#it didn’t even perform exceptionally well

[changeling-droneco]

Okay kinda creepy of people to be so upset that a reaction YouTuber only watched one episode of their show. Like you can be annoyed but all the talk of being betrayed and how he’s failed you and how you’ve been furious for months and seething that he dared to do a different show next is uhhh a bit much, honestly kinda hope he never goes back to it, some of y’all are getting WEIRD about it

[luvether]

STAR-SHAPED BRUISES ✦ he who once felt the cold touch of death before, so why did it matter if he risked it again? Only that it did matter, to you, and your yearnings for him felt so warm it almost made him want to be selfish.

anaxagoras x gn!reader. angst? & fluff! content. hurt with comfort (?) tensions and arguments. yearning and hidden pining. cerces playing matchmaker. might be ooc + anaxa character study. written before 3.2 and spoilers for the 3.1 story! [2.4k wc]

tagging @rainswept @eterjie @kazucee !!

“You seem troubled today, more than usual.”

The thin-layer of soundlessness is quickly replaced by the tamed billow of Anaxa’s tone, one that seems like he’s questioning for the sake of curiosity and not because of empathy. Looking up at how busy he looked, his eyes maintained upon his alembic that bubbled a violent cyan-gold hue, any second and you’re sure it’s gonna fulminate from the vessel.

You shift from your seat, feigning skittish. “Did my morose pique the curiosity of the grand performer? Or are you simply worried?”

“Neither.”

“What a benumbed reaction, Anaxa—“

“—goras.” He finishes for you. Usually, whenever he’d add on your behalf, you’d combat it with a snide but today, he’s left with nothing but silence. This made him look up from his instruments and papers, your lack of reactions made him forgo his current experiment.

It made him almost worry, almost.

He sighs instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter.”

“You’re quick to lie to me,” Anaxagoras is now facing you, laying a hand on his hip. “That seems like something.”

The way he conducts his questions is making you want to be defensive with your petulant behavior. “Even if something is on my mind, I don’t see why I should be telling you about it.”

“Maybe you should, because if I can find some way to help, your mood would lift, no?”

“Since when have you cared about my moods?”

Silence then.

“Are you aware of what the principle of correspondence is?” Anaxa mutters out and you have the urge to exhale.

“Please spare me a lecture…”

“As above, so below, as within so without.” The professor starts nonetheless. “Everything around us is a mirror that reflects a projection on both our inner and outer manners, think of the relationships as interconnected roots of trees or simply dendrites. It’s the simple work of magic tricks—human behaviors more so than divinity at play.” Anaxagoras approaches you, the chains of his eyepatch filling the slowness of the room.

He levels his face with yours and from your position, you can clearly anatomize the fullness of his eye from here—the hollow of mint with a cut of boysenberry in the center, glowing beneath long lashes.

He continues, “even if I’m half-dead as what that titan said, I can still feel your vibrations and stress, an internal conflict, it’s making shoddy trembles of my glass flasks on that desk.”

“How does that even—“

“Your feet.” Anaxa finally says. “You were unconsciously tapping your feet.”

Oh.

You lay your palms flat on your knees, an unconscious manner.

“I apologize.”

“So you have the decency to apologize and yet not speak your mind further?”

The silence is indefinite yet present. It shallows over at every retort that spills in between both your stubborn tongues.

You shake your head. “You’re difficult.”

His eyes narrow. “You are the one being difficult, actually. I offered help, you refused, I asked about your well-being, you dismissed me.”

“You should consider how your candidness makes it exceptionally hard for me to be open to you, maybe think about that.�� You bite back at him, the tension threatening to spill over. “You’re the last person I’d want to go to whenever I have worries, so just simply drop it for today. I’d have to apologize for my lackings, I'll provide you with better companionship and arguments when I’m feeling well.”

“…Truly, I didn’t mean to come off as heartless—“ but you’d already brush past his shoulder before he can fully explain himself like he’d always have, leaving Anaxa to his bubbling vessels, untidy scrolls and a heavy sigh.

Much to his dismay instead of the privacy that he wishes after that argument, Cerces appears just as you vanish from his sight, a liquidy chuckle slipping past their lips. “Sometimes, I even wonder if your heart died along with you, child of humanity.”

“I’d rather you keep silent while I work.” Anaxagoras distastefully returns back to his apparatuses, more quiet and solemn than before.

“You should give chase.” Cerces suggested instead. “That child was simply worried.”

“Worried?” He finds the titan’s words as credulous. “Did you not see the flush of anger directed at me? Besides, I’m preoccupied right now.”

“You say you’re preoccupied and yet it’s you who seem quite distracted. Are you curious about their source of trouble?”

“It’s nothing new, arguments like that. We’ve known each other long before you ever knew me on my deathbed so back off.”

When he’d state his intentions clear, the Titan of Reason—unfazed in their countenance—leaves the professor to his own bearings and he finally has room to breathe.

Your relationship with him has always been rocky. Arguments and walking outs weren’t new, you used to debate about claims and theories a multitude of times back in the Grove, it was part of your dynamic, but every time he realizes belatedly how his string of words had cut you deep beyond the usual shallow jabs thrown on a daily, Anaxagoras cannot help but feel like his hollow chest is being twisted upside down.

In some way, maybe it mattered because despite the clashes and quarrels, you’d stay. You’ve stayed by him for years even after he was ridiculed as a blasphemous fool or a heretic—you’d stay even longer, waiting for him to finish lectern speeches or classes without so much as an ounce of complaint. A simple gesture that he’d been grateful of and even he admits to himself that seeing you being upset with him and his words were the least satisfying things to behold.

It did bother him but admitting that aloud to that titan was the last thing he’d want.

So after an hour or two after he knew you’d calm down, the professor drops his vials and walks down the distasteful and boisterous streets of Okhema in search of you—or more specifically, cruising over to Hyacine and asking for your whereabouts to save him the trouble of turning the Holy City upside down.

It was tempting, for the sake of bringing an irate reaction out of that woman and her golden threads, but his sick body and rational mind stopped him so.

“You are here.”

Anaxagoras has finally found you in some remote corner of the city, you were sitting shiftless above limestone, carving names upon ordinary stones. There was a spare moment in which his dull eyes sought down to you—he’d noticed how your hair is wind-swept and how strands of it stick to your forehead and the skin of your neck. The leaves of your collar are strewn as well, showing the barest hint of collarbones and almost immediately Anaxa shifts his eyes away, he’d asked what you were doing to distract himself from his own keen observations.

“Nobody will remember each scholar that perished fighting the Black tide. I’m merely writing companions I remember that I used to do thesis with, those that don’t have families here in Okhema to remember them…”

Anaxa observes you again, then after a long silence you feel him approaching closer, his shadow stretching before you. Your mind stirs in alertness, noticing what he’s up to—but Anaxa is always two steps ahead of you, before you can cease the pen laid by your side, he has already swiped it. You tried your best to wrestle it from him but Anaxa held it out of reach from you, causing you to sneer.

“Give that back. I forbid you to write your own epitaph!”

“And why not? I’ve done it once in the Grove—“

“Well, this isn’t the Grove—!“ You've paused quickly, noticing that you interrupted him. You waited for an ire to come throttling down at you but when you gaze back at him, Anaxagoras merely raises a brow at you, a faint sheet of amusement in his expression.

“Give me a stone.” He’d ask.

“No—“

“Stone.”

Your shoulders deflate at his tight tone, accepting defeat with petulance and a huff.

Stubborn man, you curse in your head. Stubborn and hard-headed and mean…You digress, ending up giving him one, laying the stone harsher onto his open palm than you intended but his expression remained amused.

When a balance of tamed silence settles, Anaxagoras is the first to speak again after writing an elegy onto the stone, changing the subject with ease.

“It's getting late, you should retire for today.”

And in response, you turn away with a quiet huff of breath. “I‘m…still not used to the Holy City's constant daylights, and I should be saying that to you, the moment you were given apparatuses to quell your complaints, you’ve been doing nothing but your experiments since you’ve arrived from your fight in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Well, thanks to your concern this ill-stricken body has been recovering. Besides, I have nothing much to do, especially when that woman’s threads are all over the place.”

“You almost died.” Your statement held more bite than necessary. For you it showed him your true feelings and for Anaxa—the answer to today’s dismay.

A laugh breaks from his lips.

“Is this why you’re upset?” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. “You’re upset that I got hurt back at the Grove.”

You rise from your seat, meeting him tooth for tooth, jab for jab. “Is it truly hard for you to comprehend that there are people that care whether or not you’re doing well—?”

Despite your anger, Anaxa is distracted for a moment, watching the sneer on your lips shaping vowels and long consonants, almost as if you're baring his teeth at him. The sudden urge to lean down, kiss you quiet and taste those angry syllables on his teeth stirs in his mind.

The Nousporist sage is anything but a romantic, but temptation truly is a humanistic sin, what is he to be shameful for such selfishness?

“It’s not that.” He answers your spite with dullness. “My field of study has made it easy to forget about one's well-being. You of all people know that very well.”

“Anaxagoras, you could’ve died again and—“

He never wanted for you to concern yourself with him like this. Anaxagoras knew he was risking himself, the nuances of alchemy and the splitting of his soul. So how come—observing the way your expression creases with a certain type of pain that makes it seem like you were the one that felt it, not him.

“If you continue like this, I would go through the same grief of losing you like I did the first time around.”

“Don’t say that, as a Chrysos heir it’s bound to—“ Anaxa is surprised when you reach out to touch him, to dare touch him so freely and yet rebuttals fall flat on his heavy tongue. The warmth of your fingertips that brush over the coolness of his own palm, you bring his hand up to cradle your cheek with utter delicacy like you’re holding glass, it makes his mind go numb.

He is aware of the way his skin dances with the plush warmth of your cheek, strands of your hair he wishes to tangle between his long fingers—to give into temptation and drag his hand slowly down your jaw, the expanse of your neck, down your arms…

“You really should start taking care of yourself more.” Your lips murmur onto his open palm. “Maybe not for yourself, but for me and Hyacine.”

He swallows. ”…I cannot keep promises.”

And you’d feel a faint tug on his end—and that fissures the tension. You let go and he quickly lets his own arm fall back to his side immediately. There’s a part of you that was terrified at the thought of offending him, you never got into Anaxagoras’ bubble without permission, your relationship stayed at a mere arm’s length. Only quirked lips with tongues of appraisals and maybe the occasional longing stares from across large rooms were exchanged between the two of you, no shoulder brushing, hand-holding, breaths upon goosebumped necks—this was your first time ever touching him, his numbed, cold skin against your own.

Maybe your sudden approach shocked him from his nonchalance and arrogance, you’d know because for the first time since you’ve known him, Anaxagoras’ frown is an inch too deep and there’s a concerned fold on his brow.

He clears his throat, his eye looking anywhere but at you. “I need to go, I have to meet with the other Chrysos heirs at the baths today.”

Anaxa looked quite adamant to join the meeting, despite his distaste of the baths and Chrysos heir meetings.

He spares you one last look, “after you’re done with your business, you really should try to rest.”

You frown at his dismissive behavior, nodding your head nonetheless. “Alright, best of luck then.”

He’d merely nod stiffly at your reply and quickly turn on his heel. You would have let out a heavy exhale and scold yourself for touching him without prior permission—if it weren't for a certain titan that appeared before you, their brown curls turning gold under Kephale’s dawn.

“He’s quite provocative, that Nousporist sage, don't you think so too?” Cerces spares you conversation, their voice honeyed with light teasing.

“Anaxagoras’ probably born to be spiteful, so I cannot fault him for such a character flaw, we all have one.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” Cerces states and heat furnaces upon your cheek at their bold claim. Before you can find some excuse to defend yourself, they spoke again.

“So is he to you. I’ve noticed that whenever you’re around, he’s reduced to a passive child. His tongue is barely glib when you try to put him in his place and the way those sharp eyes soften, oh it reminds me of my lover all too much. It’s an endearing exchange.”

Cerces spoke their affections and you could do nothing but listen to them with a credulous expression. Anaxagoras being endeared by you? You’d try to wrack your mind of instances where you capture such a manner, but all you can remember of him was his sassiness, his dullness, his casual dismissiveness. There was no softness, endearments, fondness.

Despite being called the Titan of reason, you find their reasoning hard to comprehend.

You wouldn’t have believed them, that is until you gaze back at Anaxagoras’ retreating form in the distance and watch him closely, and closely you watch when you catch him moving his hand that you held so closely,

Observing how he flexes his fingers by his side.

[ivymarquis]

The Neighbor

Hello friends I fucked off for a month but I’m back and I bring Price smut as an apology for my absence. @sky-is-the-limit’s “Im here to do what your boyfriend cant” prompt has lived in my brain rent free ecer since I read it and while I didn’t follow it verbatim, I did keep in spirit with the theme :)

Also womp I was gone for the Price challenge by @glitterypirateduck but this actually checks off a couple of the prompt options (first time being intimate, a confession/secret is discovered/revealed) so I’m submitting it.

There are a lot of tags. Make sure you read them.

Pairing| John Price x Reader Rating| M Word Count| 4.8k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Accidental voyuerism by virtue of living in an apartment, the reader has a dogshit boyfriend at the beginning of the fic (there is no cheating), slut shaming (from the dogshit boyfriend), these two idiots are down bad for each other, sex toys, oral (F!receiving), unprotected PiV, gratuitous squirting because I’m me, not really heavy on BDSM elements but mentions of the following: bondage/restraints (John uses his hands, nothing crazy), something akin to subspace from how good the nut is, aftercare, John is a prick to the now-ex, very brief angst due to a quick misunderstanding, very vaguely implied somnophilia, rampant abuse of italics. Lemme know if I missed anything.

His neighbor is clearly used to Price being deployed.

She’s a sweet thing, really, and on the whole isn’t that disagreeable of a neighbor.

He just has one problem with her (not even her, really) that is a thorn in his fucking side- her boyfriend.

The boyfriend was not an issue when they first met- wasn’t in the picture at all.

And no John most assuredly hasn’t had it out for the guy since Day 1. The fact that John had gathered himself up to ask his pretty neighbor out when he came back from his latest mission, only to find out about the new boyfriend, does not color his impression of the other man. He’s grown and this is not the first time his advances have been turned away for whatever reason.

But there are, to his knowledge, no true redeeming qualities about the man and he is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

He catches bits and pieces through the walls. The boyfriend is not attentive, caring, or sweet to her. She is treated as a guest in her own home, and twice he’s heard bellowing shouts that had Price at the door with his fist banging against it- both to shut him up and make it exceptionally well known that if the boyfriend thinks intimidating a woman is going to fly, that Price will not hesitate to kick the door in.

The most appalling part of it all is that John has a front row seat to just how atrocious he is in bed.

For the life of him John does not understand. It’s not even like the lad’s a good lay.

He’s heard many stories of women tolerating absolutely atrocious behavior from the muppets they were with because he knew how to make them see stars.

That is exceptionally not the case here. And John is rapidly finding his patience wearing thin at continually being subjugated to his pathetic performance.

So what the hell is it about the boyfriend that keeps his neighbor so enamored with him?

John stares at the ceiling, watching the blades of the fan turn as he tries to tune out the thumping of the headboard against the wall.

He thinks that if the man was just a bad lay and completely incapable of getting her anywhere, that would be one thing and John would continue to be frustrated but ultimately understand. But it’s the way he seems to actively ruin it anytime she has the audacity to enjoy having sex with him that truly grates on John’s nerves.

It’s not often, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then. The thumping of the headboard is accompanied by her sweet voice moaning lowly in short staccato notes as the boyfriend appears to finally be doing something right.

The thumping comes to a halt, and John groans in frustration.

“Why’d you stop?” He can hear his pretty neighbor lament through the thin walls.

“Why the fuck are you being so loud? Trying to give the neighbor a show?”

John squints his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. The fucking muppet can’t do anything right.

If the neighbor was his, John wouldn’t give a fuck who heard. Let all the neighbors know that he could fuck the sense clear out of her pretty little head. John could show the muppet what loud is.

“No! I’m not trying to do anything- it just felt good,” she defends herself.

“Well, be quieter about it, no one needs to hear that. You sound like a whore,” the muppet snaps at her irritably, and John is nearly at his fucking limit when the god damn headboard starts to thump against the wall again.

“Get out.”

Oh.

John is impressed- pleasure and pride coursing through him as his sweet neighbor stands up for herself rather than letting that ungrateful swine continue to berate her.

Good fucking girl.

“What did you just say?” The thumping stops.

“You don’t get to call me names. Get off of me and get out.”

For all his sins, it seems even the muppet has a line he’s not willing to cross.

There’s a shifting as he presumably pulls out and gets off the bed- the words are muffled but the tone is clear. The muppet isn’t above laying into her verbally though consent is (smartly) a line he won’t toe.

And good thinking on his part- John would probably tear through the drywall and turn him into a chew toy had that conversation gone in any other direction.

The door slams loudly, announcing the boyfriend’s departure.

John can’t help but keep his attention on his neighbor to see what her reaction is going to be. It is taking every ounce of self control he has to not follow the boyfriend and wring his neck in the parking lot.

There’s no conventional guide for how to address this situation with your neighbor. ‘Hello, I’ve fancied you for quite some time and that ungrateful prick somehow swept you up before I got the nerve to ask you out. I've had to hear you have the most lackluster sex ever for the past several months, and equal parts want to check in on how you’re doing emotionally after his latest stunt, and also want to bend you over and pin you to the mattress until you’re squealing. May I come in?’

He can’t say he is too surprised to hear things slamming about in the apartment- his pretty neighbor sounding more pissed off than upset, catching snippets of “Who the fuck does he think he is, talking to me like that” and “Motherfucker couldn’t find my clit with a map and a headlamp but can find the audacity to call me names-”

Okay, John has to fight back the urge to laugh at that last one lest she hear him. She’s quite the viper when (finally) provoked, and it just endears her more to him.

She doesn’t appear particularly distraught, the slamming and huffing and muttering concluding with her tossing herself on the bed.

It’s a very common occurrence that after the neighbor’s rendezvous with her lazy boyfriend, John is treated to a show where she finishes herself off with her toys.

The boyfriend, like many inadequate men, is threatened by them and John has heard the snide remarks.

Hilarious, he finds it, that a man incapable of getting her off is so adamant that she gets rid of them.

She hasn’t listened, clearly, as the low sound of her vibrator can be heard through the wall.

John is soon graced with the sound of her panting moans. His cock stiffens in interest at her voice, which is a frequent occurrence. She makes such pretty noises, mewling and whimpering as she works herself up.

Tonight is a whirlwind of emotions for his pretty neighbor, and at the end of the day her no-good boyfriend left her high and dry.

John will gladly enjoy the consequences of the boyfriend’s actions, one hand wrapping around his cock and beginning to stroke in time with her whines.

What he wouldn’t give for a chance to make her see stars. He’d be so good to her.

The reality of his job makes dating a logistical nightmare, part of what stayed his hand for so long.

He’s not blind. His neighbor is kind and sweet with a killer smile and wandering eyes. He’s caught her more than once ogling him when he’s returned home in uniform, or more nondescript tactical clothing.

Feeling her gaze on him always makes him puff up with pride, enjoying holding her attention no matter how fleeting. If he takes his time after a run and makes a point to pull the hem of his shirt up to wipe at his brow where she can see it, that’s his business.

So John thinks he’s dreaming when he hears that lovely voice whimper his name from the other side of the wall.

He stiffens, quietly waiting to see if he hears it again.

“John- Oh, fuck- please,” is all he needs to hear before he’s well and truly lost any semblance of patience.

Only having the presence of mind to dress himself enough to not warrant any errant looks from the other neighbors, he is at her door in a second.

It’s only after he knocks that he realizes he may well have killed whatever momentum she’s built for herself- given her muttering as she approaches the door- but he fully intends to make up for the stolen release.

She opens the door without looking through the peephole, obviously expecting it to be the ex based on the vitriol poised to spill at John’s chest, approximately eye level with where the (hopefully ex) boyfriend would be.

Once again he has to stifle a laugh, finding her a comical vision when the anger on her face melts away as her eyes flick up to his face with the realization that it is him at the door and not the object of her ire.

“What are you doing here, John?” Christ, he’s always been a sucker for pretty doe eyes. If he held even an ounce less of restraint he’d be mounting her right here for everyone to see.

“I’m here to do what your sorry excuse of a boyfriend can’t.”

Even as he reaches out to pull her in for a kiss, he’s watching her body language- gauging if she stiffens or shifts away.

She doesn’t.

In fact, her arms loop behind him and pull him closer, tugging on his hair and his shirt.

John’s not wasting any more time than he already has, walking her backwards into the apartment and shutting the door with his foot before reaching back to lock it- he’s got no desire for any interruptions from wayward former boyfriends.

They separate for a moment as she paws at the hem of his shirt, clearly wanting it off of him. John is all too happy to oblige, preening under her attention. He’s always had the stockier build of a man who’s fitness came from utility in the field, opposed to the hard defined abs of someone who spends most of their time in the gym.

It’s cute, the way she has to pry her eyes up to his face- clearly liking what she sees and flustered by the fact that John can see her staring.

“I broke up with him,” she clarifies.

“Good,” is his simplistic response, although if John’s being honest with himself he doesn’t really care about the finer details. The little prick never deserved to have her and John finally has his chance to prove himself worthy.

“The bedroom’s this way,” she prompts between kisses.

Their clothes are peeled off in turns as they stumble towards the room. The layout is inverted to John’s own flat nextdoor, so despite having never stepped foot inside before he guides her to keep her from crashing into something behind her.

By the time they are collapsing against her bed, they’re stripped of everything except a scant thong on her and his own boxers.

She’s just so delightfully soft in his grip, John can’t keep his hands or his mouth off of her.

The feeling is reciprocated as she pushes up off the bed to grind against him. As much as he’s relishing in them dry humping and making out like teenagers, he’s wanted her for so long and now that she’s finally willing and pliant underneath him, he’s itching for a taste of her.

Kissing his way down her body- starting at her jaw, the column of her neck, across her collar bone, down her sternum; latching onto each nipple and teasing them to hardened peaks before continuing his path down.

He’s compelled by the urge to turn her into a chew toy as he reaches her belly, although he stifles that urge and keeps his teeth to himself.

He can’t quite resist giving a small nip as she squirms, clearly excited by the implication of where he’s heading.

There’s a damp spot on her underwear already as he kisses along the waistband while his hands tease with the elastic on either side of her hips.

The sound of her breath hitching in anticipation makes him smirk, attention drifting further south.

The fabric is in his way as he presses a kiss against her clothed cunt, gripping handfuls of her hips to keep her still as she bucks in his grasp.

“Easy, sweetheart- we’ve got all night,” he soothes before moving his attention up one thigh to the backside of her knee.

Those sweet thighs are splayed open for him, giving John unfettered access as he continues to tease.

“When’s this sweet cunt been eaten last, hm?”

He knows he’s heard her give that undeserving muppet head, but can’t recall any reciprocation occuring. There’s not much that can shock John at this point in his life, and he’s willing to roll the dice by dragging up her now-ex because he knows this poor thing hasn’t been eaten until she’s begging him off in ages.

“I couldn’t even begin to tell you,” she answers breathlessly, anticipating having her thighs twitching in his hold.

Out of the corner of his eye, John spies a torn condom wrapper that didn’t quite make it into the bin. Well that keeps him from having to ask two questions, then. Smart girl.

“What a shame,” he tsks lightly, peppering kisses back up and down her thigh.

Deciding that she’s waited long enough and he’s had his fun being a tease, John is quick to remove the scant lace and pull it off of her legs before tossing it to who-knows-where.

The sounds she makes as he makes a meal out of her is music to his ears. Each hitched moan and breathy whimper makes him stiffen in interest.

His attention shifts to focus on her clit, tongue circling the sensitive nub as his hands hold her hips in place.

As focused as he is on what’s right in front of him, it takes a moment for John to realize that she’s stifling her noises. One hand is fisting the sheets beneath her while the other is clamped across her lips.

Well. That simply won’t do.

The ex may have trained and shamed her into silence, but John didn’t make it as a military captain without learning how to break someone else’s bad habits.

He ignores her whimper of protest as he stops, one hand abandoning the softness of her hip in favor of grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from her mouth.

“None of that,” he admonishes gently, pressing a kiss to one thigh. “Let me hear you.”

“I-I’m too loud,” she protests and for a split second John sees red.

To his credit, he does not leave her wet and leaking on the bed to go bludgeon her ex to death with a blunt object.

“No such thing, sweetheart,” he soothes before having a thought to tease her. “Who are you worried is going to hear you?” He asks kindly, a shit eating grin as he speaks again, “the neighbor?”

Her wide eyed expression is thoroughly scandalized and John can’t fight the chuckle that escapes him.

He hasn’t released her wrist yet, deciding that it’s time to get back to his meal. If she abandons gripping the sheet with her free hand to cover her mouth again, he simply plans to hold both of her wrists.

It’s tentative at first, still not entirely trusting John at his word that he wants to hear her.

But John is all for positive reinforcement as a motivator, crooking his fingers to stroke that one spot that makes her see stars to encourage more from her.

She’s a quick study, although when she releases the sheet John is watching her like a hawk.

Rather than clasping over her mouth again, John is pleased when her fingers end up burying in his hair.

More than happy to let her guide him, John takes his cues from how she pulls at his hair. The feel of her thighs twitching as she breathes in staccato breaths is all the reward he needs.

“You’re getting close,” he says against her cunt, pointing out the obvious before getting back to work. She’s anxious, he thinks, the closer she gets to her climax. Poor girl doesn’t know what to do with herself with an orgasm she hasn’t had to put all the work into.

“D-don’t stop,” she stammers, rewarded immediately with John redoubling his efforts.

He’s not going to stop. Pretty thing like her deserves nothing less than laying on her back and enjoying getting her cunt eaten out.

“O-oh fuck,” is his only warning before she’s gushing on his face and John is like a kid on Christmas morning.

He doesn’t even know if she realizes she’s squirted, too caught up in the pleasure of her high.

He’s always thought it was hot- now that he knows his pretty neighbor is a squirter he is more than willing to get on his knees and pray to whoever is listening that this isn’t a one time event. He’ll do anything to get her to keep him.

Even as her high fades he doesn’t let up on her, continuing to work his middle and ring finger inside of her. All he wants is to see her cum- wants to see those eyes roll as she squeezes them shut in anticipation.

Despite pulling his face away from her wet pussy, he doesn’t leave her clit unattended for long before his thumb is gently circling in time with the thrusts of his fingers.

Kissing his way back up her body, John can’t help but be pleased as she pulls him in to make out with him. Snatched gasps and bucks of her hips grace his ears as he works her from orgasm to the next, the wet sound of his palm slapping against her.

“John Im gonna cum again,” she whimpers in warning.

He feels like a god with the way she stares up at him reverently, eyes wide and desperate for another climax.

“Come on,” he goads, “Show me- let me see your face when you cum.”

Christ if her leg twitches any harder it’s going to start vibrating, serving to only encourage him.

“O-oh,” she mewls, “God- don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t-“ she’s pleading with him like he wouldn’t sit at her feet if she asked him to.

The bewildered look on her face is darling, and John nearly finishes untouched; he's so wound up it’s not going to take much.

A few choice thoughts keep his own eminent climax at bay and buys him enough breathing room. She bucks and trembles in his hold, a high pitched squeal escaping her as he proves not only can he make her cum twice, but he can make her squirt like a faucet twice.

As soon as she’s starting to come down from her high she’s pulling at him, drawing up her knees to spread her legs in invitation.

“Greedy girl,” he teases as he kisses her- wet fingers abandoning her cunt in favor of manhandling her, wrapping her legs around his waist as he positions himself.

“Please, please, please-“ she begs so prettily for him, pleading for him to do exactly what he’s been fantasizing about for months.

He’s not a small man and mindful of that fact, but she’s well prepped and takes him easily. The desperate whimper that escapes her sears into John’s memory.

The buildup of everything finally gets to him as he wastes no time setting a steady pace.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just like that. Let me hear you,” he encourages as she cants her hips in time with his, whines of pleasure escaping her on each thrust.

“John, please,” she begs, eyebrows furrowing in pleasure as she watches where they’re joined.

“Eyes up here,” he instructs and Christ he almost loses it when her gaze flicks from between their bodies up to his face.

His hands find hers, fingers lacing together as he lowers his torso in order to kiss the ethereal creature underneath him.

She whimpers into his mouth, her sounds only encouraging John.

Everything about her is warm and inviting, from her soft skin to her warm cunt and the way she sings for him at every thrust.

Maneuvering them so he can grip both her wrists with one of his hands, the other immediately dives between their bodies to find her clit again.

His pretty neighbor has spent months not having an orgasm she didn’t give herself, and John is determined to prove to her that he can give her as many as she can handle.

“John I can’t cum again,” she pleads even as her thighs shake on either side of him.

“Yes you can,” he assures her. “One more time for me, yeah?”

Now, should she insist she’s done and satisfied then John would leave her clit alone and finish up their fun. As it is, though, she nods in acquiescence before the trembling in her thighs increases.

“Good girl,” he praises, fingers continuing their steady pace around her clit as she creeps closer to the edge.

She’s babbling in his ear as he presses a kiss to her temple and he knows she’s almost there.

“Good girl,” he praises again, a cocksure grin pulling at the corners of his lips at her immediate response.

“My good girl,” he ups the ante, testing her response to John staking a claim on her. And God did it ever work. That last little bit is all it takes to finally tip her over.

She clenches down on him like a vice and John immediately loses it, groaning low as the haze of his orgasm washes over him.

It’s everything he wants- she’s everything he wants as he recovers enough from his climax to finally notice that the bed is an utter mess beneath them.

It’s not his immediate concern however, more interested in soothing her through the come down of her high. She’s shivering underneath him, eyes glossy from the intensity of her last orgasm.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs reassuringly. “Just breathe for me.”

He gathers her up in his arms, listening as her heartbeat relaxes in time with his own.

Eventually when enough time passes she’s more alert and happily snuggling against his chest. After giving her a chance to rest he herds her along to the bathroom so she doesn’t give herself a UTI. She tries to brush him off but her legs are taking their sweet time cooperating again.

Of course, she’s not exactly a recruit taking a piss test so he gives her her privacy and she’s able to return on her own albeit on shaky legs.

John pets at her head idly, attention drifting in post coital bliss as his hand strokes down along her back.

“I can’t believe you’re actually in my bed,” she giggles deliriously after a stretch of quiet.

“Only reason I wasn’t here sooner was because of that muppet,” he assures her. He doesn’t want her thinking that this is a one time thing for him. He’s wanted her for so long he can’t possibly be expected to turn her loose at the end of the night.

“I only dated him because I didn’t think you liked me,” she scoffs at herself.

“Oh, it was nearly the first moment I laid eyes on you. But with my work I kept talking myself out of doing anything,” he tells her. “Kept telling myself you deserve better. And then you brought the muppet home and kept him around,” John grouses good naturedly at her. “Think they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.”

“I plead temporary insanity,” she jokes, snuggling closer against his chest. “But I got rid of him. And you finally made your move.”

He hums in agreement, sleep pulling at him now that he has her tucked up against his side.

John doesn’t remember falling asleep but he wakes with a jolt to the sound of pounding on her door.

He’s only been out for an hour or so when he checks the clock on the nightstand, his neighbor sprawled out next to him.

Well, now he knows she snores. The sound is light enough to have never heard it through the wall, but curled up next to him she’s like a cat purring loudly in his ear.

And he’s exceptionally pissed right off at the fact someone has woken him up. Especially considering he has one guess who it is.

He fully debates answering the door buck ass naked to teach the prick a lesson about banging on doors after midnight but settles on tossing his joggers on.

Much like when she opened the door for John, the ex is automatically trained at where her head would be rather than looking at John’s face.

“My eyes are here,” he quips sarcastically. “Why the fuck are you banging on the door this late.”

“Why th-“ the ex starts to parrot back before cutting himself off. “Why the fuck are you in her apartment? Why isn’t she answering?”

“She’s asleep,” John answers simply. There’s no obligation to explain the why and how he ended up in her apartment.

“What the fuck do you mean she’s asleep? How is she asleep after she just dumped me? And why the fuck are you here?”

The boyfriend (the ex boyfriend, he thinks with glee) is either oblivious or…

Well. The ex boyfriend is oblivious. Let’s just keep it at that.

“I’m here because you can’t do your job right. She’s asleep because I can. What part of that is confusing?”

“That stupid slag’s been fucking you behind my back-“

“No.” John is somewhat mindful of not giving a full on “screaming at recruits” bellow, but his voice booms into the corridor outside the apartment anyway. “You watch your fucking mouth. This” John gestures vaguely at his own presence in her flat, “just happened after she dumped you. You don’t get to hurl insults.”

“She hopped off of my cock and straight to yours- what the fuck else is it?”

“You couldn’t get her off,” John hisses in annoyance. “I’ve had front row seats to your shitty little performance more than once. Not 5 minutes after you leave and she’s having to handle it herself.”

“I can’t be expected to compete with a fucking vibrator!”

“Well I sure as shit didn’t need one to get the job done. Poor girl could barely get her legs to work to go to the loo and not give herself a UTI. Your skill issues are what started all of this.”

“You know what? Fucking have her. I don’t need this shit.”

Ah yes, because John needs the ex’s permission to date a newly single woman. Absolutely. That’s entirely how that works.

“Never needed your blessing. Now fuck off. I’m trying to sleep.”

The ex responds with a two finger salute as he spins on his heel and storms off.

John is almost tempted to grab him by the back of his neck and turn him into a chew toy. Given his military career, his patience for muppets giving him attitude is virtually nonexistent.

But the siren call of his pretty neighbor is a stronger pull than the muppet can ever hope to achieve. John’s succeeded in his mission to run the prick off, and he’s going to try to get a few more hours of sleep before seeing if she’s interested in another romp in the morning when she wakes up.

The bedroom is dark and poorly lit but John immediately picks up on the silence.

Rather than being sprawled out and snoring like when he left her, she’s quiet and curled into a ball.

She’s awake.

“Sweetheart?” He calls softly.

She jolts, fabric rustling from the sheets falling off her as she sits up.

“You’re still here,” the surprise in her tone cuts, although he knows she didn’t mean for it to.

She seems to realize how that comes across and clarifies further, “I- I heard the door shut.”

It falls into place for him then- she woke up to the sound of the door and John nowhere to be found. She thought he’d left.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he consoles, making his way back to the bed. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he assures her while gathering her back into his arms.

Sleep comes back readily once the two of them are situated back in the bed.

Come morning, John’s got the patience and the presence of mind to throw a towel on the bed. He finds out for himself that his neighbor makes the prettiest noises with her arse propped up in the air and her face still buried in her pillow.

He can’t help but laugh later when she texts him that one of the neighbors made a noise complaint.

Age in bio/pinned or I will block you ♡

[humanrindswrites]

practice - two

summary: as the days get closer and closer to a certain scene, y/n still isn't feeling as prepared as she could be

pairing: bill skarsgård x female reader

warnings: NSFW, mentions of masturbation (female), kissing, breastplay, dry humping, accidental orgasm (is that a thing? it is now), embarrassment, mild angst

word count: 2974 words

a/n: this part is a little later than i expected it to be, but i did say that i’m slow at writing smut. also i know that in real life there would be an intimacy coordinator to work through a scene, but this is fiction and therefore more exciting.

(let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!)

one | two | three | four | epilogue | bonus

Things had been going exceptionally well for Y/N. They were three weeks into the shoot, and any nerves she’d had about returning to a live-action film set after so long had been put at ease, thanks to the director and crew.

But most of all, thanks to Bill.

The two of them had become fast friends at the beginning of the shoot, but since that afternoon in Y/N’s trailer, they’d become just that little bit closer. In fact, they were almost joined at the hip; they ate all their meals together, spent downtime together, and even taught each other things that they could use in future performances - Y/N taught Bill voice techniques, and Bill taught her about stunts.

“I told you it would be love at first sight,” the director had teasingly said to Y/N after noticing how inseparable they were.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Y/N said, trying to hide the blush that had started to creep across her face.

“Uh-huh, just make sure to invite me to your wedding someday.”

Y/N had rolled her eyes at that, but she couldn’t deny that she was feeling a certain way about Bill. Small, friendly glances had turned into longing gazes so quickly that it felt like that was how they’d been looking at each other the whole time. 

What had surprised her the most was how comfortable he’d seemed to have gotten with her. When they’d first met, he was just as shy as she was, despite being used to being around new people all the time, and he kept some level of distance. But now he was fine with being closer to her, often brushing his fingers against hers while they read a script together, placing his hands on her shoulders or arms as he stood close behind her, or giving her hugs whenever they said goodnight.

No matter how much she tried to see him as just her co-star, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way he looked at her when she talked, how he laughed at her stupid, dry jokes, and the way he said her name all made her want to melt. She couldn’t stop imagining his lips on hers, his arms around her, or his cock inside her. 

She wanted him so badly that it was clouding her thoughts and interrupting her sleep.

While she’d gotten comfortable with touching and being touched, and she constantly fantasised about him fucking her, she still didn’t feel completely ready for that scene, no matter how much she psyched herself up. She’d practised the motions alone in her room, with a toy in her cunt, her fingers on her clit, and Bill in her thoughts, but it wasn’t the same as having him there with her.

He’s going to see me naked was the only thought in her head, circling round and round until her mind became a vortex. 

He’s going to see me naked and hate what he sees and never want to touch me or have anything to do with me ever again. He could get any girl he wants, why would he want to be with a fucking loser like me?

There was only one way to deal with this problem: she needed some more practice with Bill.

Y/N couldn’t stop fidgeting as she stood on the steps to Bill’s trailer. She pulled at the cuffs of her hoodie and chewed the inside of her cheek as she bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to pluck up the courage to knock. Her heart pounded in her chest as each second passed, and she could hear the blood rushing to her face.

Come on, Y/N she told herself. You’ve known him for three weeks now, it’s not like he’s going to tell you to fuck off.

Her stomach turned when she thought about what she was about to ask him, but there was a scene at stake that she didn’t want to go badly, thanks to her inexperience.

She was just about to knock on the door when it opened, making her take a step back. Bill was just about to step out of the trailer when he saw Y/N.

“Oh, hey,” he said with a smile. “I was just about to go look for you.”

“Here I am,” Y/N said, trying her best to keep her nerves at bay. “Why were you going to look for me?”

“I know you’ve been a little nervous about the scene, and I wanted to know how you were feeling today.”

God, he’s so fucking sweet it hurts.

“I’m still not one hundred percent,” she said as she turned her eyes to her feet and pulled her sleeves over her hands. “Could we maybe... go over it?”

She felt stupid as soon as the words left her mouth, worrying that he was going to say no.

“Sure,” he said, bringing her attention back to him. “Come on in.”

Her legs felt heavy as she forced them to move up the steps and into the trailer. She forced herself to breathe normally as she took in her surroundings.

Although it was the same as hers, Bill’s trailer was a lot more organised: a couple of empty water bottles sat on the coffee table alongside his copy of the script and an open pack of cigarettes, but she couldn’t see a lot of mess. Her trailer, on the other hand, frequently looked like a bomb had exploded in it.

“So, what exactly did you want to go over?” he asked when he closed the door behind them.

“The, uh,” she started to say, but her tongue felt like it was thick in her mouth. “The love scene.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘sex’, suddenly prudish, opting for a word she’d heard be used by older actors in the past.

“Okay, what part of it do you need help with?”

She noticed a blush spread across his cheekbones. Surely he couldn’t be as embarrassed as she was?

“It’s the movements. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You just do whatever feels natural, like you would do in real life.” Y/N looked at him blankly. “You have had real sex before, right?”

She shook her head. “I would’ve thought that me telling you I’ve never had a boyfriend would have given that away,” she said, wanting to pull her hoodie over her head and sink into the floor.

“Oh shit, of course. Sorry, Y/N, I should have remembered.”

“It’s okay, it’s not like I go around telling people that I’m a virgin. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“Hey, there’s nothing embarrassing about it,” he said as he took her hand in his and led her over to the sofa for them to sit next to each other. “You’re sharing your body with another person, it can be scary.”

“Can we talk about the scene now?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, right, the scene.” He picked up his script and flicked through to the scene in question.

Just looking at the directions made Y/N’s stomach turn; just kissing Bill was nerve-wracking enough, this was something completely different.

“Okay,” he said as he read through the script. “The beginning is easy enough. I’ll be on top, so you don’t need to do much.”

“And then? What about when I’m on top?”

She read through the directions again; not only did she need to writhe around on top of him, but she was about to have his hands on her breasts too. 

I picked the wrong day to wear my hair up, she thought as her face started to burn.

“We can work that out,” Bill said, placing his hand over hers to comfort her. “Do you trust me?”

She looked at their joined hands and thought about what was about to happen. Of course she trusted him. He made everything feel so easy, so natural. She’d worked with actors in the past who would have just left everything to chance and refused to rehearse with her, and here she was with someone who was willing to help her out. Who treated her as another human being and not just another step on the way to a paycheck.

“Yeah,” Y/N said, her voice small. “I trust you.”

“Good,” he said as he smiled softly at her, his eyes dilated slightly. “You’ll want to be sitting in my lap for this.”

Y/N gingerly let go of his hand and climbed onto his lap, her knees on either side of his thighs and her hands on his shoulders as she hovered over him. 

“Like this?” 

He placed his large palms on her hips, the feeling immediately travelling straight between her legs. She wanted nothing more than for him to slip his fingers lower and touch her clit over her thin yoga pants as it started to slowly throb.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?” She nodded. “That’s the kind of motion you’re going to do.”

Haltingly, she lifted herself onto her knees and lowered herself back down again, testing out the motion. She’d done it before with one of her toys inside her, but that was something she’d done completely alone while thinking about him. There was no way she was ever going to own up to that.

“Is this okay?” she asked as she continued the motion, unable to properly focus with how his hands were holding onto her.

“Yeah, that’s perfect. That way’s better for show, but you could try another way.”

He gripped her hips a little tighter and pulled her to sit on his thigh, her pussy dangerously close to where she wanted to be the most. 

“Just move your hips forwards and backwards,” he said, guiding her by pulling her towards him.

She mimicked his movements, her swollen clit dragging against his thigh with each pass of her hips. She could feel herself getting wetter and bit her lower lip to stifle a moan, her eyes drifting closed as she continued to grind against him.

“That’s good,” she heard Bill say, his voice suddenly closer to her ear. “Just keep doing that.”

She gasped when she felt his lips on her neck, laying gentle kisses along her jaw before he made his way to her mouth. His lips were so soft against hers, caressing them as she whined into his mouth. She ran her tongue against his lips, taking the lead and plunging it into his mouth when he let her.

Her body was starting to get hot, the thick hoodie no longer seeming like a suitable outfit. His hands slowly drifted up from her hips, no longer guiding her but skimming across her stomach to dip under the band of her bralette.

“Can I touch you here?” he rasped against her mouth, waiting for her to give him permission.

“Yes,” she breathed before breaking the kiss to pull her hoodie and top over her head in one go. She opened her eyes as she tossed it onto the sofa beside her, taking notice of how Bill looked at her as she straddled him.

When she’d picked out her underwear that morning, comfort had been her only priority, but now she was glad that she’d picked the bralette. The grey fabric didn’t show much of her breasts, but just enough cleavage for him to notice.

She watched as his eyes dilated and travelled down to her breasts before he dipped his head to kiss the base of her throat, his hands dipping under the cotton to hold her breasts.

“Don’t stop,” she whined as she threaded her fingers in his hair.

Her eyes fluttered closed when he started to kiss her neck again, his hands gently squeezing her breasts and his thumbs stroking her nipples, making them harder and harder with each caress.

A small moan escaped her lips as she rocked her hips faster, her throbbing clit starting to tingle and burn with pleasure. She wished so badly that his cock was inside her, that he was touching her for real.

Even though they were just rehearsing for a scene, it felt real enough to her.

She pulled his head back to kiss her lips again, a short moan of his own escaping his mouth when they made contact, their tongues tangling together as he continued to fondle her chest, keeping his touches gentle.

She tried so hard to keep her coming orgasm at bay, clenching her pussy tight and digging her nails into his shoulders as he continued to kiss her, but it was futile.

Her orgasm crashed through her like a wave, her hips stuttering against his thigh and her breath escaping her lungs in gasps as her cunt clenched around nothing and her essence gushed out of her, soaking her panties. Lights flashed behind her eyes with each clench, and she eagerly kissed him back as the endorphins flooded her body. Her body shook in pleasure as it subsided, leaving her only with the hope that he didn’t know it was real.

Thankfully, Bill was none the wiser.

“If you do it like that, you’ll have no problem,” he said against her lips as he took his hands out of her bralette.

Y/N stilled to catch her breath and tried to ignore how her clit continued to throb as she looked at him, taking in his soft smile and gentle gaze. She could have dived back in to kiss him again if something else hadn’t caught her attention.

What the fuck is that? Y/N wondered as she felt something damp between her legs. She dragged her eyes away from Bill’s face to where she sat in his lap, and they slowly widened in horror once she realised what it was.

Oh, fuck she thought. I just came. On him.

She should have been able to talk to him about the scene, about anything else, but instead, alarm bells were blaring in her head. She shuffled back slightly to see if there was any ‘evidence’ on his clothes but, thankfully, he was clean.

She couldn't say the same about herself, though.

Although she couldn't see, she knew that there was an obvious wet patch over the crotch of her yoga pants, and that was only going to get more noticeable if she didn't climb out of his lap soon.

“Are you okay?” he asked her as he moved his hands back to her waist. “What’s wrong?”

“I need to go,” she choked out, her voice small and strained, as she jolted out of his lap, pulled her top and hoodie back on, and scurried to the door.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, this was a mistake.” 

She was just about to pull the door open when she felt his hand circle her wrist. Her heart slowed down in her chest, but it was still fast enough for her to notice. 

“Hey,” he said softly, drawing her attention back to him. “Try to breathe, okay?”

She took a shaky breath and let it out slowly, trying to focus on his hand on hers as it slipped down to twine their fingers together. Her heart still hammered in her chest as she kept her eyes on the door, unable to look at any part of him.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked softly as he stroked her knuckles with his thumb. She shook her head, still refusing to look at him. “Was it me? Was it something I did?”

No, she thought. It was something I did.

She couldn’t tell him the whole truth, it was just way too embarrassing. He’d never want to have anything to do with her ever again, let alone work with her.

“I just panicked, that’s all,” she said, her voice small. 

Panicked because I just had the best orgasm of my life while grinding against you.

Gently, Bill tugged on her hand and pulled her into his chest, enveloping her in a warm embrace. She initially stiffened when her cheek bumped into him, but she let herself relax against him, her ear resting on his chest so she could hear his heartbeat. The gentle beat soothed her frayed nerves, and she lifted her arms to wrap around him, trying to keep him as close to her as possible.

Her eyes drifted closed as she melted into his embrace, the scent of his cologne and laundry detergent filling her senses as he softly stroked her back. Even through the thick fabric of her hoodie, she could feel her skin tingle under his hands, and she wished he would just push his hands underneath like he’d done before.

“Feel better?” he asked her after an extended silence, his voice vibrating in her ear.

“A little,” she said, her voice still shaking. “Just first-time nerves, I guess.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed before bending down to softly kiss the top of her head.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open.

He’d never called her anything like that before, just her name.

Conflicting emotions whirled around in her head. Of course she wanted him to be like this with her, who wouldn’t? But there was the film at stake, she didn’t want to let her feelings for him cloud her mind and affect her performance.

This isn’t right, she said to herself. You came in here looking for help and ended up starting something bigger.

“I should go,” Y/N said again, begrudgingly wrenching herself free from his grasp.

“Y/N, wait,” she heard him say as she threw the door open and rushed back down the steps to her trailer.

She could only deal with her feelings the only way she knew how.

There was no way she’d be able to be alone with Bill again.

tags: @unlimitedlust @malenoradgn

[imagine-it-was-us]

greasy spoon || Lewis Hamilton

Inspiration: Sam Fender Greasy spoon

Author's note: This one is thick and heavy. Also, just to add - "Greasy spoon" can not only be interpreted like the story about the victim of dv, it's open ended and can surely being tied to other struggles. Us women should just stick together and look out for each other.

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x coworker

Warnings: mentions of dv, anxiety, threats. Please read at your own risk.

Summary: Lewis starts to notice the little things – late nights, a flinch at an unexpected touch, a guarded smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jen is composed, meticulous, always in control – until the cracks begin to show. As concern grows, he faces a question he isn’t sure he has the right to ask: how well do we really know the people we work with?

Word count: 3.6k+

The first time Lewis noticed that something was out of the ordinary as she flinched when a wrench slipped out of the mechanic’s hand and landed next to her feet. The sharp clang of the wrench echoed off the garage walls, a common symphony in the bustling Ferrari workspace. It was loud and it was completely fine to feel threatened when a tool was flying your way. But there was something about how her reaction seemed to linger as if she still felt in danger even after the mechanic apologized and was gone after that. The racer and her, logistics coordinator, were casually discussing about the next stop of the GP which was Japan, as she was trying to acquire information about his needs for the accommodation.

Lewis was still new to the team behind Ferrari and being an empath he sometimes still struggled to understand the emotions behind the faces. The first time he arrived at the facility in the preparations for the season, everyone seemed to be on the tip toes. After all, him joining the team came with a sense of expectation and was a big deal so he didn’t make a big deal about people feeling nervous around him. But it was in his best interest to create a strong sense of calm around him, as the tranquil environment helped him keep his mind as sharp as possible. Lewis had been with the team long enough to see the tension fade. Most of the staff had relaxed around him. 

She hadn’t.

And he wasn’t sure if she was starstruck or there was something else. He always thought the latter, because according to other members of the staff, she was here for more than five years and was exceptionally professional, always performing well. She was here when Sebastian Vettel was around and she basically saw Charles Leclerc grow up. Other teams also knew her for the craft, so it is safe to say that the buzz of the other driver shouldn’t be shaking her to her core. Yet somehow her hands still shock slightly after the “wrench situation” no matter how hard she was gripping her binder to possibly cover it up and get a grip.

“You’re good?” Lewis casually asked after finishing a work related conversation. It was nothing unusual for him to chat the crew up.

“Yeah, my sleeping schedule is a bit messed up, still not getting used to these Asia-Pacific timelines,” she brushed it off. 

Valid excuse. Logical. But something about the way she said it felt... rehearsed. Lewis nodded, deciding not to push. By all means, they were just coworkers, so who he was to nag her.

______

The Japan GP was the first major success for the team, marking Ferrari’s long-awaited return to dominance with a spectacular 1-2 podium. Suzuka Circuit had always been a favorite among drivers, but tonight, it felt like a stage for something even bigger - momentum, confidence, and perhaps, the start of something special. For the first time since donning the red race suit, Lewis felt truly at home behind the wheel of the red sports car. It had responded to him like an extension of himself, and as he stood beneath the podium, champagne soaking into his suit, the roar of the Tifosi in the stands made it all sink in.

There was an electric buzz in the air, the kind that only victory could bring. Confetti fluttered through the paddock like falling cherry blossoms, cameras flashed relentlessly, and the scent of tire smoke still lingered, mingling with the crisp night air. Spirits were high, and the decision was made almost instantly - tonight, the main team would go out to celebrate. Victories, after all, were meant to be savored.

Later that night, the private bar pulsed with warmth and laughter, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world of pit strategy and data sheets. Ferrari red blended with relaxed, casual wear, but the conversation never strayed too far from racing - talks of aerodynamics mixed seamlessly with jokes about the team's superstitions. Glasses clinked, shoulders relaxed, and for once, the team allowed themselves to bask in the afterglow of success.

Lewis, nursing a drink as he leaned against the bar, scanned the room. It was rare to see everyone so unguarded, and he took a moment to soak it all in. Then, a thought struck him.

“Have you seen Jen?” he asked, turning to Enrico, one of the technical engineers, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.

“Jen from logistics?” Enrico asked and after the nod, encouraging him to carry on, he just lightly shook his head. “Oh no, she rarely, if ever, joins these kinds of spontaneous events. She’s really into her time being planned down to every second, maybe that’s why we never rarely have issues with logistics, it always works like clockwork.”

Enrico's answer was casual but when he said rubbed Lewis in the wrong way. It wasn’t that she was absent – plenty of team members skipped nights out – but the way Enrico spoke about her, like she existed only within the structure of her job, distant from the camaraderie of the team. She’d been with Ferrari for years, yet it seemed like no one really knew her.

“I mean what does one do in a foreign country on Sunday night?” he tried to make the question sound as light as possible, not trying to be seen as prying.

“I don’t know, she rarely talks about her life outside Formula 1. Maybe her fiancé has joined her for the GP. Maybe she is just tired after the whole spare parts being held up in customs shenanigans,” Enrico once again shrugged, unbothered.

Lewis nodded along, pretending to let the conversation drift, but the unease lingered. The thought of her spending the night alone – or worse, not being alone but being isolated in another way – bothered him more than he expected. He’d seen how the F1 world could consume people, turn their entire existence into travel schedules and race weekends. But this felt like something else. Something heavier.

He took another sip of his drink, eyes flickering back to the door, wondering if maybe, just maybe, she’d change her mind and walk in.

She never did.

___________

The next few GP were for getting to know her and looking for more subtle clues. Few things caught Lewis' eyes not soon after. 

One of which – the fact that she seemed to be more relaxed around the female employees. She wasn’t the smiliest and the most expressive person nonetheless but she at least didn’t seem to tense up or catch her breath whenever female colleagues would chat her up or approach asking technical questions. Same couldn’t be said about male employees. And it wasn’t about being starstruck or even the power play, where she would worry about the impression she is leaving. Any male surrounding her seemed to tense her up in a subtle, yet noticeable way. You just had to pay attention.

While doing just that, Lewis realized another suggestive giveaway. She rarely, if ever, wore a short-sleeved shirt – even when it was unbearably warm outside or the sun had been shining since early morning. She always opted for a long-sleeved shirt or sweatshirt, occasionally pushing the sleeves up to her elbows but never beyond that. Instead of shedding a layer to cool off, she would pat her forehead with a damp tissue to wipe away the pooling sweat. Whenever someone commented on it, she would brush it off with a lighthearted excuse – saying she had forgotten a T-shirt at the hotel or that the short-sleeved one underneath was dirty.

The last thing that caught Lewis' eyes was the perfectionism she seemed to be pushing for. Of course, it was applaudable to have a literal logistics guru within the team, who resolved any issue that might arise even at the last minute. But to some point it seemed to be concerning that she would rather pull an all nighter looking for the way to make things work perfectly rather than accepting the defeat, even though the cause of the issue had nothing to do with her or the lack of her interference. It was like she was afraid of failing those around her, of making the mistake. 

During one of those late nights in Imona, Lewis was doing a late call with sponsors in the US so he stayed in the facilities a little bit longer than the rest of the team. When he finished the call, she was still there, sitting by her computer and staring at the screen, her gaze zoned out. As Lewis didn’t want to startle her, he made his footsteps heavier than usual just so she would hear him coming from afar.

“Not in any rush to get home?” the driver asked while keeping a fair amount of distance between them. For the last couple months then Lewis started analyzing Jen, he was always trying to keep the relationship brief, not pushing her to talk more than she wanted. Their interactions were short, yet she seemed to trust him a little bit more every time they talked. Maybe it was down to the trust, that was slowly but surely building up. Or maybe it was due to the fact that Lewis had observed her enough to know what actions to avoid and how to approach her without causing unnecessary anxiety. Or maybe a little mixture of both. 

She shifted the gaze from the screen to him once he spoke. There was no flinching this time.

“Yeah, this limited edition gear was supposed to arrive like a few hours ago and it hasn’t turned up so I’m just trying to figure out where it got stuck,” another perfectly plausible explanation left her mouth.

“Couldn’t you do it from home? Or just pass it to someone else. Heard that you live quite close to the track, you could be enjoying your own peace for once” Lewis continued casually, yet his intention was to test another theory of his.

Jen’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her screen remained unchanged. Lewis noticed the briefest hesitation. Normally, her excuses came effortlessly, polished and ready. This time, there was a pause, like she was flipping through a mental catalog of explanations and coming up empty.

She swallowed and finally said. “Yeah, I guess I could… but, you know, I’m already here.” A forced chuckle. “Might as well get it done.”

Lewis didn’t reply right away. He just watched her for a moment, letting the weight of the silence settle between them. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze, her eyes had drifted back to the screen, but she wasn’t reading whatever was on it. She was just waiting for him to move on, to let it drop.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a slow step closer, still careful to keep a respectable distance. No sudden movements. No pressure. Just enough to make her know he wasn’t just going to let this slide like everyone else had.

And it wasn’t because he wanted anything from her. This wasn’t about attraction or some misplaced hero complex. Lewis had seen what abuse did to people. How it wrecked someone until they barely recognized themselves. And if his gut was right, that was exactly what was happening to Jen. He wasn’t trying to break up a relationship to have her for himself. He wasn’t trying to play the savior. This was just human decency. She was a friend, a damn good coworker, and if she was in trouble, he wasn’t about to look the other way.

“You know,” he started, his tone casual but steady, “back when I was in Mercedes, there was this girl on the team. One of the marketing team. She was real professional, always the last to leave the paddock. Everyone just thought she was extra dedicated. Turns out, she wasn’t staying late because of work. She was staying late because home wasn’t safe,” Lewis said simply, letting the words hang in the air. 

He wasn’t looking directly at her now, giving her space to absorb it without feeling cornered. “Took a while for anyone to figure it out. She was good at hiding it. Always had a reason, an excuse that no one questioned. But the truth was, that every time she walked out those doors, it was like… she was walking into something worse.”

Jen exhaled, slow and measured. Her knuckles were white where she clutched the edge of her desk. She wasn’t running this time. She was listening.

Lewis continued, his voice soft. “Took a long time before she let anyone help her. You get so used to it, you start thinking it’s normal. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s your fault.” He shook his head. “But it’s never normal. And it’s never your fault.”

For the first time since this conversation started, Jen looked at him properly. And this time, Lewis didn’t see that rehearsed professionalism she always wore like armor. This time, she just looked tired, like whatever was happening was catching up with her. 

He let out a small breath, offering her the space to say something if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he simply added, “You don’t have to talk. Not if you’re not ready. But if you ever need an excuse, an out, a safe place, just know that I see you and I got you.”

Jen’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, she gave the smallest nod that one could miss with a blink of the eye. A crack in the walls that had been up for the longest time. 

____

After Monaco, another victorious day for the Ferrari at Charles homeground, there was a brief sigh of relief amongst the team. But Silvertone was just a few Grand Prix away, and the tension of another home race was settling over the team. Everyone was feeling the weight of expectation. Yet Lewis had started to notice that Jen was carrying something heavier.

During European GPs, her makeup had been heavier, layered just a little too perfectly in places that didn’t need it. She was also thinner than before – noticeably by now, to the point where her uniform looked a little looser on her. 

And then there were the bruises.

Lewis hadn’t been looking for them and it wasn’t like she hasn’t been doing everything in her power to cover them up, but once, in the middle of a conversation, she had reached up absentmindedly to tuck her hair behind her ear, and the cuff of her sleeve had shifted just enough. A faint mark—yellowing, almost healed, but still there.

And still, she went about her days, pretending everything was fine.

It was the final stretch before Silverstone. The logistics team was wrapping up last-minute adjustments, and most of the staff were already talking about heading back to the hotel to rest before their flights later that evening. The sun was still high, casting sharp shadows across the paddock.

Lewis had been in and out of the meetings all morning, finishing all the last briefings after the Austrian GP. He was making his way back to the garage when he heard her voice. At first, it was nothing unusual. A phone call. Work-related, maybe. But as he went around the corner, he saw her standing further away from everyone, white knuckles clenching the phone. Whatever was being said on the other end, caused her an excessive amount of anxiety, as he has never seen a person shaken to its core like that.

She was trying to cut into the monologue on the other end, but she didn’t even finish the sentence and flinched, moving a phone a few centimeters away from the ear. That’s when she lifted her eyes and saw Lewis standing dead in his feet, staring at her from a few meters away, as if he was waiting for a signal to act. And for the first time since the driver had started paying attention, she wasn’t trying to run away or to brush it off, deny it.

Jen finally hung up, her fingers lingering on the screen for a second longer than necessary, her shoulders stiff with tension. For a moment, she was frozen, caught between the remains of the call and the realization that someone had seen everything.

Her jaw clenched, her breath hitched. He expected an excuse, something quick and dismissive, but it never came.

Instead, her shoulders slumped. And in the quietest, most exhausted voice, she whispered:

“I can’t go to him tonight.”

Lewis didn’t hesitate.

“Come with me.”

He didn’t say where. Didn’t push for anything else. Just left the offer open, solid and steady, giving her the space to take it. This time, she did.

Lewis got her into his driver’s room, shutting the door with a quiet click. Jen didn’t sit right away. She stood stiffly near the couch, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold something in – hold herself together.

Lewis didn’t push. He grabbed a chair, turning it toward her, giving her the space to come to him when she was ready. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I forgot to clean his shirt.”

Lewis frowned. “What?”

She let out a hollow, broken laugh, shaking her head. “His shirt. For a business meeting. I was supposed to make sure it was ironed and ready, but after yesterday’s GP I got home late, and I forgot.”

The weight of those words settled between them. Lewis clenched his jaw, his chest tightening – not at her, but at the fact that she thought this was the problem. That she had been conditioned to believe she had done something so unforgivable.

“He said that he is going to kill me, because I embarrassed him. Lewis, I don’t even know, the words have been on loop in my head since the call and it feels like he wasn’t lying this time.” 

The words landed heavy. They weren’t dramatic. Weren’t exaggerated. Just true. Like she hadn’t even let herself fully process them until she said them out loud.

Lewis exhaled slowly, steadying himself before he spoke. Then, carefully, he leaned forward.

“Jen,” he said, voice firm but careful, “you are not going back to him.”

She sat down slowly, hands still gripping her arms. After hearing Lewis, her immediate reaction was to defend him, like she has always done. “He wasn’t always like this.”

Lewis stayed quiet. He wasn’t here to rush her, wasn’t here to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He just let her talk. 

“In the beginning, he was… rough, but not with me. Never with me,” she murmured. “It was like… I knew he had a temper, but I thought I’d never be the target of it. He just seemed to be rather clingy, wanting to spend every waking minute with me.” A bitter smile flickered across her lips. “Then, after I agreed to marry him, something changed. Like I belonged to him now. And that meant he could say whatever he wanted. Do whatever he wanted.”

Even though her attempt of softening the situation rubbed him the wrong way, Lewis knew better than to react. Probably for years she was fed the narrative that people around that piece of garbage deserved what they’ve got. And then naturally, when his attitude shifted towards her, she thought that it was exactly what she had deserved.

Jen swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “It started small. Just comments. Controlling things, like who I talked to, how I dressed, how I spent my time. And then, when I refused to quit my job, he got… worse.”

Lewis didn’t move. But his fingers pressed against his knee, tight enough that his knuckles ached.

“The first time he hit me was a few months ago. Remember our brief interaction before Japan? I was hit earlier that day, almost first thing in the morning,” she admitted, voice barely audible. She thought it was shameful. “I had already thought about leaving, but he found out. He made sure I knew that I couldn’t.” She let out a shuddering breath. “I barely keep in touch with my friends and family anymore. I was never allowed to make any new meaningful connections too. I don’t know how, but he made sure of that, too.”

She lifted her gaze then, meeting Lewis’s. “Nobody knows. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Lewis’s chest felt tight, the weight of her words sinking in. But this wasn’t about his anger, his frustration, or how much he wanted to hunt this man down himself.

This was about her.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said simply. “You aren’t alone.”

Her breath hitched, and for the first time since she stepped into this room, her shoulders relaxed – just the slightest bit.

_____

Lewis didn’t waste time. Within hours after their conversation, arrangements had been made. Her accommodations in Silverstone were locked down, security was informed, and he had called in a few quiet favors to ensure she’d be safe. He handled it the way he handled pressure in the car – with precision.

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t give her a speech about how she deserved better or how she was stronger than this. She already knew all of that. She had been surviving on her own for months.

She just needed help. And he wasn’t about to let her down. It was about making sure that when she finally took the step to get away, she had somewhere safe to land. And if that meant stepping up? Then he would. No question about it.

Jen didn’t say much, but when later that night their plane touched down in the UK, she let out a breath like she was finally exhaling after holding it in for years.

For now, it wasn’t over. But for the first time, it felt like she had a way out.

[kunikame]

warmth of the sun embodied in you. - ace t.

warnings : mostly narration, astral references, malleus mention, ace is my muse my most beloved im sorry i will never shut up about him, i love the sun i love ace trappola w/c : 1045

there was always something about ace trappola that simply demanded attention. 

it wasn’t something easy to spot, something visible to the naked eye– no, it was something intangible, something deep within him that simply made the people around him unable to look away. his presence simply pulled gazes much like magnets and metals.

some people say it's because he's “such an ass it has you staring”, but then why are their gazes filled with wonder? 

in the time you spent here, you’ve come to find the only person who looked at ace with mostly apprehension was riddle rosehearts, his very own dorm leader. it’s no wonder, really, with how much of a troublemaker the ginger is (and with how many rules he breaks), but even despite that, sometimes, riddle looks at him starstruck as well.

you find yourself questioning this reality. while ace is a dear friend of yours, and he has been exceptionally nice to you (excluding the times he wasn’t because that's just who he is), you still don’t quite understand what exactly about him just has you turning your head to look at the ginger instead of the blackboard crewel is breaking his back to write on.

and it is perhaps in that fateful classroom where you finally begin to piece it together.

there was always something akin to a spotlight placed on ace trappola– whether it be one you imagined, the light from a lamp, or just literally the sun's rays– he was always the main attraction, always eye-catching.

or perhaps, it's not that he placed himself under the spotlights, perhaps the spotlights placed him under themselves. perhaps they chased him, were attracted to him, like moths to a flame. except, shouldn't it be the other way around? no, with ace, it shouldn’t. with or without a spotlight he somehow seems to shine brighter than the lights in rooms he occupies, somehow seems to bring more light than the actual source– and if he’s not the moth, he must be the flame, it just makes sense. 

people didn’t look at him because he was an ass, they looked at him because that’s just ace. simple as that– he is ace trappola and you must look at him, you must pay attention to him. whether he’s performing his card tricks or just spinning a pencil in class, he needs to be looked at because he is ace trappola and his presence demands attention– not quite like malleus, whose presence commands the rooms he enters, but still does so, in a sense.

throughout the next few weeks, you continued to observe the ginger, desperately trying to piece the puzzle together, trying to dissect him and figure out what exactly made him what you know him to be.

it was on a particularly cold autumn friday night, way past your regular bedtime– though, that was a necessary sacrifice to make for the 1st year game night– when you believe you finally figured it out.

you sat perched on the wide windowsill of the lounge, staring at the moon and faintly visible stars, the only never-changing constant in this twisted wonderland that you could confidently say reminded you of home.

the white light radiating off the orb felt mostly cold, but there were some remnants of the warmth the sun shared with it, warmth which it reflected upon the Earth, upon you.

then there was another presence– one of the other 6 current occupants of the lounge.

“what’re you doin’ up so late? couldn't sleep?”

you hum, watching as he seats himself on the opposite end of the windowsill, “yeah, something like that.”

“thinking about something? or was it deuce’s snoring, ‘cause that wakes me up too, sometimes.”

“mostly just thinking. what about you? why aren’t you sleeping? i don’t hear deuce snoring right now.”

he huffs a short laugh, ruffling his ginger mop of a horrendous bedhead, “honestly, i was awake the whole time. Grim kicked me in the head just now, though, so i figured i’d.. relocate, for a bit. thaumark for your thoughts? or we can just observe the moon, or whatever it is you were doing, if you want.”

as you stare at him under the moons’ light, it’s almost like it’s not even the white ball in the sky that radiates the heat and light, but rather ace– but if that were to be the case, that would make him the sun, wouldn’t it? since it’s the primary source, it’s what makes the moon glow?

perhaps he is, perhaps he has been all along, you’ve simply been too blinded by him to truly notice– for as they say, you shouldn’t stare at the eclipse without the proper protection for your eyes. now, as you look at him in the dark, it seems all too clear, all too obvious to deny. ace trappola has always glowed in ways more than perceptible– there was always this bright halo, a warm aura of sorts, around him. ace trappola has always been an enigmatic being to the people around him, whether it be for his way of living, his personality, or simply his behavioral patterns– he was never easy to understand or to decipher, but that’s one of the primary things which made him so interesting. there’s an undeniable pull about him that sucks everything and everyone into his atmosphere, making everything simply revolve around him– much like the planets revolve around the sun. his touch is always warm, burningly so, like he sits in the sunlight, soaking it up, with the sole purpose of being a living human heater. 

and despite people saying it’s best to stay clear of him in fear of being pulled along with his shenanigans, if you were to be given a choice on your position in the solar system ace is the center of, you would choose to be mercury, for incineration is a small price to pay for loving the sun. if you are to lose your vision or crash and burn and fade away into nothingness at the end of everything, then so be it– least your ashes will forever exist in the same space as him.

“i was just thinking you held the rays of the sun in your palms, and it’s warmth in you.”

ੈ✩₊˚TAGLIST : @solxima @lunavixia @gabirii @erigaur @pomegranateboba //ask/comment or fill form to be added/removed! (if you’re in bold i can’t tag you)

[teeztruthers24]

You've taught me what home is - and for that, you are my home

PAIRINGS: yunho x mingi x reader (poly relationship)

WARNINGS: anxiety-related rumination mentioned, brief mentions of OC sending seemingly threatening messages to main characters and brief (not graphic at all or explained) mentions of harm and explicit messages (please stay safe <3)

Also, this is a reader insert so there are no physical characteristics mentioned of 'You' except it is implied 'you' is feminine and suffers from anxiety.

FYI: none of the characterisations in this fic of any real-life people should be considered true-telling of the real individual. This is just a work of fiction and does not represent anyone in their real-life.

SUMMARY:

Yunho, Mingi and, You are all dating - and everything is perfect. Yunho and Mingi are part of a band that does exceptionally well and you face your own challenges at work and from family, but nothing else in the world can ruin your mood when you're with your boys.

So why then, does overhearing a conversation right before the boys perform on stage, send your heart shattering and make you question your relationship status?

And more importantly, how do Yunho and Mingi fix what they don't even know they've caused?

START:

The people around you might think you’re relationship was…unusual. Might even go as far as to call the three of you strange for failing to be monogamous and having one lover instead of having both. 

But that’s what worked for the three of you and it was no one else’s business to interfere with your relationship. It was no one else’s business to know how comforting the arms of your lovers were when wrapped around your shoulders during movie night at Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s shared apartment or how protective their hold on you was on a night out after an exhilarating performance on stage. How grounding their touch was after a draining day at work and coming home to see Yunho dancing around Mingi who was cooking your favourite dinner in your homely kitchen, soft music playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter, and nearly every candle in your house lit emitting a pleasant lavender smell that had your shoulders dropping from exhaustion and relief you were finally home.

Because that’s what they were to you – home. When your manager at work had a bad day which meant everyone had a bad day; or whenever phone calls to your parents would generally end up with you in tears and silence on the other end; or whenever your friends had a falling out and left you in the dust feeling lost and alone – Yunho and Mingi never failed to uplift your mood and let it known to you that you are their solace. 

Being best friends with Yunho and Mingi from middle school meant you had seen them in all their phases – from when Yunho was adamant he would become a professional video gamer to when Mingi would make mixtapes in his tiny bedroom, which only you and Yunho would be privy to. And finally, when they both found themselves pursuing a passionate love for music. 

This tight-knit friendship between you and the boys allowed you to see their hearts so clearly, which they wore on their sleeves, and it wasn’t hard to fall in love with them. It wasn’t long before you realised their soft smiles and the endearing look in their eyes when you caught their gaze meant they bared their hearts out to you with just as much ferocity as you did. 

Being in a relationship with the two soft giants didn’t feel different from being best friends - with the lovely addition of soft kisses and going to sleep feeling like you were wrapped in two weighted blankets. 

They showed you what love is – who love can create. 

When Yunho and Mingi decided to create a rock band alongside two childhood friends of yours’, Hongjoong, an amazing guitarist, and Jongho, who had the best set of vocals, you were unwavering in your support and encouragement. From playing in either Hongjoong or Mingi’s garage to playing sets in bars and smaller venues across town, you joined them in their wonderful endeavours and got to enjoy their music with a side of the beautiful sights of whichever town you were in. 

After their set, Yunho and Mingi would be visibly exhausted, sweat dripping down their faces, their legs barely dragging them backstage and towards the car, but they never failed to take you out for dinner after and then collapse into bed and sleep the night away. And when you woke the next morning to a cup of coffee and breakfast served for you, you grabbed whoever was closest and kissed them with such fervour, sometimes sight-seeing was traded for spending the day in bed with your lovely boys. 

Luckily, the venue the boys were playing at gave them an hour extra to play their songs which meant you had to stock up on food and drinks for the boys and yourself and make sure the hotel room after was ready because you knew you weren’t going to be taken out in the city after a long set on stage. 

With a bag of snacks and energy drinks from the convenience store in your hand, you walked backstage towards the dressing rooms where Yunho and Mingi were. 

Reaching inside the bag, you picked out Mingi’s favourite drink and stepped towards him to hand him his drink. When you looked up smiling, you noticed a somewhat troubled look on his face, his hand gripping his phone so tightly you could see them turning white. 

“Mingi…is everything okay?” You asked, concerned. 

“Hm?” Mingi looked up from his phone and noticed you and Yunho looking at him with odd expressions. He shook his head, “Everything’s fine love. I’m just nervous about playing,” he tried comforting you, though his face paled significantly. 

You nodded and handed him his drink telling him to drink up before sitting next to him. When you reached over to hold his hand, Mingi seemed to startle and immediately stood up before announcing he needed to go to the bathroom. 

You frowned. Mingi was acting strange…almost secretive. You hated casting any form of doubt on your boyfriends, but Mingi’s behaviour was certainly odd and it was rubbing you in the wrong way…

You turned to Yunho, about to ask him what was wrong with Mingi, when he turned to you and gave you a tight-lipped smile with a pensive look on his beautiful face, before rushing out of the room, supposedly following Mingi. Feeling somewhat helpless and incredibly confused, you looked around the room and found neither Hongjoong nor Jongho in sight to converse with, and fell back onto the couch. 

After a few minutes, the door opened and you sat up expectantly, hoping Mingi and Yunho would be back in, hopefully, good spirits…but in walked Hongjoong and Jongho. 

Seeing your shoulders slump with disappointment, Hongjoong came over to you on the couch and asked if you were okay. 

“What’s troubling you? Everything okay?” He asked.

Not wanting to put stress on a man who had to conserve his energy to play a large set, you turned to Hongjoong and gave him the best convincing smile you could muster and said, “I’m great! I’m just waiting for Mingi and Yunho to come back from the bathrooms.” 

Standing at the table of snacks and drinks, Jongho, in the middle of choosing a pre-show snack packet, turned to you with a tilt of his eyebrows and confusedly told you, “But Mingi and Yunho aren’t in the bathrooms. They’re outside the venue talking. They seem quite stressed so I don’t think they’ll be in here for a bit.” 

“Oh…thanks for telling me Jongho,” you gave a small smile, though from your tightened brows and quivering chin, the boys could tell you were worried. You rushed out of the building, turning your head in all directions to try and find your boyfriends.

Moving towards the back of the venue facing the carpark, you came across Mingi sitting on the curb, back facing you, yet you could tell from his hunched figure and shoulders shaking, that something was wrong. Yunho also came into view, large hands rubbing Mingi’s back and softly speaking to him.

You angled yourself so you could hear them, but they couldn’t see or hear you. You hated eavesdropping, but something was wrong with your boyfriend - maybe both of them - and they weren’t telling you.

You pushed aside the feeling of dread starting to pool in your stomach and forced your ears to pick up on their conversation.

Mingi’s voice was shaky and breathy, almost like he had been crying for a while, “I can’t do this anymore, Yunho. I can’t keep lying to her like this…”, he broke off, tears continuing to drip down his face.

Yunho sighed, “I know it hurts Mingi…But how would we even tell her about–” His voice was drowned out by some people on the other side of the street drunkenly singing. 

“It’s so hard to lie and keep up this happy facade with her Yunho. I just wished she stopped being such a burden and left us alone…” Mingi said wistfully. “It might hurt her but we have to tell her what’s going on…”, he sniffled. 

That feeling in your stomach iced your veins. Feeling your eyes start to burn with tears and your heart stop yet race at the same time, you refused to listen anymore. Thoughts racing, you turned to head back inside the venue to grab your things and leave.

Maybe in hindsight, you should’ve heard more of their conversation, or confronted them right then and there…but the feeling of pain and hurt in your heart was something you’d never felt before. 

Speed-walking back to the dressing rooms, you opened the doors and rushed in, startling Jongho and Hongjoong who were in opposite corners of the room, preparing for the show. 

After grabbing your bag and phone, you turned to the boys, who now looked at you with puzzled expressions, and gave them your share of good luck.

“Are you not gonna stay and watch the show,” Hongjoong asked confused. You always stayed to watch your boys rock the stage. Not once had you ever failed at showing your boys your unwavering support. 

“No sorry…something came up at work and they need me to do something but I can’t work here…sorry guys,” You replied, hoping they wouldn’t ask any more questions so you could get out of there. 

When there was a brief pause after your response, you turned and left the room, not even waiting for Jongho or Hongjoong to say something. When you got to the front doors, you noticed Mingi and Yunho on the other side about to walk in, and you hid behind the pillars in the lobby, praying they wouldn’t see you. 

As if your prayers were answered, they walked right past you. Not wanting to stay back and watch them any longer, you rushed out to your car and locked the doors. 

You sat there, numb. That feeling of dread and pain and hurt had morphed into something you couldn’t even describe. Cheating… that wasn’t something you had ever considered your boys doing…and the notion of them cheating made your heart pound, filled with doubt and your mind feel like a bag of rocks was weighing it down. 

You debated calling them to tell them you were going home because you knew they would immediately leave the show to console you…and you just needed some time to think clearly. So after sending a ‘good luck for your show!’ text to your guys’ group chat, you put the car in drive and made the painful journey back home…alone. 

When you got home and noticed the darkness of such a small space, your scattered brain hurt even more and it felt like the room got even smaller than it was. Your chest was constricting with anxiety and you felt like you couldn’t breathe – and in that moment, all you wanted – no needed – was for your boys to come home and hold you. 

But they weren’t there.

That ugly feeling of anxiety started to make you wonder if either of the boys had even noticed you were gone. If they had cared. If they were texting her whoever she was, or if she was there in the crowd watching them the way you were supposed to be doing. 

A part of you hated these thoughts – hated the way you rushed to label your loving, healthy relationship with the boys as ruined and call them cheaters when you probably didn’t know the whole story. That same part of you felt toxic…and made you think the boys deserved better than whatever you had going on.

With your brain driving thoughts in two directions, you feel physically and mentally exhausted. Crawling into bed, you wished for nothing but the past hour to have been a painful nightmare. And for the first time since you moved in with the boys, you slept all alone. 

Being asleep, you didn’t realise when Yunho and Mingi had raced home after their show, their bodies physically exhausted but that paling in comparison to how heavy their hearts hurt. When they noticed you had curled around their pillows in bed and were fast asleep with dried tears tracking down your face, their eyes felt wet and Mingi felt a sob rising at the back of his throat; you had cried yourself to sleep…and something they said or did was to blame. 

They patted your head and looked at each other, giving the other a silent nod and agreeing they should give you some space in bed; taking the couch for the night. 

When you woke the next morning, your eyes felt like someone had glued them shut and your mouth felt as dry as a desert due to all the crying last night. You contemplated going back to sleep in hopes of shutting out the world around you, but the slight smell of coffee and hearing something sizzling in the kitchen made you rise out of bed. 

Your heart felt lighter and heavier at the same time – your boys were back…which meant avoiding them about last night was out of the question. Never in your years of being friends, and eventually dating, had you ever seen them raise their voices in anger…but worried thoughts of an argument started floating around your head. 

When you walked out of your room, you noticed Mingi near the coffee machine and Yunho standing in front of the stove flipping what seemed to be (burnt) pancakes. They were both dressed in the same clothes they were why you left your apartment the day before and when you looked at the couch, the blankets and pillows were ruffled. Your heart clenched… had the boys been afraid to sleep in bed next to you? Was this the start of the end? Were you going to lose not only your boyfriends but your best friends? 

Hearing the floorboards creak under you, Yunho and Mingi shot their heads up to look at you. The looks in their eyes made you soften and tears spring to your eyes – they gazed at you with such longing and pain in their eyes. 

Mingi stepped towards you and you thought he would either kiss you or tell you to get out of his way, but he mumbled, “Yunho and I are gonna wash up. Please eat your breakfast my love…I think we need to talk.” With that, he and Yunho looked at you with determination in their eyes and leaned down to give you a small kiss on either side of your cheeks before heading towards the bathroom.

After managing to move your feet towards the kitchen, you forced yourself to eat and ignore your lack of appetite; you figured it wouldn’t be best to have a conversation on an empty stomach. 

When you were done, you sat on the couch and waited for the boys. You felt a sense of deja vu from the night before waiting on the couch for your the boys (you should start learning to not refer to them as yours anymore..huh?). When they came over, they sat close together on the loveseat in front of you. 

When you looked up, you noted Mingi’s were tinged red…like what would happen if someone cried themselves to sleep and continued in the morning. Your heart ached even more. Yunho grabbed Mingi’s shaking hands and looked at you with an undecipherable expression. 

Okay, you thought, let’s make this breakup an easy conversation . 

You decided to speak first, hoping that you could start amicably, “Sorry for not staying to watch the show…How was it?” Your voice was strained, but hopeful. 

Yunho gulped. “Baby…we know something is wrong. You left way before we even started playing and didn’t tell us…please…what’s wrong?” His shoulders notably sagged down. 

Jaw clenching to not let a sob escape, you looked down at your hands intertwined with each other and tried to catch your thoughts to respond, “I heard you.” That was all you could mutter. 

Both Mingi and Yunho seemed to be confused. What did you hear? 

When you took note of their confusion and silence, you continued, “Outside in the carpark. You said you don’t love me…that it hurt to lie to me and you wanted to stop lying.” By this point, you felt the saltiness of your tears enter your mouth but kept on going. “You said you weren’t h-happy with me anymore…and you think I’m a… b-burden. So please…be quick with it and just b-break up with me.” You tried to contain your sobs but the painful reminder of yesterday hurt too much for you to keep quiet. 

Sniffling, you forced your head up to look between the boys…only to feel puzzled about their expressions. They had matching looks of almost…relief (?) on their faces. What could they be so relieved about when you sat across from them, heart-shattering into the tiniest of pieces? 

Heart pounding and head feeling heavy once more, your mind seemed to cloud over in preparation for the next four words that would leave you devastated.

“Oh baby…we weren’t talking about you…” Yunho uttered, his tone sounding so vulnerable. 

Oh.

Oh.

What??

Time seemed to stop. It was so silent in your living room that you could hear your blood rushing through your body; hear your breathing slow down and feel your mind quiet instantaneously.  

They…weren’t talking about…you…they don’t think anything bad of you…they (might) still love you…

In the quiet void, Mingi’s quiet voice speaks out, “My love, can I please give you a hug?” 

When you slowly but surely nod yes, he leaps over to you and hugs you so hard you can feel your inside being squished together. But you ignore that feeling because it feels so good to finally be held by your boyfriend. 

“Wait Mingi, we still need to explain what happened…why we said what we said,” Yunho pulled Mingi back slightly, teary-eyed, and gave you an understanding look. “Please hear us out completely first, darling,” he seemed to beg. 

After you nodded in acceptance, Yunho turned to Mingi and seemed to urge him to speak. 

Mingi sniffled and took a deep breath, before admitting, “I don’t know if you remember back in high school, there was this girl…Yuna…and she would follow us everywhere? Do you remember?,” after receiving a hum of affirmation, he continued, “After school one day, she cornered me in our classroom and told me she liked me. And I just stood there and said nothing because…because I was in love with you and Yunho – I still am of course! – but she kept saying that I had to either choose between the two of you or pick her or she would tell my parents and I-I hadn’t told my parents about us at the time and I was so worried s-she would tell them and I didn’t know what to do so I just gave her my n-number and told her to please please keep quiet and–” Mingi spluttered before sobs racked from his throat and rendered him quiet. 

You felt a gush of tears prick your eyes once more and moved to sit next to him, rubbing his back along with Yunho. You said nothing to allow Mingi to get his bearings together but frowned as you thought of Yuna. Yuna – the girl that did follow you guys everywhere in high school and rejected your advances to be friends. You had never thought you had to worry about her because you always attributed her ‘affections’ as idolising her seniors at school and once you all graduated, she left your mind as quickly as you all left your hometown. 

After a while, Mingi took another deep breath and continued, “After we graduated and moved to the city, I completely forgot about her you know? And I thought we had become adults now so I didn’t have to worry about her anymore…but one day she started texting me and when I didn’t respond she moved to DMing me and she would send me messages of her…some explicit at first…some almost threatening harm but…to herself. She would ask me for money for dresses she wanted to buy and wear on our first date and kept telling me to break up with you guys because she said she wanted me all to herself…” He broke off, not quite sure how to end his recounting. 

Yunho then took over, “Mingi told me one day what was going on when his phone kept blowing up during practice. And after he told me and I sent a text from his phone telling her to leave him alone, she started sending me messages too…telling me to break up with you before she started talking to you.” He stopped to gauge your reaction, before adding, “We tried our best to ignore her and block her but she kept finding ways to message us…we’re sorry for not telling you, darling.” 

You felt…conflicted. Here your boys were telling you about a girl that was threatening to ruin everything you had built together for her selfish gain which gave them a reason for their words, as hurtful as you had perceived them, last night…but you didn’t understand why didn’t tell you.

And because you wanted an answer to put an end to your confusion, you simply asked them, “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought- I thought when you said all that stuff yesterday…I thought you wanted to break up with me…” you choked out before dissolving into tears.

Mingi wrapped his arms around you whilst uttering soft ‘no’s’ and shaking his head. Yunho felt the stress of not knowing why his girlfriend was so upset the night before leaving him, and he gathered you and Mingi in his arms before softly rocking you all back and forth. 

With both the your boys holding you and whispering sweet nothings in your ears, your wails reduced to soft hiccups. 

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry for believing either of you would…c-cheat,” you threw the word out like a bad omen. Almost immediately, Yunho and Mingi started shaking their heads in disagreement, “No my love, you don’t have to be sorry,” and “We’re sorry for not telling you darling.” 

“We noticed how stressed you’ve been recently from work and your family dumping all their issues on you and everything you’re friends have been dragging you through…we didn’t feel right making you feel insecure in our relationship by telling you about some girl we spent no seconds thinking about. Because this, of all things in our life,” Yunho said gesturing between him and Mingi, “This relationship with you is our constant. Our solace. Our home.”

“He’s right you know? Last night she kept texting me and I realised I couldn’t keep hiding the burden that was her from you anymore,” Mingi agreed.

You kept quiet and let their words sink in. Those ugly feelings started clearing from your heart and mind – your boys never wanted to leave you. This was all just a misunderstanding…

“Trust me when I say my love, beyond you and Yunho, there is no one else I want to fill my heart,” Mingi whispered before looking deep into your eyes for any hesitation, and when finding nothing but love and adoration, pressed his lips onto yours. 

Yunho watched the two loves of his life with the utmost love and fondness and then decided he, too, wanted a kiss from you. When you and Mingi pulled away for a breath of air, Yunho swept in and held the back of your head whilst he kissed you like you were all the oxygen in the world he was trying to breathe in. 

When he pulled away from you, you giggled – and the sight of your tussled hair, soft lips glistening and sparkling eyes sent waves of warmth and love through Mingi and Yunho.

“What do you say we skip whatever we each had planned today and just stay home? I think we could all do with some loving today huh?” You offered, hoping your boys would say yes.

Before you could even finish your sentence, your boys nodded their heads so fast you worried they would fall off. 

And so, that whole day went like this: you, Mingi, and Yunho spent all day intertwined on the couch watching rom-coms, with Mingi squished between the two of you. You reached over to kiss the small mole under Mingi’s eye and Yunho kissed the spot on his cheek whilst Mingi erupted in giggles that had your and Yunho’s hearts soaring. Hands enclosed in one anothers’, the three of you fell asleep, each vowing to never stray far from one another – not now and certainly not in any other lifetime.

[meomoicecr]

Some Thoughts on the Cyclum...

This is a Wilson/Maxwell ship post, aiming to compile some character and relationship analyses I’ve written on Weibo. Well... Most of it is based on in-game lore and quotes, so I’ll probably organize and post it all here gradually!

First, let’s talk about the dynamic shift in their power balance. When I first got into the fandom and was randomly scrolling through posts, I stumbled upon a blogger’s comparison between another ship I’d previously liked and Wilson/Maxwell (okay that's kylux in SW ). They mentioned that while the former pair went from equals to an unequal relationship, whereas Wilson/Maxwell features two inherently unequal individuals whom Wilson single-handedly dragged into equality. This "equality" wasn’t achieved through Wilson rising to Maxwell’s level in Adventure Mode, but rather through the fact that when Maxwell returned to the Constant as a mortal, Wilson—who already had a camp and resources at that point—could have chosen to become the dominant party, yet deliberately didn’t. Instead, he placed Maxwell on equal footing with himself.

Most relationships like this end up with a reversal of roles—the former superior becomes the inferior, and vice versa, cycling endlessly. Even Maxwell himself, upon entering Wilson’s camp, initially assumed a submissive position, almost resigning himself to Wilson’s whims (after all, he’d just been pinned down and beaten up. By the time Wilson finished adding fuel to the fire and turned around, Maxwell was still standing there. Normally, even animals would flee after being hit once, let alone when facing someone you’ve deeply wronged. Logically, Maxwell could’ve expected further beatings—or even being killed—after the fire was stoked. Yet when Wilson turned back, Maxwell just stood there, accepting whatever action Wilson might take against him).

Later, when the two of them sat silently facing each other by the campfire, Maxwell kept shrinking into himself with his head bowed. It was Wilson who broke the ice first—passing him a meat skewer and starting the conversation—otherwise Maxwell would have remained completely still and silent.

Objectively speaking, Maxwell was just a weak destitute old drifter at this point, while all the camp's supplies—food, drink, everything—belonged to Wilson. By all rights, Wilson had every justification to treat Maxwell however he pleased. Yet he chose not to seek revenge or relegate him to an inferior position, instead consciously treating him as an equal. That’s truly remarkable… To put it simply: "After defeating you, I could have chosen to dominate you—but instead, I chose to pull you up to stand beside me as an equal." That’s why Maxwell could afford to be so unrestrained around Wilson. (Compare this to Charlie, who openly resents and blames him—around her, Maxwell is visibly guilty, ashamed, and even submissive to the point of resignation… Though, of course, Charlie is also exceptionally special to him.)

Maxwell has always been the type to gauge people’s moods and adapt accordingly. Around Charlie, his vulnerability and passivity are laid bare. Around the other survivors—who have mostly accepted him but still regard him with some wariness and distrust (and who never saw his throne-side persona)—he instinctively slips back into acting like his Adventure Mode self or the "big bad villain" they expect him to be. This distinction is quite obvious: some of his in-game quotes clearly sound like performative, exaggerated versions of his old "evil mastermind" persona (the kind he’d put on when others are around), while others carry a deeply depressive, self-loathing tone (likely muttered to himself when alone).

That said, he does make an effort to be more polite and measured around the group. He tolerates teasing without snapping back (which, given his ego, is downright pitiful) and grumbles through chores but does them anyway. But with Wilson—who has witnessed both his most vicious, terrifying side and his most pitiful, vulnerable moments, yet chooses to let bygones be bygones, indulges him, and keeps roughhousing with him as usual—well… "Let Wilson do it." Spoiled Maxwell to the max. It's the epitome of a cat becoming utterly comfortable after being thoroughly domesticated. You could say Maxwell's ability to banter with Wilson, tease him, even complain about him—it's all Wilson's doing, a product of his pampering. But precisely because of this, Maxwell can interact with him without any reservations.

(There's another particularly adorable detail—Wilson and Webber are the only two who never actually bring up Maxwell's past misdeeds. That's also worth analyzing, maybe in the next post?!)

Second, although the Cyclum is primarily explored from Maxwell's perspective, Wilson's reactions also reveal a lot about his attitude toward [seeing Maxwell alive again after believing him dead].

First, there’s the way he throws aside his axe and resorts to fists—almost like, "I may still resent you, but I won’t kill you. A beating will suffice." Then there’s the infamous moment (though it’s been analyzed to death, it’s just too good to ignore) where Wilson eats a plain carrot while giving Maxwell the meat skewer.  Here’s this man, rationing himself to basic veggies, yet offering real sustenance to the very person who ruined his life—now a ragged, starving shadow of his former self. It's his way of silently communicating: "I'm willing to take you in for now, and I'll provide for you too." No words needed, yet the message couldn't be clearer.

And then there’s Wilson’s choice of conversation starter to break the awkward silence: the fact that he thought Maxwell was dead.

Honestly, Wilson’s choice of topic is profoundly telling. What exactly was Maxwell to him at this point?

The liar who tricked him into this wilderness. The enemy who killed him repeatedly, only to reappear and mock him. The demon who rendered all his struggles and attempts futile. The man who taunted him with visions of gruesome deaths and throne-bound despair—yet now stood before him, alive again.

And yet, Wilson’s first words carried no accusations. No recriminations for how Maxwell had deceived or tormented him. Instead, he opened with a meat skewer—a silent peace offering—and then chose to say: "I thought you were dead."

This topic is truly ingenious—perhaps even the only one that wouldn't make Maxwell feel awkward or guilty, while still prompting him to voluntarily speak up and explain himself, thereby breaking their stalemate. Especially for someone like Wilson—a logically-minded individual prone to getting lost in his own thoughts—to have come up with this particular subject is nothing short of remarkably considerate, emotionally intelligent, and even awe-inspiring in his mental fortitude to set aside their past grievances so quickly and consider things from the other's perspective… Upon closer reflection, this is exquisitely satisfying—Wilson is truly exceptional, genuinely making earnest efforts to guide Maxwell toward opening up and interacting with him naturally. And if we take another perspective—considering how Maxwell's horrific, ash-scattering death must have deeply impacted Wilson—it's equally delicious… More than anything else, what matters is your death. I have so many questions I want to demand answers for, so many explanations I need from you—but you were dead. From that moment on, this became the first thing I wanted to ask."

At this point I want to discuss how Maxwell's death on the throne affected Wilson. First, Wilson's emotions when finally reaching the throne room must have been incredibly complex… Players can easily empathize with Wilson's perspective - after dying countless times, suffering repeated failures, and struggling desperately to push forward, all driven by the need for some kind of resolution. Whether it was finding a way home or beating up the old man responsible, he needed closure. But when he finally faced Maxwell, all he saw was a ragged, emaciated old man chained and tortured. No way home, no possibility of beating up this pitiful old man - for this version of Maxwell, even death would be a release.

No matter what bizarre method Wilson tried to kill Maxwell, it would fail. Maxwell would say it's useless, he's tried them all - he'd attempted every possible strange method to die, that's how desperately he wanted it. And at this point Wilson finally realizes they're both just pawns being played with, both victims… But for Wilson who had persevered with such conviction, this outcome was truly unacceptable.

I think Maxwell probably didn't know what would happen when Wilson inserted the detector - otherwise he wouldn't have initially smiled upon being freed before looking in horror as his body disintegrated… For Maxwell, death was probably just an instant thing, a form of release. And since he returned to the Constant afterward, he likely didn't dwell much on his own death.

But for Wilson who witnessed Maxwell die before his eyes, it was completely different. Before choosing compassion, he must have wrestled with it internally. But the moment he inserted the detector, Maxwell disintegrated before him, dying in that horrifying manner… Single-player gamers will understand the profoundly lonely, desolate atmosphere of the Don't Starve. Before this, even though Maxwell was the one who'd trapped him in this situation, he was still the only person Wilson could talk to in this world. And now this sole person he could communicate with had died because of his compassion. In his shock, thoughts like "does this mean I killed him?" might have flashed through Wilson's mind - only to be pulled onto the throne himself the next second… It's truly despair-inducing. Even after returning to the Constant, that scene would keep replaying in his mind. So when he eventually encountered Maxwell again - discovering he wasn't dead after all, but instead hiding pathetically in the bushes spying on his camp - while annoyed and exasperated, he must have also felt some relief... Well, nothing to do but beat him up and then give him a meat skewer, I guess. (But much later, when seeing Maxwell near death again, that image of him turning to ash would inevitably resurface, which must have been quite traumatic for Wilson.)

Yet the immediate consequence of Wilson's momentary indulgence was this cat immediately getting bold enough to snatch Wilson's blueprints to look at (I can't even - gonna save this for the next post lol).

Alright, but finally I still want to marvel at how Wilson could pin Maxwell to the ground with one hand while still turning back to tend the fire - Maxwell is just so physically weak, completely incapable of resisting! The Cyclum similarly shows Maxwell's survival skills in his own created world exist only in theory… In practice he just ends up fleeing in disgrace, with his natural sanity restoration still nearly getting him killed by shadow creatures while Wilson had already built a small base by then.

When Wilson and Maxwell play together online, it's kinda like the server's top player (the guy who first cleared Adventure Mode empty-handed) carrying the game's designer who doesn't actually play games… just look at Wilson's situation when he first entered the Constant! Alone with no help or rescue, struggling to survive in the wilderness where everything had to be learned through personal experience, each lesson paid for with multiple deaths. Meanwhile Maxwell immediately meets Wilson upon arrival - gets taken in, receives food, shelter, company, someone to bicker with and teach him how to survive. It's like being a newbie who gets carried by a pro from the start, avoiding so much suffering (.) Can't be helped since Maxwell is the type of creature who'd cut his hand picking up a flint - can't really expect him to actually survive. Viewing their relationship as a human keeping a cat explains everything perfectly.

Finally, I want to say—the equality between Wilson and Maxwell is the best kind. And usually, it's Wilson who drags the high-and-mighty old man down, then turns around and offers him respect and compassion, achieving a mutual ease and lack of restraint between them... Wilson has his overly rational side, his cruel side, his indifferent side, his empathy-deficient side. Yet when facing Maxwell—his defeated rival, the mastermind behind it all—he chose compassion twice, treating him with his most human side. At the very least, to Maxwell, Wilson is a true gentleman.

[affableramen]

Ello! How would Pantalone react if we gave him a handmade gift instead using his money to buy him a one? And maybe more like using our own money to buy our needs instead of him spoiling us XD

Thanks!

I am not too sure about handmade gifts because to be honest I’ve never done them before (thus I can’t give you a realistic picture) HOWEVER, here’s a little scenario for you:

It is a just morning but you’re running late to work due to traffic. Seeing that there’s no other choice but wait for the traffic to go down, you decide to grab a drive thru coffee on your way.

Your boss is a cold rational man, and he has a habit of being particularly grumpy in the morning, especially considering how lazy and incompetent some of his employees are. An idea comes up to your mind, and with no qualm nor regret you get him one coffee, too. Of course, for some people it would sound like a stupid decision, since his secretary always makes him a coffee whenever he wishes so, however treating him to one personally just feels right. You are not sure whether he’ll be pleased or outraged with your spontaneous decision, but you know for sure you do it from your heart.

On the drive thru, you grab yourself a salted caramel latte, and an almond cappuccino for him. He’s diabetic so he can’t take sugar easily like you do, and you always keep it in mind.

Once your hot drinks are served, you notice how the traffics has gently gone don. Calmly you drive to the office, watching the cup holders as you wouldn’t like your small treat to splash all over.

Of course upon your arrival to the office and confirming your identity, you notice that your boss is in exceptionally bad spirits today. Pantalone practically shoves the papers onto the desk, not holding up from cursing the employee loudly for the what seems to be an unacceptable assignment. For a moment you feel your chest tighten and become unsure whether or not you should even come up to him, however the employee bows his head low, apologises a dozen times and escapes the room swiftly.

When his private office appears unoccupied, you knock on the door gently.

“Yes. What now?” The borderline grumpy voice asks you. He tries to maintain professionalism even when everything’s out of order.

“I just wanted to inform you that I brought you a hot drink.”

He lets you in with a surprised expression and his mouth stuck slightly opened. You smoothly place the cup holder onto his desk, reminiscing on the earlier events when you were in the traffic.

“It was worth the wait”, you think because for the first time ever you see an expression on his face so soft that it’s almost unbelievable him being the same person who was just punishing someone.

“I’m sure you know you didn’t have to do this. I’m served coffee when I want it and how I want it”, he looks at the cup, and then back at you, maintaining a cool atmosphere between you two.

“I know.”

“You know, and you still did something irrelevant like this.” He stares you up and down, his gaze almost humiliating with dominance.

You shrug your shoulders, Pantalone’s straight face for a moment making your heart sink and you catch yourself feeling guilty.

“I just did it.” At that message, Pantalone had no reason to lash out at you, and seeing you so confidently respond to him in a calm manner almost instantly convinced him that you did it from the bottom of your heart.

“Well, thank you.” He brings the cup to his lips and takes a sip. You even remember that he has diabetes type I, he thinks. How considerate of you.

Pantalone puts the cup back on the desk and his face turns from the angry, irritated due to his subordinate's failure of performance, and his weary expression drops, the softest of smiles occurs on his lips.

"You know, I really appreciate the smallest things you do for me." Is the only thing he says before taking a seat back to his chair and opening his laptop. It was a sign for you to leave, you presume, so you bow to him and make your way to the exit, but right before you leave, Pantalone calls you:

"If you'd visit me afterhours, I might return you a favour by treating you to a nice dinner", his face insufferably serious once again, as if the polite businessman he is, he attempts to maintain the coolest of composures.

You smile at him and bow formally once again, "I'd be most glad to join you."

[kissingmilfs]

🎸𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 | 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤! 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐦𝐞𝐥 🎸

18+ minors please dni

content warnings: there’s honestly none! it’s sweet and i had a lot of fun. if people like it and are interested i’ll probably consider a part 2.

based off this ask 🎸

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮🎸₊˚⊹♡ ✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮🎸₊˚⊹♡ ✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧✮

✮⚡︎ sevika’s band name is The Z Rebels. they’re pretty big in zaun and even book shows in piltover surprisingly. sevika loved that she could rock out with her bass guitar and either hide in the foggy shadows on stage or stand right on edge and enthrall everyone with just her fingers.

✮⚡︎ she had unexpectedly met mel as the z rebels were setting up for their latest gig at a semi-fancy night club. mel commanded the room by the mere presence of walking in and popping her gum far too loudly. sevika couldn’t take her eyes off of mel either. she wore her hair in two large puffs in shapes of stars. sevika found herself loving mel’s two braids adorned with beads.

✮⚡︎ mel was one of the z rebels biggest fans. moving to piltover in somewhat exile hadn’t squashed her self expression or interest. she had found another punk scene in piltover thanks to the efforts of the zaun community. it slowly trickled into piltover but she enjoyed more the underground scene in zaun. so when she heard they were performing in piltover mel jumped on the opportunity to help with anything.

✮⚡︎ mel’s favorite member of the band, of course, was sevika. she loved the range of emotions sevika could invoke with just her bass. and it helped sevika was insanely attractive. mel had come to the night club in hopes of catching sevika alone. she watched as the band did sound checks with a noticeable excitement radiating off of her.

✮⚡︎ it was sevika who had made the first move. she could feel mel’s eyes on her the entire sound check. taking account of mel green eyes lighting up when sevika practiced her solo. sevika doesn’t think she could have resisted mel anyway. because the second sevika hopped off of stage and crossed to mel—the younger woman shot out of her chair with a huge smile. her plaid skirt was frayed and sewed with patches of other material. when sevika got closer she almost stumbled backwards. the club lights didn’t do mel any justice.

✮⚡︎ mel found it exceptionally easy to talk with sevika despite being star struck. sevika’s dry humor and slight awkwardness allowed mel to feel comfortable around sevika. and sevika could not pull her eyes away from the green ones that looked up at her with such fondness and adoration.

✮⚡︎ sevika certainly had slept with a few groupies. most of the band did. it’s not the reason she started but it certainly made playing fun when they were sometimes so severely underpaid from gigs. but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to drag mel into a bathroom stall. sevika knew mel deserved more than that.

✮⚡︎ mel and sevika met up the following day at local restaurant in zaun. when mel suggested it—sevika rambled on with slight offense that mel didn’t need to placate her. she could afford to eat in piltover despite not wishing to. but when mel defiantly spoke back and told sevika to get over herself—well sevika did just that.

✮⚡︎ it was very much a surprise to the other band members when mel started attending all their gigs. and it was even more of a surprise when sevika wrote her first song. the idea dawned on her when mel rested her chin and hand on sevika’s stomach after a session of lovemaking. a word sevika would normally never use.

✮⚡︎ sevika’s song to mel was an instant hit. they were getting interests for a record deal. and potentially a proper tour. sevika twirled mel around in her arms once they signed their first deal. mel had offered to look over the contract and even get them a good lawyer.

✮⚡︎ people have made assumptions mel is the cash cow for the z rebels. which isn’t true. if they need something mel is the last person they’ll ask. mel also never offers unless it’s something dire. she knows how important it is for the entire band to say they worked hard. blood sweat and tears. but she adores throwing after parties in her penthouse for them. she loves having the unity of zaun and piltover be initiated through a fucking punk rock band.

✮⚡︎ and mel’s job…well…one day she’s a painter. the next day she’s a writer. for a brief period she became the band’s photographer until vi pointed out she only took pictures of sevika. not like sevika cared too much. sevika knew mel was a trust fund baby but it didn’t bother her as it should’ve. mel never flashed her money or made sevika feel bad about her own upbringings.

✮⚡︎ eventually mel ended up selling her penthouse and her one and only big gift to the group was buying them their own home in zaun. it wasn’t perfect and needed lots of renovations. but she loved seeing sevika in her tank tops and work pants carrying around lumber and bags of concrete. and when mel’s and sevika room was done—mel took the time to create a mural in their room that reminded her of the love growing between her and sevika.

[jabberwondia]

【the next step】 【part 2】 RIDDLE x READER, NSFW

Part 1 is here.

The proverbial "next time".

Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader, 18+. Fluff, sexual intimacy (explicit), consensual.

Worrying about failing a test, botching that one high note at the recital, or stammering throughout the graduation speech are all examples of performance anxiety. The thought of failing and the looming overshadow it casts on the far-off dream of success – to a lot of people, it can be paralyzing. To counter it, you dwell on all the possibilities before that something can even come to pass, methodically going through worst-case scenarios in your head; at the time, they all seem more like prophecies.

Contrary to what his occasionally fiery mood swings might suggest, Riddle Rosehearts was a fairly confident and composed person, and never suffered from nerves before a test, recital or speech. The roots of his self-assurance were practice, diligence and rules. No test would ever be scary if you had revised hard enough, no note unreachable if practiced frequently enough, and no speech impossible if rehearsed enough. Rules provided a frame which allowed little flexibility, which meant more provable, safe results.

This, however, was different. There was no way to prepare for it. Any guides on the subject would generally say, ‘Let it flow’, and honestly that’s what he believed he had done -or at least tried to do- last time, when you were catching your breath, spread on top of his lap. He had purposefully, repeatedly, attempted to forget all about it – but every time his phone buzzed with one of your messages, he was sorely reminded of everything he did, and specially of what he didn’t do.

‘Would it be so bad if it were... planned?’ he pondered. But it’s not like those words would ever leave his mouth, and he truly did care about you, so he was not about to insult your integrity by suggesting something as unrefined as “Hey baby, let’s get it on”.

Sigh. It hardly seemed like the topic you could trust friends with, either. “What should I do?” he wanted to ask, but the fear of getting humiliated in return was too real. Or at least, it was inside Riddle’s head, as however certain he could be in social situations, one of his most recurring nightmares included screwing up an easy spell, getting laughed at, then yelled at by his mother, and, finally, falling through the void (in that order).

“Next time,” he had told Floyd. Why did he do that? Whatever the hell did that mean? Not unlike enlisting New Year resolutions and telling everyone you started working out – in a way, the contract behind your words binds you to turn them into action. Riddle really wish he hadn’t, and to be fair, Floyd hadn’t even asked about it since – but the thought alone was eating away at him.

Alone in his room, he had, at long last, drafted up the end-all, be-all of text-based conversation.

Riddle Rosehearts: “Hello! 🌹 What are you doing for the break? I’ll pass on going home this time, I think. We can expect an exceptionally hot summer this year, and I’m worried about the hedgehogs.”

And then, greatly contingent on your answer, but – hopefully – the next sentence would be:

“If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?”

‘Stay the night’ was a much more suitable euphemism for what he wanted to say. It was short, and sweet, and left the possibility of nothing happening, which was important. The main problem with it is that it broke quite a few rules, but most notoriously: the rules that stated students from other schools were not allowed inside the dorms past curfew, and that non-alumni needed a special permission to enter in the first place. Well, uh, and also the fact that he was trying to bring a girl to sleepover to an all-boys school. After one law had been violated, the rest of transgressions just seemed like silly, collateral damage. This is why he was a stickler for codes and regulations – being unyielding did, in fact, protect the system from falling apart all at once.

The hedgehog excuse also worked well, and even his mother had believed it and granted him permission to stay all summer on campus.

The first text is an easy one to send. If, for any reason, Riddle feels like he needs to call the whole thing off, he can just invite you to a Tea Party, or suggest a date in the park. The break begins next weekend, and it’s a perfect time because the school will be mostly empty and free of prying eyes. And if you are too busy to catch up, spending a quiet summer caring for the hedgehogs doesn’t sound too bad either.

Y/N: “oh hey! 😊 poor darlings🦔 it’s good they have a very kind caretaker💓 yeah, I read somewhere we were reaching record temperatures. thankfully it’s not so bad inside our dorm. i’ll go home, but only from the second week onwards”

Which leaves a week in between to... to...

Riddle opens up his drafts once again. All he has to do is copy, paste and hope for the best. But as he’s proof-reading, it occurs to him that maybe “sleepover” is better than “stay the night” – which one sounds more casual? Ugh, his hands are starting to feel icy cold and unresponsive. The weight on his chest is getting bigger.

Y/N: “we should meet up before I leave! 😊 i can help take care of the hedgehogs if you need a hand?"

Oh my Queen. A second, continuous text from you was not in the original plan. So now what? Well, he could still brave through and –ahem– suggest his suggestion. Hell, if he was so paralyzed at a text, there’s no way he could actually sleep with you, even if you did come over.

Riddle does not want you to help take care of the hedgehogs. Or rather, that is so trivial right now, that he wishes you could forget about it, and words to be undone.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I couldn’t possibly ask that! Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you’d have to come in pretty late.”

Riddle is quick to type and send, but then gasps when he realizes the meaning. It can be taken two ways: either that he wants you to come in late, ergo, wants to get in your pants and is cowardly suggesting it; or he does not want you anywhere near the dorm at night, which, eh, kind of resets all the progress made in this conversation.

Y/N: “oh, right 😊 the school has rules against that, lol”

It’s getting more and more impossible to recover from this, like a rowing boat trying to maneuver through a river of chocolate fudge.

The draft that is waiting in his copy clipboard now makes no sense. “If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?” is no longer applicable to this flow of the conversation. But he needs to find a way around it, or else it’s back to square one.

Riddle takes a very, very deep breath. Face red, fingers trembling, he manages to write:

Riddle Rosehearts: “Actually, don’t worry about the hedgehogs. It takes time to build trust with them anyways. But on that note, would you like to stay over sometime? Feel free to say no.”

That last part sounds incredibly weak and lacking in courage. He erases it and types it again a couple of times until deciding in favor of leaving it as-is – the fact that you don’t feel pressured is, after all, of utmost importance to him.

And yeah, “stay over” sounds better than sleeping or staying the night, so let’s stick to that.

When the message pops on your side of the screen, your sight paces back and forth at least twenty times, doubting the verity of your own eyes or reading comprehension. After last time, and how nonchalantly it had ended, you thought for sure that Riddle had been distancing himself from you, and that you had crossed a boundary that was hard to backtrack from. That is exactly why, truth be told, you were relieved when he initiated casual conversation as if nothing had happened. The struggle was mixing all these pure, affectionate, innocent emotions he made you feel with the raw Eros of whatever last study session was, and it had left you more confused than ever.

But hey, you tell yourself. Nothing needs to happen. I can just sleep. We can cuddle, and that’s it.

It seems you are taking all too long to answer, because his chat box pops up again.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I want to see you.”

Riddle was really good in situations reigned by protocol. He was the best social dancer you’d ever seen, and the way he’d guided you while waltzing through an interscholastic dance had been dreamlike. He’d open doors for you and escort you to your school gates; he was always eager to send over a study guide or offer some academic advice. But “I want to see you” and “I miss you” were words rarely uttered.

Filled with a newfound courage, you text back:

Y/N: “i'd love to! is friday ok? 😊”

Getting into Heartslabyul is always a challenge. You’d need to either come over during the daytime and then purposefully miss curfew, or you’d have to find a way to sneak in just before the gates are closed for the night. As a housewarden from a rival school, your face is somewhat known within the Night Raven College students, and while it’s not exactly a secret that you’re dating the Heartslabyul sovereign, you’d rather if people did not know you were planning on staying the night, for the Seven’s sakes!

If this were an eventful holiday, like Halloween celebrations or a friendly Spelldrive tournament, inter-school visits were more easily forgivable. There were plenty of ways to score a guest pass and walk around freely. But an outsider going around the dorm at night, on a normal school day? Now, that is just fishy.

You devised a plan of which the success depended on how fast Riddle could find you and then rush to his room. And you know he hated running in the hallways.

Your Signature Spell, “Drink Me”, as tongue-in-cheek as it sounded, allowed you to change an object or person in size for a very small period of time. Theoretically, if this was used on yourself and your clothes, you could become hedgehog-sized in seconds. And then, all would Riddle need to do is transport you in his shirt pocket. Simple enough, right?

As you head through the motions of the plan, you realize how utterly embarrassing it is. First, you would need to decide on a set of coordinates where Riddle would find your miniaturized self. He needs to pick you up, basically engulfing you with both hands. You are then to fit inside his pocket, and this meant that his heartbeat would sound like thunderstorms in the summer sky (a by-product of you being so small). And because you’d turn back in 5 minutes, he needs to rush to his room and take you out of the pocket, lest you grow back to normal and rip his prized uniform shirt apart.

There could be some repercussions. Usually, your Signature Spell required of a catalyst – you would use homemade soda for the shrinking spell and cookies for the enlarging spell – so as to keep the side effects at bay, and make the desired transformation last longer (a maximum of an hour). Very rarely you’d cast them directly from your pen to the object in question, unless you wanted or needed consequences to be more immediate and short-lived. In this case, staying small for a whole hour was not exactly the most enticing of options, and gorging on enlarging cookies while the effects of the fizzy shrinking drink hadn’t yet subsided always resulted in nausea, an upset stomach and a fever (you know – you’ve tried before). So, the only viable option was cast and run: a plan problematic in and of itself, but the only chance you had to access the property unnoticed. Ah, if only Chen’ya could teach you how to disappear at will.

When you suggested all of this over the phone, Riddle was flabbergasted. It was hard to tell which is more mortifying – carrying you around like a portable magic pen, or having you enter the dorm life-size and risk a student seeing you enter his room at night.

Eventually, after much persuasion, he had agreed to meet you at the outskirts of the Heartslabyul forest, which was exactly five minutes away from his quarters.

It’s the first meeting since the, uh, lap-sitting incident, and you are both quite self-conscious still. You wave and smile at his approaching figure, but he hurriedly hushes, “Quick! Before anyone sees you.”

Pointing a shaky pen to your chest, you take a deep breath. “Here goes. Drink Me!”

If the feeling could be compared to anything, you’d say it kind of reminds you of a balloon deflating – air gushing out, spiraling as it swirls until it reaches the floor. A kaleidoscope in which the senses become filled all at once, as the world around you is so big, and you’re now so small. The only good part is that, because your height and weight also decrease in proportion, having a parasol ready allows you to float tenderly for the last couple of inches, and the fall is never too abrupt.

Riddle is now... huge. I mean, wow there, Y/N, witty observation. But he really is, and even the act of him crouching to get closer to you shakes the whole ground like an earthquake. He stares at you, two fingers pressed on his lips, pondering if he should lift you up by the collar... but no, no, that’s too ungracious.

So, he offers the palm of his hand. You know that even if you talked at this size, your tiny micro lungs are not enough to produce enough sound to reach him properly, so you keep quiet and climb up his thumb.

When Riddle brings you up to the height of his pocket, it’s like that one Twisneyland attraction that you rode together once, the scary one with the elevator which you had hated with every fiber of your heart as you held on to your boyfriend’s arm screaming – and he wasn’t too keen on thrill rides, either, but had tried to put on a brave face for your sake.

“Are you alright?” he beckons, in a normal tone for him, but it’s like a cacophony ripping apart at your miniature eardrums. You put your hands over your ears. “—sorry! So sorry,” he reduces his voice to a whisper.

Plopping yourself into the pocket, you fall all the way in, roughly reaching the middle while standing straight. You are way smaller than hedgehog size at this point, comparable to a miniature doll of only a few centimeters high. “Hang in there,” he says.

By the sudden swaying, like a seism about to tear the face of the Earth, you assume that Riddle has set course for his room. The countdown starts.

As luck would have it, everyone and their mother is out to get the Headwarden today. He gets stopped at least thrice, mostly about silly stuff such as the shipment for flamingo food or the rundown for the next unbirthday party. It’s impressive how many students are still in the dorm, really –don’t these people have anything else better to do?– their voices are so loud you can barely make out the conversations, instead just catching the keywords. You have both hands pressed against your ears, eyes closed, trying to avoid sensory overload. At least this goes to show there is no way you could have gotten into Heartslabyul unnoticed if you were your proper size.

After many unwanted interruptions, time was running out for the both of you. The de-transformation would start coming in little bursts, where you’d feel your body a little bigger each time. The transpired, stuffy white fabric of that pocket was sure starting to feel a little tight, and now you could almost peek over the hem on your tiptoes.

“Riddle!” is your hurried plead, but he’s going as fast as humanly possible, as fast as anyone can go while still avoiding attention.

When he’s at the doorstep, it feels the seams won’t hold any longer. To the best of your ability, you lift yourself using your arms, trying to squeeze up and out. He fumbles with the key, breath visibly agitated, until he remembers he can just use magic, and can finally, triumphantly, open the door and slam it shut.

“Y/N!” he beckons, in a panic, looking for you to jump on his palm again so he can plop you onto the ground.

“No time! Throw me on the bed!” you squeak, unsure of how much of your speech is currently intelligible. Riddle catches the gist of it, and grabs you by the first thing he can pinch, which is the hem of your skirt, as you’re now dangling outside his pocket, barely not small enough to fit back in.

And next thing you know, he is flinging you like a Spelldrive disk towards his bed; with a loud “poof”, you transform mid-air and land headfirst, full size, cartwheeling on his mattress. Your skirt is flung open, you’ve lost both shoes somewhere along the way, you’re all tangled in on yourself, but at least you are finally safe, and neither Riddle’s shirt nor reputation have been ruined.

Adjusting your sitting position, you first make sure all parts have grown back to size. After all, it’s not unheard of for the effect to last longer on some objects or body parts than others. A quick check assures you that you’re back to normal – all over, that is. You turn to Riddle, who is watching you from the edge of the bed, hand over his mouth, his expression between bemusement and bewilderment.

A stifled laugh that you can’t seem to contain breaks the silence, and it’s like springing open a can of worms, because the redhead giggles a little, too, and then the whole situation becomes too funny to hold it in. Soon he’s laughing tears out of his eyes, unable to speak in full sentences.

“You — you really became pocket size. Right here! You were right here!” He gasps for air between chuckles, pointing at his chest pocket. “I can’t believe... really can’t... ahaha!”

“Hehe, that was some adventure,” you agree. And it’s not like you’re not laughing yourself, but your turn to your boyfriend, and the sight of him fills your chest with a strange warmth, so much that it quiets your laughter. You’d rarely ever seen such a playful, childlike expression; he keeps cry-laughing uncontrollably, wiping his eyes and clutching at his stomach; a hint of relaxation in his ever-so-stiff posture.

His giggle fit starts settling down, and then it dawns on you.

“Oh, no, we need to go through this exact same process tomorrow!” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Tomorrow. He liked the sound of that. It made the fact that you’re staying over more official.

“We’ll think of something by then,” he states.

The rush to close the door and prop you out of the pocket as fast as possible meant that the room was still dim. Because you had landed on his bed, there you were sitting upright in its dead center; suddenly feeling a rush of pink on your cheeks, as the whole Drink Me situation had acted as a deterrent to the actual elephant in the room: the fact that you were here to sleep over and that you had both been so nervous up until that point.

Riddle’s bleary eyes flicker in the twilight, still a soft smile on his lips.

“That was nice,” you grin. “It’d been a while since I last saw you laugh.”

“Oh, come now. Am I really that serious all the time?”

You struggle to find the words. “It’s like... like you’re always worried about something. Not that I blame you—"

“Huh,” he retorts before you can continue. “Well, even I can find something that tickles my funny bone, every now and then.”

He’s now frowning and pouting and just... standing there, as if still hesitant to join you in bed. After all, Riddle was quick to notice that you had made no effort to stand up, and now is wondering what the next step is. It’s not like he had planned any activities for you to do that night – maybe watching a movie on your phones? ...playing card games? Or just go straight to sleep? In the end, he could decide on none and the Day Of came to happen before he could devise a plan, something he dreaded from the bottom of his heart. His whole life was set in rules, set in stone tablets, and now he had to somehow improvise.

“I’m not worried,” he says, pensive, then adds: “Not when I’m with you, at least.”

“Liar,” you accuse him, to which he looks rather offended, albeit playfully so. “By now, you’re probably thinking, ‘What’s comes next?’ — well, aren’t you?”

His expression gives him away immediately. For such a well-postured, well-mannered person, Riddle tends to be a bit transparent. “H-how did you –”

“—it’s because I’m thinking the same thing, too,” you admit. “This is hard, isn’t it?”

It’s not a question. In no unclear terms, last time you’d met had been the very first instance of feeling each other’s bodies, and along came the realization that you are dating and it’s perfectly okay for you to do so. And now you’re subconsciously running your fingers through his velvety red, quilted duvet; and Riddle is still paralyzed a few steps away from the bed. You are not the boldest person out there; and he seems to be bold for anything except for this.

“Agreed,” he muses. Again, he’s like on the outside looking in – it’s that anxious feeling that never goes away, back to the little boy and the cakes he’d never eat.

“This is so awkward to say out loud,” you muster up some courage. “But I’ll try.”

“—yes?”

“I don’t care what we do today. I get to be with you, and that’s enough.”

...oh. Riddle can feel his heart doing a summersault. Being filled to the brim with love like this is something he is not accustomed to. It’s like he’s back to your warm embrace and the rhythmic breathing of your clothed chest, like digging his fingers in your back again, and feeling you return the squeeze. Every single waking moment, and hell, even while sleeping, he goes back to that evening. But he struggles to return your words, hesitant and meditative, staring at the floor.

“Riddle?”

“—yes?”

“Are you okay?”

He’s not. He’s fed up with himself. Scared of this new situation to which he doesn’t have a manual for. Terrified of underperforming and disheartening you.

“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. You are still fully clothed, so all he can see are your knees and calves, from where the skirt of your uniform ends and the socks begin. It’s not remotely erotic at all, yet he’s burning all over. You notice his eyes traveling up and down, trying to take the sight of you in.

You can’t be sure, but deep inside, you intuited that if you both feel the same, then he wants it as much as you do. But then again, pressuring your boyfriend is something you would never, ever venture to do – like a hedgehog himself, he was always quick to spike up to prevent you from poking at his vulnerability. He’d get angry or annoyed or sulky, only to quickly apologize later. So, you are not brave enough to ask, but the least you can do is initiate the scene – like the character that utters the first lines in a play, setting the mood and the proceeds in motion.

Hands, your own, travel to the elastic on your socks, as you slide them off slowly, one by one. Your feet get adjusted to the soft duvet, now feeling it on your bare skin, and you can’t help but notice how utterly cold your toes are – might be from the air conditioning, might be from the nerves. Riddle gasps audibly and clutches at his chest.

You look up at him, as he’s still standing immobilized in his spot. Fine. You’ll venture one more step past the proverbial line of his defenses, then.

Not unlike his, your school uniform consists of a white shirt with a tie or ribbon, at the student’s free choice of whichever. The ribbon on your neck is striped light blue and white, with a small coat of arms applique that depicts a teacup floating in a bottle full of tears. With a quick tug, you undo it, then the first button of your collar, all while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend – it feels like the sound of your own heartbeat is going to deafen you at this point.

Riddle takes a step in your direction, fully flushed, although you can barely tell through the room submerged in the summer dusk. But he stops just by the edge of the bed, frozen again. His is quite the big mattress, and he will need to crawl to you if he wants to reach you. Close, yet so far.

You press your lips together, at the attempt to regain some moisture: your mouth feels dry and trembling all over. Even so, you use the last bit of courage to undo one more button – completely innocuous, as this barely only reveals your collarbone.

“Stop,” he beckons, scaring you for a second. Seeming so desperate, filled with regret. “Don’t.”

“Oh.” Maybe it had been too much? You dread having pushed the Heartslabyul warden too far. “I’m sorry—”

“—no.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, let me do it.”

Riddle climbs into the bed, knee first. His hand is reaching for your face, slate grey eyes full of adoration, and in turn, you unbalance him by pulling at both his arms, so he stumbles on top of you. Bumping heads at the fall, now faces only an inch away.

“Riddle—”

“—shh. Quit staring.”

But you’re not really, as your eyelids are drooping over, lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s so like him to want to have the last word.

As usual, it’s a peck on the lips, albeit a bit longer and hungrier; he then kisses your cheek, and now the question is what comes next and how the familiar pattern will be broken. To your surprise, you feel two nibbles on your neck, just below your jaw at first and then close to your throat. One leg has snuck in between yours, pressing slightly, the weight of his bony hips digging into your thigh.

He’s always fixing other students’ uniforms, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but he has unexpected skill in unbuttoning your shirt all the way through. But he’s taking it slow and steady, because every single new flash of skin is just killing him on the inside, building up fire within.

Pushing up with one arm, he uses the other to take your hand and give it a kiss, then a tug as he prods you to turn around, softly undressing one sleeve, and reaching for the clasp of your brassiere. Is this too sudden? He’s filled with worry, but push comes to shove, and his instincts urge him to keep going. He needs both hands to do this, causing him to promptly level forward, his mouth caressing your naked shoulder plates. And with one quick snap, you’re out of your bra, though it still lingers lazily on top of your breasts, as you adjust on your back once more.

Riddle realizes – he can almost peek – y-you’re half-naked, writhing beneath him, and –

“—hey,” you call softly, smiling with a tint of self-consciousness as you reach a hand for his cheek. “C-can I...?”

Can I take your clothes off, too? – is what you mean to say, but the words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Curses. Leaving the question unasked, you tug at his striped necktie, and his fingers follow yours, together undoing his shirt buttons all the way to his waist. He’s using a white, paper-thin t-shirt underneath, so you can make the shape of his nipples through it. More lightly clothed than ever, the sudden rush of shame gets the best out of you, and your gut reaction is to pull him into a full embrace, arms clasped around his neck.

Riddle stops for a moment, melting into your hold. You cannot see eye to eye right now, but you can clearly hear each other’s heartbeat. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and uncharacteristic of him, but he wants to eat you whole and has no way of hiding it. Uncertain, his hand travels down your neck, feeling your collarbone, and hovering for a few instants where your bra is – unbound, it is no more than a decoration on top of your chest, and he pushes it aside.

“Ah,” he exclaims, almost unwillingly. Your breasts are oscillating up and down with your breathing, your lips are swollen and dyed a madder red, and you just look so beautiful.

“Now you quit staring,” you snap back.

“Hah,” he laughs raspingly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve got some nerve.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, glad that he’s finally back to his normal self, setting aside all the anxiety and worry. Well, mostly. Of course, some worries are still in the way, but they continue melting as the heat rises – it’s impossible not to give into the moment and fondle your breasts. You let out a little yelp.

“Ah – does it hurt?” he frowns, worried, unable to gauge your reaction. Sure, he made a point to read a few erotic novels in an attempt to prepare for what should be expected for this situation –ugh, perish the thought of anyone finding those hidden at the bottom of his drawer– but truth be told, he still had no idea how rough or how gentle he should be.

“No,” you assured. “It feels good.”

“Show me where.”

At his request, you guide his hand with yours, back to your chest; and strengthen your grip, instructing him to squeeze ever so slightly. His leg, or rather, his knee presses against you, separating your legs further apart, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. The goddamned skirt is still in the way, but you can’t muster up enough lucidity to concentrate and remove it, moaning and twitching below him.

Riddle must have read your mind, because he shifts his hands to the zipper on your skirt instead, and his mouth starts moving down and away from your neck. Your first reflex –completely involuntary, mind you– is to cross your arms and cover up your breasts, as if it made any difference at this point. His eyes move up to yours, worried again.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” –well, now you’re making less sense than the Queen’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat poem– “It’s just... ah...”

He understands. Neither of you want it to end, and yet moving forward is just as scary. Before this, when you first started dating, he used to be able to listen to his inside voice when he kissed you. Or rather, he was forced to listen to it, by his own brain – like a switch you can’t turn off, he’d count the number of kisses and always follow the same pattern. His head was constantly yapping at him, keeping track of time so as to not be late for the 5 PM tea, or telling him to compulsively fix your uniform. But since he had climbed on top of you ten minutes earlier, he has not heard his inner voice, not even once. He could not keep count of how many kisses and nibbles he’d placed all over your collarbone, shoulders, inner elbows and wrists; softly motioning you to let go and uncross your arms. And the sheer fact of losing control was terrifying, yet it felt so good.

That being said, when faced with your bare chest, and the zipper on your skirt lowered but still not removed, Riddle feels a flash of clarity and stops dead on his tracks. There she is, the girl he loves, half-dressed, gorgeous, breasts perking up, but there is one thing that doesn’t quite feel right.

“Come here.” He props you up, helping you sit. He moves the hair off your face and pats your head. “I’ll– I’ll take off the rest of my clothes, too.”

It’s not as embarrassing if it’s the two of you, is his reasoning. And it was important for him that this wasn’t one-sided.

“—you wha– you will?” Not at your brightest nor most eloquent, you’re taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, again crossing your arms in front of your chest. He’s halfway through the zipper of his black school pants when he stops to look at you, face fully flushed.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he mumbles guiltily, his delivery harshly contrasting with his words. “You know I hate that.” Feigning authority and playful anger, part of him is trying to be a tease, yet still unsure how.

A giggle escapes your lips. “Shame you’re not wearing the dorm uniform today.”

“—ah.” He notices in that same moment. Had he been so nervous he completely mixed up his clothes today? As the last layers were coming off and he was sitting there in his underwear, he realized it didn’t matter.

“Wait, what is it about the dorm uniform?”

“Heh. Just – the heels,” you blurt out. “They’re kind of... –ah, I’m not gonna say it.”

The idle talk is not important. All you can focus on is how his porcelain skin contrasts with the crimson quilting, and he’s blushing head to toe, like a white rose poorly stained with red paint. Actually, you meant to say the heels turned you on (come on, admit it, just a little?), but halfway through the sentence you noticed you could not be any more aroused, and then he fell on top of you again, and your head emptied completely of thoughts. His hand now presses between your legs, and you wonder where your skirt went – it had been on you just a second before, right?

“Riddle,” you gasp, knowing the fabric of your underwear is betraying you and giving away how wet you are. You have no doubt he can feel it too. And he wishes you wouldn’t call his name, not like that – do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? His fingers are caressing you softly, and it truly feels like you might burst even though you’re just getting started. His face is close to yours, jaw shivering in a cold sweat, even though it feels like there must be a hundred degrees in the darkness of the room. And while he’s helping your orgasm build up, thumb toying with you gently, he can’t help but wonder if your skin feels just as good to the direct touch as it feels through your panties, and how is it that even the parts of you he never knew are all so perfect. It seems slightly unfair, he muses, that you could be this flawless without even trying – but then you wince a little, possibly lost in pleasure, and Riddle starts worrying again.

“Are you okay?” his words feel moist close to your ear.

“Hm-mm.”

“Relax your arms.”

And the second you do, he moves back down again, slobbering kisses all over your neck and chest. While seemingly rawer and more animal than ever, he’s still attentively measuring your reactions, and finds you gasp the loudest when he sucks on your breasts. So, he teases them for a while, circling slowly with his tongue, then softly and toothlessly pinching the stiff center with his lips; he repeats from left breast to right, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, with a sort of rhythmic cadence. Focus, Riddle reminds himself, as his own erection is throbbing painfully. But he’s determined to devote to you first and foremost.

“May I–”

“Yes. Please,” you beg, not even sure what you are agreeing to, but realizing it might as well not matter anymore.

Struggling to open your eyes, you force yourself into keeping alert just so you can take in the view of your raggedly breathing boyfriend, peeking up from the curves between your breasts, hand on the inside of your underwear and soaking his slender fingers inside, applying even pressure. He is amused at the sight of how effortlessly they go in and out, assisted by your moisture, so much so that he forgets about your breasts for a moment. Your voice brings his attention back, however.

“I – I can’t...”

“It’s okay. Don’t hold it in”, he reassures, but maybe he is also talking to himself, as Riddle is always the type to exceed in self-restraint. You are melting, becoming undone with a touch of his hand and he cannot get enough of how it feels – to hear you panting and moaning, to know he will soon be able to press inside you and fill you with his length. It’s an unfamiliar, weird, wonderful thing – not quite like he had imagined, but perfect all the same. Your chest is responsive to his every kiss, and now his fingers have gotten faster and heavier. He can feel you close and is living for it.

“Riddle, I –”

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps breathily, finally able to be honest with himself. “Don’t hold back. It’s all right.”

“Riddle. Riddle? I’m – I ––”

“––Y/N,” he chuckles, and his touch becomes even more merciless. Your hard nipples cannot possibly take any more kisses. “You’re so adorable.”

It’s not like you need any more stimulation, but as he says this, his mouth is full of one breast and hand cupping the other, and you can clearly see it all, from his heavy-lidded slate grey eyes to his dark red eyelashes, all focused on you as he’s making your sex squeak with wet sounds, pushing down just underneath your navel as his fingers throb and sting inside you.

“Please. Don’t stop.”

He won’t. He’s not the type to tease you like that. Your toes are curling in a frenzy as your legs swing inevitably open, and pretty soon you’re incoherently giving into the thrusting of his hand, and his lips have not left your breasts for one second.

You can’t hold it in. You would have if you could have – the sensation was just too amazing, and you were trying to grasp at straws –literally, if by straws you mean sinking your nails into his shoulders– trying to prolong your orgasm to no avail. You are coming all over, spasming and stirring and gasping his name, and Riddle is a bit scared at first – did he – did he do that? – but it seems you are content, and you settle down huffing beneath him. He takes out his fingers, but his hand stays put, pushing on you softly, as you are still whimpering with the aftershocks that come and go after the peak.

Riddle knows what is supposed to come after that, but the thought alone makes his stomach do cartwheels. Now, how to initiate? He doesn’t have time to think, as you grab him by the wrist, taking his hand out of your underwear and giving it a tug, motioning him to come closer. In your current clouded state, it’s hard of you to completely gain enough strength to pin him down as you originally had wanted to, so you settle to have him sit beside you as you roll over so that your upper body meets his crotch.

“Y/N?” he yelps, suddenly self-aware of how flush his length is against the fabric of his boxers, throbbing to come out, and your face is now caressing it softly with only one layer to separate you.

“Ah. Sorry. Too fast?”

He shakes his head.

“No. Actually,” he pushes his underwear down. “Please. Can you –”

He needn’t ask. The sensation of him in your mouth compelled such novelty – it was weird to get used to, but at the same time felt like the natural next step to take. Tip reddened and throbbing, teased by your lips as your hands would steady his thighs. Funny how something so intense – suckling at him, gasping for jagged breaths, as the bitter taste of his precum numbs your other senses – would come apparent to you so matter-of-factly, unrehearsed yet perfectly calculated. Riddle stifles moans until he can’t anymore, pouring from his lips, buckling into you with hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

He’s no longer thinking straight, and that’s fine. If he were, he’d still be stuck in the preparation phase, staring mindlessly at the welt of your socks, unable to move. But since he’s no longer counting the kisses he’s given you tonight, he’ll make a point of also not counting how many times he’ll thrust into you, as he topples you over when the wetness of your mouth just won’t quite scratch that itch, and hurriedly reaches over the counter for a condom. It’s not like the guilt is completely done, but this – this is everything right now, and as you are huffing and puffing away below him, eager to receive him, he understands that a bit of chaos is needed every once in a while.

A lot of first times are awkward. This might be no exception. But he enters you with such ease, you wonder how this new feeling can be so recognizable, as the pressure builds between your legs and his hipbones dig into you once again, and he restrains your hands with his, raising your arms, soft eyes filled with lust.

“So tight...” Riddle whispers, but it’s more like sounds are escaping him, uncontrolled, “Y/N... y-you’re...”

His speech is barely intelligible, though you can sometimes make out words – ‘beautiful’, ‘good’, ‘wet’ – and a few poorly-pronounced phrases like “does it hurt?” –– it doesn’t, and as you’re pinned beneath him with a clear view into his quivering rosy lips and half-lidded gaze, you know he’s getting closer as he gets harder. He‘s trying to get his mouth full of your taste as if it were forbidden – like it all boiled down to this one evening, and this chance was all he had. And if it were for him, he would have made it last forever – but his body is not so used to this kind of endurance, so after a few minutes Riddle finally gives in, collapsing into your shoulder, quietly whimpering your name, in a moment of weakness that is greater than he’d like to admit. Riding his orgasm, fingers entwined with yours and digging at your knuckles in a tight grip, his voice is unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and you understand its over once he quiets down.

The silence lasts for a few moments. Or, more appropriately put, a slight wave of sheepish embarrassment, as he’s promptly rolled over to your left and you’re both lying face up and wheezing up a storm as if you’d just ran some kind of marathon. But then Riddle slightly tugs at your hand.

“Everything alright?”

“I think so. You?”

“It’s been... quite the novelty,” he says flatly, but then smiles a little at his choice of words. “Do couples do this all the time? ...it seems exhausting.”

“So that’s it? That was your quota for a whole lifetime? Fine then.”

“––No!” he hastily turns sharp on his side, facing you, only to find that you’re unable to hold your laughter. “–Oh. Not funny, Y/N.”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“– I would very much like it if we did it again. Uh... tomorrow, or – or some other time.”

You smile. “I would like that, too.”

“Should we settle on a schedule?”

“––what? No!” but a sudden tinge of guilt overcomes you, as you quickly realize he might need it. “U–uh, I mean, if – if that makes it easier for you–––”

“––just kidding,” a soft smirk escapes him, like a stifled giggle that says ‘gotcha’.

“Oh, look at you cracking jokes now,” you accuse him with a pout. “That’s a first.”

“Guess that makes two firsts in one day.”

As you both let out a complicit giggle, reaching out for the sheets and then for each other’s hands, no longer worried about the next one step or million steps to come, you find yourselves drifting off to sleep in a loose embrace.

[u6is]

feed the flame 'cause we can't let it go.

While you dream of connection, of tenderness, he was bound to a world where those things didn’t matter, and you were just another fleeting desire amid his relentless pursuit.

part 2

— aurélien tchouaméni x reader: angst

The smell of freshly cut grass wafted through the open window of the cluttered office. Above the desk, a solitary light bulb flickered rhythmically, casting a dim, yellow hue over the piles of newspapers and empty coffee cups.

Amid of chaos, a sports journalist sat steady, fingers dancing across the keyboard as your eyes locked onto the screen, absorbing each moment with a quiet, unshakable focus.

You were deep in thought, trying to piece together a puzzle of words that would capture the essence of the game you had just watched.

Your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen illuminating with Aurélien's name. Your heart skipped a beat. You knew that call was coming. It always did after a big game, especially when Aurélien had played exceptionally well. You picked it up, swiping your thumb across the screen, and brought the phone to your ear.

"You watched?" Aurélien's smooth voice echoed through the speaker.

You nodded before realizing he couldn't see that.

"Of course," you replied, trying to keep the excitement out of your tone.

"You were unstoppable tonight."

Aurélien chuckled, the sound as rich and warm as the victory he had just secured for his team. "Good."

There was a pause, filled with the unspoken tension that always lingered between the two of you. It was a dance you had performed countless times before – a dance of desire and denial, of power and submission.

After that last time, beneath the cold light of day in the parking lot, where the car windows fogged with the heat of your stolen passion after his monumental triumph, he told you this could never happen again.

Yet here you are, the two of you, running in circles that always end the same. Night after night, you collide like stars burning out, fucking as if it’s the only language you both know. Days stretch into a haze, and you wait, like a loyal dog at the door, ears pricked for his return.

Every match ends the same. You stand there, not as his lover but as a journalist, all smiles and carefully chosen words, your applause echoing louder than the crowd’s. You welcome him like a soldier coming home, his victories written across your face.

You know your love deserves the roar of stadiums and the fire of cameras, but it’s tucked away in the shadows, surviving only in stolen nights and unspoken truth.

This time, the stadium’s echoes distant, drowned beneath the demands of your unrelenting schedule. Leaving only your voice through his phone, a distant embrace of congratulations.

You wonder how long this can last—this love he refuses to name, can this even be called love?

"I want to see you," Aurélien said finally, his voice dropping to a low murmur. Your pulse quickened. It was the same script, but the thrill was never old.

Despite the towering weight of obligations, you carved out an exception, racing toward him with all the urgency your heart could muster.

You agreed to meet at his hotel. Aurélien had a knack for keeping their encounters private, a luxury that came with being a star football player.

You arrived, heart pounding like a restless drum, your hand trembling as it knocked. The door swung open, and there he stood—Aurélien, dressed casually in sweatpants and a white tank top, his muscles rippling in the soft light. He was leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket. His eyes were cold, assessing, as if you was just another challenge to be conquered.

He didn't say a word as you entered the room, his gaze traveling up and down your body. You felt both exposed and desired under his scrutiny, a heady mix that sent shivers down your spine. You knew the drill.

He didn't do small talk.

He didn't do relationships.

But he did do passion, and that was enough to keep you coming back for more.

Those words still linger on you...

"It's just... I can't do this again. I'm sorry."

Haunting like a whisper that refuses to fade.

Yet there you were, both lost in each other's arms once more, sprawled across his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth that spoke louder than any words ever could.

Oh, the lengths you’d go, the battles you'd face, just to keep his lingering presence a moment longer.

Once more, you find yourself in his arms—the man who speeds through, leaving traces of himself woven into your bones.

—

The next day, Aurélien didn't call.

this was just how it was with him.

You had hoped he would, maybe bask in the afterglow of last night's victory, but your phone remained silent. You tried to focus on your work, the words on the screen blurring as you wondered if he was okay, if he was busy, or if he was with someone else.

You told yourself it didn't matter;

this was just how it was with him.

But deep down, you felt the sting of rejection, the cold emptiness that always followed your secret rendezvous with the football legend.

You went about your day, conducting interviews with other players, watching their training sessions, and sipping coffee that had gone cold.

Your mind kept wandering back to the hotel room, the way Aurélien's eyes had burned into yours before he had kissed you, the way his hands had felt on your skin. You tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to you like a stubborn fog. You knew better than to expect more from him, but hope was a stubborn weed that grew in the cracks of your heart.

By the time the evening rolled around, you found yourself checking your phone every few minutes. You had convinced yourself that Aurélien was just busy with his training schedule, that he would call when he had a chance to catch his breath. But as the night grew darker, and the stars began to peek out from behind the clouds, your hope dwindled. You had been through this before, the endless cycle of wanting and not having. It was a dance you had grown all too familiar with.

The clock on your office wall ticked away the final moments of the workday, the hands moving with a maddening slowness that mirrored your thoughts.

You had been waiting for Aurélien's call all week, but it never came. Your mind was a fog of half-written articles and forgotten deadlines, the thrill of the football season lost in the haze of his absence. You sighed, pushing aside the empty coffee cups and notes scribbled with potential leads, none of which seemed to matter anymore.

Then, just as you were about to shut down your laptop and call it a night, your phone buzzed to life in your pocket. You pulled it out, heart racing, and saw Aurélien's name on the screen. He had invited you to a party at a club, an exclusive gathering of the football elite.

It wasn't a surprise that he had only remembered you when it suited him, but the prospect of seeing him again sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins. You knew it was a bad idea to get tangled up in his world again, but the allure of his charm was too strong to resist. Plus, he had a point - it could be a goldmine for your journalist career.

You took a deep breath and texted back,

"I'll be there."

The anticipation of the evening ahead filled you with a strange mix of excitement and dread. As you dressed for the night, you couldn't help but wonder what he was up to. Was this a genuine attempt to include you in his life, or just another ploy to use you for his own ends? The tight dress you chose clung to your body, a silent promise of the thrills you knew lay in wait. You applied your makeup with careful precision, each stroke a declaration that you would not be a mere pawn in Aurélien's game.

The club was a cacophony of lights and sound, a throbbing heart in the city's nightlife. You pushed through the crowded entrance, flashing your invite to the bouncers with a confidence that was only slightly feigned. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the electricity of competition. The football players and their entourages mingled like sharks in a glittering sea, eyes scanning the room for their next conquest. You spotted Aurélien immediately, his tall frame and brooding presence impossible to miss. He was holding court in the VIP section, surrounded by adoring fans and hopeful groupies, but when he saw you, his gaze sharpened, and he beckoned you over with a crooked smile.

As you approached, the music grew louder, a bass-heavy anthem that vibrated in your chest. Aurélien's teammates greeted you with a mix of curiosity and hostility, sizing you up with the same calculating look they reserved for their opponents on the field. You felt a flash of irritation at being treated like a trophy to be claimed, but you kept your smile in place, nodding and making small talk as Aurélien slipped an arm around your waist, claiming you as his own.

He leaned in close, his breath warm in your ear, and whispered, "You look amazing." It was the first kind thing he'd said to you in weeks, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

The party was a blur of flashing cameras and plastic smiles, the air thick with the scent of ambition and desperation. You found yourself playing the role of the supportive girlfriend, nodding along to conversations about upcoming games and tactics, all the while keeping one eye on Aurélien. His charisma a gravitational pull that drew people in and spit them out as quickly as he grew bored. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride at being the one he'd chosen to bring tonight, even if it was only for show.

As the night wore on, the drinks flowed freely, and the tension between you grew palpable. Aurélien's hand would rest on the small of your back, his fingers tracing lazy circles that sent shivers through your body. You knew the game he was playing, the dance of power and seduction that had become your twisted routine. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the potential scoops and insider gossip that floated around like confetti, but the pull was too strong.

Aurélien leaned in, his eyes gleaming with something other than alcohol.

"I've missed you, you know," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You searched his face for any hint of sincerity, but all you found was the same cold detachment that had come to define your relationship.

"Don't start," you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

"Not here, not now."

Aurélien's smile grew wider, "But why not? We both know what we're here for."

You felt a knot form in your stomach. "This isn't just about us," you protested, glancing around at the sea of faces watching you two. "What about your reputation?"

He chuckled, the sound low and intimate. "You think I care about that?" He tipped your chin up with his forefinger, his gaze holding yours captive.

"You're the journalist, aren't you? Spin it however you like. Just remember, I'm the story everyone wants to read."

The music grew louder, the lights more disorienting, and the whispers more insistent. You knew you had to get away before the night spun completely out of control. Aurélien was playing his game, and you were the prize he had no intention of letting slip away.

You excused yourself to the sanctuary of the bathroom, escaping the weight of his yearning stare. In the lavish restroom, you kindled your cigarette, savouring its transient solace.

Yet he trailed behind, his gaze aflame with something deeper than the wine's intoxication.

"Why didn’t you call?" your voice, a sharp blade, cut through the haze.

He smirked, pride shielding him like armor.

"You know I’m too drunk for words right now," he murmured, stepping closer, his breath warm with whiskey's ghost.

An arm found your waist, pulling you into his gravity. He took the cigarette from your hand, snuffing out its ember with a careless flick into the sink.

"Take that dirty thing away from your beautiful face." he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly across your cheek.

"So beautiful..." his words heavy with a drunken tone.

But he dodged the question, ignored the ache of your abandonment, weeks of silence left unanswered, buried beneath his drunken need.

"You know what I should get rid of?"

"You, you jerk."

you snapped, turning your face away, not wanting to face him.

Yet his hands still lingered on your waist.

He chuckled softly, gently guiding your face back to meet his gaze.

"I'm busy. And you were too. I didn’t want to disturb you," he murmured.

You searched his eyes for a trace of honesty, and though you found it, doubt still lingered like a shadow.

You crave the disturbance, and if he is the cause, you would welcome it willingly, surrendering to the chaos with open arms.

The bathroom was a welcome reprieve from the crushing weight of the party, the walls muffling the music to a dull throb.

You remove his arms from your waist. "Yeah, I know," you said, bitterness creeping into your voice.

"That's what you say every time," you retorted, your heels clicking against the tiles as you paced.

"I've been busy, you know that." his tone now edged with something darker.

You couldn’t bear it anymore, the desperation for him aching deep within you.

"What do you want?" you asked, your voice trembling with a quiet plea.

"What do you want from me, Aurélien?" You’re losing yourself, spiraling over his senseless game, the one that once caught your attention, ignited your curiosity. But now, that spark has long faded. The thrill is gone, replaced by a tired indifference.

He leaned against the sink, his expression unreadable. A heavy silence falls between you, the kind that clings to the air, suffocating in its weight.

The weight of his silence was too much to bear.

"You want to know what I want from you?" you whispered, breaking the silence that felt like it was drowning you.

Your eyes locking onto his. "I want you to actually care," you said, your voice shaking with the weight of your own words. "To stop using me when it's convenient for you."

Aurélien's expression grew stormy.

"Using you?" he echoed. "I don't use you, I give you access." He took a step closer, invading your personal space. "You're the one who keeps coming back for more."

You swallowed hard, his proximity doing strange things to your insides.

"Don't pretend like you're not familiar with this—with us," he snapped, his words sharp with anger.

"Tell me, what are we even doing? We’re both chasing pleasure, hiding behind our excuses, so don’t pretend I’m the only one. I crave this shit, and so do you."

His words hit hard, uncaring of the hurt they left behind. You bit your bottom lip, swallowing back the tears, your heart aching.

You once believed it was something special, but now you saw it for what it truly was—a mere game of fleeting passion, nothing more than a hollow illusion.

"Is that all I am to you?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. "A means to an end?"

Aurélien's eyes narrowed. "You're more than that," he said, his voice low and intense. "But don't fool yourself into thinking we're something we're not."

The air between you crackled with tension, his words a slap in the face that brought reality crashing down around you.

You stepped back, needing the space to think, to breathe. The bathroom become too small, too suffocating, and his presence too overwhelming.

"I know you don't do feelings. But I'm not a toy to be picked up and played with whenever it suits you!" You said, your voice stronger now.

His gaze darkened, his handsome features twisting into something almost cruel.

"You want more than this?" he challenged.

"You want hearts and flowers from the man who breaks records, not hearts?"

You finally understood how consumed he was by his achievements and how little room there was for anything beyond his success.

The sarcasm in his voice cut deeper than you expected, as he made it clear that expecting anything remotely romantic from him was utterly foolish.

You took a deep breath, feeling the walls of the bathroom closing in.

"I want respect." You replied firmly.

With that, you pushed past him, the door swinging open to the chaos of the party. The music and lights assaulted your senses as you stumbled out, the stilettos you wore digging into the soft flesh of your feet. You wove through the crowd, bothering to hide the tears, a silent reminder that you were the latest chapter in Aurélien's story, easily forgotten when the next plot twist came along.

"Don't fool yourself into thinking we're something we're not."

The words echo over and over in your mind.

He had that said as if it was an undeniable truth.

And in that moment, it hits you—he wasn’t capable of offering what you longed for.

While you dream of connection, of tenderness, he was bound to a world where those things didn’t matter, and you were just another fleeting desire amid his relentless pursuit.

Outside, the cool night air hit you like a slap, clearing the fog of the club from your head. You hailed a cab, the city lights blurring together as you gave the driver your address, your mind racing with a cocktail of anger, sadness, and confusion. The silence in the backseat was deafening, the only sound the muffled bass of the club fading into the distance.

When you arrived at your apartment, you collapsed onto the bed, the weight of your emotions pressing you into the mattress.

The darkness of your room felt like a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the garish lights of the party. You stared at the ceiling, the patterns of the paint swimming before your eyes as you tried to piece together the shards of your dignity.

You wanted to hate Aurélien for reducing you to this, but the truth was, you had let him. For the height of his attention, you had become a willing participant in your degradation.

But now, in the silence of what remains, you realize that some things are never meant to stay. The flame has died, and all that’s left is the echo of what could have been.

Aurélien Tchouaméni, once the force that dominated your mind and body, a champion who never lost a match to your soul, still reigns as the best midfielder in the football world. His presence lingers, powerful and unwavering, yet you—you—were never his to claim.

You had a career to focus on, a life to live that didn't revolve around his whims. You were more than just a notch on Aurélien Tchouaméni's bedpost, more than a pawn in his game of public relations.

You were a journalist, with a voice rich with truth, a story that flowed with the rhythm of your own heart, untouched by the weight of being anyone’s conquest.

i leaned into the angst this time because i felt we started too intense with the smut in part 1.

now im torn between leaving it as is or diving into part 3 😵‍💫

[love-x-deepspace-headcanons]

Sylus' info~

comes from a broken home (his drug-addict mother left when he was 5, father was an abusive alcoholic and gambler)

was a constant troublemaker in school

self-taught genius (had extremely high IQ but was too bored by how ‘easy’ school was, so he put no effort in and failed out time and time again; spends most of his free time not at home, reading and learning)

naturally exceptionally talented in physical activity (sports and dance), as well as music (singing and playing instruments) that all his teachers lamented that all his talents would go to waste and he’d end up in jail his whole life

was transferred to different schools many times for how many fights he’d get into (especially anyone who learned about his family situation and tried to humiliate him with the truth around peers)

by 9, he’d joined up in a street gang of middle and high schoolers for somewhere to belong, starting off as a scrappy grunt who was treated like a nuisance younger brother

by 13, he was the right-hand of the gang leader (who was 19) because of his intelligence, skills, natural fighting ability, and his talent for always getting something done discreetly 

by 15, he challenged the leader to a fight and won, taking over as the gang leader

he rebranded the gang, calling them now ‘Mephisto’, and making their symbol a crow/raven

by 16, Mephisto had challenged and defeated/dissolved/absorbed many rival youth gangs, having total control over the troubled youth of the city 

by 18, Mephisto had become a full-blown underground criminal empire, evolving from petty thefts and fighting to ‘legitimate’ underground business

when 19, he was discovered by a kpop agent (Rafayel’s paternal aunt) when he upstaged a performance at a formal event to rap while his best Mephisto boys (Kieran and Luke, who are half-Asian/half-American) worked to hack certain businessmen’s accounts to acquire funds.

Sylus was so damn good that Raf’s aunt immediately dragged him to the Agency after his performance and a deal was struck- the Agency would try to ignore and sweep Sylus’ bad youth record under the rug if he became a new group’s rapper (that group was Love x Deepspace)

he keeps his bad boy personality and the fans stan him because they love it and think it’s just a stage persona, when he really is just that way

he still leads Mephisto, of course, but subtly because he’s so skilled by now to not get caught

it is a requirement for all Mephisto members to buy his albums

Luke and Kieran attend every show, and to the public, they’re his ‘younger best friends’

His father died when he was 17. Sylus came home to leave at least a little money for food (though his father only spent it on booze), and his drunk father stumbled home before he could leave. He began to beat Sylus (who could have killed him easily but took the beating on purpose), even smashing a bottle on his head and making him bleed profusely. His death? An accident, of course. His drunk father stumbled over his own feet while following him to beat him more, and simply slipped down the stairs. Sylus *definitely* didn’t nudge him.

many suspected the troubled teen of murder but the violent evidence of how badly hurt Sylus was proved to investigators that he was a victim (“i took the beating because I just couldn’t raise a hand to my own father even after all he’d done, officer”, an obvious lie for sympathy)

a year into his kpop debut, info of his father’s death and his abusive childhood were leaked (coughs in Luke and Kieran), and it garnered sympathy among his stans who loved him even more for what he endured

he likes to be shirtless so much on stage and in music videos to show off his huge crow wing tattoo. To stans, he just looks like a sexy bad boy. To those in the underworld who see him, it’s a threat to not mess with Mephisto because the kpop group is internationally famous

bro is a bird whisperer whom all the crows/ravens seem to adore

Sylus’ most prominent tattoo is the set of large crow wings on his back/arms, but he also has a small ‘N109’ tattooed over his heart. In interviews, he never answers questions about what his tattoos mean

his tattoo kind of looks like this

[dark-frosted-heart]

Beauty and the Beast’s Last Theater - Azel Radwan (part 2/4)

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this

The next day, I went with Prince Azel to a mansion located in the best district in Tanzanite.

Azel (polite): It is that time of the year again.

Man: Living god…I can’t thank you enough. Thank you for agreeing to do this again this year.

Azel (polite): No, I am the one that should be thanking you for preparing the best stage for Tanzanite.

(It’s like he’s a completely different person from yesterday)

I heard that the people here were the key members of the troupe that will be performing on the day of the anniversary.

There was a holy aura around the ever-smiling Prince Azel and it was obvious that everyone else was tense but held respect.

Even though I was with him, the tension got to me. I took a deep breath to calm myself.

A small child came bounding over.

Azel (polite): Oh, you are helping out again this year? You are doing great work for someone so small.

Oblivious to the tense atmosphere, the boy ran over to Prince Azel, who patted him on the head with a smile. 

Azel (polite): Are you looking forward to my song? I will have to live up to your expectations. 

(...?)

Prince Azel had been quite talkative until then, but now spoke each word slowly and carefully.

The boy remained silent, but nodded happily. 

(...Could this child possibly be…)

Suddenly, I heard sobbing. When I looked around, I saw a woman by the wall, crying into a handkerchief. 

Prince Azel clapped his hands to dispel the growing questions. 

Azel (polite): Before we begin this meeting, there is someone I would like to introduce.

His mysterious eyes caught mine and he smiled benevolently. 

This wasn’t the right time to ask what was going on.

Azel (polite): This is Miss Emma. She is from Rhodolite, but appears to be a skilled dancer.

(...Excuse me?)

Azel (polite): You had mentioned the other day that one of your dancers twisted their ankle and so are short handed, did you not? How about her? If it is a simple dance, I believe she is talented enough to fill in the role.

(Huh?!)

All eyes shifted from Prince Azel to me.

(Wait, wait. I never said I was a good dancer?!)

Man: I am very grateful to you, living god…Not only for your performance, but for your concern for the dancer as well. If she can fill in for the dancer, then we will be in the perfect state to perform again this year.

(I don’t like where this is going!)

I furiously shook my head in refusal at Prince Azel, who was still smiling. 

I tried to convey that I couldn’t and Prince Azel just gave a small nod.

(Thank goodness. He—)

Azel (polite): As you can see, she has agreed to it.

(—did not get it!)

Emma: No…

Azel (polite): In Tanzanite, shaking one’s head indicates agreement.

(No way?!)

Azel (polite): Thank you very much. This will dispel my worries as well. As Miss Emma is earnest and hardworking, she should have an exceptionally strict instructor.

(I’ve always thought of you as a malicious god!)

This must be revenge for snickering with Prince Silvio the other day as Prince Azel’s face brightened up.

Man: Understood. I appreciate it, Miss Emma. The dance isn’t hard, don’t worry. We will begin practice at once.

Boy: ……

The man that I thought was the owner of the troupe and the boy by Azel’s side both looked at me with hope.

(It looks like they really are in trouble)

(...I can’t reject them like this)

Emma: …I-I look forward to working with you.

When I gave up and smiled awkwardly, for a moment it appeared as if Prince Azel’s benevolent smile turned into a smug one.

--

Regardless of how things turned out, if I was going to help the troupe with an important performance, I didn’t want to tackle it half-heartedly so I put in my best effort in practice.

--

Silvio: You as a dancer…Pfft, my stomach hurts from laughing. I’m gonna be watching you on that day. Don’t trip and fall. Though it’d be a funny sight.

--

Akatsuki: You’re dancing on stage…? I’ll be sure to come see it. I’ll hire a painter. While it’s fine to go at it with enthusiasm, don’t overdo it. Okay?

--

That night after receiving encouragement from Prince Silvio and owner, with permission, I visited the dance hall. I watched my reflection in the mirror as I recalled the choreography I learned that morning. 

(I’m confident that I can keep up, but my movements aren’t as clean as the example…)

(That’s the difference between me and actual dancers)

Even with a simple choreography, the barrier between an amateur and a professional is high.

(...I shouldn’t get discouraged. Once I take something on, I have to see it through)

(Alright, one more time!)

???: I think going at it haphazardly’s inefficient.

Emma: !

I searched for where the voice came from and found Prince Azel watching me as he leaned back against the wall by the entrance. 

(I didn’t notice him at all)

Azel: You’ve been doing this for hours nonstop, haven’t you?

Emma: …Have I?

Azel: If you didn’t notice, then you’re an idiot—No, you’re a hard worker.

Emma: I can hear you, you know. Anyway, why are you here?

Azel: Isn’t it obvious?

Prince Azel held up a glass.

Emma: Did you bring me a drink…

Azel: That’s right. Here.

Emma: ……Are you going to bill me after this?

Azel: You know me well.

Emma: ……

Azel: Just drink. Or else I’d be coming here for no reason.

With his long legs, Prince Azel closed the distance between us and pressed the rim of the glass against my lips.

I was forced to part my lips when he tilted the glass and water slowly flowed in.

(...Yum. I guess I’m thirstier than I thought)

And the glass left the moment I thought I had enough.

It was as if God could hear my thoughts.

Emma: Thank you.

Azel (polite): Rewards are always welcome.

Emma: Then on the day of the festival, I’ll perform the dance flawlessly while with you on stage.

Azel: …

Emma: Ah, you were snickering just now…

Azel: Pardon me. I just recalled your awful dancing.

(So he’s been here for a while)

(...The fact that he’s been watching me is so embarrassing)

I felt my face heat up and I cast my gaze down, but then Prince Azel blocked my vision with a large hand.

Emma: What are you doing all of sudden…?

Azel: Just shut up and close your eyes. I’ll grant your pitiful self mercy.

[blairdii]

it’s the funniest thing to me that everyone supports an underdog driver till they actually perform exceptionally well.

take lando for example. he was the fan favourite when he had the midfield car, and was still consistently getting podiums or finishing in points. the second he got his first win, so many people switched and forced an egoistic attitude personality on him without even knowing if he’s got such an attitude or not. and then, everyone ran with it. so it became that when he celebrated his wins, he was egoistic, and when he didn’t celebrate his wins, he was ungrateful.

franco is one of lando fans’ fav, because franco reminds us of lando a lot. while he is loved right now, other fans would switch up on him soon and then force an image on him because it fits their narrative.

people hate on lando because of an image they added themselves, but not because his driving, because his driving is actually good. it’s beautiful.

and till the time, people were happy with their fav winning and their fav loving this little underdog dude. now that this underdog dude is defeating their fav and their fav still loves this little underdog dude, people can’t handle it, as if it’s a crime committed against them.

idk where i went with it, im sleep deprived.

sincerely,

your wyr anon

i have so much to say about this issue.

branching off of this post, which captures the entire saga perfectly, i think max fans see lando an inferior, lesser than. granted, lando doesn't have as many wins, doesn't have a wdc yet, but i'm talking 'he must always stay beneath max because that's where he belongs'. it very much boggled me when people started liking lando all over again when the contention (that wasn't even contention since mclaren weren't aiming for it in the first place; lando just so happened to be that good that he was crawling his way up and suddenly the were fighting not only for the wcc, but half-heartedly for the wdc too) was over in las vegas.

this is why i do not take any max fan seriously. i watched them batter this man to pieces in every post they made, wish death upon a man that didn't even do shit, just for them to do a whole 360 and claim they 'like him again'.

saying that he bottled the championship, which is genuinely the most deranged, degenerate thing i've heard because to bottle something, you actually have to be in the advantageous position (read: p fucking 1). which he never was. so this definitely told me that a) people were very much not smart enough to know the meaning off the word 'bottle', and b) they were all just leeching of what each other had said and posting it because they have no competent bone in their body to be independent.

ruined him so bad just for it all to be over something so stupid, for all of his antis to hop off the hate train only because he's not challenging max; it's like they forget the fundamental of this sport, which is competition. max is not always going to dominate, seeing as how many strong prospects are now coming to the grid (and are also having their time to shine after being in the dark for so long). and they need to find some other way to manage that frustration because it's irritating to watch them take lando's words out of context just villainise him.

now, could you argue that all of is this due to the fact that lando had been in a midfield car for so long, that now he has a competing car for basically the first season, people are outraged that someone with no winning experience placed so high? maybe. very much all ifs and buts, but i'm leaning more towards the idea that they just can't believe someone who doesn't act like your sterotypical 'wdc' can contend, or even win it.

proof is in the pudding (twitter, tumblr, instagram). they will yield lando's mental health, the fact that he's so self-critical, the fact that he practised sportsmanship and gave oscar the sprint win, to call him unready, soft, 'mentally weak' to quote some. but then they'll switch up when lando's finally confident about his performance calling him stuck up and egotistic.

max fans are the biggest cowards when it comes to accepting that their fave is, in fact, not untouchable, not the weird god they make him out to be. so they find the need to result to lying about lando to deal with it, and since everyone just acquiescents to it all, other drivers' fans that aren't even affected but just need to hate someone, end up joining the bandwagon as well.

and i fear the same will happen to franco. i've always had it nipping at the back of my mind, because everyone loves him right now. yes, he's in a shit car, and there's nothing he can do about that, but the second he'll starting showing up and properly competing, the fabrications people will hold against this man are inevitable. so many fans do not realise that because you're in a shit car, does not mean you're a shit driver, and that that your results are very limited depending on how inert the car is. hence, they're clouded by that image they've already got about the driver. when franco gets into a team with a better car, they'll still see him as the underdog and think he's unworthy how high he'll place (like we all know he will).

[that1garrulousfan]

This is that self-indulgent AU-

I was heavily inspired to make this into a written form by @doodledoesthing3 , @ninjablasterzx , @daydreamer36 and @guppieishere .

Also one last thing to clear up possible confusion, since I’m so indecisive, HyperHumor has a different backstory in every AU she’s in to specifically fit the context/plot. So this is fresh outta the oven, baby! :]

Sorry if it’s cringe, I haven’t written in a while!

23 minutes.

HyperHumor was created for the sole purpose of being a close friend of the Bubba Bubbaphant character in the Smiling Critters series produced by PlayTime Co., celebrating the new collection of colorful, scented plushies.

They didn’t have to know each other; it was automatic. With no need to understand or know her own identity, or anyone else’s, all she had to do was exist and play her role.

Her first and only appearance took place on the fourth episode, “The Spotlight Shuffle” where she’d reunite with her pachyderm pal and ask him if he’d like to perform with her on a big stand up, which causes him to spend more time with her over his friend group in the process, leaving them to worry if he considers her over them.

23 minutes.

“It’ll be alright. And I can visit you whenever!” Hyper chirped with a bright smile, holding her friend’s hooves. Bubba smiled back in response, “Mhm. And we’ll be here once you do.”

And it was over. All wrapped in a pretty little bow and done with.

She spent the next five years in isolation and silence.

-

She couldn’t feel anything at first. Her eyes were open, but she couldn’t piece where she was. Her ears barely picking up a single wave of coherent sound. Not that she knew what it would be anyway. There’s only so much one can remember from 23 minutes. A few measures of music, bits of scripted lines, a handful of colors, the elephant’s name for sure…

Hyper shuffled on the ground, struggling to stand up without falling back down. It was weird. Her body felt numb, yet everything hurt. Another thing she wasn’t used to. Back in the cartoon, her home, pain was exceptionally temporary and minor, but here, every waking moment was agonizing.

She felt as if an unbearable weight was keeping her in place although she was certain nothing was near her. Weird. She thought.

Which was weird as well! It’s been so long since she’s even heard her own “voice”. Or thought. Let alone for herself. Everything was usually predetermined to be true and that was who she was. Whatever the creators wanted her to be.

Did she even have control of herself? Are these thoughts even her own?

Every move, every word, every problem, every solution was written and planned. And she was aware of it!

Was this planned too?

Why is she thinking like this then?

Hyper couldn’t recall walking towards the door, she simply found herself there, her hand pressed against the wall that she couldn’t even feel. Her senses were disconnected. Was she… standing? Probably? Maybe? She should be, right? How else could she have gotten there?

And why did her head hurt so much? The constant throbbing sensation made her want to tear her way through her fur and rip her brain out of her skull. Her vision was blurry, everything around her was seemingly fading away into the darkness.

None of it made sense.

What is this place?

Why was she here?

Why does she feel this way?

Her heart rapidly pounded in her chest, her breaths were shallow and uneven, as if daggers were stabbing into her lungs.

She rubbed her temples with her fingers in slow motions, humming something to herself, too tired to form any actual words of consolation.

The more time she spent trying to calm down, the more time she spent fantasizing about being back home. A place she could hardly remember all on its own.

Thinking of things that brought her comfort, helped her forget about the distress she was in in order to stay calm. However, this was always seen as “problematic” according to the creators. They believed that behavior would cause the children to develop unhealthy ways of coping and destroy their mental health. Not that it mattered anymore, right?

It’s not like they can read her mind anyways.

She took slow, deep breaths.

Home.

Home was nice.

Her ears rang, a loud sizzling, high-pitched noise.

They were punishing her for her sinful act.

The walls bore nice messages.

Were there pictures?

Her breathing quickened and heaved. She could barely feel the sweat dripping down her face.

Pictures would be nice.

Maybe she could take pictures of her with her friends and hang them up when she went back.

She rubbed her eyes with her free hand, blinking a few times before everything finally came into focus. Cold sweat ran down her face as it immediately when pale.

Dark. Very dark.

And… red?

She heard voices.

Voices!

People were here!

What are they talking about?

Maybe they can explain what’s happening!

Yes! She could get help!

She had so many questions and—

Wait.

They’re not talking.

Not at all in fact.

Are those…

“S-Screams…?” Hyper muttered to herself in confusion. She shuddered a bit, wincing in pain.

She hadn’t spoken in so long, it scared her how raspy and quiet her voice was.

Suddenly, her hand slipped, the door she happened to lean on swung open much too fast for her to react. She fell face first into the other room. More red. A lot of red. Everywhere.

She was breathing it in!

Her body gave out, her senses intensifying as the situation did.

Screams.

Sobs.

Shrill cries of names.

Thuds.

Slashes.

Splatters.

Roaring.

More screams.

Even faster footsteps.

The last thing she saw before blacking out was a clock dead center across the room, which read 10:13am.

🚫Please don’t repost, trace, steal and/or use my artwork for AI!🚫

🚫Do not plagiarize my work!🚫

if you want, please give me feedback