aside, when it suddenly vibrates against his palm.

Heizou.

Kinich blinks. Knits his brows. Heizou has never called him before. Never once.

With a small, reluctant sigh, he accepts the call, lifting the phone to his ear. A priest lifting the Host.

“Uh, hey, Heizou?”

“Kinich,” comes the intuitive, serrated voice, tinged with easy sarcasm. “Where the hell are you lot? Lyney and I swung by the dorm—ghost town. No Dahlia, no you. Is this your new hobby? Evaporation?”

Kinich glances around at the furor, the glowing pool, the inflatable flamingos, the floating horror movie screen, and feels a deep, swollen foolishness.

“We’re. . .” He struggles. “Having a pool party? I think?”

He flounders; he has no idea where they are. Some five-star hotel Furina had extracted from her infinite Rolodex of licentious options.

Before he can fumble out an even more pathetic answer, Dahlia plucks the phone from his hand with a flaunting worthy of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

“Hello, Heizou, darling," Dahlia purrs, languid as a cat. "La Fontaine Hôtel. Furina’s here. Kinich’s quaint little friend from home is visiting. Do come by before we all drown in boredom.”

There’s a beat, a chuckle from Heizou’s end. “Sure thing. We’ll head over.”

Dahlia, with an overripe wink, hands the phone back. “Voilà. They’re coming. Aren’t you lucky to have me?”

Kinich mutters, pocketing the phone, “Beyond words.”

The night bloats on. Laughter, screaming from the movie, someone trying to ride an inflatable unicorn with limited success. The party unfurls like an Apparition tapestry: vivid, raucous, grotesque.

But Kinich is already submerged somewhere boreal.

And then, about half an hour later, Heizou and Lyney arrive, trailing in with smiles and damp hair, still wearing the sheen of devilry. But they aren't alone.

Xiao follows.

Xiao, without Albedo clamped to his side like a shadow stitched by some anxious god.

And no Scaramouche either.

Kinich feels his stomach knot into a sailor’s braid.

“Hey,” Lyney greets, breezy, disarming. “Didn’t expect a pool party. Nice upgrade.”

Xiao merely nods, auburn gaze skating over the party like a stone over water, never fully sinking.

Furina, who has by now declared herself Empress of Pool Floaties, waves them forward with a shrill, gleeful cry. “Get in here! No wallflowers allowed!”

The mingling starts effortlessly—Venti and Lyney slip into easy banter, Mualani charms everyone without trying—but Kinich stands apart, gnawing at the feeling that something is amiss.

He folds his arms across his chest. He asks, before he can overthink it: “Where’s Albedo?”

A shimmer (a glance between Lyney and Heizou), quick, barely-there, like a secret flashed between poker players.

“Family stuff,” Heizou says lightly, ever so. He shrugs, a gig, not a movement.

Kinich doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

“Oh, family stuff,” Dahlia echoes, languid, trailing a finger through the water. “Isn’t that quaint. Albedo and Scaramouche missing a party? Might be the first sign of the apocalypse.”

The conversation tries to bounce back, reattach itself to lighter things, but the mood has frayed at the edges now. A rip no one wants to stitch closed.

Kinich forces himself to laugh when Mualani calls Venti a “diva in disguise” and Furina demands a horror movie ranked tournament, but none of it lands properly.

He can feel it: the absence. The way the night sits a little uneven without Scaramouche somewhere glaring icily from a corner, without Albedo’s eerie grace smoothing the wrinkles.

The movies play on. People squawk and giggle and splash water at each other, but Kinich sits deeper and deeper inside his own mind.

Until, finally, he moves.

He finds Xiao standing near the pool’s edge, gazing into the screen’s watery reflection as though searching for an exit.

Kinich approaches, nerves bunching like bad wiring.

“Xiao,” he says: low, careful, as if uttering an invocation. And Xiao turns. He waits. Silent. Expectant. “You didn’t tell me,” Kinich breathes, “that Scaramouche is Raiden Ei’s son.”

The words settle heavy in the air, like lead pellets on glass.

For a moment, Xiao says nothing. His gaze sails back toward the pool, where Venti and Mualani are now performing some drunken synchronised swimming routine for Furina’s roaring applause.

“I assumed you knew,” Xiao answers, voice stripped clean of anything but fact.

Kinich laughs, crisp. “No. I didn’t. But. . . it explains a lot.”

Another pause. A long one.

Xiao’s face is clear as mud, but Kinich can feel the tremor beneath his stillness. The knowledge that there are whole continents of things he won't say. That Scaramouche’s bloodline is only the tip of some sprawling, drowned iceberg.

“He never talks about it,” Kinich utters quietly. “Why would he?”

Xiao’s mouth tenses—minutely. “Because it’s not a gift. It’s a sentence.”

The words lodge themselves inside Kinich’s ribcage.

He watches the movie reflected in the water. A girl bawling. A monster closing in.

And he thinks: There are worse monsters than the ones on the screen.

There are the ones that live in your blood. The ones that call themselves love. The ones that wear your mother’s face and never once hold your hand.

**

“His upbringing wasn’t. . . typical,” Xiao conveys just as a minute passes, voice trailing feebly into the hot, velvety night, a whisper almost deferential, as if uttering Scaramouche’s history above a murmur might summon lemures. His hands, usually clenched into taciturn fists, loosen a fraction against the breeze. “His mother, Raiden Ei. And Albedo’s mother, Rhinedottir. They married when Scaramouche was still young. But their lives weren’t glamorous. Not beyond the lace curtains and the long cars and the perfect smiles.” Xiao’s tenor grows spectral, stitched together with implication. “They were addicts. To substances. To applause. To the illusion of perfection. Anything that made them forget the truth of themselves. It wasn’t a place for children.”

Kinich listens, the words clawing slowly through him, and he feels—incongruously—a tightness in his chest, as though he were a child himself again, locked out of some warm house, watching a family eat dinner through the windows.

The more Xiao spills, the more Scaramouche’s unfeeling, frosted exterior makes a raw, harrowing sense. The coldness, the distance, the ruthless armor; all simply the debris of growing up unloved. Kinich sees it now. He sees it far too clearly.

“And Albedo?” he asks, more softly than intended, unsure why the answer matters, only knowing that it does.

Xiao hums lowly, a sound vibrating more in memory than in thought. “Albedo coped by becoming flawless. A clock wound too tight. The model student. The golden boy. But Scaramouche—he refused. He couldn’t stand the farce. He fought it tooth and nail.”

The words sit in Kinich’s mouth like a bitter fruit. Ah. It fits. The storm under Scaramouche’s earthenware façade. The beauty and the brokenness sitting in each other’s laps, much like troublesome twins.

Then Xiao’s voice changes again, lower, halting, something private breaking against the shoreline.

“There’s something else I never told you.”

A beat. A hush.

“What?” Kinich quizzes, stepping closer unconsciously, drawn to the confessional pulse of it.

Xiao, looking for a moment strangely small against the broad darkness, breathes out slowly. “I was. . . Scaramouche’s only ex. The only one he’s ever been with.”

Kinich feels the words cleave through him like a knife. Blinks. Stumbles internally.

“You?” he croaks, a hoarse stammer quickly tidied into a cough.

Xiao nods, not with triumph but with a sadness so clean it almost smells antiseptic. “If you can even call it that. We were together, technically. But not really. He never let me in. Not once. We never kissed. Never went further than. . . holding each other when it got too dark.” His eyes darken. “And even then, it was like he wanted to bolt. Like being held was a kind of slow death.”

A great cavity opens in Kinich’s chest, a bell struck too hard.

And then—another thought detonates inside him, quietly so.

The kiss.

The memory returns with such vividness it bruises: Scaramouche drunk, sloppy, reckless, pressing their mouths together clumsily, and then vomiting spectacularly across Kinich’s shirt.

His first kiss.

But if Xiao—Xiao, who had been closer to Scaramouche than anyone, had never been kissed by him. . .

“I. . .” Kinich’s voice is barely a reed against the wind. “I might’ve been his first kiss.”

And then he is spiraling, remembering everything: Scaramouche’s insobriety, yes, but also the desperate, strange energy of that moment, something raw and trembling and real before it was all ruined by retching.

He clamps a hand over his mouth without meaning to, as if trying to physically hold back the implications.

If it had meant nothing, would it still claw at him this way?

“You might have been,” Xiao says simply, folding the words onto the night like an origami bird. “Knowing him. . . he wouldn’t give that away lightly. I spent five months trying to earn it. Five months. And he never—never once.”

The gravity of that settles into Kinich’s bones.

He wants to speak, but his throat feels thick. So instead, he blurts another question, half-formed and raw: “Does he. . . know everyone at this academy? Because of. . . you know. . . owning half of it?”

Xiao’s gaze flickers in thought. “Not everyone.”

“Oh.” The disappointment is ridiculous. Kinich tries to swallow it whole.

“But—” Xiao continues, slowly, “he and Albedo are briefed on incoming students. Names. Backgrounds. A slideshow of faces and biodata.” He taps his temple. “There’s a chance. A real one. That he knew you before you ever knew him.”

Kinich stares at him, feeling something large and shapeless shift inside.

Because that night, the very first week, when the weird, clipped invitation to “tea with Mr. Shogun” had arrived, he had thought nothing of it.

But maybe he should have.

“Wait—” Kinich starts, piecing things together now with frantic hands. “When I got the invite. . . Scaramouche said he was Mr. Shogun.”

Xiao’s mouth lifts, dryly amused. “That was Albedo’s invention. He calls himself that sometimes.”

Kinich stares. “But—Scaramouche—he said—”

“He lied,” Xiao reveals, with the weary air of describing the inevitable behavior of the tide or a stray cat. He actually chuckles, and it is a low, strange, private sound, as though laughter is something he doesn’t often trust himself to wear.

It’s almost unbearably intimate, that small glimpse of Xiao laughing.

Kinich feels himself flush, warmth pooling absurdly in his neck, ears, chest.

But now’s not the time to think about that.

He presses forward, voice wobbling slightly. “When. . . did you and him. . . break up?”

There’s a long moment before Xiao answers. And when he does, the words come gently, like something bandaged.

“A year ago. I got with Albedo not long after. Scaramouche. . .” A pause. A grimace. “He hated me for a while. Called me a traitor. Told me he hoped I drowned. That kind of thing.”

“But you and him—” Kinich prompts, needing it said plainly.

“We were never really together,” Xiao finishes, and now the sadness is thick enough to breathe. “Not the way he needed. I loved him. I think. But he never let himself be loved.”

The horror movie floats on the pool screen behind them: knives flashing, shrills bouncing like beads of mercury. The other kids shout and laugh and splash.

And here, in the eddy of this awful, sore truth, Kinich stands, gut-twisted, heart aching for a boy with cold blue eyes and a soul too bruised to touch.

The night settles heavily over them, soft and terrible. And Kinich thinks, I have to see him again.

Not to fight. Not to win. Not even to be kissed.

But just to prove—to himself, to Scaramouche—that someone, somewhere, is willing to stay.

**

The limo sighs to a halt at the boarding school’s great wrought-iron gates, which yawn open like the jaws of some ancient beast. Night has thickened into something almost tactile; heavy, velvety, faintly metallic on the tongue. Kinich steps out first, the soles of his shoes striking the stones with a force that seems disproportionate to his small, solitary form. Around him, the world blurs: hysterics—sharp, foreign—emits from Lyney, Heizou, and Xiao, who tumble from another vehicle in a loose constellation of noise.

But Kinich hardly hears them.

Because then, like a doppelgänger conjured by some vengeful god, a Rolls Royce Phantom slides into view, raven black and gleaming and imperious against the bruised fabric of the night. It pulls up beside them with a mechanical sigh, and from its shadowed interior emerge two figures.

Albedo steps out first. Composed, immaculate, his poise so absolute it feels almost cursory, ostensibly stitched into place by invisible hands. And then—

His stepbrother.

Kinich’s breath stumbles in his throat.

There’s something. . . wrong with him. Wrong in a way that hurts to look at. His gait, usually a choreography of scorn and finesse, is muted right now, sluggish. His eyes, those polar irises that normally flare with something savage and endless, are rimmed in red, sullen with the undeniable gloss of tears not entirely wept away. His lips, those exemplary, vicious lips, are chafed pinker than usual, bruised by some unseen grief.

Kinich sees the fragility at once, the dreadful, delicate ruins of him.

It strikes him like a blow: the “family stuff,” whatever misproportioned pantomime it entailed, has stripped Scaramouche down to his scaffolding.

Albedo moves first, crossing to Xiao and drawing him into an embrace that is all trembling urgency and clutched hands. It is jarring, indecent, to see such emotion laid bare on Albedo’s porcelain face. Kinich stands stiffly to the side, feeling like a servant glimpsing the intimate calamities of his betters. Dahlia, Furina, and even Mualani hover uncertainly, sensing the rupture but too polite (or too terrified) to comment.

No one speaks to them. Albedo barely glances their way as he whisks Xiao inside, as if hurrying a wounded bird back into its cage.

And Scaramouche—poor, calamitous Scaramouche—is left standing alone, an idol abandoned in a public square long after the empire that erected him has crumbled to dust.

Their eyes meet.

And something passes between them, fast and cataclysmic: a scintillate of recognition, yes, but threaded with something rawer, nearer to desperation. A drowning man’s final glimpse of the shoreline.

It is. . . overpowering.

Scaramouche’s gaze slides away first, curt and cutting, snapping the fragile tether between them. He turns, his body a study in accomplished indifference, and melts into the deeper darkness beyond the gates.

Kinich does not follow.

He cannot.

He stands there a long moment, breathing shallowly, feeling the air around him close in with a dreadful finality.

For the first time, he understands—not just the frostbitten cruelty Scaramouche wears like a coat, but the terrible cost of wearing it. The boy is not cold because he chooses to be. He is cold because warmth has only ever come with knives.

And somewhere deep within himself, deep in the bone-quiet places where reason thins out and only ache remains, Kinich knows: if he walks away now, if he leaves Scaramouche to vanish into the long corridors and locked doors of that monstrous school, he might lose the chance forever to reach him.

He swallows, hard, as the others drift back toward the dormitories, their voices ill-defined and tinny with forced gaiety. The night, thick and endless, folds itself around him.

Scaramouche’s shadow is already gone.

And yet Kinich feels it, feels him, the very eidolon stitched into the seams of his skin.

He stands there alone, at the school’s threshold, staring after the place where the boy disappeared, knowing instinctively that the real prince, the trembling, furious, fractured boy behind the sneer, has only ever allowed the briefest keeks.

The question now is whether Kinich is willing to keep chasing a door that might never open.

And he already knows the answer.

Because when he thinks of Scaramouche���s red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands, when he thinks of the kiss he can no longer chalk up to drunkenness alone, there’s no use pretending:

He’s already gone after him.

Even if it’s only into the dark.