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roturo · 8 months ago

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❝ MOVE, IT'S A FALSE GOD ❞

A rising drug dealer returns to Zaun, igniting a "dangerous" power struggle. Tension turns into passion, old routes blur, who will control the game?

⤹ warnings: power dynamics, older man/younger woman, age gap, dom/sub dynamics, angst, begging, pwp, sexual tension, afab!reader praising, pet names, fingering.

⤹ songs used: move - taemin, false god - taylor swift, black swan - bts, danger - txt, automatic - red velvet.

The air in Silco’s private office was thick with smoke, curling around the dim amber light that spilled from a single lamp. You leaned against the chair, the same old chair you used to sit to just watch the man infront of you start creating what would be the ruin of Zean, his blue eye lifting from the long forgotten documents he was supposedly reading before your entrance— arms crossed, your confidence unwavering despite the sharp gaze he leveled at you— or at least, that’s what you try to pretend.

“It’s been a while,” you said pretending nonchalantly, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “I almost thought you’d forgotten about me, Silco. But here we are.”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a slow drag from his cigar, letting the silence stretch. It was the same with him as always—every move, every glance, carefully calculated to put others on edge. Once, it had worked on you.

Not anymore.

“I don’t forget,” Silco said finally, his voice low and deliberate. “Especially not those who think they can play in my waters without permission.”

You chuckled, a sound that carried a hint of mockery. “Is that what this is about? Permission? I didn’t think you’d care, considering how… insignificant I used to be.”

His eye twitched, just barely, and you knew you’d struck a nerve. It was subtle, but years of knowing him had taught you how to read those tiny cracks in his armor.

“You were a child then,” he said, his tone clipped. “A reckless, naïve—”

“And now?” you interrupted, stepping closer, your confidence cutting through the haze of smoke. “Still think I’m a child, Silco? Because from where I’m standing, I seem to be doing just fine without your approval. Even starting to strike your own success.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His good eye studied you, cold and unblinking, but there was something else there too—something that betrayed his calm exterior.

“You’ve built quite the reputation,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Impressive, even. But reputations don’t protect you when you’re making enemies on all sides. Especially not mine.”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you.”

He laughed, his breathless old laugh bringing the same warm (and rare) feeling to your chest. He looked at you in a way you couldn’t describe, he was always the one you looked up for, not Vander, not Vi, him. Even when everything went to shit.

“You think i’m feeling threatened by your presence here when you’re the one who always kept following around when you were just a clueless teenager trying to survive here?”

He smirked to himself, if you didn’t know him all this years you wouldn’t be able to see it, he took another long drag of his cigarette, making sure to look at you with a tentative face, like he’s testing the waters.

Silco’s smirk lingered as his gaze roamed over you, deliberate and slow. It wasn’t the predatory kind that most in the Undercity wielded like a weapon—no, this was something subtler, more dangerous. He let the silence between you stretch again, his presence pulling the air tight, as if daring you to speak first.

You didn’t.

He leaned back in his chair, the sharp edge of his posture softening just enough to make him seem almost at ease. The movement was calculated, you knew—it always was with him—but the faint trail of smoke curling lazily from his cigar only added to the intimacy of the space.

“You’ve certainly grown,” he said, his tone low and silken, as though the words were more for himself than for you.

It wasn’t a compliment. At least, not entirely. But the way his eye flicked down to where your fingers rested on the edge of his desk, nails tapping a faint rhythm, made you feel as though he was cataloging every inch of you.

“Out of your shadow, I’d say,” you replied smoothly, letting your lips curve into a faint smirk of your own. “Which I imagine doesn’t sit well with you, does it?”

He exhaled another cloud of smoke, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Is that what you think this is? Some petty tantrum over losing control?”

“Isn’t it?” you countered, stepping closer. The glow of the lamp cast a golden hue across your skin as you closed the space between you, slow and deliberate.

You saw his eye darken slightly, his gaze following your movement with the precision of a predator assessing its prey. But he didn’t move away. If anything, the tension between you only seemed to tighten as you came to a stop just shy of touching him.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re playing a game you’re not prepared to lose.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Maybe I intend to lose. Maybe I know exactly what I’m doing.”

The sound he made—a low, amused hum—sent a shiver down your spine. He was close enough now that you could smell the faint metallic edge of smoke and shimmer clinging to his suit.

“Do you, though?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, the movement drawing you in until there was barely a breath of space between you.

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to look away. His good eye searched yours, his smirk softening into something more dangerous. Not threatening, but something far worse: intrigued.

“You’ve always had fire,” he said softly, the words hanging in the air between you. “But ambition without restraint… That’s a dangerous thing in this world.”

“And yet, here I am,” you shot back, your voice steady, though your chest tightened at the weight of his words.

His gaze dipped briefly—to your lips, before sliding back up to meet your eyes. It was fleeting, but unmistakable.

“You’re bold,” he admitted, his voice dropping further, the gravel in it brushing against your nerves. “But boldness doesn’t mean you can stand the heat when you step into the fire.”

“Maybe,” you said, leaning forward until you were close enough to feel the faint warmth of his breath on your skin, “I just enjoy the burn.”

For the briefest moment, you saw something flicker in his gaze—something he quickly buried behind a sharp inhale and another pull from his cigar. But the tension lingered, coiling tight between you like a rope about to snap.

His eye sharpened as your words hung in the air. That flicker of intrigue you’d seen moments ago twisted into something darker, something colder—and yet impossibly more magnetic.

“You think you’ve got it all figured out,” he said, his voice soft but cutting. “That your rise makes you untouchable. But even kings can fall.”

Your lips parted in a quiet scoff. “Kings fall when they stop watching the board. And as far as I can see, you’re the one sitting comfortably on your throne while the ground beneath you starts to crack.”

His laugh was low, more exhalation than sound, as he leaned back in his chair. “A clever metaphor,” he murmured, his tone almost amused, silently nodding to your point. Who would’ve known you would turn this way, follow his path—and even his words? The realization sparked a strange feeling deep in his stomach, a warm, fuzzy sensation creeping up his neck.

“But let me remind you,” he continued, his voice still smooth, “who built that board you’re so eager to play on.”

“And let me remind you,” you shot back, stepping even closer, “that no one stays untouchable forever—not even you.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of tension between you, the air too thick with smoke and unsaid words. And then he moved.

It wasn’t a grand gesture, not with Silco. He didn’t need one. Instead, he stood, the slow scrape of his chair against the floor sending a chill down your spine. By the time he was upright, he had erased the distance you’d carefully maintained, stepping into your space with a precision that left no room for retreat.

“Careful,” he warned, his voice barely above a whisper. The closeness made it feel like a growl. “You might end up liking the view from your knees.”

You felt your breath hitch before you could stop it. The words struck something deep and primal, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of faltering—even though those words stirred something inside you, a desire, a want… a need.

“And you might find,” you said, voice steady despite the way your heart pounded, “that even from my knees, I can be the one in control.”

Something in his expression shifted—just barely, but you caught it. That sharp, calculating mask cracked for a fraction of a second, and you saw the flicker of frustration—or was it fascination?—beneath it.

He reached for the desk behind you, his hand brushing the edge as he leaned in, caging you against it without ever truly touching you. The faint smell of smoke and ash filled your senses, grounding you even as the tension spiraled. All you could smell was his expensive perfume mixed with the burn of his daily cigarettes—his scent, only his.

Maybe your group was waiting for you, wondering what the hell you were doing with Silco, maybe even planning what to do if he killed you. But the situation you were in now was far better than anything else you’d ever experienced. This was the dirty, dangerous dream of a naïve teenager—the dream you’d always had since the first time you met him. You couldn’t risk losing it now.

“You don’t understand what you’re toying with,” he said, his voice lower now, almost a rasp.

“Don’t I?” you challenged, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “You’re the one who called me here, Silco. So tell me—what exactly are you afraid of?”

The silence that followed was deafening. His eye bore into yours, searching, testing, as though trying to unravel the web you’d spun between the two of you.

And then he smiled. Not the sharp, mocking grin you’d expected, but something slower, quieter—dangerous in its restraint.

“Fear isn’t the word I’d use,” he said, his voice like silk. “But perhaps… curiosity.”

Silco's gaze never wavered from yours as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. There was no more room between you—no space for retreat, no escape from the storm building in the air around you. His scent, his presence, overwhelmed you, filling your lungs and sinking into your skin.

His hand reached up, but this time it wasn't to push you away— it was to lift your chin, gently, but with undeniable force. His touch was cold, his fingers rough against the delicate curve of your jaw, and yet the heat radiating off him burned you alive. You could barely breathe beneath the intensity of his stare.

“I'm curious,” he murmured, voice low and dark, like the very shadows that filled the room. His thumb brushed along your lower lip, soft yet commanding, testing, teasing.

“Do you know what you're asking for?”

Your heart was pounding, but you refused to show weakness. You forced your gaze to stay locked on his, your breath shallow as you leaned into his touch, letting the burn of his fingers draw you closer. You could feel the weight of his presence, the power he exuded, the way it seeped into your very bones.

“I think,” you breathed, voice trembling just slightly, “I'm asking you to show me.”

The words had barely left your lips when his face closed the distance between you, his breath mingling with yours in a shared, heated exhale. His lips hovered above yours, close enough to taste, but he didn't kiss you —no. Instead, he let the anticipation hang, let it build, until you were certain you couldn't take it anymore. Every inch of your skin felt like it was on fire, and all you could think about was the want-the desperate, aching need that had been simmering between you for so long.

“Show you?” he repeated, his voice thick, almost a growl. “You're bold to ask for that.”

Without warning, he pulled you closer, his hand gripping the back of your neck with a quiet authority that made your pulse spike.

His lips finally brushed against yours, a fleeting kiss, as light and delicate as the whisper of a shadow. But that brief touch was enough to send a jolt of heat through your entire body, making your knees threaten to buckle.

Before you could recover, he deepened the kiss-fierce, hungry, as if he'd been waiting for this moment as much as you. His other hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was suffocating, your bodies tangled as the kiss grew more desperate, more urgent. You could feel his heart pounding in sync with yours, the strength in his body pressed against yours, both of you craving something neither could name.

The kiss was a collision of fire and ice, a dangerous dance of control and surrender.

His lips were demanding, possessive, but you matched him, not allowing him to dominate entirely. Every time he pulled back, you followed, chasing him like a moth to a flame.

He pulled away suddenly, leaving you breathless, eyes dark with a mixture of lust and something more complicated-something deeper.

“I've always liked fire,” he rasped, voice rougher now, as though the kiss had burned him just as much as it had you. “But fire... it burns. And you're playing with it.”

You weren't sure if it was the heat of the moment, the way his hands had claimed you, or the raw hunger in his voice-but something inside you snapped.

“I'd say l'm more like an ice burn,” you murmured, your voice dripping with defiance.

Before he could respond, you surged forward, taking control, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was anything but delicate.

The hunger between you was instantaneous, primal, as your hands gripped him with a new sense of authority. Silco had always been the one in charge, but now the roles had reversed, and you were the one pulling him closer, pushing him back against the desk with an intensity that left him breathless.

His shock didn't last long. Silco's hands moved, as though to regain control, but you were quicker. You pulled him firmly against you, forcing him to the edge of the desk, caging him there with your body. Your kiss was hungry, urgent, as though you were trying to consume him, and it felt like you were doing just that-biting, tugging, exploring him in ways that left no room for hesitation.

Silco's breath hitched, but this time it wasn't from power-it was from you. You were the one dominating the kiss now, your hands roaming across his chest, your body pressing him down with a quiet strength. He groaned against your lips, caught off guard by your sudden shift, and yet there was no resistance in him now. Only the heat of his body, the fire in his gaze.

His hands found your hips, but you didn't let him move you. You weren't done. Not yet.

“You think you control everything,” you said between kisses, your voice low and teasing.

“But even you can't resist me now.”

His hands tightened on your waist, but he didn't pull you away. Instead, he seemed to surrender to it, to you. His kiss deepened, now one of want-raw and desperate, matching your own intensity as you continued to trap him against the desk.

“Then show me,” he growled against your lips, hands gripping your back, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. “Prove it.” Silco's growl sent a shiver down your spine, his hands tightening on your waist with just enough pressure to remind you exactly who was in charge here. You may have thought you could control the moment, but Silco wasn't one to be caged-or tamed.

The smirk tugging at your lips faltered as his hands moved, sliding up your back and pulling you flush against him. His strength was effortless, his grip commanding, and the air between you seemed to crackle as he tilted his head, his lips grazing yours in a way that sent a jolt of heat through your entire body.

“Mercy?” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, though his grip on you was anything but. “You seem to be under the impression that I allow mercy.”

The air between you crackled with tension, charged with an electricity that prickled your skin as Silco's hands tightened on your waist. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the power in his grip, and it only fueled the fire burning within you.

"I don't want mercy," you breathed, your voice low and husky, your lips hovering just a hair's breadth from his.

His good eye darkened at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest that you could feel more than hear. In a swift movement, he grasped your thighs and lifted you onto the desk, his body moving between your legs as he pinned you there with his weight.

The sudden shift left you breathless, your heart pounding wildly as you looked up at him, his face illuminated by the dim amber light of the lamp. His eye searched yours, intense and focused, as if trying to unravel the secrets hidden beneath your skin.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he leaned in closer, his lips ghosting along your jawline. “Who would’ve thought you would turn into this nasty dearly thing huh?”

You shivered at his touch, at the way his breath felt against your skin, hot and heavy with want. Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you arched into him, desperate for more.

"I'm not afraid of you," you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. "Are you?"

His response was a sharp nip to your earlobe, followed by a low chuckle that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Oh, I'm not afraid," he murmured, his hand sliding higher, fingers brushing against the hem of your skirt. "But you should be."

You gasped as his fingers pushed under the fabric, trailing fire across your skin as they moved higher and higher. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as you lost yourself in the sensation, in the way his touch ignited every nerve ending in your body.

"Enlighten me, Eye of Zaun.”

Silco's response was a low growl, a sound of pure hunger as he captured your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delved into your mouth, claiming you, possessing you, as his hands roamed your body with a desperate need.

You moaned into the kiss, your own hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, deeper. The heat between you was suffocating, all-consuming, and you felt like you were drowning in the depths of your own desire.

His hands slipped under your shirt, fingers splaying across your bare skin as he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck. You arched into him, head thrown back in ecstasy as he left a path of fire across your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"You want me?" he growled against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your breast through your bra. "You want to see what I can do to you?"

You nodded frantically, too lost in the sensations to form words. Your body was on fire, every touch of his hands sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

With a low chuckle, Silco's hand deftly unclasped your bra, tossing it aside before his fingers closed around your sensitive peak. You cried out, hips bucking involuntarily as he pinched and rolled the hardening bud between his fingers.

"That's it," he purred, his voice dark with lust. "Let me hear you."

His other hand slipped through your bottoms into your panties, fingers gliding through your slick folds. You were already wet, already aching for him, and he groaned at the feel of you.

“I could practically kill you right now. Cage you— Torture you.” He chuckled as he looked at you, your mind already too lost to answer him. "So ready for me," he murmured, circling your clit with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him. "So desperate."

You couldn't deny it. You were desperate, needy, aching for his touch like nothing you'd ever felt before. This was embarrassing. You always had a crush for the man, but you never stopped this low. Your hands scrabbled at his back, nails leaving crescent marks on his skin as you tried to pull him closer.

"Please," you whimpered, too far gone to care how needy you sounded. "Please, Silco."

“Who’s in control now, dear?”

“F-fuck you Silco.”

“I think it’s the other way around.” He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing, taunting, stoking the fire that burned within you. You were already so wet, so ready for him, and the knowledge only seemed to spur him on.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire. "So desperate for me, so needy."

He circled your clit with a feather-light touch, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You cried out, hips bucking involuntarily as he kept up the maddeningly slow pace.

"Please," you whimpered, too far gone to care how desperate you sounded. "Silco, please..."

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His fingers continued their torturous dance, dipping inside you, stroking along your inner walls before retreating to circle your clit once more.

"What do you want, dear?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Tell me what you need."

Your head thrashed on the desk, fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to pull him closer. You were so close, teetering on the edge of release, and yet he kept you there, balanced on a knife's edge.

"I want you," you gasped, your voice breaking on a moan as his fingers curled inside you. "I want your cock, Silco. Please, give it to me."

He groaned at your words, his eye darkening with lust. With a swift movement, he withdrew his fingers from your dripping core, leaving you empty and aching.

"Beg for it," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "Beg me to fuck you."

You didn't hesitate, too lost in the throes of your own need to feel anything but the desperate hunger that consumed you.

"Please," you sobbed, your hips rolling shamelessly against him. "Please, Silco, I need your cock. I need you inside me, filling me, fucking me. Please, I'll do anything, just give it to me, give me your cock, please..."

You begged and pleaded, desperate for the touch of his cock, and Silco finally relented. With a low growl, he tugged your panties down your thighs, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the room. You shivered at the sensation, at the way his eye raked over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed skin.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and thick with desire. "So perfect."

There was a calculated intensity in his gaze, a sense of purpose that sent a thrill of excitement through you. Silco was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it with unwavering focus.

He pushed your legs apart, settling between your thighs as he freed his cock from the confines of his pants. It sprang forth, hard and thick and already dripping with precum. You licked your lips at the sight, your core clenching with anticipation.

But Silco didn't rush, didn't give in to the desperate hunger that burned between you. Instead, he took his time, his fingers tracing along your slick folds with a maddeningly slow pace. You squirmed beneath his touch, your hips rolling shamelessly as you sought more of him.

"Patience," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "I'll give you what you need, but first, I want to savor every inch of you."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement that left you trembling. Silco was a man who took control, who demanded submission, and the thought of being at his mercy only fueled the fire that burned within you.

With a single, measured thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching you wide around his thick length. You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the desk as he filled you completely.

But even as he claimed you, there was a detachment in his movements, a sense that he was simply taking what he needed without any real emotional investment. He set a steady pace, his hips rocking against yours with a calculated precision that left you breathless.

Each thrust was designed to push you closer to the edge, to shatter the fragile control you clung to. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he used you for his own pleasure. There was no tenderness in his touch, no whispered words of affection or praise. Instead, there was a cold, clinical efficiency to his movements, as if he was simply fulfilling a basic need.

You could feel the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your body responding to his touch despite the lack of emotional connection. Your nails scrabbled at his back, leaving crescent marks on his skin as you tried to pull him closer, to force some kind of reaction from him.

But Silco remained impassive, his eye never leaving yours as he continued to pound into you with a relentless rhythm. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back his own release.

You could tell he was close, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. But still, he didn't give in to the pleasure, didn't let himself fall into the abyss of ecstasy that threatened to consume you both.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he found his release. You could feel the hot spurt of his cum filling you, marking you as his own, and a part of you thrilled at the thought of being claimed by him.

As he pulled away, his softening cock slipping from your well-used core, you felt a sudden chill, a sense of abandonment that left you aching for something more. But you knew better than to ask for it, to beg for the affection and tenderness you craved

For a moment, his eye raked over your naked form, taking in the marks he'd left on your skin, the way your body trembled in the aftermath of your shared pleasure.

But then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. Silco straightened, his expression closing off and hiding the small bit of tenderness you could see once in him, becoming once again the cold, calculating man you knew him to be.

He passed you some tissues, "Clean yourself up," he ordered, his voice clipped and businesslike. "And don’t forget to tell your group to stay off what it’s not theirs"

With that, he turned and strode towards the door, leaving you lying there on the desk, exposed and vulnerable. You watched him go, a confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. There was the lingering heat of your shared passion, the ache of your body as it remembered his touch. But beneath it all was a growing sense of emptiness, a longing for something more than the cold, clinical coupling you'd just experienced.

You knew Silco was not a man given to tenderness or affection. He was a survivor, a fighter, a man who took what he wanted and moved on without a second thought. And yet, even knowing this, even understanding the futility of your desires, you couldn't help but wish for more.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself up from the desk, wincing slightly as your sore muscles protested the movement. You grabbed your discarded clothes, pulling them on with shaking hands. As you smoothed your clothes, you couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. You were sure this was not the only time you would be here begging for him after all this.

Only time would tell. But one thing was certain - you were in deep, and there was no turning back now. Silco had claimed you, marked you as his own, and whether he admitted it or not, you knew that you would always be his, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

#silco x reader #silco smut #silco #silco arcane #arcane silco #arcane #arcane smut #arcane s2 #silco x you #league of legends #arcane season 2 #lol #i need him so bad

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alexispunkkk · 2 months ago

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no mercy in seattle

- pairing: dark!tommy miller x fem!reader

- summary: on tommy’s rampage in seattle after the death of his brother, he needs a way to get his anger out. he uses you as his outlet, taking his emotions out in the best way he knows—sex.

- warnings: rough sex, cussing, unprotected piv, dark!tommy, dubcon, boot riding, boot humping, oral sex, spanking, face slapping, spitting, hair pulling, manhandling, creampie, mentions of murder and guns blah blah blah, joels sooo dead sorry

- word count: 5.1k

- weird mix between the game/show plots adjusted for this. anyway i wrote this in protest against the show writers because where tf is tommy!!! jesse says he’s in seattle with him but they’re not even gonna show me my man?? need him picking off the hoes one by one at the wlf with a sniper. soooo here u go here’s tommy’s deserved vengeful journey

based on this ask | on ao3 | masterlist

For Tommy, mornings don’t exist in Seattle. Not anymore. There’s no sunrise, no one to wake him up. Not Joel, obviously, not Ellie, not Dina, and not you.

Just sudden jerks out of sleep where his hand automatically reaches halfway to his gun, his breath caught in alarm. He’s endlessly alert and anxious, alone, every noise sounding suspiciously like footsteps and every little rustle in the woods like someone’s about to take a shot at him.

He sleeps in fragments: an hour there, and another thirty minutes on occasion–never in the same place twice. Temporary safehouses, abandoned rooftops and buildings. He misses having a real bed. Especially the part where he’d have someone next to him.

Everything is covered in moss, rain leaking through cracks and soaking into his jacket, pooling by his thick boots. He doesn’t care much, though.

He’s a smart guy. A good hunter. When he moves, it’s silent and calculated–each move is normally from a vantage point, though. Seattle is a fucking maze of concrete and glass and vines and rot that invade the city. And the damned Washington Liberation Front patrol it like they own it. They’re well-armed and well-fed, something Tommy can’t afford or handle all by himself out here.

So, he watches from above. Behind the scope of his gun, he watches. Never hesitating.

He takes them clean out, one by one. One shot, one body. Quick, clean, never caught by the others. Another shot.

It’s not for trophies, but simple revenge–he gets closer, mind searching aimlessly for the names reported by Dina on the day that his brother died.

The list burned into his soul like a brand on the hyde of Jackson’s cattle, giving him the motivation to keep cleaning the WLF off in hopes to find one girl in particular. He moves silently and quickly, gone before they can catch sight of the figure taking them out one by one.

But, every time he thinks he’s found a trail, it went cold. Every time he gets close enough, they slip away in time and it becomes harder–he feels like he’s being hunted in return. Being played. Has to ration his ammo so, so meticulously. Three bullets for his rifle, two for emergency. Every shot counted with Tommy.

The same goes for his food: little pieces of jerky that he ripped up and chewed while his eye remained in his scope. Ate in silence, slept with a shiv clutched in his hand and his rifle right next to him.

All the while, the ghost of his brother followed him. Not in body, but in the quiet of the city.

Tommy sees Joel in the corner of his vision, egging him on to find Abby and end it. He hears his grumbled laugh in the rustling leaves, his flannels in the cold air when it rains. Seattle is a rainy place. It worsens it.

Sure, it kept him motivated in his killings. But moreover, it kept him angry. Not just the fact that he’s gone, but how it happened. The mere sight of a golf club drives him off the wall nowadays, and he rages in silence.

When he does take a shot, it’s quiet, but it’s not exactly clean. He’s taking them out, destroying them. Knees, throats, headshots. Watched their blood boom and splatter across concrete from over a hundred yards away, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Not enough for the taking of Joel.

Not even close.

There are days his hands still shake, days he punches walls if he misses a shot, or if he catches the scent of something in the air that reminds him a little too much of his older brother. The guilt swallows him whole, bringing him into a mindless pit of rage and vindictiveness.

It’s not resentment that he has for the WLF–it’s genuine loathing.

So, when three familiar figures show up, he’s acting a bit different.

Ellie and Dina allowed you to tag along to Seattle with them, trusting you enough with your knowledge of weaponry and hunting. Thanks to Tommy for teaching you, of course.

The three of you have been doing surprisingly well, beginning your arrival with a stay downtown: searching synagogues and courthouses and banks before landing yourselves in a hotel. There were dead bodies–not many infected–but of soldiers and humans.

Tommy’s doing.

Naturally, there are instances that put your group in grave danger, but you make it out decently. An elementary school, news station, tunnels, a theater. Clickers and runners and more bodies, a horse that had once been Tommy’s as well, and lots of Ellie’s guitar playing.

On the third day, Dina isn’t feeling too hot. Finding Tommy would be the best decision right now, in equal importance to finding Abby. In a mix of luck and the opposite, your group clashes with him in the Seattle Waterfront Aquarium.

In a frenzy where Ellie had managed to successfully kill both Mel and Owen, leaving her with a panic attack due to the now-dead woman’s unknown pregnancy, he shows up behind her and prompts you all to leave. Always a pragmatic thinker.

The reckless first three days, thankfully, did leave you back in the hands of your Tommy. The same tanned, flirtatious man you once knew now ruined by the guilt of his brother’s passing and having to strip himself of sleep and life in order to kill civilians over and over in a ruthless rampage of revenge.

His eyes, once a soft brown, seem darker, flicking over you in silence. When Ellie and Dina were around, his mouth opened like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Couldn’t.

The air stretches thickly between the two of you as if waiting for something, but the energy is off. Your sweet, caring man now tortured with a lack of sleep and too much violence, even for him. That says a lot, considering his days as a combat veteran in the Gulf War and the strenuous times spent hunting infected ever since the outbreak.

He’s always been the strongest man you know, ever since the two of you met in Jackson a few years back. Goes on every patrol without a word of complaint, gets over serious injuries like they’re simply papercuts, can take out six clickers in a row without the blink of an eye or a breath harsher than the last.

Hell, he’s handled bloaters by himself before.

But something about him seems different–not only in the sense that he’s tired and sick of killing, but he’s truly hurting.

You know Joel’s death got to him. Badly. He and his brother were so close growing up, stuck together for years at the start of the outbreak. Tommy was there for him when Sarah passed, when he lost hearing in one ear from a missed shot to his own head. They hunted in Boston together, took the lives of so many. A strong bond.

So you have a basic understanding of his drive for revenge. You certainly didn’t know it could reach this extent, though.

The theater door clicks shut, the sound echoing longer than it should’ve when Ellie and Dina head out for a bit on a supply run. That was their excuse, at least–it was probably because they could feel the tension and the way Tommy was about to unravel.

For a long second, you just stand there and watch him from across the room.

It’s the first time the two of you are alone since he left, and as much as you missed him, you’re a little scared. You feel bad, obviously, but you’re terrified for him. He’s seemingly going insane right now, looking incredibly tired. A big gash on his hand from accidentally grabbing his knife too quickly, hair plastered to his neck, jacket soaked and rain-damaged.

His back is to you, crouched beside a bench while he unstraps his gear and sets his guns down for once.

“Tommy…” you take a breath, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He’s literally radiating fury in the form of heat, seething profusely with each breath.

He doesn’t answer yet, just stands. Slowly. Too slowly. It doesn’t feel like your Tommy.

He turns around, and it feels like it hits you in the chest this time. His face is hollowed out, wrenched with exhaustion. His eyes are bruised and sunken in, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the veins of muscles tick. Not just grief, like you would’ve expected out of a normally soft-spoken man.

It’s fury. Bare and red seething rage curled under his skin, eating him from the inside out.

“Can’t do this shit anymore,” he begins, voice rough and gravelly. He hasn’t spoken in a few days now, and he’s severely dehydrated. “I can’t—fuckin’ can’t.”

You step forward carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, unknowing if it’s docile or not.

“Tommy.”

Your fingers slide from his shoulder to his arm, working down gently until reaching his hand. It’s the same hand you always hold, the same soft and big fingers that have graced and worshipped every part of your body back in Jackson. Just now, hardened by a week in the wilderness without access to much clean water or resources other than his need for carnage.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. That look on his face. And I swear to God—” he cuts you off, swivelling around to grab the back of a chair and slam it into the ground. The wood splinters under his grip, two of the legs breaking off entirely as the piece of furniture hits the surface.

“Could fuckin’ kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands.” He resumes, turning back around after the crash of the chair. His chest heaves. “Still wouldn’t be enough.”

You’ve never seen him so angry. You didn’t know he had the capacity to be so angry. Back home, he’s all sweet and southern–a townsman, good with the animals and kids. Never yells. Jokes and flirts his way out of situations.

Now, his eyes are dark and bloodshot. Genuinely wildlike.

“Tommy,” you repeat, trying to calm him down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in a while, so you want it to be nice–but his mind is racing. “C’mon, hon’. Calm down a bit. We can sit. Take a break.”

“No.” He scoffs, breath picking up quickly as his chest rises up and down. Deep, dense heaves that he can’t control.

“I’m losin’ my mind out here, baby,” he rasps, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the room, trying to keep from looking at you while his pants start to feel just a little bit tighter. “I’ve been out here alone, killin’ and hunting and shit. None of it’s fuckin’ changing anything.”

He steps forward now. Fast and desperate. He smells differently than usual, that usual clean cedar adjacent scent replaced by an unwashed musk and the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering on the fabric of his jacket. He’s a little gross and smells faintly of the mildew that comes alongside heavy rain, but he’s still your Tommy. Your poor, tortured, grieving, angry Tommy.

“You get it?” He asks, grabbing your face. Rough and needing as ever. “I’m gonna explode and I can’t—-I don’t know where to put it. Don’t know where the fuck to put it.”

You nod. No, you don’t really understand. But you’ll always do anything for him.

“I know,” you respond, voice hardly above that of a whisper.

Tommy only stares at you like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he needs you to prove it.

“Don’t need any talkin’,” his forehead presses hard against yours, breathing coming out in pants now with your face this close against his own–his breath isn’t the freshest, either. Jerky and days without brushing. He gets a pass, though.

His hands slip down to your hips, holding onto you for dear life. He’s always been one for constant consent, but now his eyes are asking all that he needs. After all, he did just say he doesn’t need you talking.

“Please. Tell me you want this. Just need something that ain’t anger right now.” He gasps when you nod and rut against his hips in return, taking that as a pathetic excuse for consent.

“Tell me I can have you right now before I lose it and don’t ask.”

You don’t speak. Just pull him in. And he completely breaks in that moment after one of the worst weeks of his life.

The threat of not asking gets your heart racing, showing how badly the trip has really treated him. The Tommy you know wouldn’t even be able to conjure up that thought, but he’s filled with such unfathomable rage and frustration that he physically needs a place to dump it. Luckily, your pussy is up for offer.

Your back hits the wall with a hard thud, the cracking plaster of the theater catching your shirt and tugging it up to expose your stomach as his body presses flush into yours. His breath is hot against your neck, raising the baby hairs on the back of it and eliciting a flush all the way up to your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You don’t get what you’re fuckin’ doing to me right now. What you are to me.”

His hands are everywhere in seconds, rough and dirty palms ghosting up your sides and moving the shirt further. He fully untucks it from your belt, shamelessly forcing his hands up the fabric and snaking around to reach the familiar clasp of your bra.

He’s done it a million times, but somehow manages to get it off faster than any previous attempt. The fabric hits the ground while his mouth trails up to your ear, front teeth nibbling at the dangling bit of your sensitive earlobe.

There’s no foreplay like usual. No finesse. Just want and frustration.

Raw, filthy, desperate need.

He bites down, hard, right after moving his set of teeth to the base of your throat. Your gasp makes him almost snarl, grinning and breathing out the filthiest noises onto the skin he’d nearly ripped through with the force of his jaw.

“That’s it.” He mutters, voice meaner now. He tries again, sinking his teeth into the area above your collarbone, leaving a sticky patch of saliva where he’d also left his mark. “Like it when I’m mean. Fuckin’ slut getting off to me bein’ angry about my brother.”

He’s never talked to you like this before. Never even been close to something that resembles an attitude with you. But here you are, growing wetter at the sound of his mumbling and yelling after a rough week.

“Tommy–” your hand curls into the bottom hem of the damp flannel under his coat, fingers barely grazing the hot skin on his lower belly that lies under.

“Nuh-uh.” He growls, forcing your legs apart with his knee and shoving his thigh between yours. It locks you in place, his hands grinding you down on the thick, meaty stretch of thigh enough to make you whimper. “Think I’m gonna be soft on you? After what they did to Joel?”

His voice cracks again. His head dips with a grunt, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep himself from falling apart. His chest is heaving, and he’s gripping onto you like you’re physically keeping him alive and intact right now.

“Could be out there killin’ someone. Finding the bitch who did it to my brother.” Tommy laughs, one hand moving from your waist to your jaw, tilting that pretty head back to look up at him.

He kisses you, absolutely devours you in one go–like you’re air after he’s been drowning. A lifeline. His tongue is hot, teeth clashing carelessly into yours. His hands yank at your clothes until the shirt you’re wearing joins your bra on the ground and your belt is half unbuckled. Doesn’t pay any mind to seams or buttons like usual.

“But I’m here with you, yeah? So you gotta make it good. Give me something, baby.”

He says between kisses, slightly guilting you into helping him out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but the delivery is so strangely unlike Tommy. Fuck it, though. You’re admittedly a slut for him–you take any chance to get on your knees.

Each movement is loud and chaotic as he pushes you to your knees, already grabbing your head of hair in one hand and twisting it up into a makeshift ponytail–or a grip, in his case.

The man’s belt is off in seconds, discarded to the ground before you can even acknowledge what’s going on. The waistband of his jeans drops, hitting the floor quietly. Before you know it, his hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back while his thumb finds your lips to part them.

His tip comes in contact with your lips, smearing the sticky residue of precum on the pink surface of them. It’s been too long since he’s felt them on him.

“Fuck, you’re takin’ it. C’mon now, open up.”

You obediently open, parting both of your lips to allow room for his puffy, sensitive head to slip in. At the simple feeling of your wet, warm mouth, he groans. Head falls back, hips stuttering pathetically. To come back to the feeling of a familiar, welcoming mouth on his cock after the worst week of his life was the best feeling.

Normally, Tommy would allow you to do the work on your own. Meaning you would hold his hips, go at your own pace, take as long as you’d like with the tip versus the shaft.

Tonight, though? Oh no. He’s not waiting. The hand gripping your hair tightens mercilessly, yanking your head toward his body, his thick cock sinking deep into your throat without warning.

“Mmphm—” you try your best to mumble to tell him to slow down, but he’s already thrusting. In, out. Using your mouth like some useless ten dollar pocket pussy. Saliva is dripping from the corners of your fucked-out mouth, groans escaping from the depths of your throat each time he hit it.

“Fuck, take it. Lemme use ya,’ honey.” Tommy groans, yanking your head again until he’s balls deep between your lips, your nose buried in his graying bush of pubic hair.

He’s too distracted by the overwhelming feeling of having this after a tortuous week, getting a break for his own pleasure. From his girl. His perfect girl who’d do anything for him.

So, he doesn’t quite pick up on the rustling beneath him.

While you’re taking his dick as far back into your throat as possible without gagging, you’re getting wet. As you do. He’s right–you are a slut for him. He’d already undone your belt, so it wasn’t that much work to get the rest off.

You managed to shimmy your pants off, leaving you in a pair of dangerously wet black panties. The pooling in them soon transferred onto leather while your aching pussy came in contact with Tommy’s boots. Grinding softly at first, just to relieve the tingling.

In a mere thirty seconds, it became more than gentle grinding. Oops. You’re losing focus on the cock in your mouth because of the feeling of his hard, dirty boot against your sensitive cunt. Even through the fabric, it was fucking orgasmic. You haven’t seen him in a whole week. You’re clearly needy, is that so bad?

“Baby,” Tommy whines petulantly when your usually skilled mouth starts to lose its practiced technique, giving your face a soft slap.

His eyes finally open, drifting down to take in the sight of him between your lips. One of his favorites. Instead, his eyes draw downward further to the desperate movement of your hips.

He raises an eyebrow and snorts, gripping your jaw again and fucking your face harder. Forceful, now. It does hurt a bit, the muscles of your jaw aching as much as your poor pussy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, shaking his head scornfully. “What’chu doin,’ huh?”

You whine and feel a few pathetic tears slip when he uses your throat more.

Tommy doesn’t stop at the tears, but does manage to get his hips to still when you gag much harder this time. Sure, he’s angry right now, but he’s not evil. He knows your limits.

“M’kay. I know, I know. Fine.”

Pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, he groans at the sight of the long string of saliva that connects the two. Sticky and stringy, stretching out a few inches before falling back and dribbling down your chin. His hand reaches out, rubbing a bit of it off and cleaning his thumb in his own mouth.

“Y’can’t take it? Gaggin’ already?”

He belittles you, bringing his hand back down to the right side of your face. He rubs it, gentle for a quick second, before drawing his palm back and meeting the cheek with a slap. Not the hardest, but enough to leave a mark. Just a little bit of his frustration escaping.

“M’sorry.” You begin, but Tommy’s shaking his head in disappointment.

“Usually better than this. Usually waitin’ your turn all good and proper, not gettin’ yourself off on my boot like that.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You didn’t think he noticed the grinding on his shoe. Somehow.

Tommy tuts, shaking his head and rubbing the reddening patch on your cheek he’d just hit. It burns so good, a hot feeling rising in the stinging skin the same way it was rising in your stomach while you got yourself off on his foot like a slut.

“Can’t wait, huh? Just had to? That it?” He grumbles, thumb dipping down between your lips and parting them yet again. There’s still a drop of precum on the corner, some saliva dribbling down. He likes the look of you, all spent and messy like this.

“Guess so.” You answer quietly, mouth opening for him when he spreads the two lips.

Without saying anything else, Tommy takes a moment to collect some saliva in the warmth of his mouth. He swishes it around, lips puckering up before opening as he spits right into your now-opened jaw.

It catches you off guard. But you take it, feeling guilty you couldn’t even finish off the head earlier out of your own neediness distracting you. You remain on those knees like a good girl, staring up at him patiently with the gob of his saliva pooling in your mouth, his thumb on your chin.

He raises his eyebrows, just testing you like a fucking asshole right now. Waits too long, a good ten seconds, before nodding.

Obediently, you swallow it, eyes shutting as you savor the taste of his spit after too long.

“M’kay, up, baby.” Tommy nods in approval again, hands slipping under your armpits in order to hoist you up.

He’s always been able to manhandle you so easily, and you love it. The fact that he can pick you up, toss you around, make you his, without you being able to do anything about it. Yum. He’s so muscled and just large, especially his hands. Vascular, thick, hardened from work like all of him is.

You’re in his arms for a few seconds before he finds a little chest to sit down on, grunting while he sits back and sets you down on his lap. Your legs come around his hips, straddling him, your body resting on top of his.

“Might as well give ya’ what’chu want. Clearly not doin’ me good being apart from you.”

His hand comes down your back, feeling the soft plunge of the dimples on the small of it. He rubs your soft skin, slipping up under the shirt he’d previously pulled up, before his hand moves lower. It comes in contact with your ass, the little black panties not giving your skin much protection.

A loud slap sound snaps in the air, louder than the one to your face earlier. It draws a whimper out of you, making you bury your little head in his sweaty neck.

Tommy chortles, rubbing the spot and tapping it a few times.

“Fuckin’ mess. Whimperin’ and shit.”

Another slap, and then he eases up. Your whimpers make him feel bad about it–the sounds of actual pain. But, on the down low, they’re making his cock stand up more.

You’re shifting around, trying to get it to hit perfectly against your clit through the fabric. No luck, though, as his hands come to still your waist.

“Uh-uh. M’doing this tonight. Sit still for me.”

Tommy advises, raising his eyebrows while he gives your right hip another tap of reassurance. You can hardly sit still, even with his hands keeping you in place. Pathetic. Today, there’s no gentleness like the Tommy you know. Just fervor and need. Absolutely raw and heightened by his anger.

He lifts your thighs, turning you around, so you’re in his lap and facing forward. Your back is turned to him, hair tousled from his grip in it earlier, shirt pulled up and bra discarded. Oops.

“Gonna sit and take it for me. Lemme’ use you, hon’.”

His voice is rough in your ear, hand snaking around your waist to the front of your body. It works up your shirt more, moving upward to grip your breasts tightly. His other hand carelessly scoops beneath your thighs, pulling the fabric of your panties to the side.

No, he’s not taking them off. Not enough care for that. Just gonna do what he knows he needs.

Your pussy is exposed to the warm air of the abandoned theater, pressed down on the skin of his hair thighs. His hand spreads your legs, finding your folds and humming at the feeling of how wet you are.

“Goddamn. Soaked.” He snorts, tapping at your clit pitilessly. It’s tortuously teasing, making you gasp and writh. “All cause I’m angry, huh, baby? Likin’ that?”

You nod and lean your head back, not even listening. Already cock dumb, and he hasn’t put it in yet.

“Fuckin’ slut. C’mon, now. Up for me.” Tommy lifts you so he can slip his cock under you, pressing it between your slick folds. “Fuck.”

The two of you both moan, hips moving in practiced unison to rub together for utmost pleasure without penetration. You usually both withstand teasing for a bit, so you’re expecting more of the pussy job, but he’s not wasting time.

Tommy sinks in, sliding his thick shaft right into you without any issues. So soaked, so excited that you’re all opened up and pulsing for it.

“Ah, baby. Wet as shit tonight.”

His hands both find your hips, watching your ass jiggle each time he thrusts up between your legs. He’s pressing you down on him, minimizing the amount of space possible between your two sweaty bodies.

“Tommy.” You whine out, leaning your head back and trying to fall back into his body for comfort.

“Uh-uh. Lean forward, honey.” He growls, pushing you forward and tightening his grip on your hips to ensure you stay like that–it’s the deepest angle, after all.

In seconds, you’re fucked out. You have no clue what he’s saying, but you pick up on the occasional mumble while he slams in and out of you.

“Take it all. Every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

“M’not okay. Only thing holding me together is you.”

“Fuckin’ hell–look at you. Look.”

“Should’ve been me they took. Not Joel.”

“Gon’ kill that motherfucker.”

It's an almost sad range of pure neediness to grief for his brother, the rage shining through yet again while his brain unravels. His thrusts get more reckless, the grip on your hips bruising with each.

And soon, he was close.

You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his fingers dig in tighter as if you’d disappear.

“Fuck–” he rasps, voice torn. “Fuck, baby. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

The anger dissipates as need numbs his mind, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His sweat-slick skin rubs and burns against yours.

Tommy is panting entirely, shaking now. His rhythm falters, picks up harder and rougher, all until your breath catches in sync with his and your knees nearly give out.

“Too good. Oh.” He growls into your ear, speeding up impossibly and closing any distance left between your crotches until he’s bottomed out, hardly moving.

His teeth graze your neck, eliciting a moan from your throat. And that’s it.

Tommy snaps, a pained and guttural sound ripping from his own throat. He slams into you a final time, hips jerking in brutal strokes. You feel his entire body tense, but the hot pulse of his cum spilling inside you calms the two of you down.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t want to. He can’t.

He can bury himself there for days and stay right where he is if he could. He could live in your sweet little spent pussy if it meant he wouldn’t have to go back out and find those fuckers who murdered his brother.

But no, Joel takes his mind again. This time, it’s less of rage, more of sadness. Guilt for going too rough out of anger.

His hands are fisted in your hair, jaw clenched like he’s trying to fight something. They both loosen up and he shakes his head, slowly pulling out and wrapping an arm around you.

“Shit.” He whispers, panting into your ear. “I’m sorry, baby. But fuck, I needed that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, returning for a bit to the Tommy that you know.

“S’okay. I get it, you’re mad. Understandable.” You respond, turning in his lap and tucking your head in his neck. You’re straddling him now, kissing the soft skin wherever you can reach and stroking his hair.

He stays like that, rage finally quieted by your presence, his arms wrapped around you.

For now, at least.

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made-nondescript · 7 months ago

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keferon · 4 months ago

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Just want to say, love your mimick au. I only found it like, an hour ago and I've devoured everything in the tag and I'm planning to do the same to the spellbound and monster hunter aus.

That said, in one of the mimick fanfics, Orion tells Prowl to leave him alone and to find a hobby, but a comic that (presumably) happens after this conversation when Orion meets Jazz, Orion seems to be back to working with Prowl. I thought the whole "leave me alone" order would go on infinitely because Orion didn't seem to have his goal locked down and he also never specified when to come back. So how did they return to working together? Did Orion find Prowl post-meltdown, or was it Prowl who just set an arbitrary amount of time before going back to Orion and going "so, how do you feel about defying god?" I just find Orion and Prowl's relationship so interesting in this au, simply because of how Orion doesn't seem to apply his morals about freedom and coexistence to Prowl despite the fact he's the one who points out that Prowl didn't include himself in his calculations, but at the same time, if he doesn't recognize Prowl's autonomy and only sees him as a tool (chatGPT style), he would have to accept that he's the one responsible for Prowl's actions because he's the one using him. But also also, Prowl encourages him to not take responsibility for all the immoral actions (like killing monsters to keep the Council's favor), which I think Orion does take up, but that would indirectly be accepting Prowl as a individual capable of making his own decisions, you know? It also the fact that Orion and Prowl both have different (and somewhat incompatible) ways of communicating. I was thinking when Orion asked Prowl to what he'd do to make the most amount of mechs happy, Prowl understood it literally: the majority of the population are non-monsters, so statistically, he'd focus on making non-monsters happy. But Orion doesn't want to make most mechs happy; he wants a diverse and equitable society, and that doesn't necessarily lead to happiness, especially in transition phases. Even in the academy, monsters are learning to compromise to live in a non-monster society; compromises are about restriction, which often aren't a source of happiness. But Orion equates that vision to happiness, and probably gets a bad impression of Prowl given "free reign" from his answer. It's great, it's so juicy.

And contrasts so well with how Prowl and Jazz interact and communicate with each other. Like how Prowl makes an attempt to learn hand language for Jazz in the same way he attempts to comfort Orion post-Shockwave demonification. But unlike Orion who has "Prowl is not alive" at the core of their dynamic, Jazz doesn't know and sees Prowl's attempt to learn as a genuine attempt to understand/communicate. You can argue that Prowl is just "programmed" to try and get more information and it's just efficient to ensure Jazz doesn't get carpal tunnel while working together, but you can also argue that we're all programmed to do that as well; small talk or bids for attention are behaviors/actions to build connection through information exchange that we are trained to do from formative years and general society. Which is to say, even if Prowl learns and tries to accommodate Jazz for mission purposes, it doesn't negate the fact that he is investing effort into communicating and building the foundation for a meaningful connection in the same way other people do. It's great, I'm having a blast with the whole AU.

Orion despite being afraid to continue his mission still has responsibilities in his Order so him and Prowl. Yeah hahah they just keep working together but purely on their usual legal tasks. I didn’t talk about the whole situation enough yet but basically Prowl never informed Orion about his new quest of suing God. Primarily because he knows that Orion definitely will try to stop him.

It’s kind of like. “What isn’t forbidden can automatically be considered allowed” mentality.

Also MY GOD YES. My favourite part of this au is reading asks like yours:0 Prowl exists in that thin line between being and not being a person capable of his own choices. Orion exists on the thin line between considering him being one of those options. He can’t see Prowl as a “real mech” because he knows for a fact it’s not true. But then seeing him as a tool means accepting that all questionable things he does are Orion’s responsibility.

At the end of the day Prowl is a metaphorical piece of fabric Orion uses to clean his consciousness. In his eyes Prowl isn’t alive enough to be fully blamed for all the bad things he does but he is also alive just enough for Orion to say “it was your fault. Not mine.”

Jazz doesn’t have that dilemma. Uh. Yet haha he will discover the truth eventually of course~. He thinks Prowl is obviously a real mech because in his world magic isn’t alive. It can create an illusion of a mech, sure, this is what all usual golems are, but it’s not smart or believable enough. It’s like one of those tests where all people think they can tell if they’re talking to an AI chat bot because “duh I would obviously know” and then fail to distinguish AI from a real person. Jazz is perceptive but he doesn’t know what to look for. All he knows is that Prowl is somehow doesn’t love anyone but seems to care about of things that aren’t people.

Also it’s a bit unrelated but I find it soooo interesting playing with the usual concepts of magic and technology. Because usually magic is perceived as something more “coming from your heart” and “connected with emotions” while technology tends to be more “soulless” and “emotionless”. And then we have the entire world of robots who think they are alive and magic isn’t :)

#also it’s fun how for humans #developing and growing are considered to be part of being alive #and I’m not only talking of like growing emotionally here #human babies can’t properly talk or walk or do anything really #while cybertronians don’t have the same learning process #their processors are fully developed from the start. their limbs are instantly functional #physical development isn’t something they consider natural #and I know I can’t really call Prowl something physical since he’s basically a walking spell #but he very much has that ‘growing’ aspect to him #he is a spell that complicates itself gradually #from something initially simple and to impressively complex system of thinking and behaving and making assumptions and decisions #while an average Cybertronians have their brains being fully capable of everything from the beginning and grow purely by gaining new experi #experience #…..Jazz is gonna have such an interesting time figuring this shit out lmao #tf mimics au

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emilys-bangs · 2 months ago

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thankful you don't send someone to kill me | e.p

Tags: bau!reader, london!emily, angst, exes who STILL haven't gotten over each other, phone calls, pregnant!emily, brief mentions of blood, reader has trouble sleeping, implied previous insomnia, they still want each other bad

Summary: History repeats itself; when you call, Emily answers.

Word count: 1.7k

Part one

The TV blurs in Emily’s vision. Her eyelids are heavy, lashes skimming her cheeks, but another kick to the ribs swiftly dissolves any hopes of sleep. She groans quietly into the couch cushion, her palm smoothing over the curve of her stomach.

“Go to sleep, kid,” she mutters, feeling her daughter flutter under her skin. It’s all but fruitless by now; weak, watery light filters in through the curtains, dawn slowly creeping across the living room floor and chasing away the likelihood of going back to sleep. Emily rubs between her brows, stamping down on the urge to cry.

Nothing is easy when you’re 30 weeks pregnant. Not walking or sleeping or, hell, just being upright. She’s constantly tired, constantly aching, constantly on the verge of falling apart at the seams. Her skin is bone dry in the midst of summer, lips cracking and peeling if they’re not perpetually lathered in Vaseline, but the hormones are probably the worst of it. Wild and out of control, they bubble to the surface faster than she can blink, tears blurring her vision over nonsense, anger sparking in her blood at the slightest inconvenience. Mark flounders around her, desperate to have her in one piece; Emily is very nearly the same, slowly losing her patience with both him and herself, longing for the moment when she’d finally have her daughter in her arms.

But that moment isn’t coming along any time soon.

Emily nuzzles her face into the space between the couch cushions in an attempt to block out the light. Some shuteye has to do some good, even if by this point it’s probable it’ll tire her out more somehow. Her baby begins to still again, and Emily closes her eyes, relishing in the yet unbroken peace of the morning.

She barely counts ten seconds before her phone buzzes with a call.

The vibrations travel through the cushions and force her eyes open again. Her phone doesn’t even ring twice; it goes still mid-ring, the screen dying to a flat black.

She’s going to kill Clyde.

Emily grabs her phone, scowling at the screen until her brain catches up, the letters on the screen joining together to form a name, and then endless ashy memories.

You.

Her breath hitches. She blinks and reads the name again, dragging her thumbnail over the screen. Its shape is so familiar, sloping letters joining sweetly to make up years of faded bliss, months of ever-present agony. There’s no way you’d call. Not after the last time, when she ground your heart to pieces beneath her heel, heard it crack in your voice and in her own chest. No, you wouldn’t call—she made sure of that.

Unless you’re in trouble.

The thought makes her chest tight. Emily doesn’t hesitate, pressing call and bringing the phone to her ear, hardly hearing the long rings through the roar of blood in her veins.

Beep. Beep.

She mentally calculates the time difference. Almost 2 am, if you’re in DC. Emily gnaws on her lip, automatically smoothing over a kick to her spleen.

Beep. Bee—

The line clicks. It’s silent, both of you holding your breath. Movement buzzes in the background, faint white noise; it doesn’t bend beneath your voice as you stay quiet. Waiting.

Emily cracks first.

“Y/N.” Her tongue almost weeps at the feeling of your name on it. “Are you—are you okay?” It’s embarrassing, the way her voice cracks, but she doesn’t even hear it. “It’s late. Are you home? Is everything—?”

“I’m fine.” Your voice is faded. Toneless. Emily exhales at the sound of it, her ears ringing. “Sorry. I, uh—I didn’t mean to call.”

It stings, a barely healed cut slicing open again, but what did she expect? Of course you didn’t.

But, she thinks deliriously.

But you still called.

“My finger slipped.” You say, effectively deflating the balloon of hope in her chest before it can grow. “Sorry.”

Emily swallows. Her baby kicks and she rubs over the ache, feeling the imprint of an elbow as the silence stretches and thickens and starts to taper off neatly into a goodbye.

The thought sends a strange panic racing through her. She grabs the silence, snaps it in her hands, and lets her voice echo down the line.

“Why are you awake?”

But she knows why. Your mind races too restlessly too often. It wasn’t always that she could help; sometimes she just sat with you on the couch as muted reruns flashed on the TV, doing nothing but keeping you company and raking her fingers through your hair.

Her hand twitches. She clenches her fingers into a fist, bringing them up to the torn skin on her bottom lip.

“Don’t know. Just one of those nights, I guess.” You speak slowly. The tired rasp in your voice is familiar, haunting; she wishes she could smooth it away. “We’re in New York.” You volunteer.

Emily peels a dry patch of skin from her lip, blood wetting her nail. She pretends it’s the sting that burns her eyes, makes them drown in salt.

“You’ll have to be up early.” She rasps needlessly, thinking of Hotch’s disfavor for tardiness. “Try to close your eyes, love.”

She bites down on her tongue, blood coating her teeth, but it’s too late. A sardonic sound huffs from your mouth, a phantom burst of air caressing her ear. “Solid advice, Emily. I hadn’t thought of that.” The bite of your tone claws into her flesh, drawing streams of blood down her limbs. Her tears join the mix, swirling down in the wake of your bitterness and her crumbling resolve.

Seconds clump together, and this time, she’s too scared to break the silence, afraid she’ll say something stupid. Confess that she’s not too sure she hasn’t made a mistake. Fucked up her life, and yours, and Mark’s. Beg you to take her back, away from her stiflingly kind fiancé who handles her with kid gloves, too unsettled by a version of her that isn’t fully composed.

But no, she already pushed you away, didn’t she? She doesn’t get to go back. She won’t.

Emily’s heart trips in your silence. Do you hate her already? You must. Sometimes she thinks she hates you, but she’s pathetically weak where you’re involved. She can’t hear your name in someone else’s mouth. Can’t bear to think about you for more than a few minutes without her mouth going sour, cheeks puckering as she wonders if it’s possible you could’ve moved on, found someone better. She’s tender all over on the inside, bruised and sensitive, entirely composed of the fresh, delicate skin hidden beneath a scab.

Emily glances at her phone, making sure the call is still running. Your name is trapped in her mouth, her cheeks cool with sticky tears as she soothes her daughter’s restlessness and waits for whatever it is you’ll unleash on her.

It takes an age before you speak. When you do, your voice is quieter. “It must be—what time is it over there?”

“Almost seven.” She croaks.

”God, that’s early. Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t sleeping.” She blurts out.

“Everything okay?” She hears the concern bleed into your voice. It chokes her, your lovely fingers digging into her throat and cutting off the flow of air to her lungs.

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice shakes. “It’s not—uh. Not nightmares or anything.”

She can’t get herself to say it. Say, I can’t sleep because my baby’s keeping me up. She’s using me as a punching bag, and I can’t tell you about it because I don’t get to. Because I signed up for it and you didn’t. Her tongue is numb around the words, frozen in a way she never used to be with you.

Briefly, Emily hates the both of you. Hates herself for being ashamed to mention her unborn child that she’d torn her heart to get, hates you for making her hesitate.

Your silence tells her you understand. You were always a smart one, easily catching on to her wit and matching it with your own. Now you clear your throat. “Can’t be easy sleeping now. Seven months, huh?”

Her heart flutters.

“Just over,” she mumbles, looking down at her stomach. It gently warps the material of her tank top. “30 weeks.” Her voice wobbles. A warm tear drops on the crest of her bump and bleeds through the cotton, staining it dark.

God, she’s thought of this. Dreamed of it. Calling you, hearing your voice even though she’s the last person to deserve it. She doesn’t even deserve to hear it tinny and flat through the speakers of her phone, through the buds of her earphones, trying to get close to the real thing—feeling it beat faintly in her ears—without stripping away more of her dignity.

It didn’t work. Nothing ever did.

Emily wipes her damp cheeks, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Um, how are you? How’ve you been?”

“Let’s not do this, Emily.” You murmur. You suddenly sound years older, worn down and thready. She closes her eyes.

“Are you eating?” Are you walking around with missing fragments of a heart like she is? “Is Serg?”

“The damn cat’s always eating.” You huff, something like a laugh. It pinches at her chest. “He misses you.” You say, quieter.

“He loves you.” Emily’s throat is numb with the taste of tears.

Your breath hitches in her ear.

“I have to go.”

“Wait.” She whispers. “No, wait, please, I…”

I miss you. I still love you. I think I fucked up, but I’m not too sure I didn’t.

“Hey. Don’t…” You trail off, heaving in a breath, “Don’t cry, Em. You’re—you’re happy, aren’t you?”

She digs a heel into her eye. “I’m not.” She sniffs, her words ringing entirely hollow. “Not crying, it’s just—the baby. She’s kicking.”

Your stillness is palpable. “She, huh?” You say, your voice straining. “Picked out a name yet?”

What is she doing?

“You don’t have to do this. God, I’m sorry, I’ll just—take care of yourself, okay? Please.”

“I should be the one telling you that.”

Emily touches her stomach. Her daughter doesn’t rise to her touch, finally stilling. “I will if you will.” She rasps, rubbing circles on her skin.

A beat. Then, softly, “I’ll try.”

That’s all she can ask for. Maybe, Emily thinks as the call disconnects, even that is too much.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss angst #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic #divider by saradika

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itsnesss · 6 months ago

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𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥 | hwang in-ho (the frontman) × fem!reader

summary | you stand in silence, completely under his control. every movement, every touch is his command, and you obey without question, craving his approval. your submission is absolute, each action bringing you closer to the edge of your devotion

warnings | smut, explicit content, dom!frontman, sub!reader, eroticism, objectification, fingering, size kink, p in v, unprotected sex

word count | 3.7 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The echo of your footsteps resonates against the walls of the dark room, the only sound daring to break the sepulchral silence of the place. Your short dress barely brushes your thighs as you walk, and the black mask snug over your eyes doesn’t manage to hide the shine in your gaze. You know he’s watching you, seated on that enormous black leather sofa with the giant screen in front of him. He always watches you, even though he never says it.

He’s wearing his mask too, as always. Black, with elegant and terrifying lines, a symbol of absolute authority. You’ve never seen his face, and deep down, you know you never will. But you don’t need to see it; the strength of his presence is enough to remind you who’s in charge here.

"Come closer." His voice, deep and commanding, cuts through the air like a blade. He doesn’t need to repeat himself; your legs automatically move toward him.

In front of the sofa, you stop and lower your head slightly, a gesture you’ve learned he likes. You don’t need words; he knows you’re waiting for his orders.

"Get me a glass of whiskey."

His tone leaves no room for argument. You turn around, your movements delicate and precise, like a porcelain doll designed solely to please him. You walk to the bar in the corner of the room, feeling his eyes—hidden behind the mask—on you the entire time. You know he doesn’t miss a single detail: the way the dress clings to your body, how your small hands move gracefully as you take the bottle and the glass.

You uncork the bottle and pour the golden liquid, ensuring the amount is exact. Not too much, not too little. You bring it back to him, walking with calculated steps, your heels resonating like a metronome marking the rhythm of your devotion.

When you arrive, you lean slightly to offer him the glass. He takes it, but his eyes never leave you—or at least, that’s what you imagine. Through the mask, it’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, but you can feel his intensity, the weight of his attention.

"Sit down."

The order is simple, but your heart skips a beat. You know what it means. You know where he wants you to sit.

With slow, careful movements, you place yourself on his lap. His hands, large and firm, rest on your hips, ensuring you don’t move too much.

"Are you comfortable?" His tone is softer, almost mocking, but you know it’s a test.

"Yes, sir," you murmur, nodding slightly.

He brings the glass to his lips, taking a sip as his eyes, hidden behind the mask, return to the screen. The sound of screams and gunfire from the games fills the room, but for you, everything fades away. The only thing that matters is being here, close to him, doing as he asks.

One of his hands slowly moves up your back, stopping just at the base of your neck. His touch isn’t affectionate, but it isn’t cruel either. It’s possessive, a silent reminder that you belong to him.

"You’ve been good today," he says after a long silence. His gaze seems to harden even through the mask as a player on the screen makes a fatal mistake. "You always do as I say, don’t you?"

"Always, sir," you respond firmly, without hesitation. Because it’s the truth. Because your only reason for existing is to follow his orders, to please him, to be his perfect doll.

He smiles, or at least you imagine he does. The slight tilt of his head and the change in his posture tell you he’s pleased.

"Good girl." The hand on your neck moves forward, until it covers your throat. Your breath stops for a moment, but you don't dare make a move. His fingers press gently and then release, like a caress.

His fingers trace their way back to your nape, where they begin to caress you gently. It is not a loving or affectionate touch; it is possessive, as if you were on display for an invisible audience, and he was just waiting for someone to claim you.

"I want you to take off the dress," he says suddenly, his voice low and grave.

You nod, trying to keep your breathing as calm as possible, as if this were a normal game. It is; it's just that he always plays with an advantage.

You slowly rise from his legs, giving him space to see you better. His eyes follow you, like the camera in a movie you can't control.

The dress falls to your feet, revealing your naked body. You have your hair up in a high bun, as always, because he prefers you that way. All so that you are more interesting, so that you feel more intimidated, so that he always has control.

"Well" he says, his voice low and soothing. He places the glass on the table. The game continues on the screen behind him, but he no longer seems to care. "Come here". The order is brief and unequivocal.

You obey, walking towards him until you stand between his open legs. His arms stretch over the sofa's armrests; the dark sleeves of his shirt, fitted to his muscular forearms, cannot hide the tension in his muscles.

"What do you want me to do, sir?" you ask obediently, because you know that's how it should be.

His fingers stretch out and stop just before touching your thighs. He stares at them for a moment before moving his hand up to cover your hip.

His grip is strong, but his touch is gentle, as if he were trying to calm a frightened animal.

"Don't ask me questions," he says softly. "Do what you're told". His eyes shift to the left, towards the table where he left the glass. "Pour me another whiskey" .

"Yes, Sir," you respond immediately.

Six steps are all you need to reach the table, but your legs feel like melted wax as you walk. You are afraid of doing anything wrong, of not pleasing him enough. You know that if that happens, he will punish you, and you don't want that. You never want that.

You uncork the bottle with precise movements and fill the glass exactly as you did before. After placing the bottle on the table, you turn towards him with the glass in your hand. The movement makes your hips sway slightly; his eyes must be fixed on them, but you don't allow yourself to look.

You stand between his legs again and lean forward to offer him the glass, without losing your composure, without trembling. You let him take it, his fingers brushing against yours fleetingly. You can't help but feel a spark of tension when his skin touches yours.

"You're trembling" he says coldly, after placing the glass on the table. "Why?" His fingers cover your hips again, and his thumbs move in small circles. "Have I scared you?"

"No, sir," you say quickly, as if that were the last thing you wanted. "It never scares me" . It's the truth, but there's a hint of fear in your words. The fear of not pleasing, of not doing enough.

He tilts his head, the mask covering his face like a shadow. His smile resembles a grimace, but you can't take your eyes off it.

"I understand," he says. His fingers caress you gently, as if they were comforting you.

You feel as if you have passed a test; as if, at least for now, you have pleased him enough.

"But there's something else you can do," he says, softly but with the authority that makes you tremble. Something I would love.

You nod. His fingers move downwards, brushing your thighs firmly and caressing them as if they were a carpet. The sensation makes you bite your cheeks, but you don't make a move. Not until he gives you permission.

His eyes linger on your breasts.

"That I like" he says. The hand that covers your thigh moves up to touch the tip of your nipple. You pull back slightly at the feel of his touch, but you don't dare move too much. "You like everything, don't you?"

"Everything, sir".

"I'm glad," he says. His fingers play with your nipples, caressing and stretching them in a way that makes you scream silently. "I'm very happy". His eyes remain fixed on your breasts, as if he were drawing them.

"Now come here" he says suddenly, his eyes shifting towards you. "I want to see better". He extends a hand and grabs your arm, pulling you forward without hesitation.

"Get on my lap" he orders. "And do it slowly".

The words are like an order that makes you tremble, but you obey, climbing up his legs slowly. The erection in his pants is palpable against the back of your thighs.

He whispers an approving sound when you sit on his lap. His fingers cover your breasts again, squeezing them and caressing your nipples with a soft but firm touch. His fingers continue their journey downwards until they touch your crotch, and when you feel more dazed than ever, he caresses your sex with a light touch, like a feather brushing your skin.

"Mmm, I like seeing you like this" he says softly. His fingers don't move away. The way he touches you is as if he were examining a precious jewel and didn't know what to do with it. "You are so wet, so beautiful. Do you like me doing this to you?"

"Yes," you say, because you know it's what he wants to hear. His fingers caress your inner lips, brushing against the clitoris with a light touch.

He smiles again, a dark and mocking grimace through the mask. His eyes seem to shine with satisfaction.

"And I'm glad you're enjoying it" he says. His fingers give your clitoris a little touch and then stop. "But there's something else you want, isn't there?"

"Yes..." The words slip from your lips without you realizing. "I love him". You feel a shiver in your legs as you say it, but you can't help it. You can't lie to him when he knows who you really are.

His fingers glide along the inside of your thighs, like a playful hand on a soft carpet. You don't dare to move, to breathe, to do anything that might ruin the moment.

"I understand," he says softly. "And it makes me happy" . His fingers slowly rise to touch your sex again.

"I'm going to give you what you desire". His fingers stop over your crotch. "If you behave" .

"I will do it," you promise, with a serious and sincere tone. Anything but not doing it.

"Good" he says. His voice sounds approving and pleased, like a king who has found a loyal servant.

"Good". His fingers change direction, taking the zipper of his pants between them. "Let me help you" he says. His fingers unzip the zipper with an audible sound and release his erection.

You nod and lean towards him, raising your knees to position yourself over his thighs and leaving space for his erection. You can't look at it without feeling embarrassed, but you have to. You have to look at her, because he orders it, because he wants it that way.

It is thick and long, the tip red and shiny. Her fingers encircle the base, covering the foreskin, before pushing it up, inside you.

"It's big" he says when you sit on top of him, wrapping around him with a muffled scream. "But you know what you have to do, don't you?" The question isn't real; it doesn't expect an answer. "You have to do it" .

You have to. There's no turning back, there's no escape. You just have to do it, because he ordered you to.

You start to move, the sofa sheets scraping against your thighs as you slowly rise and fall on his erection. He doesn't help you, doesn't grab or hold you; he just sits there, looking at you with an expression you can't see behind his mask.

The movements become a steady rhythm, the moans escape your lips as you make room for his erection with each rise and fall. You know he has control; he always has. He could make you stop with just one order, but he doesn't.

His hand glides over your back and hips before finding its way to your sex. His fingers caress it lightly before finding your clitoris; the contact makes you scream loudly.

"You're so wet" he says softly, his fingers playing with your inner lips. "So wet. You like it a lot, don't you?"

You can't answer. The question is like a test, something you know you can answer, but you fear you might get it wrong.

"Fine," he says softly after a moment of silence.

"Good" . His fingers change the rhythm on your clitoris, making them slower and softer. "I understand" . His fingers trace small circles over your sex.

"So you like me" he says softly, with a measured rhythm. "I like you a lot. His fingers touch your labia minora before sliding over the surface of the clitoris again.

"Say it" he orders with authority. His fingers stop moving when they await a response.

"Say that you like me". Her tone is like a knife, but the order is unequivocal.

"I like it a lot" you say, with a whisper that feels like a scream in your ears. "A lot" The sound of the word "mucho" makes his fingers move a little faster over your clitoris.

"So you like it" he says, with a dark smile behind the mask. "I understand". His fingers start to speed up again, making everything faster and stronger.

You can barely breathe when he touches you, your body covered in sweat and your sex dripping with moisture. You feel like you're going to die; not from pain, not from fear, but because pleasure has ruined you.

"That's how" he says "That's how I like it". His hand on your waist tightens as you make yourself smaller on him.

"This is how you should do it". His hand on your clitoris stops and he begins to caress your labia minora with a light but firm touch "I like that you are mine" he says, after a moment of pause.

"I like it a lot". Her words are not a question; they are an order. "And I know you like me too". His fingers begin to tug at your labia over and over again. "Don't be afraid" he says as your screams begin to grow in intensity.

"Don't do it" . His fingers brush against the clitoris suddenly, just before something explodes in your sex. The feeling is as if something were breaking your soul, as if your breath were slipping through your fingers while I hold you.

Your back arches as he holds you, your pussy turning each of his movements into an orgasm that makes the pleasure escape from you in a scream.

His fingers continue to caress your labia and clitoris as the orgasm consumes you, as if it would never stop.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the orgasm begins to fade. Your body crumbles in his arms, your breath becomes a gasping torrent.

He holds you for a moment longer before letting you rest on his thighs. The erection remains inside you, hard and thick.

"You were good," he says softly as he starts moving under you again. "Very good." His eyes shine behind the mask, with a glimmer you can't decipher.

"I'm very happy". His fingers will cradle your hips and move you over him with a gentle rhythm.

"Do you know why?" You don't expect an answer; he never does when he asks a question.

"I stay away a lot because you know I'm the one in control". His fingers tighten around your hips for a moment, like a silent threat. "I will always have him" . His fingers loosen their grip on your hips again, but the rhythm of your movements doesn't change.

"And that's what I like the most". His fingers descend to touch your buttocks, caressing them gently before touching your thighs.

"Yes" he says as if he were talking to himself "That's what I like the most".

His fingers encircle your clitoris, playing with it. Each movement makes you scream a little more, as if someone were fiddling with a fire button in your crotch.

"So this is what you want" he says softly as your screams become sharper.

"You want me to fuck you like this, don't you?" His fingers quicken their pace on your clitoris. "You want it like this". He grabs your waist with his free hand, stopping your movements so you can't move. "You want to let him touch you, don't you?"

You nod, with your eyes closed. Your breath escapes between your lips and a torrent of sweat covers your back.

#squid game #squid game smut #squid game x reader smut #squid game x fem!reader #squid game x reader #squid game x you #front man x fem reader #front man x you #front man #front man x reader #hwang in ho #🖇️ frontman #🖇️ hwang inho

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oceansblvds · 3 months ago

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tunnel vision — six ; coriolanus snow

MASTERLIST

pairing ; king!coriolanus snow x debutante!reader

words ; 3.7k

about ; in the glittering world of panem high society, you were raised to be perfect — the prized daughter of a powerful family. your family was prepared to make the match of the season. but when king coriolanus snow arrives unexpectedly, announcing his intention to marry, everything changes.

warning(s) ; eventual smut, angst, courting (bridgerton style), eventual fluff.

chapter specifics: mentions of sex, smut, fingering, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), kissing, bruises,

authors note ; here's your treat! more smut to come :)

It had been a month since you became his wife.

Exactly one month since that fateful wedding night where your entire life came upside down in less than an hour's time. One month of careful smiles at court, of silk gowns stitched too tight, and a heavy crown placed upon your head. Things were easy in that degree, you were a surprisingly good Queen. To the public, you were so overwhelmed with your love for the King that both of you demanded a speedy wedding, one away from the prying eyes of the Capital, where you two could share your vows intimately. Everyone thought that you two hadn’t taken your honeymoon yet because there were so many things to do with the arrival of your presence at the castle. No one was the wiser as to what actually happened.

Behind the palace walls, the story was different.

Coriolanus treated you with the same precision he gave to every matter of his state. A gloved hand offered to help you step down from your carriages, a nod of approval when you spoke at the small number of council meetings you attended, lingering glances here and there. He hadn’t kissed you since your wedding night, hadn’t touched you beyond what happened in that garden.

Some nights you would wake in your gilded bed to the phantom sensation of his hand at your waist the way it had been those few weeks ago, his breath at your ear. You would lie there, still, heart racing, wondering if you had dreamed it. Wondering if you wished for it to happen. You hated him for it, you continued to say to yourself. You hated him for not giving you a choice in the engagement and wedding, or the night afterwards.

Your duties as husband and wife still remained, but it was more of a front than anything. You would answer the door and he would be there, say a few words, and then fall asleep in the same chair next to your bed as he did the first night. It was sporadic, the way that a husband in society would, almost as calculated as him.

But routines were never really built to last, especially not with a man like Coriolanus Snow. It was almost a month to the day when the routine finally cracked.

You heard the knock at your door, glancing at the glock you saw that it was around the same hour as always — just past midnight, when the palace grew quiet enough that only a few passersby would witness the King going to his wifes chambers. You rose automatically, smoothing the folds of your nightdress, and opened the door to find him there.

“You’re late,” you said before you could stop yourself.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Am I?” he drawled.

“By exactly seven minutes.” You leaned one shoulder against the wooden doorframe, tilting your chin up just to meet his gaze. “I was beginning to think you’d finally found someone else’s chair to fall asleep in.”

“If you're trying to make me jealous of furniture, darling wife, you’ll have to try harder.”

You hummed, stepping aside to let him in, the satin hem of your nightdress whispering against the stone. You watched him settle into the chair, the same way he always did. You hated how much you liked seeing the lazy sprawl of long legs, the fold of arms across his chest. The audacity of him, coming here every night like it was a duty. Like he was doing you some grand favor.

You crossed your arms and said, far too sweetly, “If you’re going to keep haunting my rooms every night, maybe we ought to make it official.”

“Official,” he repeated. “You do realize that we are already married?”

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until you stood near him at the foot of the chair. “I meant,” you said, giving him a deadpanned look. “We could set a schedule. Even days, perhaps. You visit only on the even numbered days of the month. So there is structure. Keep things . . . tidy.” It sounded even weirder coming out of your mouth than when you thought about it earlier today when you couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of your head.

“A schedule?”

“For us,” you clarified. “For our . . . duties.”

A beat of silence. A flicker of acknowledgement. “You mean you want me in your bed?”

Heat crawled up your neck, but you didn’t let it reach your face. You didn’t want him to see how his words affected you. Didn’t want him to think that you wanted more of him after he trapped you in this marriage that you had to convince yourself you disliked. It would be so much easier this way. Do your duties without getting too close to him. “Only on even days. For appearances. To make it believable. The court is already asking when an heir will be expected.”

Coriolanus only looked at you. Then a smile, slow, and sharp. “And you think scheduling your husband like one might schedule a meeting is the best way for us to produce an heir? That a mechanical schedule will satisfy them?”

“It would satisfy me,” you said.

“You would rather it be mechanical,” he murmured. “Than . . .”

He let the word dangle in between the two of you.

Than wanting.

Than feeling.

Then losing yourself, the same way that you had before you had been married.

You clutched the folds of your nightdress, the silk touching your bare fingertips and slipping between them. “It’s . . . efficient,” you said, trying for indifference.

You didn’t know how he would react to this. Half of you expected for him to get angry about it. But that half of you should’ve known better. Because he did the exact opposite of getting angry about it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. It felt like you were caught in the jaws of something that you had dared to provoke with the way that he looked at you, entirely focused pinned wholly and solely on you.

“If you want it mechanical, wife,” he said softly. “Then mechanical it shall be.”

The promise almost seemed genuine.

He rose from the chair in one slow, fluid motion. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even reach for you. Instead he leaned down that his mouth hovered a breath from your ear.

“I’ll see you,” he murmured. “On the next even day.”

Coriolanus turned and slipped out of the door without another glance. It seemed as if he didn't want to sleep in the chair tonight. Perhaps it was because you had changed the game. He had to plan for his next move.

The next even day seemed to come faster than you anticipated. You thought that perhaps a day in between your proposal of the new schedule would give you time to feel prepared. It should have brought you peace. Control. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about when you grew too needy for him, even just a sliver of him like in that garden, and snapped. Instead you spent the entire day feeling like your skin was on fire. Breakfast tasted like dust. You pretended to read a book you couldn’t even see the words of.

You had found yourself thinking again and again that it didn’t matter. It would be simple, a mechanical duty. It was the same duty that your mother tried to explain to you, the one that the ladies of the ton would talk badly upon from time to time. You were a queen now, you had obligations. To yourself, to the country, and to . . . whatever legacy you two were supposed to carry on. It had nothing to do with the memory of his mouth brushing against your ear, the way your body remembered the feelings of his hands, the roughness of his kiss.

This wasn’t helping.

Night fell over the palace.

The lamps were dimmed, the corridors empty of most staff besides the occasional Peacekeeper patrolling the hallways. You stood by the window of your grand room, watching the moon gradually rise up, clinging to your nightgown.

It was a soft sound, the knock. Barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood. You moved automatically, crossing the floor and opening the door. Coriolanus stood there, the way that he always did when he came to your door at night. His jacket was already gone, white shirt open at the collar with his sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. It seemed there was no pretense tonight, no chess game, no armor of any kind.

You moved out of the way so he could enter, the door closing behind him. It was just the two of you now, sealed off from the rest of the world. Your hands curled into fists at your sides and he stood in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his icy gaze. “You will tell me,” he said, his voice almost a whisper but still commanding, “if you change your mind.”

You opened your mouth to reply to him, but he was already reaching for you. And he touched you with a precision so careful that it felt almost clinical.

Almost.

Except for the way that his fingers barely trembled as they slid along your nightdress, or the way that your breath hitched when his palms found the curve of your waist. Mechanical, you told yourself, as his face neared yours. It didn’t have to be anything but mechanical. Coriolanus tilted his head, his nose nearly brushing your own. His mouth hovered over your own, not touching, as if offering you the chance to pull away and forget that you ever tried to make it work. As if daring you to.

You didn’t.

His kiss was the same way that you remembered it being during the nights you stayed and laid awake thinking about it. He tasted the same, that same untamable taste that made you want to open your mouth wider to him. Your hands, ever the traitorous things, lifted on their own, curling into the soft fabric of his white shirt. It felt like no feeling, no lingering. Mechanical.

You kissed him back with the same precision.

But somewhere . . . somewhere in the slow brush of his mouth against yours, the control began to slip. Your fingers tangled in the soft curls of his hair, brushing them out of place and pulling on the edges of them. His breathing grew a little heavier, a tad bit harsher against your lips. And then his mouth slanted over yours, rougher, no longer measured. A clash between you filled with hunger and fury and need. You gasped against him and he swallowed the sound, like he had been starving for it. All at once, you were arching into him without permission or care and he was there to catch you, hands at your waist, dragging you closer.

There was no mechanical.

Only heat and desperation.

“Tell me to stop,” Coriolanus whispered against your mouth. “Tell me, and I will.”

But you couldn’t.

You wouldn’t.

Instead your hands tugged at his shirt, keeping him close to you like you would die if he was to ever leave. The soft cotton bunched under your fingers and you slid them down to his hands, tugging on them and pulling him towards your bed with an aching demand. Coriolanus didn’t even try to stop you, his hands curling around yours, letting you lead him.

Your legs brushed against the edge of your bed and your body sank down onto the mattress. He followed, moving in between your parted thighs without breaking your embraced hands. The mattress dipped even more under his weight and the heat of his body pressed up against yours, overwhelming and wanting. Your nightdress slipped from your shoulder, the coolness of the air around you brushing against your skin, his gaze dropped, tracking the exposed line.

This kiss was nothing like the first.

It was teeth and desperation, unraveling held together by the two of you like a ceremony. His mouth crushed against yours, drinking the air from your lungs, your fingers digging into his bare arms, your fingernails making crescent marks biting into his skin. Coriolnaus groaned low in his chest, you shuddered from his unbecoming. He lifted you and pulled you onto the bed fully, the silk sheets pressing against your skin. One of his hands slid along your thigh, pushing your nightdress higher and higher, baring you to the cool air of the room. You could feel the tremor running through him, so sharp it vibrated under his skin into yours. It felt as though he was holding himself in check with the thinnest, most fragile thread of discipline.

Reverently, he slipped his fingers beneath the hem of your nightdress, and when you didn’t stop him, he dragged it up completely, pulling it over your head in one smooth deliberate motion. And then you were bare before him.

Coriolanus exhaled, his pupils blown wide. His hands hovered just above your skin, as if he didn’t want to mar the sight of you with such rough trembling hands. “You’re,” he whispered, his head bobbing down to press his lips to the expanse of your throat. “You’re perfect.”

The words pierced right through you, raw and burning. Your heart lurched painfully against your ribs, your eyes squeezing shut as he began to press open mouth kisses along your skin. You weren’t afraid like you thought you would be, not a single part of you felt like this was wrong. In fact, it felt so right that you almost wanted to cry. Your body molded into his with such a perfect degree that it almost didn’t feel real. Tentatively, your hand reached for the buttons of his shirt, trying your best to fervently unbutton them to expose his chest to you. In between his kisses, he helped, shrugging off the garment and lazily throwing it to the floor. His mouth moved across your skin like a man desperate to memorize every inch.

You gasped when he found the soft swell of your breast, his mouth lingering, like he had all the time in the world to undo you piece by agonizing piece. Each brush of his tongue sent a shiver rippling down your spine. “Coriolanus,” you whispered without thinking, like a prayer. He groaned against your skin and lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze. The sight of him, eyes dark with hunger, nearly undid you completely.

“Say it again,” he rasped. “Say my name.”

Your fingers skimmed down his bare chest, as if you were testing the waters. You traced the defined lines of muscle, faint scars you hadn’t known were there. You marveled at the strength of him, so solid and real and yours in a way you never dared to dream. You tilted your chin up and whispered again, “Coriolanus.”

His mouth crashed back onto yours, raw and helpless need.

When he finally moved lower, one large hand sliding down your stomach, parting your thighs with care, your body answered him instinctively. Arching, trembling, reaching for him. His fingers pressed against the heat between your thighs and moved, creating a feeling you didn’t even know was possible. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he managed. You didn’t answer with words, instead lifting your hips in a silent, desperate invitation. Coriolanus cursed under his breath and one finger entered you slowly, your mouth opening wide which he countered with his mouth slotting above yours.

He moved carefully, his finger curling inside you, coaxing another desperate sound from your chest. You clung to him, nails scraping lightly over his shoulders. Your body bowed into his touch without shame and hesitation. “That’s it,” he whispered against your mouth. “Good girl.” The words sent a shudder rippling through you and Coriolanus felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a smile so small that it made your heart ache. Another finger joined the first and he worked you open with slow, deliberate care. Praising you with every breath, every touch. You were barely aware of the way your hips moved against him, chasing the tension that coiled hotter and tighter inside you with every careful thrust of his fingers.

Right as you were about to whimper that you needed more, he pulled his fingers out, like he heard your thoughts. His forehead pressed against yours and you opened your eyes and it seemed as though there was an understanding. One that you were ready for what was to come next. You were ready for him. He fumbled for the fastening of his trousers, urgency bleeding into his movements, no more elegance that he started with. You watched as he freed himself, the hungry, desperate flush of his body making your mouth go dry.

He didn’t make you wait, guiding himself to your entrance and lining himself up with a hand that shook just slightly, and pressed forward in one slow devastating glide. You gasped, the stretch burning at first.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

But he caught your gasp with his mouth, anchoring you to him as he slid deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you. For a moment, neither of you moved or breathed.

It was perfect.

It was ruin.

He rocked into you, slow at first, savoring every inch, every sound you made against his lips. And you clung to him like a woman drowning, like the very act of being joined to him could hold you together when everything else inside you was unraveling. You breathed his name and that broke him completely, his pace stuttered, his control slipped, and the way he moved inside you turned rougher. He couldn’t bear the space between your bodies any longer.

You met him thrust for thrust, moaning softly into his mouth. You didn’t exactly understand what was happening inside of your stomach, if it was even your stomach. It felt like something building towards an impossible end, something that was unattainable until you reached some sort of pinnacle. Your release crashed over you, and it did so without mercy, with no hesitation. You shattered beneath him, around him, taking him with you.

He followed a heartbeat later with a low, broken groan of your name, your real name. Not title, not queen. His forehead pressed hard against yours as he spilled into you. For a long moment, the only sounds were your gasping breaths, the frantic pounding of your hearts. He stayed inside you, unmoving, for such a long while.

As if pulling away would make this fragile, impossible thing between you shatter into dust.

The next week passed in an unbearable rhythm.

Every even day, just as you had agreed, Coriolanus came to you.

You would open the door, already waiting in a pale silk nightdress.

He would enter without a word.

It was supposed to be mechanical and efficient.

Every time he touched you like he couldn’t help himself. And every time you kissed him back like you were starving.

Some nights, it was frantic. Your fingers fumbled with his buttons, his mouth rough against your neck. Other nights it was slow, agonizing. Coriolanus would undress you piece by piece, laying you out on the bed like a prized jewel, tracing every inch of your bare skin as if memorizing you was the only thing he could ever want.

He learned your body too quickly. Where to kiss, where to bite, where to touch to make you shudder and cling to him. And you learned his, the scar on his hip that he hated, the way his breath caught when you kissed the hollow of his throat, the low, broken sounds he would make when he was too deep inside you to think.

He was always gone by dawn, leaving nothing behind but the scent of his skin on yours and the bruises blooming along your hips where he had held onto you a little bit too tightly. At court you sat beside him, polished, untouchable, perfect, your fingers resting in your lap. You didn’t look to him, didn’t speak to him. Every even day. Every even night of swearing it would mean less. Every even night, however, it only meant more.

You barely managed a breath tonight before he was stepping inside, crowding you back against the door. His mouth crushed down onto yours before you could even think, before you could even close the door properly. You gasped onto him, clutching at his shoulders, the cold wood of the door pressing against your back.

“You’re late,” you panted against his mouth, your fingers already fumbling at the buttons of his uniform. “Again.” He made a sound of frustration and nipped at your bottom lip.

“Blame the ministers,” he muttered, dragging your nightdress up your thighs with his greedy hands. “Apparently keeping the country from falling apart takes precedence over keeping you in line.”

You shoved his stupid jacket off his shoulders with a desperate tug. “Keeping me in line?” You echoed, breathless. “You can’t even keep yourself in line.”

Coriolanus pulled back just enough to glare at you.

“You drive me insane,” Coriolanus spat. “Everything about you. The way you look at me, the way you touch me, the way you pretend to hate me. It’s maddening.”

You laughed, even as your fingers dug into his belt, yanking it loose.

“You think you’re any better?” You whispered. “Every minute. You haunt me. You’re like a disease I can’t cure.”

“Good,” he snarled against your collarbone. Before you could throw another taunt his way, he dropped to his knees in front of you. The movement was so sudden that it stunned you into stillness. It looked as though he would die if he didn’t have you.

You barely had time to gasp before he shocked your dress up around your hips. His mouth was on you before you could even think. A gasp tore from your lips, as his tongue parted your folds, lapping at you with a hunger that bordered on savage. There was no gentleness. He devoured you like a man starved, hands pinning your thighs open against the door. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and clawing.

“Coriolanus —” you choked out, hips jerking against his mouth.

He answered by pressing his tongue harder against you, flicking, stroking, pulling every gasp and moan from your throat like he was collecting them like trophies.

You were gone.

Ruined.

There was no going back from it now.

taglist: @ib525 @m-ichelles-world @coryosnows @ryomensgirll @mixedfandxms @feyres-fireheart @sxftiebee @c1garette-nightmares @mer-rey

#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus x you #tbosas #tom blyth #coriolanus fic #coriolanus fanfiction #the hunger games fanfiction

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slytherinshua · 1 month ago

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ᝰ　CHILDHOOD　( 최수빈 )

genre fluff , parent au , soobin focused (very little mention of reader) , girl dad!soobin cw babies/small children , everything seems like a big deal when you're a little kid , crying , not proofread wc 1481 request yes note oh how i love girl dad soobin :( net @kstrucknet @onedreamnet

Soobin’s daily life quickly changed from late nights gaming with his friends and lazy mornings to strict bedtimes and a longing for sleep that he could never attain after his first daughter was born. They say you can never truly be prepared for kids, and Soobin could attest to that. Parenting hit him like a truck, leaving him scrambling to get back up on his feet without time to think.

Every action, reaction, and decision had consequences he couldn’t quite predict when he stared into the big boba-like eyes of his eldest, Dahyun. While there was nothing he loved more than holding his newborn in his arms and watching her little face scrunch into a million different emotions, the happy moments just as easily turned into a thunderstorm in the blink of an eye.

The first time Dahyun got sick, at just a few weeks old, Soobin swore that his heart was going to stop on him. He had never been so sick to his stomach worrying, and it only got worse when she had to be admitted to the hospital. You had never quite seen your husband as distraught. Your strong, stable, calculated Soobin who always seemed to have the answer to every problem was anxious enough to make your stomach churn.

You learned then just how far out the limits of his love were. Soobin loved his daughter more than anything in the world, and you weren’t sure whether you were quite ready to see it every day for the rest of your life. His love, which you thought was already boundless and uncountable, doubled after the birth of your second daughter.

With a bit more experience and a fraction more confidence than when Dahyun was a newborn, you watched Soobin with his second daughter even more intently than you had with the first. The smiles he shared with her, eyes always finding their way back to you. Little Dabin’s features, which Soobin swore resembled yours perfectly, were remarked on daily by Dahyun’s discerning eye. Her love for her younger sister was automatic, and you were sure that it would never fade every time she proudly told you that while she would always be daddy’s favourite, Dabin was her favourite.

While Soobin sometimes brought up trying for another child, you knew your little family was complete the moment Dahyun ran to you in tears one night, crying over the realization that Dabin would not be two forever, but that in just a week, the little girl would turn three. No amount of assuring or explaining could calm your little five year old, even with the help of your husband’s sensical arguments, and you decided at that moment that your two daughters already completed the household. Your husband easily agreed.

Dahyun had been a morning person from the time she was a year old, and Soobin still struggled with her early mornings. She had always been a quick learner, leaving your husband tripping over himself to keep up with her. She took her first steps at just eight months, and started speaking in semi-complete sentences by the time she was two. Her sassiness and independence made you both proud and worried. She didn’t like depending on anyone but herself, even when she was too little to know what was best. Soobin had to work twice as hard to make sure she knew he was always there when she needed to fall back on someone.

Dahyun hated reminders of her own incapability. Like how at six years old she still wasn’t able to reach the microwave. Her tiny socked feet struggled, standing on their highest tippy-toes. Even with the few weeks of ballet lessons she had taken when she was four, she still couldn’t get enough height to reach the handle or press the buttons. Her bowl of cold oatmeal stayed neglected on the counter, and Dahyun fought the reality of her current situation.

She had already told her dad that she would have absolutely no trouble preparing her own breakfast. She knew exactly how much butter and sugar she liked in her morning oatmeal, and she had watched you operate the microwave thousands of times. She was so confident in her own abilities that the thought she physically wouldn’t be able to reach the appliance to complete the task had never crossed her mind. Admitting she needed help would be admitting defeat; admitting she had been wrong; admitting that she had overlooked something so simple and so obvious that it would strip her of her own perception of her intelligence.

Dahyun had far too many thoughts for the regular six year old, and worried twice as much as the average adult, and Soobin was well aware of his daughter’s propensities.

Which is why when she had boldly stated that she would fix her own breakfast with a big smile on her face, Soobin only bit back his own dimpled one and encouraged her with a trustful gaze. But, as soon as Dahyun tromped towards the kitchen with determined steps, Soobin followed her immediately, Dabin in tow, anticipating when he would have to step in and remind his eldest that she couldn’t do everything by herself just yet.

“Can’t reach, Dahyun?”

Dahyun turned to the voice of her father, dark eyes that mirrored her fathers more and more as she grew older, growing teary at the sight of him.

“Dad, am I dumb?” she asked with a trembling voice.

Soobin furrowed his brows, his hold on Dabin loosening slightly. He watched as a tear rolled down Dahyun’s cheek, quickly followed by a second and third.

He was no stranger to the fussiness of kids, whether it was Dabin sobbing after getting put down for a nap when she was a newborn, Dahyun’s tantrums as a very stubborn toddler, or her upsets during school. But something about this was different, and it hit Soobin’s chest hard. Seeing his daughter questioning her own intelligence in tears at just six years old was too much for him to handle.

He let go of Dabin completely, grabbing his eldest instead and wrapping her up in his arms. The hug was tight and safe, and it made Dahyun sob harder.

“Why would you think that, sweetie, hmm? Because you can’t reach the microwave?” Soobin kept his own voice from stuttering, trying to treat the issue at hand like any other upset, and not panic his daughter further by how worried he was at the words leaving her mouth.

“If I can’t even get breakfast by myself. What will I do when Dabin starts school? I promised her I’d make breakfast for us on her first day!” Dahyun cried, hugging her father tighter.

“You’re not dumb, Dahyun. You’re so smart, and thoughtful, and kind. And you’re the best big sister to Dabin. You don’t need to be able to make breakfast to be considered smart, or capable, or a good sister, okay? Especially not at six years old.”

Dahyun mulled over the words for a moment, sniffing back a few lingering tears. Her eyes glanced towards Dabin who immediately smiled at her. There was no one as obsessed with Dahyun as her little sister, thanks to how closely they had been since she was born, and if anyone was able to cheer her up, it would certainly be Dabin.

Soobin noticed the little spark in Dahyun’s eyes return and her demeanour calm a bit. She looked up at the microwave again, still clearly hurt at the fact that she couldn’t reach it, but less down on herself because of it. Soobin smiled.

“Do you still want to make breakfast yourself?” he prompted. Dahyun nodded eagerly, looking at her dad as if he had all the answers. While he didn’t have all of them, he did have the one that would solve the current problem. He pulled out a little step stool from the closet and unfolded it.

“I know you’re a bit scared of heights but this will help you reach the microwave. I’ll make sure you don’t fall,” he reassured her, his heart warm as she stepped up and was able to reach the handle of the microwave.

Her joy was contagious when she pulled out the bowl of warm oatmeal and stepped down from the stool. Even Dabin started to giggle seeing her sister so proud of what she had accomplished. She carefully placed a piece of butter on top of the steaming oats, followed by a spoon of sugar. She set the spoon in the bowl delicately like she was garnishing a michelin star meal, and after all that, her eyes still wandered up to her father’s face in search of his approval. And just like always, there was that adoring smile that Soobin always gave to his daughters no matter what they were doing. But this time, it held a bit more tenderness.

txt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @90steele,, @ddeonudepressions,, @cham3li,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @98-0603,, @weird-bookworm,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,, @amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @ujisworld,, @sobun1est,, @bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,, @cupidslovearrows,, @50-husbands,, @yudaies,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz,, @nonononranghaee,, @forever-atiny,, @stantxtforabetterlife,, @loserlvrss,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows,, @hyukabean,, @nicholasluvbot,, @i03jae,, @lilbrorufr,, @tmrwsuns,, @sea-moon-star,, @hanwoolvhs

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theconstitutionisgayculture · 5 months ago

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It's Time to Put Hitler to Bed

Over the last 20 years it's become increasingly common when talking about western politics to try and tie the political opposition to Hitler. It goes beyond Godwin's Law at this point, because it's no longer just in internet phenomenon. It happens in real life. In real conversations and real debates. All sides do it. No issue is safe. And it's beyond ridiculous at this point. It needs to stop.

So let's just stop talking about Hitler altogether when it comes to western politics.

He's dead. He's gone. His ideology died with him. Yes, you read that right. National Socialism is dead. It was a very specific ideology with goals and aims beyond being racist and hating Jews. Nowhere on Earth is there a serious National Socialist party with any political power or any chance at gaining any. Modern day neo-nazis are nothing more than edgelord racists desperately trying to grab some of the "shine" Hitler has with other idiots for themselves. They're awful. They're racist. They should grow the fuck up. But they aren't nazis. They aren't storming government buildings and they aren't winning political office. Most of them aren't even committing crimes. They're just sitting online or in a basement somewhere snort-laughing like Bevis and Butthead while they whisper "k*ke" and "n*gger" to each other and post pictures of ovens with captions like "where the Jews go". How basic and boring. They are beyond lame, and it's long past time we stop bigging these people up like they're some huge existential threat to humanity itself. They're not. They're just pathetic losers who have no power over anyone, not even themselves.

Does this mean we should forget the Holocaust? No. Of course not. We should always remember what Hitler did. But if we don't take the right lessons from that dark era in human history, then we might as well forget it because misremembering, on purpose or by accident, is just as bad as forgetting.

Hitler was an evil man who did evil things. He is a cautionary tale to never let rhetoric overwhelm your better nature. He is a warning of what happens when you give into hate out of fear or anger. But that's it. He does not influence anyone with power. Not in the west. No one in the west is actually trying to be like Hitler. And as evil as Hitler was, not everything he did was automatically evil just because he did it. And that right there is the main problem with the modern trend of accusing everyone you don't like of being Hitler. Hitler did a lot of things. He woke up. He ate breakfast. He fell in love. He breathed air. He got dressed. He gave speeches. He liked art. He was a human being. I don't say this to downplay the evil things he did or to try and create sympathy for him. But surely you can easily see how literally every single person on Earth has something in common with Hitler just by virtue of also being a human being, yes?

Hitler was also a politician. Which means that, yeah, every politician is going to have a position that's at least similar to something Hitler proposed or enacted in his political career. His views and platforms ranged far and contain things that are both left and right wing. Things which, in the hands of someone other than Hitler, most likely would not have led to the Holocaust. Because the Holocaust is an evil that was unique to Hitler. He baked genocide into his ideology, then codified and streamlined it after gaining power. His was a cold and inhumane calculation that only the Aryan race as he defined it was worthy of life. That every other race, everyone who didn't fit his idea of purity, must be killed to preserve his Master Race. There have been other genocides before and since, but none quite as industrialized and far reaching. And, in the west at least, there is no one with any power who wants to reenact anything that even comes close to the Holocaust. Not even that politician you really hate. Not even that activist group that promotes that awful ideology.

All accusations of being Hitler, or like Hitler, do is muddy the already opaque waters of modern western political discourse. And people are so bored with Hitler comparisons. He doesn't evoke the same emotional reaction he did even 20 years ago because, by this point, everyone even remotely active in western politics or political commentary knows someone who has been accused of being Hitler or a nazi, if they aren't that person themselves. It's become little more than the (supposedly) adult version of "I know you are but what am I?" It's meaningless, it's dumb, and everyone needs to stop doing it.

Stop making posts about how so and so is just like Hitler. Stop re-tweeting/blogging/posting them. Stop bringing Hitler's name into discourse at all. Stop arguing about whether or not National Socialism is right or left wing. Stop pretending that superficial similarities to Hitler or one of Hitler's policies is absolute proof that an ideological opponent is evil.

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huxhsz · 5 months ago

Text

🍎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ikaw lang

— synopsis: caleb is back, but he's different. he looks the same, talks the same—but something about him feels just out of reach, like a melody you can’t quite remember. the boy who used to piggyback you home, who cut apples for you without complaint, who always found a way to annoy and protect you in equal measure—he's not here anymore. and yet, as you watch him silently peel an apple, his hands steady and sure, you realize something. you still want him. even if he’s changed. even if he's not the same. because no matter what, he’s never leaving you again.

— note/s: first post on tumblr im a bit intimidated HAHA wrote this while listening to ikaw lang by nobita and also realized i NEED filo caleb. save me filo caleb save me I NEED TO WRITE A FILO COLLEGE/HS AU OF HIM SO BAD

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

caleb has changed, you realize grimly.

he sounds the same, looks the same, talks the same—

but he's not your caleb.

he's not the same caleb who used to piggyback you home after school, he's not the same caleb who would use you as his fake girlfriend to ward off his fangirls, he's not the same caleb who would slice apples for you because you would always complain about being lazy... no.

when you look at this man's—this stranger's—face, you do not see your caleb. you see fleet colonel caleb of the farspace fleet, you see a soldier hardened by war, a man who has seen too much and lost even more.

"—pipsqueak? pipsqueakk— earth to pipsqueak? oh, there she is! hello, what has gotten you so out of it? you're staring, y'know."

caleb raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the kitchen counter like he belongs there. like this is normal. like you haven’t been standing here, silently cataloging every little thing that’s different about him.

"am i?" you blink, tilting your head, feigning ignorance. "you sure it’s not you just being self-conscious?"

"as if," he scoffs, and there—there it is. a glimpse of him, of the boy you knew, the boy who used to flick your forehead whenever you got too smug.

but then it’s gone, swallowed up by something older, something colder.

his fingers tap against the counter, a steady rhythm. you used to recognize all his nervous habits. the way he’d scratch the back of his neck when lying, the way his nose scrunched when he was about to say something stupid. this? this tapping? you don’t know this one.

"well?" he prompts. "you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me like i grew a second head?"

"you’d be lucky if that happened. then you’d have twice the brain cells," you retort automatically. safe. easy. the kind of banter you used to have.

it works. he rolls his eyes, lips twitching like he wants to smirk. "real original. you workshopping that one while zoning out?"

you shrug, moving to the fridge. "maybe."

his eyes follow you. you feel them, just like you feel the weight of his presence in this space that suddenly feels too small. he was gone for so long, and now he’s here, standing in your kitchen like nothing’s changed.

like everything hasn’t.

"you still eat those awful store-bought apple slices?" he asks, nodding toward the fridge.

"mm. got tired of cutting them myself."

he exhales sharply—something between a laugh and a sigh. "figures. lazy as ever."

you expect him to leave it at that, but then, before you can process it, he’s reaching for the fruit bowl on the counter. a knife glints in his hand, and for a second, your breath catches. not because you’re afraid—no, never of him—but because of how he holds it.

not with the careless ease of someone cutting fruit. but with the precise grip of a soldier trained to kill.

a second too late, he seems to realize it too. his fingers shift, adjusting to something more casual, more familiar.

"still want them peeled?" he asks, tone too light.

you force yourself to breathe. "obviously."

he hums. starts peeling. his movements are too smooth, too calculated, but for a moment, if you squint, you can almost pretend.

almost.

he hands you a slice without looking up. you take it.

it tastes the same.

you chew slowly, watching him, waiting for something—anything—that feels real.

his gaze flickers to yours, unreadable. then, softer, quieter—

"good?"

the apple sits heavy on your tongue.

you swallow.

"yeah."

you chew, swallow, and place the half-eaten slice on the counter. caleb watches, waiting for something—maybe for you to complain about how the pieces aren’t cut evenly like you used to. but you don’t. you just stare at him, this version of him, and you realize something.

you still want him.

not just the boy he used to be—the one who would throw you over his shoulder just to prove he could, the one who’d grumble about being your fake boyfriend but always played the part too well. no, you want this caleb, too. the one who stands before you now, heavier with the weight of things unsaid, carrying shadows you don’t recognize.

your fingers twitch, and before you can overthink it, you reach out. you expect him to flinch when you press your palm against his wrist—his grip tightens just slightly around the knife, but he doesn’t pull away.

"caleb." you say his name like an answer to a question neither of you have asked.

his jaw tightens. he sets the knife down, slow and deliberate. when he finally looks at you, his eyes are searching, guarded—but underneath it, there’s something raw. something afraid.

"i know," he says. and it’s barely a whisper, but you hear everything. the guilt, the exhaustion, the hesitation.

you exhale. "i never said anything."

"you don’t have to." his lips press into a thin line. "i can tell."

you consider denying it, telling him he’s being dramatic, but you’re tired of pretending. so instead, you squeeze his wrist, grounding him.

"it’s okay," you say quietly. "if you’re no longer the same caleb I knew."

his breath hitches. you feel it more than you hear it.

"because either way—" you tighten your grip, firm, unwavering, "you’re never leaving me again."

his body stills. like he’s waiting for the catch, for the conditions, for something that makes this feel less like a promise and more like a fleeting moment he can let slip through his fingers.

but you don’t take it back.

caleb swallows. his free hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

"say it again," he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

you step closer. "you’re never leaving me again. i won't let you."

this time, he exhales shakily, as if he’s been holding his breath for years. and then—finally—he rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you move.

the apples sit forgotten on the counter.

(caleb drops a bag onto the counter with a dull thud.

you glance at it, then at him. “what’s this?”

“apples,” he says, already rolling up his sleeves.

you blink. “they’re not pre-cut.”

“no shit,” he snorts, pulling out a knife. "figured you were overdue for the real thing.”

you watch as he starts peeling—smooth, practiced movements, no hesitation. he still holds the knife like a soldier, but his hands are steady, deliberate. for you.

a slice appears in front of your face. you take it without a word. it tastes fresher, sweeter.

he smirks. “better than that store-bought crap?”

you chew, swallowing down something thick in your throat, replacing it with something lighter in your chest.

“…yeah.”)

#caleb x reader #lnds caleb #caleb #caleb x mc #caleb lads #love and deepspace caleb #caleb xia #lnds #lads caleb #love and deepspace #lads #loveanddeepspace #caleb x you #pommier writes

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saffusthings · 3 months ago

Text

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.

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!

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kikis-writing-service · 2 months ago

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Damage Control (Midoriya Izuku x Reader) Chapter 1

Summary:

You've always been there—Izuku's constant, his anchor, so integral to his life he's never actually seen you. Twenty years of devotion rendered invisible by familiarity. Until his divorce forces him to lean on you again, and a casual revelation about your past with Katsuki makes him suddenly, devastatingly aware of everything he's been taking for granted.

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Parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |

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Content Warning: This fic contains divorce, alcohol use, toxic behavior while intoxicated, unhealthy relationship patterns, and implied emotional infidelity.

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The buzzing of your phone jerked you awake at 2:37 AM. You didn't need to check the caller ID—only one person would call at this hour, and your hand was already reaching for it before your eyes fully opened.

"Izuku?" You were already sitting up, shoving your feet into slippers. The soft fabric was a small comfort against the early morning chill.

All you could hear was ragged breathing and what sounded suspiciously like muffled sobs. Your fingers tightened on the phone, knuckles white in the darkness.

"I can't—" His voice broke, thick with tears, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. "I don't—I can't—"

"I'm on my way," you said, grabbing the first hoodie you could reach. Your hands moved on autopilot, years of friendship guiding you through the familiar routine. "Your place?"

A wet, hiccuping sob that might have been confirmation. You were already grabbing your keys, mentally calculating the fastest route at this hour. The weight of them in your hand felt heavier than usual.

"Eight minutes," you said quietly. "Maybe seven."

"She's leaving." The words came out broken, raw. "Yui, she—she wants—" Another sob caught in his throat. "A divorce. She wants a divorce."

Your hand froze on the doorknob. For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat and his uneven breathing. The word echoed in your mind—divorce, divorce, divorce—each repetition making it more real.

"Stay on the line?" You were already heading to your car, voice gentler than usual. The night air bit at your cheeks as you rushed outside.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I know it's late, I shouldn't have—but I can't stop crying and you always just—you always know what to do—"

"Hey," you cut him off softly. "You don't ever have to apologize. Not to me." The words came automatically, worn smooth by years of repetition in different crises.

You could hear him trying to steady his breathing, the familiar sound of him fighting to regain control. "You're the best, you know that? Always there when I need you."

"Seven minutes," you said, starting the car. The engine rumbled to life, cutting through the pre-dawn silence. "Six if I break a few speed limits."

A wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Don't you dare. The PR nightmare if Japan's number one hero's responsible for you getting a ticket at 3 AM—"

"Then keep talking so I'm too distracted to speed." You merged onto the main road, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The streetlights blurred past in streaks of amber. "Want me to stop for those terrible cookies you pretend not to like?"

"The pink ones?" His voice shifted, becoming smaller somehow, more vulnerable. "With the frosting?"

"The objectively worst cookies in existence," you confirmed with forced lightness, already knowing you'd stop for them.

"...yes, please."

You were already pulling into the convenience store parking lot, the fluorescent lights harsh after the darkness of the drive. "Three extra minutes, then. Think you can handle the wait?"

"I'll try," he said, voice shaky. "Everything keeps replaying and I can't—I can't make it stop."

"I know," you said quietly, killing the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy. "I'm getting coffee too. This feels like an all-nighter kind of crisis."

"You're too good to me," he said, sniffling but calmer now.

You let that sit for a moment as you got out of the car. The convenience store glowed like a beacon in the darkness. "Three minutes. Try not to start any international incidents before I get there."

His quiet chuckle was followed by "No promises" as you entered the store. The bell above the door chimed too loudly in the empty space. You quickly grabbed his horrible cookies, coffee, and, after a moment's hesitation, the spicy chips he always stole from you when he thought you weren't looking. Your hand hovered over the tissues before adding two boxes to your basket. Definitely tissues.

As you stood in line to pay, the weight of the moment settled over you. Here you were at 2:45 AM, buying comfort food for Japan's number one hero while he cried on the phone about his failing marriage. The cashier, half-asleep and uninterested, rang up your items without comment. The mundane normalcy of the transaction felt surreal against the backdrop of Izuku's crisis.

You'd learned to live with that particular irony a long time ago—how the most significant moments often played out against the most ordinary settings.

The rest of the drive felt endless, each red light an eternity with his shaky breathing in your ear. You kept him talking about nothing—the weather, your terrible driving, anything to keep him from spiraling deeper into his thoughts.

"Remember that time in high school," you said, turning onto his street, the familiar route bringing back a thousand memories, "when you tried to prove you could eat ten of those cookies at once?"

A wet laugh. "And choked on the frosting? Recovery Girl was so mad."

"'Young man,'" you mimicked your old school nurse's voice, forcing cheer into your tone, "'there are better ways to die in heroics than pink frosting asphyxiation.'"

His laugh was stronger this time, even if it ended in a hiccup. Then, quieter: "Everything felt simpler then."

You pulled into his driveway, killing the engine. Through his living room window, you could see lights still on—he probably hadn't even tried to sleep. The warm glow looked wrong somehow, too normal for what was happening inside. "You want to tell me what happened?"

A shaky exhale. "Can it wait until you're inside? I don't—I don't want to do this over the phone."

"Already here." You grabbed the convenience store bags, juggling your phone and keys. The paper rustled in the quiet night. "Front door?"

"Yeah, I—" You heard movement through the phone, then footsteps. "I'll get it."

The door opened before you could knock, and your carefully maintained composure cracked slightly. His hair had come loose from its usual tie, dark curls falling around his face in disarray. His eyes were red and swollen, tears still tracking down his cheeks, and something about seeing him like this—Japan's number one hero reduced to such raw vulnerability—made your chest ache in ways you couldn't afford to think about.

Before you could think better of it, you stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, convenience store bags still dangling from one hand.

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, wrapping his arms around you with desperate strength. His whole body shook against yours, and you could feel the dampness of his tears soaking through your hoodie. "Did you really bring the cookies?" he mumbled into your shoulder.

"Yup. And tissues," you said, voice slightly muffled by his chest. "Because I know you."

His laugh was watery, but his arms tightened. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

You stood there in his doorway longer than necessary, letting him hold on as long as he needed. When he finally pulled back, you both moved inside to the living room floor. Izuku's back rested against the couch, you cross-legged beside him. The convenience store bag sat between you both, crackling as you unpacked its contents. Some of his hair had come completely loose from its tie now, dark curls falling into his face as he stared at his hands.

"She said—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "She said she can't do this anymore. The waiting. The not knowing if I'll come home. The constant rescheduling of everything because some villain—" He broke off, more tears falling.

You silently passed him the tissues you'd bought, watching as he took them with shaking hands.

"I thought we were okay," he continued after a moment, voice thick. "I mean, I knew things weren't perfect, but I thought... I thought she understood. About the hero work. About why I can't just—" He gestured helplessly at the air. "Why I have to—"

"What happened tonight?" you asked softly. "Why now?"

He let out a shaky breath, and you watched his shoulders rise and fall with the effort of containing another sob. "I missed dinner. Again. We had reservations, nice place downtown. The kind where you need to book weeks in advance." His voice turned bitter. "But there was this hostage situation in Shinjuku, and I couldn't—I couldn't just leave those people—"

"Of course you couldn't." The words came automatically, because you knew him. Had always known him.

"That's what I said. But Yui, she..." His voice wavered, breaking on his wife's name. "She was so calm about it. That's what scared me most. She wasn't even angry. She just looked at me when I finally got home and said 'I can't do this anymore.'"

You watched as he twisted the tissue in his hands, shredding it slowly. His fingers worked methodically, creating a small pile of white fragments in his lap.

"She said she's tired of competing with everyone else's emergencies. That she knows the hero work is important, but she needs—" His breath hitched, and you saw his hands clench. "She needs someone who can put her first sometimes. Who can promise to be there for anniversaries and birthdays and just... regular Tuesday nights."

"And you can't promise that."

"No." The word came out broken, barely audible. "I can't. I tried to explain that I want to, that I'll try harder to balance things, but she said—" More tears fell, and he didn't bother wiping them away this time. "She said she's done trying to build a life with someone who belongs to everyone else."

You wordlessly opened the cookies, placing the package in his lap. The crinkle of plastic felt too loud in the heavy silence. He gave a watery laugh.

"These really are terrible," he said, already reaching for one. Pink crumbs immediately dusted his fingers.

"And yet." You took one yourself, the artificial sweetness coating your tongue.

You both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound his occasional sniffling and the rustle of the cookie package. The familiar rhythm of sharing bad convenience store food felt like an anchor in the storm of his grief.

"I don't know how to fix this," he finally whispered. "I don't know if I can."

"Do you want to?"

He looked up at you, startled. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but there was confusion now mixed with the grief. "What?"

"Fix it," you clarified gently. "Not can you, but do you want to? If fixing it means promising to step back from hero work, to let other heroes handle some calls, to sometimes put your marriage before saving people... is that something you actually want?"

He opened his mouth, closed it. You watched him struggle with the weight of the question.

"Because that's what she's asking for," you continued softly. "Not for you to stop being a hero entirely, but to be less of one. To choose her over others sometimes. To let some people wait while you have dinner with your wife."

"I can't." His voice broke completely. "God, I can't. What kind of person does that make me? That I can't even promise my own wife—"

"It makes you you," you said simply. "The person who will always run toward danger if it means saving someone. The person who can't ignore a cry for help. The person who—" You caught yourself before adding 'I fell in love with.' The words sat heavy on your tongue, unspoken but somehow still present in the room. "The person you've always been."

"And that person can't be married, apparently." His laugh was bitter, so unlike his usual warmth that it made you ache.

"That person can't be married to someone who needs more than you can give while still being true to yourself," you corrected. "Neither of you is wrong, Izuku. You just want different things."

He was quiet for a long moment, absently reaching for another cookie. You watched him chew mechanically, his gaze distant.

"When did you get so wise?"

"Somewhere between the third and fourth time I had to explain to the press why you destroyed a city block to save a cat."

That startled a laugh out of him, even if it was still watery. "That cat was stuck really high up."

"It was a cat, Izuku. They get down eventually."

"It was scared!"

"You broke a billboard."

"The billboard was in the way!"

You smiled, letting him have this moment of normalcy. But after a minute, his face fell again, reality creeping back in.

"My mom's going to be so disappointed."

"In you? Never."

"In me failing at this. At marriage. At—at being normal."

"You've never been normal," you said, keeping your voice gentle. "That's not a bad thing. Some people aren't built for normal lives. They're built for extraordinary ones."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment you were afraid you'd revealed too much. Your heart beat too fast, too loud, and you hoped he couldn't hear it in the quiet room. But he just reached for another cookie.

"I really thought we could make it work," he said quietly. "That love would be enough."

"Sometimes it isn't." The words felt like they were being torn from your chest. "Sometimes you can love someone completely and still not be right for each other."

Don't I know it, you didn't add. The words sat like stones in your throat.

You both sat in silence for a while, the cookies slowly disappearing between you. The room had grown lighter, dawn creeping in at the edges of the curtains, painting everything in shades of grey.

Finally, he spoke again:

"I can't stop thinking about the press. The headlines." His voice caught slightly. "Everyone finding out that Japan's number one hero can't even keep his marriage together."

Your fingers were already moving across your phone screen, the familiar rhythm of crisis management steadying your hands. This, at least, you knew how to handle. "The press will be the easy part. We control the narrative, get ahead of it."

"How do we even begin to—"

"We tell the truth." You kept your eyes on your notes, not trusting yourself to look up. "A mutual, amicable separation. Two people who care about each other choosing to end things respectfully."

He shifted on the floor beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The proximity made your skin prickle with awareness you couldn't afford to acknowledge. "And the hero angle?"

"We acknowledge it directly." A strand of your hair fell forward as you typed, and you tucked it back with practiced efficiency. "The unique challenges of hero life, the toll it takes on relationships. People understand that."

"So what's the plan?"

"First, absolute privacy until we're ready. No public appearances together, no social media." Your fingers paused over the screen. "We'll need to talk to Yui, make sure she's comfortable with how we handle this. The press can be... intense."

His shoulders tensed at Yui's name. "She shouldn't have to deal with reporters outside her office."

"She won't." Your voice softened unconsciously. "I can help her prepare, give her some guidelines." You hesitated, watching his hair fall forward as he leaned to see your screen. "There's one more thing."

"What?"

"The hair needs to go."

He looked up, surprise momentarily displacing the shadows under his eyes. "The hair?"

"A change." You kept your tone professional, clinical. "Something visible. When the public sees you, they need to see someone who's moving forward, not stuck in the past."

"But—"

"It's not about aesthetics." You cut him off before he could finish. "It's about giving people a visual marker of transition. New chapter, new look. It helps them process the change along with you."

He was quiet for a long moment, absently running his fingers through the length of his hair. You focused very intently on your phone screen, not watching the way the curls wrapped around his fingers.

"Maybe I deserve whatever they say about me," he said finally, voice low. "I wasn't... I couldn't..."

"Stop." The word came out sharper than intended. You modulated your tone carefully. "You're someone who saves lives. That's not wrong."

"At what cost?"

The question hung between you both, heavy with implications neither was ready to face. You allowed yourself one touch to his shoulder, brief and professionally appropriate. His shirt was soft under your fingers. "At whatever cost you decide is worth it."

He dropped his head back against the couch, exposing the line of his throat. You looked away. "I should have—"

"You were exactly who you are." You shifted slightly, maintaining careful distance. "Someone who runs toward danger when others run away. That's not a flaw."

His smile was tired but real, and something in your chest ached at the familiar sight. "Always full of wisdom, aren't you?"

"I've always been wise. You just never listen." You set your phone aside, suddenly aware of the hour, the exhaustion creeping in.

"So..." He watched you scroll through your calendar. "What kind of haircut are we thinking?"

You looked up from your phone, studying his profile with careful consideration. The way his curls fell forward, the shape of his face, what would photograph well but still feel authentic to who he was. After a moment's thought, the answer came to you.

"An undercut," you said decisively. "Professional, approachable. Good for your image."

"Yeah?" Something in his voice made you glance up again. He was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "You think it'd look good?"

"It's a practical choice." You returned to your screen. "Makes a statement while staying on brand."

"What would I do without you?" The warmth in his voice felt dangerous. "Seriously," he said softly, your name gentle on his lips, "you're—"

"Just doing my job." You pulled up your media contact list, ignoring how the words tasted like ash. "Now, about the timing—we should wait a week, let the initial shock pass. Maybe some casual photos of you volunteering..."

He reached for another cookie while you outlined the strategy, and you pretended not to notice how his hand shook slightly.

You had a PR crisis to manage. Everything else was irrelevant.

Even if some small, traitorous part of you was already dreading the day you'd have to watch him change.

🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤 🖤

It was nearly 4 AM when Izuku finally drifted off, exhaustion and emotional drain winning out over his determination to keep talking. You watched as his head gradually tilted back against the couch, his breathing evening out into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

The silence felt different now, heavier somehow. You waited, counting his breaths, making sure he was truly asleep before carefully gathering the empty cookie packages and coffee cups. Your movements were practiced, quiet—you'd done this before, cleaned up after late-night crisis sessions, though never quite like this.

When you returned with a blanket from the hall closet, you paused, allowing yourself one unguarded moment to really look at him.

His face was softer in sleep, the harsh lines of grief temporarily smoothed away. Tear tracks still marked his cheeks, catching the dim light. Dark curls fell across his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to brush them back. You'd spent years carefully not letting yourself stare like this, maintaining professional distance even in private moments. But now...

Before you could stop yourself, you pulled out your phone. Just one photo, you told yourself. To remember his hair before the inevitable PR makeover. That's all it was.

The lie felt hollow even as you carefully adjusted the angle, capturing the way moonlight played across his features, how his curls caught the dim light. You'd delete it later, you promised yourself. Probably.

After gently draping the blanket over him, you settled into the armchair across the room, already pulling up your messaging app.

You: Anyone awake?

You didn't really expect a response at this hour, but typing into the group chat felt better than sitting alone with your thoughts.

You: Izuku just called me crying. Yui asked for a divorce. You: He's asleep now but You: I don't know what I'm doing

You stared at the messages for a moment before adding:

You: I took a picture of him sleeping because I'm apparently that pathetic You: Going to delete it You: Eventually

Without your laptop, you were limited in what work you could do from your phone. You'd have to wait until morning to start the real crisis management, but you could at least make notes. After a moment's hesitation, you moved to Izuku's desk where his laptop sat. The password - AllMight1234 - was so predictable you almost laughed. Some things never changed.

You spent the next hour drafting potential press statements, occasionally glancing up to check on him.

Around 5 AM, your phone finally buzzed.

Katsuki: jfc are you still there? You: Yeah You: He fell asleep mid-crisis planning You: I should probably leave but I don't want him waking up alone Ochaco: Oh no, is he okay??? You: He's...processing You: I'm fine before you ask Katsuki: its 5am you disaster Katsuki: stop working Ochaco: When's the last time you slept? You: I was actually sleeping when he called You: But now I'm wired on convenience store coffee You: And there's so much to plan Katsuki: show us the picture you took Katsuki: you know you want to

You glanced at Izuku's sleeping form before responding:

You: No. Ochaco: Come on, share! Ochaco: You know we won't judge

After another moment's hesitation, you uploaded the photo to the chat.

Ochaco: Those CURLS Ochaco: He looks so peaceful Katsuki: you're so fucking gone for him Katsuki: it's embarrassing You: I should delete it Katsuki: but you won't You: ... You: I might You: Eventually Ochaco: Do you want me to come over? Ochaco: Make it less awkward You: Maybe You: Let me see how he is when he wakes up You: He might need space You: Or he might need people You: I just don't want him to feel alone Katsuki: you're overthinking again

On the couch, Izuku shifted slightly in his sleep, and you held your breath until he settled again.

You: He's dreaming You: Should I wake him if it seems like a nightmare? Katsuki: i stg Katsuki: you're hopeless Ochaco: Just stay with him Ochaco: He needs you right now Ochaco: Even if you won't admit why he called you first

The observation sat there, stark and honest. You stared at it, throat tight.

You: I have work to do Katsuki: running away again? Ochaco: We've got your back Ochaco: Both of you get some rest, okay? Katsuki: yeah what she said Katsuki: but with more swearing

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling slightly at your phone. You looked up at Izuku again, peaceful in sleep, completely unaware of the conversation happening about him.

You: I'm staying You: He shouldn't wake up alone You: Not today Katsuki: yeah Katsuki: we know

You set your phone aside and pulled his laptop closer, determination settling over you. You had press releases to draft, media strategies to plan, a whole narrative to construct. That's what you were good at—taking chaos and making it manageable, turning mess into order.

Everything else—the way moonlight played across his features, the photo burning a hole in your phone, the weight of unspoken feelings—that could wait.

It had waited this long, after all.

#damage control #bnha imagine #mha imagine #izuku midoriya imagine #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku x reader #deku x reader

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bundoesnotcompete · 5 months ago

Text

Dr. Ratio catches the eye of an aeon, except its not the one he thought it would be.

Reader is an aeon. Not proof read and canon is non existant around here. See end for notes.

Does this count as Eldritch horror?

The Glowswather and The Keeper of Fate tread two similar paths. The two aeons are somehow able to coexist and are one of the few examples of such similar paths existing for so long together. Just what keeps these two aeons from consuming eachother?

-On the Knowledge Keepers, Page 376.

Oh to be so useless at times. It was an envy that Fuli happened to be so unaware of just how unintelligent THEY were. What use was knowledge and recording happenings if you hardly understood them, let alone knew what to do with them? Perserving memories would not be useful if they did not comprehend it correctly, if they did not understand nature properly.

You would consider yourself superior to Fuli. Your grand libraries held knowledge thought lost and forbidden to time. Memories that even Fuli did not have. The benefits of being one of the first to be born. It was an added bonus was that you knew what to do with such knowledge and understood why it all of it was useful. Though memory and knowledge go hand in hand, one does not rely of the other.

Nous may constantly question, but THEY often did have have answers. They were not a library, just a calculator that had so many questions. Many that you wanted answers to. But, it was often difficult to find those answers if the common maggots did not recieve education. How were they to advance if they did not know the knoledge? Why did so few truly teach and continued to learn?

It was a pity so few chose to share common knowledge. The Genius society prefered to hoard and not help the common folk push themselves forward. They kept themselves locked away in their towers. How could you gain more knowledge to store away if the common ones didn't learn and be pushed foward?

The ghosts of creatures that perished in you domain maintained your library well and your keepers did not have to visit certain areas often. It allowed you plenty of free time to gaze at the universe. Books filled themselves with knowledge automatically before being flung into odd directions. But as you absorbed knowledge, something caught your eyes.

The violet haired man you have been watching was interesting. Incredibly intelligent and yet willing to share his knowledge? It was rare for one to be like that.

You studied the specimen known as Veritas Ratio for a long while. The decision was easy to make. Now to pay your specimen a visit.

If there was one way Veritas Ratio were to describe his state of being right now, it was horrifically ill. His body ached and his mind was slow. It hurt to even think. He had missed his first class by the time he managed to rejoin the land of wakefulness the first time and he had missed his last by the time he woke up again.

His dreams were plagued by odd creatures and the heavy stench of ink. Every time he drifted off he was drug back into the vast labyrinth of libraries. It was no different now.

Thick pools of multi colored inks sorround the dark wooden floor he woke on. Both sky and land were covered by inky colors.

“Hmm, it appears your body was unprepared for my, “ The voice paused before dragging out its next word, “power.“

He didn't, no couldn't, speak back. It was taking everything to try and sit up of the cool floor. His throat felt like it was closed tight.

“Forgive my carelessness. Most I've taken on do not have such fragile, fleshy bodies.“ The wood was quickly overtaken by ink and eyes stared up at him from where he sat. “This library is open to you now.“ Ink was crawling up his arms. “Do make good use of it, Veritas Ratio. You are interesting.“ The feeling of panicked helpness took over as ink forced it way up his throat. He was drowning in the bitter taste.

He couldn't do anything but drown as the aeon watched him.

“Perhaps I should find a more,” The aeon seemed to search for the word, “careful way to bring you here, hmm?“ The voice inquired as Ratio was finally released until nothingness.

“Veritas. Veritas dear wake up.“ He could hear his mother's voice underneath all the water. Wait, his mother?

Ratio opened his eyes groggily, he was in a hospital room.

The nurses in the room skittered about. His mother stood next to him. He still tasted the ink in his throat. He still felt like he was drowning in it.

The nurses spoke around and to him. He couldn't hear them over the muddiness in his skull. The nurse said something to his mother and then left. He closed his eyes again momentarily, trying to clear his mind. He felt the faint sensation of something tightening on his spine.

“Are you awake still?“ His mother's voice broke the silence in the room. She held a cup of water and when he opened his eyes he took it. The liquid was like a thousand needles entering his throat, yet it was refreshing.

“You've been unconscious for days, and that's just when I found you.“ She explained without his prompting. “The doctors are unsure off what you came down with, but you are getting better.“

They spoke for some time.

Days blended together before he was finally sent home. His mother would be leaving soon. Flowers and cards sat on the dining room table neatly. The school and his students heard about his illness and wanted him to get well, his mother had said.

He only noticed something strange on his back when he went to bathe. On his spine like a tattoo was the notorious mark of the Aeon of Fate. It dug into his skin and the ink moved and wiggled like a snake. Only emanators bared the mark and from what little knowledge remained of it, it was a sign of worthiness. An all access pass to knowledge forgotten and forbidden.

A one way ticket to insanity, some said.

The dreams weren't dreams then.

Laying down for bed that same night he was dragged back into the libraries.

“Back again, I see. Unwilling it seems to be. You will learn to control your passage here, Veritas.“ The voice from before began again. Ratio was standing this time. “Go on explore, I will not stop you.“

The aeon's very aura was overwhelming, he had so many questions and yet he felt like he couldn't think of any. Forcing himself up, he wandered to the nearest shelf. If he couldn't speak then he would find something to read. He would be a fool to waste this opportunity.

Throwing himself into books involving physics and mathmatical sciences eased his overwhelmed mind. He even managed to find a theory that may prove some of his other work! The overwhelming aura was slowly becoming a background weight the more he studied. The distraction was working well.

His weeks were spent teaching, reasearching, writing, and publishing his findings. When he slept he gained more control over when he entered the Sanctum of Knowledge and felt himself ease in the aeon's prescence.

“You interest me so. It is not often I find myself so infatuated with mortal life. Yet here you are in my Sanctum, learning so that you may pass on that knowledge.“ You had spoken to him one day ehen he asked why he was chosen. “I've seen your work in trying to rid this universe of the uneducated and ignorant. You've even got those things called scholarships so that those who are poor in fianances may learn. That, Vertias, is why I chose you to freely access my libraries.“

He watched as your many inky limbs tighte their hold around him and began to crush him. Thousands of eyes watched him carefully.

“Go now, do my bidding and push the rest of these lambs foward. I require more knowledge for my libraries.“ You allowed your limbs to crush your emanator into thick ink. He would return soon, whole and well. He would bring more knowledge with him and would spread it. You were already gaining results from this project. Yes, you would keep and close eye on Vertias Ratio. He was quickly becoming your favorite emanator.

Trending

THE FATE KEEPER HAS SPOKEN! VERTIAS RATIO HAS BEEN CHOSEN AS EMANATOR!

-News Weekly 3 hrs ago

Who is the newest emanator of The Fate Keeper? All about Dr. Vertias Ratio!

-Intelligence Agency 1 hr ago

Statement regarding Vertias Ratio.

-The Intelligentsia Guild 5 hrs ago

------------

Notes: I will update the masterlist later and also probably the tags. I am very tired and I wrote this very tired. Not impressed with this one but WHATEVER have it anyway. This is also not complete but its at least got a decent end.

Edit: proof read some. Masterlist updated.

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #hsr aeons #aeon reader #hsr x reader

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