#my brain is so fried with his dialogue

[dizstermania]

biggest mistake is picking a random place in britain and not doing any research on it. these yorkshire slangs and phrases are so bad I CANT

[potato-an0n]

A random Will Solace/ solangelo hc:

I already posted this on my twt but ykw, I’ll post it on here too idc.

Okay so hear me out: I just thought of something pretty cool. Although I hc Will to be afro-latino/ latino, i also hc him as filipino. (Atp, I’ll hc him as both). So in Tagalog, ko means “my” & there are petnames such as “mahalko” (my love) *insert name* ko.

Following along so far?

Since Will has loser rizz and I’ve seen fics of ppl having Will refer to Nico as “Ni” as a petname, imagine Will trying to use a pick up line on Nico by using his name as a pun 😭 and his contact name is Ni-ko 🖤 i hope yall are seeing the vision 😀

Also, i lowkey threw up in my mouth thinking abt how cheesy this is but honestly, these two are cheesy mfs and down BAD for e/o but in their own “unique” ways. Like Will is more vocal abt it and Nico is subtle through action & gestures but VERY intense abt it.

[sixeyesonathiel]

diet pepsi

pairing — brother’s bsf!satoru x fem reader

synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguru’s little sister—until you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.

tags — childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><

five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.

summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sun’s relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.

satoru leans against suguru’s rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. they’re parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.

he’s mid-bite—salt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neck—when he hears it.

a laugh.

not just any laugh.

bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadas’ drone and the surf’s restless crash like a blade through silk.

he looks up, annoyed first—who’s that fucking loud?—then stunned, breath punched out of him like he’s taken a fist to the chest.

you step into view like you’ve walked out of a dream he didn’t know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the ocean’s glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wear—white, gauzy, catching the breeze—clings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step. 

a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like it’s daring the wind to tame it.

you’re older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoru’s ribs, leaves them raw and aching. you’re gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and he’s caught, staring, helpless.

his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.

“yo,” suguru says, elbow jabbing satoru’s side, hard enough to rattle the truck. “you good, or did the sun fry your brain?”

satoru can’t answer. his tongue’s too thick, his heart’s lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.

then you see them.

your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.

“satoru!” you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.

he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesn’t notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesn’t betray him.

he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees aren’t loose, pretending he’s still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. “long time no see, squirt,” he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. it’s a mistake—the hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.

you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.

he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses close—soft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and he’s drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.

he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.

then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.

suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoru’s chest. “didn’t know you were back today,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “would’ve picked you up from the station.”

he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. “someone needs extra hands at the stand,” suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. “and since you’re back in town with nothing better to do…”

he’s teasing, but there’s warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguru’s side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. it’s not jealousy—not of suguru, never that—but something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.

“figured you’d be perfect,” suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows something’s off. “plus, toru here was whining about being bored.”

“was not,” satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. he’s lying, and suguru knows it—satoru’s been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.

you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. it’s a sound that hooks into satoru’s ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.

“c’mon,” suguru says, already turning toward the road. “my treat. diner time?”

it’s tradition.

that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. he’s fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldn’t name.

“last one there buys dessert,” you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoru’s eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.

he tells himself you’re off-limits, a mantra he’s worn thin over the years. you’re suguru’s little sister, untouchable, a line he’d never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didn’t know he needed.

he’s marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending he’s still just satoru—your brother’s idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending he’s not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when you’re close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

pretending he’s not already, irreversibly, fucked.

the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.

nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates it—loves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything he’s tried to outrun. it’s the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.

you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoru’s hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.

suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but there’s a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the booth’s back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.

“so,” suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, “college treating you okay?”

you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the diner’s dim light. “it’s just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.”

“she’s being modest,” satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. “probably acing everything.”

your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. “hardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.”

“you? fail math?” satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. “impossible.”

“college math is different,” you protest, but you’re smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.

suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoru’s heart stumbles. “food’s still exactly the same here. bet they haven’t cleaned the grill since we were kids.”

“that’s what makes it good,” you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. “nothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.”

the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way that’s too sweet, too practiced. “what can i get for you folks?” she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.

you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menu’s edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. “i’ll have a chocolate shake and fries,” you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.

“double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,” satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never change—his order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when you’re close.

“you still get the same thing?” you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like you’re seeing him for the first time in years. “you used to make such a mess with those shakes.”

“remember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?” suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. “you cried for like an hour.”

“i did not cry for an hour,” you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. “maybe ten minutes. tops.”

“and then satoru gave you his hoodie,” suguru continues, smirk sharp now, “and suddenly the tears magically stopped.”

“shut up,” you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoru’s.

he remembers that day like it’s burned into him—you, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like he’d given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.

“you kept that hoodie for years,” suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. “pretty sure i saw you packing it for college.”

“oh my god, can we talk about anything else?” you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.

satoru’s heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he can’t smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.

“what brought you back this summer?” he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. “just break, or…?”

“internship fell through,” you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. “figured i’d come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.”

“always need help,” suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. “tourist season’s crazy this year.”

“plus satoru’s been whining about needing days off,” he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.

“i have not been whining,” satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.

“you literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,” suguru deadpans, folding his arms.

you laugh, bright and clear, and satoru’s heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that sound—missed it like air, like something vital he didn’t know he’d lost until it’s here again, filling the hollow in his chest.

“sounds like you need me to save you,” you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.

“maybe i do,” he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.

the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. the sound’s innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.

“god, i missed real food,” you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. “dining hall stuff is awful.”

“that fancy school doesn’t feed you right?” suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.

“hey!” you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. “and no, it’s all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.”

“poor baby,” satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguru’s not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.

you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the table’s edge, inches from his, and he wonders what it’d be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.

“remember that summer we practically lived here?” you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. “after suguru got his license?”

“and dad’s old pickup,” suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. “we’d come every day after the beach.”

“you two would eat your weight in fries,” you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. “and then race each other back to the water like idiots.”

“while you timed us,” satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vivid—your small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. “always the competitive one.”

“says the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,” you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.

“which was most times,” suguru adds, smirking.

“i let you win,” satoru protests, clutching his chest like he’s wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.

“sure you did,” you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.

suguru’s phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. “dad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.”

“we’re fine,” you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. “i remember the way home.”

suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. “behave yourselves.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.

“it means don’t let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,” suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“that was one time,” satoru defends, spreading his hands. “and she wanted to do it!”

“i was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,” you remind him, but you’re smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.

“and it was safe,” he insists, leaning back. “you just can’t dive.”

suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. “i’ll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.”

the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.

“so,” you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. “did you miss me at all while i was gone?”

the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everything—how the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how he’s been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, soft and expectant.

“nah,” he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. “maybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.”

“i was not that clumsy!” you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the diner’s hum.

“you knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,” he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharp—you, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. “twice.”

“because you and suguru kept putting things where i couldn’t reach them,” you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.

“it was funny watching you try,” he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff you’d let out. “you’d get this wrinkle right here.” he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.

your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. “i can reach the top shelf now,” you say quietly, almost a challenge.

“i noticed,” he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smile—pleased, a little shy—makes it worth the risk.

“college has some perks,” you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.

“like sukuna?” he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguru’s earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.

your smile falters, just for a second. “sukuna was just a friend.”

“a persistent friend,” satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.

“jealous?” you challenge, but there’s a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.

“maybe,” he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. “or just protective. like suguru.”

“you’re not my brother,” you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.

“no,” he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. “i’m not.”

something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like you’re holding onto something fragile.

“anyway,” you say, voice lighter, “suguru mentioned you’ve been working on games?”

he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. “yeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but i’ve got a few things published.”

“that’s amazing!” you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. “you always were crazy talented with that stuff.”

“says the college girl,” he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.

“it’s just school,” you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. “nothing special.”

“it is special,” he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. “you always were the smart one.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s pleased, soft. “says the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.”

“only because you helped me through lit,” he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessions—your patience, your quiet focus—stirring something tender in him.

you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sun’s warmth. “we made a good team.”

“we still could,” he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didn’t intend.

your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. “well, we’ll see how we do at the stand first,” you say lightly. “might get sick of me.”

“not possible,” he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.

your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. “you might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,” you admit. “really loud, really off-key.”

“that’s not new,” he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. “you used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.”

“i did not screech,” you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.

“you absolutely did,” he insists, smirking. “scared away customers.”

“you’re such a liar,” you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. “you told me i had a nice voice.”

“maybe i lied then,” he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.

“or maybe you’re lying now,” you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.

“guess you’ll have to sing for me again so i can decide,” he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.

your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. “maybe i will.”

the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. you’re not a kid anymore, and satoru can’t pretend he doesn’t see it—the way you’ve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he can’t look away from.

“we should probably head back,” you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like you’re reluctant to break the spell. “before suguru sends out a search party.”

“race you to the truck?” satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than it’s been in years.

your eyes light up, competitive spark flaring. “loser buys ice cream tomorrow?”

“deal,” he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. “ready?”

and then you’re off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mind—your smile, your voice, the way you feel like home—but right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.

summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.

you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sun’s brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoru’s chest.

it’s only been a week since you started helping out.

satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.

but then there’s you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that he’s never seen before. it’s a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.

he’s not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.

there’s you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle that’s melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.

your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counter’s edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoru’s dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.

he’s fucking dying.

“dude,” suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoru’s head, the paper bouncing off his temple. “your math is shit today.”

satoru startles, blinking at the till where he’s been staring for god knows how long, a customer’s change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.

“whatever,” he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. “it’s hot. i’m fried.”

“sure,” suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.

you laugh, swinging your legs where you’re perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon “open” sign. you’re flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.

satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.

“earth to satoru,” you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.

he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because you’re a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you don’t even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and he’s drowning in the heat of you, in the way you’re everywhere—your laugh, your scent, your warmth.

suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoru’s chest.

“bet you can’t make another shot,” you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.

“bet you i can,” he fires back, because it’s you, and he’s an idiot who can’t say no to you, not ever.

he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wrist—it arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezer’s handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.

you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “show-off,” you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like you’re proud of him.

later, you’re all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the day’s lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.

you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but he’s burning, every nerve attuned to you.

you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like it’s been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.

“wanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?” you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.

“only if i get to be your ride,” he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he can’t voice.

you grin, wide and blinding, and it’s like the sun never set, like you’re carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.

“deal,” you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.

he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that don’t need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.

you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.

sometimes suguru’s there, tossing keys, joking about “kids these days” before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes it’s just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.

one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreen—coconut and sea salt—and the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.

it’s suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.

he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.

at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like you’re sharing a secret. “you’re staring.”

he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. “am not,” he says, voice cracking, betraying him.

you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. “liar,” you murmur, so soft it’s almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.

“whatever,” he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until it’s a living thing, thick and heavy.

you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.

you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. “we should go sometime,” you say, casual, but there’s a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.

“yeah,” he says, too fast, too eager. “yeah, totally.”

your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and he’s helpless, caught in its light.

when he drops you off, you linger by the truck’s door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. “thanks for the ride,” you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.

he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he can’t say.

you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balm—strawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks you’re going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.

but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. “see you tomorrow, toru.”

you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and he’s left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.

he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. “off-limits,” he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. “off. fucking. limits.”

he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he can’t shake. he dreams of you that night—soft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skin—and wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.

the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.

“don’t wait up,” he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the evening’s cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.

outside, the sky bleeds watercolor—orange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.

you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoru’s chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truck’s always been yours.

“air conditioning’s broken,” he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.

“who needs it?” you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like they’re alive.

the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoru’s bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.

your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and he’s dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.

“pull over,” you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.

“what?” he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.

“there. pull over. trust me.”

your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and he’s turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breath—an endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.

before he can ask what’s next, you’re halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. “swimming, obviously,” you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.

he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikini—simple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.

“we don’t have—” he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.

“i always wear it under my clothes,” you say, winking. “just in case.”

just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.

“well?” you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. “you coming or what?”

common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.

the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoru’s caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.

“chicken?” you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.

he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. “race you to the buoy,” you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.

“you’re on,” he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.

you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, you’re there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. “not bad,” you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. “for an old man.”

“old?” he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.

you shriek, twisting away, but he’s faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.

you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.

when you surface, you’re wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.

“i win,” you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.

his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and he’s drowning, every nerve alight. “cheater,” he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.

your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shore—

a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. you’re both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.

you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, you’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.

without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.

“thanks,” you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.

neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoru’s heart hammers, every beat a confession he can’t voice.

“suguru would kill me,” he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.

you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. “for what?”

for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.

“for keeping you out too late,” he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.

you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. “i’m not a kid, toru.”

he swallows, throat burning. “you’ve always been… different. special.” the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.

you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. “maybe i’m tougher than you think,” you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.

“maybe,” he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.

you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. “we should go,” you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he can’t name.

he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.

at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguru’s truck is gone, the driveway empty. “thanks for the swim,” you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like you’re reluctant to leave.

“anytime,” he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything he’s holding back.

you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheek—soft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then you’re gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.

he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and he’s alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.

“you’re fucked,” he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.

his reflection doesn’t argue, just stares back, helpless.

the next morning at the stand, suguru’s quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. “you okay?” satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.

“late night,” suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.

relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. “the bonfire girl?” he asks, forcing a grin.

suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. “very flexible.”

normal. it’s normal. nothing’s changed.

then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts and—satoru’s breath catches, a punch to the chest—his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. “morning!” you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.

“you’re late,” suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.

“by like, five minutes,” you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.

“still late,” he insists, but there’s no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.

you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didn’t mean to make.

but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises he’s not sure he can survive. it’s a look that says you remember last night—the swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that was—and his heart lurches, knowing he’s lost, knowing he doesn’t want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.

the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he can’t tame.

when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.

you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hair’s loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like it’s daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.

then you find him.

your eyes lock across the fire, and your smile—small, devastating, a curve of lips that’s both invitation and blade—cuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heart’s a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and he’s terrified suguru’s nearby, that his best friend’s sharp eyes will catch the way satoru’s unraveling.

“dude, you even listening?” his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.

“what? yeah,” satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.

a shadow moves beside him, and suguru’s there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. “you’re zoning out,” he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoru’s stomach lurches—suguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoru’s been anything but subtle tonight.

“just hot,” satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesn’t push.

suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like he’s waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it cool—laughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but you’re a tide, pulling at him, relentless.

the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. it’s torture, and he’s burning, every nerve alight with want he’s desperate to hide.

you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high school—tanned, smug, standing too close.

you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoru’s grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguru’s right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.

“you’re gonna break that,” suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.

satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “i’m fine,” he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.

suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoru’s stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.

he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguru’s too close, too perceptive, and satoru’s walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but it’s hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like you’re pulling the air from his lungs.

you’re there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. “hey,” you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowd’s worn you thin, like you’re seeking refuge.

suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. “plenty of room,” he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. “hungry?”

“i’m your only sister,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.

you’re too close—satoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.

you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguru’s tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but there’s a charge humming under it all, a current satoru can’t ignore.

he’s hyperaware of you—the way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguru’s right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoru’s nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.

the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches you—tall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. “dance with me?” he asks, grinning like he’s already won.

satoru’s jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. “maybe later,” you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.

the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. “gonna grab another,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. “you two want anything?”

“i’m good,” satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.

“i’ll take another,” you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.

suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything he’s fighting to hide.

“having fun?” he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.

you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like they’re part of you. “yeah. it’s nice being back for the summer.” you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. “better than i expected.”

“yeah?” he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguru’s watching from the drink table, catching every slip.

you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. “yeah.”

the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he can’t look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. he’s drowning, and suguru’s absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.

“actually, i’m feeling a little…” you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. “it’s kinda loud. kinda crowded.”

“we can move down the beach,” satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. “if you want quiet.”

you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture that’s a fucking dart to his chest. “i was thinking… maybe you could drive me home?”

his brain stutters, blanks. “home?” he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.

“if you don’t mind,” you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like you’re offering more than you’re saying. “i’m just… tired.”

he knows you’re not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. he’s nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fire’s crackle. “yeah, of course. let me just tell suguru—”

“already texted him,” you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. “he says it’s fine.”

satoru’s pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguru’s out there, somewhere, and satoru’s terrified he’s watching, that he’ll see the truth in his face, the way he’s crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. “let’s go.”

you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. “sorry,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.

“that’s okay,” he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. “i’ve got you.”

you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether he’s terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguru’s gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: don’t cross the line.

satoru nods back, a silent promise he’s not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.

the drive’s quiet at first, just the engine’s low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seat—your bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.

you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and he’s fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguru’s trust intact.

“thank you,” you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. “for the ride.”

“anytime,” he says, and it’s a vow, heavy with everything he’s burying, everything he’s too afraid to let suguru see.

another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the world’s poised on a knife’s edge.

satoru feels it before he sees it—your gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.

“satoru,” you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. “pull over. please.”

he glances at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboard’s dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like you’re clinging to sanity. “what?” he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.

“please,” you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. “i can’t hold it anymore.”

he doesn’t hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.

“i can’t,” you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like you’re unraveling. “i can’t pretend like you’re not everything anymore.”

he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he can’t name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.

your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. he’s drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. “wait,” he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. “baby, you’ve been drinking. i can’t—”

“satoru,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. “i know what i’m doing. i’ve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.”

the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. “oh, sweetheart,” he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like he’s been starved for you. “we should—shit, we should find a bed, somewhere better—”

“no,” you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. “here. now. i can’t wait.”

he’s trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldn’t cross, but you’re too much—too pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. “backseat,” he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. “more room, pretty girl.”

you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the ocean’s restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.

he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

the backseat’s a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and he’s lost, staring at you like you’re a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.

“c’mere, gorgeous,” he coos, voice dripping with tease, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a hunger he can’t hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.

you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.

you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. “lemme touch you,” he pleads, voice low, edged with a need that’s almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.

“yes,” you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.

he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.

“soaked already,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. “such a good girl for me.”

he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. “nuh-uh,” he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. “no hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.”

he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.

you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. he’s methodical, a tease—circling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until you’re writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

“satoru,” you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks he’ll trace later, proof of you.

“patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. “gonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.” his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.

he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseat’s shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angle’s awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.

“prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like you’re a banquet and he’s been starving for years.

he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.

he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. he’s messy, relentless—tongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.

his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like he’s mapping you.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.

“satoru,” you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and they’re wild—lids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.

he’s trying to hold back, to keep some control, because you’re suguru’s sister, because he shouldn’t, but you’re too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and he’s unraveling, impatient for more.

he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.

his tongue traces patterns—lazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. “dripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.” he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and you’re a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.

“please,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. “faster, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. “love it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.” his voice is playful, but the idea’s a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.

he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. you’re close, he knows it—the way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. “c’mon, pretty girl,” he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. “cum for me. let me taste it. fuckin’ paint me.”

you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesn’t stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.

you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but he’s too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.

“satoru, fuck,” you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but there’s no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.

“one more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. “you’ve got another for me, don’t you? know you do.” his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience that’s more about his hunger than your comfort.

you’re a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you can’t resist him, not when he’s like this—teasing, hungry, cooing like you’re his to unravel.

he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until you’re whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.

“look at you,” he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a mess—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me. bet you’d let me do anything, huh?” he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.

“satoru,” you plead, voice fraying, “too much.”

“too much?” he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. “thought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldn’t wait.” his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. “that’s it, give me everything. love watching you break.”

he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

he’s relentless, messy, eating you like he’s been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until it’s hard, until you’re gasping, overwhelmed.

“wanna see you ride my face,” he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. “wanna feel you grind, baby. c’mon, use me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.

you hesitate, oversensitive, but he’s insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, you’re gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.

he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. you’re a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and he’s lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. “fuck my face, c’mon, give it to me.” his words are filthy, teasing, but the hunger’s raw, impatient, and you’re too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.

he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.

he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until you’re limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like you’ve rewritten his world.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he can’t let go. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“want you,” you whisper, dragging satoru up from where he’s still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.

the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close it’s like you’re trying to carve yourself into him.

he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laugh—breathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.

you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. he’s beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, you’re staring,” he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck that’s got nothing to do with the heat.

“can’t help it,” you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. “you’re too damn pretty, toru.”

he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet “shit” that’s more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseat’s shadows with a clumsy thud.

his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. he’s big, bigger than you’d imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.

he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. “baby, i don’t have a condom,” he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like they’re killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.

“don’t care,” you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. “want you. all of you. please, satoru.”

he curses again, louder, a broken “fuck” as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.

“last chance, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blue’s a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. “you sure?”

“please,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “need you inside me. now.”

he groans, a sound that’s all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks he’ll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like he’s coming apart.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. “squeezin’ me so good, pretty girl.”

he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but it’s perfect—the way he fills you, the way he’s careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. “more,” you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. “harder, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, a chuckle that’s all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like a trophy.

“satoru,” you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseat’s too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but it’s raw, filthy—the cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.

the air’s thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight you’re a secret hidden from the world.

“feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.

the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until it’s hard, making you whimper.

“look at you, baby,” he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, “taking me so well.”

“let me ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.

“fuck yes,” he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. “come take it, gorgeous.” he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace that’s almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. “off. now. wanna see every inch of you.”

you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no bra—because of course, you fucking minx—and satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roam—one squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.

“ride me, baby,” he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. “take what’s yours. lemme see you fall apart.”

you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. “fuck, you feel so good. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight you’re a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. “so fuckin’ gorgeous, taking me like that.”

every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you—like you’re a goddess, like he’s worshiping you with every thrust.

he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like it’s barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until you’re moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.

“mine,” he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. “fuck, you’re mine, baby. always have been.”

“yours,” you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhere—gripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.

he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. “gimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and you’re gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but he’s not done. you’re still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.

“fuck, baby, you’re too slow,” he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angle’s deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and you’re helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, but it’s dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. “fuck, you feel so good. gonna—shit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.” his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

“please,” you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way he’s taking you apart again. “want it, satoru. want you.”

“fuck, say that again,” he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. “tell me you want me.”

“want you,” you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. “want you so bad, toru. always have.”

he’s unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. “fuck, baby, you’re too much,” he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. “gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.

for a long moment, it’s just the ocean’s roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like he’s memorizing you.

“perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.

he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he can’t bear to stop.

you’re curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for this—pressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and there’s one message from suguru:

you suck at hiding it. don’t get her pregnant, dumbass.

satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. “busted,” he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.

“worth it,” you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.

tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focus—it’s just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.

a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘍𝘍𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 - 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘛𝘞𝘖

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark x Reader | Sinister!Mark x Reader

Warnings: none

a/n: i definitely planned to do more with this chapter but when i tell you this dialogue fried my brain 🫠 poor reader doesn’t even show up. i really do love all the variants tho they’re so fun. more reader x mark interactions in the next one - promise 🤞

→ 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙊𝙣𝙚 ←

It had been a very long and slow process of rebuilding public image for all the Variant Marks. Understandably so, when considering the storm cloud of chaos and destruction they’d originally drifted in on all those months ago. But even with that in mind, things had seemingly gone from bad to worse for the poor citizens of Earth. Every day there was numerous reports of villains across the globe; albeit mostly weak, but enough to keep the lower level heroes more than occupied.

And it was in this light that the population was collectively getting over – possibly even forgetting – the heinous acts committed by the gaggle of Invincibles. Which lead that very group to where they stood today, circled in the Guardians of the Globe HQ with Cecil and this worlds’ Invincible heading the pack. Cecil had just given a rundown on the plan, designating each variant to a certain part of the planet.

As was to be expected the conversation wasn’t without its hiccups – namely the lensless Invincible who seemed to have a snarky quip or challenging statement for everything Cecil said. And typically, the edgiest of all the Marks – the one with the most daring hairstyle – would be right along side him. Those two had come to be the closest out of the group, not to anyone’s surprise.

But today, the usually rebellious Mark felt more rigid, his charcoal eyes more or less remaining focused on the variant who dawned the black and yellow suit. This tension wasn’t lost on Cecil, but in all honesty the man was tired – exhausted, to be exact – and as long as nothing was coming to blows he couldn’t be bothered to speak on it.

This universes Mark, however, wasn’t quite as lenient with what he would let stand when it came to his variants. Just the sight of them still put a bad taste in his mouth. “This isn't going to work if we all try to take on everything. We need to split things up. I’ll start by taking North America—it's the biggest responsibility and I’m the original, after all.” S.Mark grinned at this, rolling his head back and to the side as he eyed his mirror image.

“You think you're the "original," huh? That's cute. I’ve seen how this plays out. Trust me, the real work happens in places where the action's happening. I'll take the major cities in Europe. Less of the “nice guy” heroing, more actual power. Maybe the United States can be your playground while I actually get results.” The Mark who proudly still wore his Viltrumite uniform responded back coldly,

“Don’t kid yourself. You act like this is about being nice or having fun. This is about survival. I’ll take the more dangerous territories. Africa and the Middle East. The kind of places where the people really need someone with... teeth.” The variant who kept his face hidden behind his black mask now spoke up, his tone laced with seriousness and sincerity.

“We’re all focused on the wrong thing. People need more than just saving from disasters and villains. They need better systems, cleaner energy, more food. I’m taking responsibility for Asia and the Pacific Islands. I’ll focus on sustainable practices and infrastructure. Trust me, I’m the only one here who knows how to actually help the world.” The lensless Invincible interjected sharply at this.

“Hold up. You're seriously telling me you're going to sit around handing out kale smoothies while the Earth burns? You’re wild for that.” He tried to exchange a look with M.Mark, but his stare was still fixed on S.Mark. Uncaring of this lack of reaction, however, he continued, “I’ll take South America, handle some of the hot spots there. I’m more than capable of cleaning up after the messes you’re all too soft to handle.”

The Invincible who wore no mask, and seemed to be the most oddly polite of the group, spoke up. “Everyone’s talking about big territories, but no one’s thinking about the real problem: people. We need to work on the long-term emotional damage. I’ll take all the places suffering the most from war and famine. We can’t just punch our way through everything.” The main universe’s Mark sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Look,” he started, giving each of his variants a steady gaze to make sure they were all truly engaged in what he was saying. “I get that we all have our strengths, but we need a unified plan here! Are we focusing on taking out threats or building a better world? We can’t do both if we’re all going in different directions!”

“You think that by holding hands and singing kumbaya, the world will be saved? You all sound ridiculous. I’m not here to be everyone's friend. The world needs a heavy hand, not a weakling’s hope.” Of course this response would come from S.Mark, his arms folded tightly over his chest.

“You’re missing the point,” retorted the full masked Invincible. “It’s not just about taking down the bad guys or fixing the infrastructure. It’s about healing. You can’t just come in with brute force, you’ve got to help people rebuild from the inside. Have you considered what your violence does to the people you’re "saving"?”

Lensless Mark rolled his eyes, his body hunched forward slightly in a dramatic show of annoyance. “We are rebuilding, but first we need to deal with the fun—I-I mean bigger issues! South America is crawling with dangerous factions. If we don’t stop them, all the rebuilding in the world won’t matter.”

For the first time that morning the Invincible who replicated Omni-Man spoke, his voice somehow simultaneously stern and soft. “You’re all missing the bigger picture. Even if we defeat the bad guys, there’s always someone stronger and more dangerous waiting around the corner. We need to be training to make sure we’re all at out our peak and ready, for whatever that might be.”

The original Invincible sighed, holding his hands up as if in admission. “Okay, okay! Fine! We’re not getting anywhere like this. Let’s just agree that we all have important parts to play.” He paused a beat, and surprisingly no one had anything to say. For a second Mark thought he could smile just from the sheer relief of feeling like they were finally more or less on the same page. He continued,

“So you’ll take the long-term stuff,” He gestured towards the full-masked Invincible. “But remember you still need to keep the bad guys off the streets.” He moved his attention to S.Mark. “You can handle Europe—keep it under control, but don’t go too far.” A part of him anticipated a challenge but by some grace of god none came. Moving on, he looked to the lensless Mark. “You’ll go to Africa, but don’t burn the place to the ground.” An excited smile lit up the variants face, clearly pleased with this decision.

Main Mark looked now to his maskless counterpart. “You can take care of Asia, maybe put some focus on the emotional fallout. And you—” he turned next to his wanna-be-dad variant. “You can take South America while you—” his gaze moved to the Viltrumite loyalist. “Can handle Central America.” His stare finally landed on M.Mark. “That leaves you with North America.”

“And what about you?” Lensless Mark asked, head cocked slightly to the side in childish curiosity.

“I’m going to work on the smaller nations and islands, but really I’ll be making sure you idiots stay on task.” He took the time to once again meet the stare of all his variants, just daring one of them to challenge his directive. Miraculously, no one did.

“I’ve gotta say kid, I’m impressed,” Cecil stated, speaking for the first time in awhile. “Spoken like a true leader.” Mark shot him an irritated look, knowing full well he was still lingering on the idea of him becoming the new leader for the Guardians of the Globe. Not missing a beat, Cecil continued by addressing the group. “I don’t think I need to remind any of you, but in case I do: I recommend you all keep in mind the wastelands we saved you from. And then remember it’s nothing for us to send you back.” The energy of the room fell serious, all of the variants suddenly stiffening in discomfort or anger.

After letting his words sit with them for a moment, Cecil turned to Donald who was stood near the entryway. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes sir,” Donald answered promptly. Cecil nodded, turning his back on the group before lifting his hand almost dismissively in the air.

“Let’s do some good today,” he finished dryly before all the variants teleported in a blink to their designated areas. When the room was at last cleared of everyone outside of himself, the original Mark, and Donald, Cecil let out an exhausted sigh.

It had been a painfully long day, and it wasn’t even noon.

→ Part Three ←

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-three: all the stars

word count: 2.1k (feels shorter tho?)

warnings: dialogue heavy, messy switching of povs

twenty-two | twenty-three | twenty-four

The library was nearly empty at this hour, save for the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the occasional shuffling of pages from someone studying just as late as they were.

Lando leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers, watching as she… folded a tiny paper star? 

He narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t look like studying.”

She sighed dramatically, pressing the crease into the paper with a little too much force. “I can’t study anymore. My brain is fried. Done. Over. That’s it. It’s rejecting all new information.”

Lando exhaled through his nose, staring at the textbook open in front of them. They’d been at this for hours—practicing logic games, running through sample arguments, dissecting the intricacies of contracts and torts. She was good, but she was tired.

And when she got tired, apparently, she made little paper... thingamajigs?

Her head lolled onto her folded arms, barely upright at this point, eyes unfocused as she stared at the open prep book in front of her.

“Okay,” he said, flipping a page. “Logical reasoning. Let’s try one more.”

She groaned, voice muffled against her sleeve. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“Liam,” she lifted her head, fixing him with a mildly-impressive threatening stare, “I swear to God, I could not tell you the difference between a necessary and sufficient assumption right now if my life depended on it. Like, gun to my head? Not happening.”

Lando blinked, looking at her seriously. “Your life does not depend on it.”

“Exactly,” she declared, tossing down her highlighter. “So I’m making stars instead.”

She reached for the strips of paper she’d been folding absentmindedly for the last ten or so minutes, fingers deftly creasing them into small, perfect origami stars. The table was already littered with them, tiny constellations of her boredom.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching her work with a bemused expression.

“I didn’t know you were so easily defeated.”

She shot him a glare. “I’m not defeated. I’m… on strike.”

“Against?”

“My own brain.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “Great. Can’t wait to see you argue that in court one day.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled, fingers still working on another star.

Liam stared at her for a moment too long, seeming very judgmental for someone who did not have to do the actual studying part. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re serious?”

She didn’t even look up. “Liam, I cannot study anymore.”

“You said that half an hour ago, and yet, we are still here.”

“I know, and that was the last time I could study. My brain is at maximum capacity. I have reached the limit of human intellectual absorption.” She held up a tiny, folded star between her fingers, as if to prove her point.

Lando sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He should tell her to keep going. Should remind her that this test was important, that she couldn’t afford to slack off now. But she looked tired, and he wasn’t a monster.

“…At least make me one,” he said, nodding toward the paper scraps.

Her head snapped up, eyes suspicious but there was a glimmer of excitement there too if Lando looked hard enough. “You want an origami star?”

He shrugged. “Eh, might as well.”

For a second, she just stared at him, like she was trying to figure out if he was messing with her. But then she grinned—small, genuine, and earnest. Lando wondered what other things caused her eyes to light up like that, what simple pleasures had her glittering with this pure kind of joy.

He leaned forward, interrupting her space by plucking a finished star from the pile and examining it between his fingers. “So… is this, like, normal or whatever? Or is there a cure–”

She gasped, appalled. “Oh, shut up! I just needed to do something with my hands that wasn’t writing or highlighting or underlining—”

Lando flicked the tiny star at her forehead.

She gasped. “Liam!”

“You were talkin’ too much,” he said, leaning back in his chair, smirking. “Consider it a tactical disruption.”

She huffed, flicking one right back at him. It hit him squarely in the chest. Once a concerning number of them were sufficiently scattered about their work table, he reached over and picked one up, inspecting the delicate folds.

“Should I be worried that you can make, like, fifty of these in under five minutes?”

“It’s a completely normal coping mechanism.” She started another one, hands moving on autopilot. “Some people take smoke breaks. I make stars.”

He raised a brow. “Not sure that’s the best analogy.”

She grimaced apologetically, realizing her mistake. Liam had been extra grumpy after recently quitting, despite the fact that he claimed not to smoke in the first place. Even though it resulted in his car smelling nicer, it apparently was still a touchy subject. She shot him an apologetic look before turning back and placing another finished star in a neat little row beside the others.

Lando sighed, running a hand down his face. He should probably tell her to keep studying, but—screw it. She’d worked her ass off. If she needed a break, she needed a break.

He appeared lost in some deep thought, so he caught her off guard when he reached for another piece of scrap paper and attempted to fold his own.

“Wait, are you—”

“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

She leaned in, curious, watching as he fumbled through the folds. By the time he finished, his “star” looked more like a crumpled piece of trash than anything else. He scowled, huffing as he flipped it over. “I changed my mind. This is stupid.”

There was a beat of silence. And then she burst out laughing.

“Wow,” she wheezed, wiping at her eyes. “That’s horrific.”

She exhaled determinedly and pushed her books away, flexing her fingers like they ached from all the writing. Then, casually, she slid a few extra strips of paper toward him. “Want another try? I can teach you.”

He frowned at the offering. “Nah, I don’t do crafts.”

“Oh, come on. Please?” She gave him a playful nudge with her foot under the table. “Don’t be lame. It’s easy, just fold here—”

She reached over, her hand grazing hers as she tried to guide the paper through the first few folds. When the instructions became too confusing, she decided that they would attempt visual learning instead. Reaching closer to the half-complete star in front of him she gently took his hand in hers as she led him through the final tucks and indentations, leaving behind with a half decent star. It was a little lopsided, but a star nonetheless.

His star.

He had turned to look at her as soon as her hand made contact with his, caught off guard by the feeling of her delicate hands resting briefly against his calloused ones. Her hair had  untucked itself from behind her ear, curtaining her face away from view momentarily. It was only a split second before she fixed it, absentmindedly tucking her back as she’d likely done thousands of times before.

She continued with her explaining and rambling as she focused completely on what she was doing, Lando couldn’t bring himself to follow suit. It was strange, inexplicable – after the split second that her hair had covered her face, Lando suddenly saw her in an entirely different light. Still fixated on her, he barely breathed. It was such a simple thing, barely a touch at all, but for some reason, his body had the nerve to register it like it scalded him, but in a sort of pleasant way.

His skin burned but he didn’t seem to mind, lost in trance while she was focused elsewhere, something about ensuring they did the right number of folds so they could have adequate paper for a neat final tuck.

Makes them cuter, she’d explained.

Lando Norris didn’t know a damn thing about origami or stars. Yet he’d never been paying more attention to something so inconsequential as he did right then. Suddenly, he was struck with the idiotic idea to unravel the star they’d made, just so they could do it all over again.

When she looked at him proudly, he cleared his throat, pulling his hand back before he could think too much about it. “You seem to be quite the expert. Think I’ll leave the paper artistry t’you.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, and he ignored the way that smile did something weird to his chest. The library stayed quiet after that, save for the sound of her folding tiny stars and him watching the way the light made them glow in her hands.

A few days later, they were crammed in his car outside the testing center, and she was flipping through well-worn flashcards like her life depended on it. She chewed her bottom lip raw, flipping through them with a frantic energy he hadn’t seen in all the time he’d come to know her.

"Alright, last one," she muttered, holding up a card. "If a contract is formed under duress—"

"It's voidable at the discretion of the coerced party," he answered.

She blinked. "You got that right."

"Obviously?” he questioned, pretending to be offended. ”I do pay attention, y’know."

She stared at the card for another second, then groaned, dropping it back onto the larger stack. "Okay. I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Don't do that," he said. "S’bad for morale. Also, I happen t’like this car. Just got it clean, too–"

"Liam."

When she glared at him, she looked like she hadn’t decided yet whether to cry or throw up. Lando can’t imagine giving some stack of papers that much power. 

What’s a score, anyway? Scores could be bought, extorted, bartered or bargained for–

He cut himself off before that line of thought could go any further. It was simply instinct, unfortunately. “Hey,” he reached over, plucking the papers right out of her hands. “You know this stuff.”

She didn’t even try to get them back from him, which should’ve been a sign to take this more seriously. But he noticed the way she fiddled with her fingers, pushing and pressing at her cuticles like it’d sooth her somehow. “This is the admissions test. For law school. What if I don’t?” she blurted.

“You do.” He was still laughing as he rolled his eyes.

She huffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t know that.”

Lando raised a brow. “I do, actually. I’ve been here every night watching you make flashcards and rewrite your notes and—look, if you weren’t already going to ace this, I’d just pay off the testing center.”

She blinked.

He tapped the steering wheel, as if actually considering it. “Or the admissions officer. Or the licensing board, now that I think about it—” His grin widened at her visible annoyance.

Why wasn’t he taking this seriously?

“Liam,” she groaned, shoving his shoulder.

He grinned but softened slightly, letting his voice drop. He turned to face her, and Y/N could practically feel her cheeks burning simply at the intensity of his gaze. Something about Liam always projected, confidence, strength, surety. 

Sometimes she wished she could be as sure as he was. 

But now, bearing the full weight of his gaze and being the sole object of his undivided attention, it felt almost like her heart was stuck in her throat. There was something about those green-gold irises that made Y/N feel like he could see all of her, like he could see right through her.

It made her pulse flutter with something foreign.

“Hey.” His voice was a near-whisper. The familiar smirk flickered, but his eyes held her captive. He gently nudged her chin, tilting her face up so she couldn't look away. "You're going to be perfect. Go out there and make me proud, yeah?"

Y/N was momentarily speechless. His touch, the way he held her in his gaze, left her breathless. She nodded, too caught in the intensity of the moment to form words. A strange mixture of fear and fascination swirled inside her as she exhaled, tension slipping from her shoulders.

“You’re the best,” she said before instinctively reaching out, squeezing his hand for half a second before quickly pulling away.

It was a fleeting gesture—a brief press of warmth—but it sent a shock up his spine, something lingering on his skin, even as she grabbed her bag and stepped out of the car, heading toward the entrance.

He watched her go, his fingers curling into a loose fist.

…Right. 

Time to lock that away and never open it again.

a/n: oh my clueless little babies. oh they're so cute!

[neverthatsirius-jo]

𝐃𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐍'𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓

summary — after the halloween night incident, a misunderstanding leads to a fight, which consequently leads to your first kiss with spencer.

content — bau!reader x spencer reid, fluff, friends to lovers, there’s only one bed oh nooo, arguing and some jealousy, reader is a bit mean in this one and is still scared of feelings.

word count — 4.2k

a/n — moral of the story: if i ever give a posting date, add to that three to five business day. also the case in this one is inspired by s05e21, and there’s another part inspired by s04e09. some pieces of dialogue are from those episodes too. i can’t look at this fic anymore because i edited it a hundred times and then i realized that i had been mixing past and present tense!! fun!! and also i'm fighting the urge to re-write both this one and the first part in present tense. i don’t know which i like better yet. we’ll see. i’m so sorry about the title puns. i cannot escape them. if i left the wrong tense somewhere, i’m sorry, my brain is fried. this turned out to be much longer than i expected (that's what she said sorry)

← part one

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

“𝐖𝐎𝐖...”

You were standing in front of a wooden cabin, surrounded by snow, and you could make out the back scenery full of pine trees delightfully adorned with the same white that covered the ground beneath your feet. You smiled resignedly at the ironic timing, not at the circumstances that had brought you there, as you stood by the door with your team. Spencer by your side, of course. Like always, but not quite.

You hadn’t been trying to ignore him the entire week. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself, anyone who asked, and Spencer himself the few times he’d asked if something was amiss.

It had been a busy week, you felt awkward after what had happened on Halloween, even more so by his silence about it, and you just weren’t as inclined to initiate conversation like usual. No matter this, Spencer had treated you normally, or as normally as you’d let him, all week despite the lingering awkwardness that you both carried since the Halloween get-together fiasco.

You were in the small—the population no more than fifteen hundred people—fishing town of Franklin, Alaska. The sheriff had called for the team’s assistance to help with the investigation of a series of murders that had been committed in the span of that same week. He had taken the time also to personally show you to where you’d be staying. A cabin of considerable size made of dark wooden logs with a big white sign that read ‘Karen’s Tavern’ in tall, brown letters.

“We have four of the upstairs rooms available,” the woman that had all but rolled her eyes at you when you tried to offer her a smile when you came in announced.

“Four?” Spencer asked. The same woman offered him a ‘what can you do?’ smile. Of course. It was your turn to roll your eyes then.

“Come on, that’s the best we can do,” Sheriff Rhodes said. “Your team is double the size of my department.”

They both bid their goodbyes and let your team to decide on room assignments before you had to meet at the station. 

“I’m not sleeping with Reid,” Morgan was the first to speak up. Penelope quickly claimed him to be her roommate for the night, slapping her hand onto his.

After Penelope everyone started partnering up before you could even open your mouth to say anything. JJ got with Emily, Hotch with Rossi, and everyone kind of assumed you and Spencer would be sharing. You accepted your faith silently and, with Spencer close behind, brought your suitcases up to your room. You didn’t spare it a glance; you left your luggage behind the door and trotted back down the stairs to listen to what your assignments would be.

“You three.” Hotch pointed to Morgan, Spencer, and finally to you. “I want you to go talk to the bar owner’s daughter. She was the last person to see or to talk to our last victim. She may have noticed something weird, heard a conversation…”

You three nodded at the same time and wasted no time before going out into the cold with a small map you had grabbed from the tavern’s counter in hand.

You chose to walk in silence while Morgan and Spencer bantered their way to the bar, preferring to relish on the crunch sound the snow made with every step you took and nothing else. The same cold that gave way to the snow didn’t take long to get to you as you quickly realized your button-up shirt wasn’t ideal for the climate. Spencer noticed it too, giving you a sideways glance when he heard your teeth clattering. Not breaking up conversation he took off his coat and placed it on your shoulders. With things being awkward as is, you accepted it with a nod and put your arms through it silently.

When you got to the bar the first thing you noticed, and felt, was the chimney to the left that hosted a warm, welcoming fire. It prompted you to give Spencer his coat back. There were quite a few people, most sitting on stools at the large wooden bar, at that time of day. You hadn’t even finished taking your coat off when a young woman approached the three of you—although she was clearly more interested in talking to Morgan; not even sparing a glance at you or Spencer—to ask Morgan if he was the one leading the investigation, and asking him questions about it and the job. For a moment you thought she might be the owner’s daughter you were supposed to talk to, but as the questions seemed to grow more personal and less about the investigation you took a quick look at the bar, where there was a woman preparing drinks, and realized she wasn’t. Forgetting your little ignoring game for a second, you side-eyed Spencer who was turning his head to you, at the exact same time. You both suppressed a smile and stepped to the side to let Morgan do his thing, pretending to look at your map.

Once they’d finished—and Morgan had politely rejected her number—he turned around, his trademark charming smile still on his face.

“How?” Spencer asked.

“What?” Morgan asked back, following the girl with his eyes as she left the establishment behind you. He only returned his eyes to Spencer when you heard the bell chime.

“Every case, you get at least one girl’s number.”

“I didn’t get it,” Morgan corrected.

“And she’ll be crying over it tonight, I’m sure,” you teased as you folded and pocketed the map.

“You know what, pretty boy?” He lifted his index finger. “I bet you could get the bartender to give you her number.”

Both you and Spencer turned rapidly to look at him surprised.

“Ha ha. Funny,” Spencer said.

“Trust.” He wrapped his arm around Spencer’s shoulder, leaning in like he was about to let him in on a secret. “When you’re talking, what makes you feel like an expert?”

Spencer didn’t have to think much before answering. “Statistics.”

“Well, that’s not gonna cut it. Something else.”

“Well—when I do magic?” Spencer answered, doubtfully. You watched the conversation like you would a tennis match. Except this wasn’t as entertaining and you didn’t know how to ease the frown on your face.

“See? That’s nice. Chicks dig magic,” Morgan said, nodding his head with a smile. “Now come on. Go and do some magic.” He grabbed Spencer by the shoulders and sent him in direction to the bar with an encouraging pat to his back.

Your frown deepened as you turned to Derek. “What are you doing? We’re working.”

“Uh-huh, and if pretty boy over there succeeds she’ll be more predisposed to giving us information.” He squinted his eyes. “What? You’re jealous?”

“What? No!” You responded. Too quickly, judging by Derek’s all-knowing smile.

Not able to tear your eyes from where your friend was performing one of his classic magic tricks, you rolled your eyes as the girl took out a dollar bill from her barrette wide-eyed. She flashed him a beautiful smile as she handed Spencer the bottle of water he was buying.

“Why do you look like you’re going to start blowing smoke out of your ears then?”

But you weren’t listening anymore. “What’s there to talk about so much?”

“Hello?”

“I mean this is a serious case; there are four people dead. What are they laughing about? Come on.” You crossed your arms, tearing your eyes away from the scene.

“Hey!”

“What?!” You finally snapped your head back to look at him.

“I was talking to you. You’re in your own world.”

You sighed, trapping the air as it came out into a pout. “Sorry.”

“You know it’d be so much easier for everyone if you both stopped being so goddamn stubborn. Kid over there is head over heels for you and from where I’m standing right here it looks like you are too. What the hell are you both playing at?”

A horrible, stupid blush crept from your neck up to the very point of your years. Though everyone always joked, and teased, and alluded, no one had ever been so direct about the subject. “It’s none of your business,” you murmured, rubbing your forearms in search of some form of heat you didn’t need to keep your hands busy.

“You got me there.” He shrugged. “Just think about it.”

Just as Morgan was finishing with his lecture, Spencer came back with the bottle of water in his hands and a dumb smile plastered across his face.

“You saw that?” He asked Derek, beaming proudly.

“Sure I did.” He eyed you, but you pretended not to notice as you looked away. “I told you, you could do it.”

“Okay, now. What about the victim? Did she give you anything useful or were you just thirsty?” you cut them off, trying not to be too harsh with your tone.

The lack of response from him as he took a few seconds to compose himself was enough to tell you had failed. You decided you were going to bite your tongue for the evening and that you did, speaking no more than was necessary as you spent the rest of the day carrying out Hotch’s orders and focusing your mind completely on solving the case. You would have plenty of time to wallow in your self-pity when you got to your room.

You weren’t really upset about the flirting per se. It had never bothered you before. You understood your feelings weren’t a set of laws he had to abide by so as to not hurt them; much less when he didn’t even know about them. There had been plenty of times in the eight years you had known him where girls swarmed to his side, batting their eyelashes, and giving him compliments. You didn’t mind watching them drool over him, you couldn’t blame them and you would have been a hypocrite to do so. He was mostly none the wiser to all of it but that’s not why you didn’t mind. You just weren’t overly jealous, much less in cases like this.

He even had been on a date last year. He had told you about it, before and after, and you had helped him ignoring any kind of negative feelings that may have brought up. But you had never, ever, felt how you did right now.

A horrible, confusing mixture of anger, upset, and betrayal, which was unwarranted if you took into account you weren’t anything other than friends. You guessed it was your fault for stupidly thinking there was a silent ‘yet’ addendum to the ‘no more than friends’ now after what had happened last week, the way he had looked at you, the way he’d had you in his arms. 

You weren’t expecting him to ignore the subject completely. Sure, he wasn’t ignoring you in the way you were him, but in your mind you couldn’t help but think that he was just playing with you that night last week. That he had figured you out and wanted to test his theory; to test if you really had the silly schoolgirl-like crush he had come to conclude you had. Scientific method or whatever. 

In your heart, in your soul you knew that couldn’t be the truth. Spencer wasn’t capable of being that cruel; not to anyone but especially not to you. But not finding any logic to his attitude—not even after replaying the moment in your mind over and over again obsessively—you had thrown yours out the window too.

You kept your silence even as you reached the room you’d be sharing, as you held the door for him to come in after you, and as you started unpacking some of your things for the next day.

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, once you’d finish violently folding your fifth piece of clothing atop the bed.

You thought it would be a bit weird—not to mention rude—to not respond, so you finally broke the silence. “Me? I’m perfectly fine. You?”

He kept quiet while he watched you finish taking everything out of your carry-on.

“I asked you a question and I’d like a real answer.” He was still a few steps from the door beside his own suitcase. “I thought we were better than this.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You turned around, squinting your eyes, challenging him to respond.

“What do you mean?”

“I asked first.”

“Oh, my god.” He interlaced his fingers on top of his head and spun around to turn his back on you.

You grabbed the pile of folded clothing, with such force that you scrapped any folding you had done, making them a ball of wrinkly clothes again. You still went ahead and threw them in the small drawer that Spencer wasn’t using.

“Why are you upset?” He tried again, once he had regained some patience.

“I’m not.”

“The clothes would beg to disagree.”

That broke you a little bit. You turned around to not give in and show him the tiniest—not so tiny—hint of a smile. It wasn’t even that funny but he had that effect.

“I just wanna solve this case.”

“We’ve solved worse.” He said; he was right. “Was it something I did?”

You turned to look at him ready to snap with a sarcastic comment again, but all you saw was sincerity in his eyes. It wasn’t just because you were profilers that you could read each other like a book. You knew he wasn’t playing dumb, much less playing games.

You sighed. “No, Spencer. Just let it go, okay?”

“I don’t want to. You’ve been weird the entire time since we got here. It’s almost like you want nothing to do with me.” His voice was soft. “That not to mention this entire week.” He sounded hurt.

“I’m sure you can drown your sorrows at the bar when this is all over, Spencer.” You hated yourself for just having to throw the snarky comment his way. “Maybe you’ll get free drinks.” So mature of you, to bottle it all up, to be so scared of communicating your own feelings that it all becomes a ticking time bomb for whoever’s had the bad luck to cross your path.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The bartender. Didn’t she give you her number? I gotta say the dollar magic trick is quite the charmer, Spencer.” Once you had started, you couldn’t stop though. You had to cough up the venom that was consuming you inside.

“I didn’t take it. We’re working a case.”

“Ah, yes. We are now.” You clicked your tongue on the roof of your mouth and went back to the drawer to fold your clothes again. You needed to keep yourself busy with something.

“What? Is that what you’re mad about?” You couldn’t see his face but he sounded incredulous.

“Why would I be?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“It doesn’t make much sense, does it?” You asked mockingly.

“No it doesn’t. Especially considering I’m not the one who sprinted out of the kitchen.” The sentence out of context threw you off for just a few seconds. You snorted when you caught on.

“Sorry?”

He snickered back. “Don’t play dumb.”

“Emily was calling me!” You pointed to a wall in the room, as if Emily had been there.

“Yeah! And you were really eager to respond!” He nodded along as he spoke, eyes wide.

You wanted to lie, to laugh in his face, and pretend he was speaking nonsense. You couldn’t. Not to him, not with anything. You opted for silence.

“You didn’t say anything the next day, you seemed uncomfortable; I didn’t want to push you to talk about it, I just took your silence as a way to gently reject me, which is fine!”

You blinked; you were now even more confused.

“I don’t know what today was. I don’t really do that st—Morgan was just… being Morgan.”

You shook your head. “You think I rejected you?”

He shook his head back, mirroring you. “Not saying anything after I tried to make the first move, wouldn’t you consider that a rejection?”

“What first move?”

“Come on.” He tilted his head, eyes pleading for you to let down your walls and speak your mind.

“I thought you were trying to hug me. Maybe you needed a hug.”

“If you thought it was only a hug, how come it was your first thought when I said first move?”

He didn’t need the 187 IQ to figure that out, but you cursed it in your mind anyway.

“You mentioned it first, maybe you forgot.”

“No, I didn’t. I have an eidetic memory.”

You could curse that now. “Maybe it’s not as fool proof as you thought.”

“We’re getting derailed.”

“Point still stands, I never said anything about rejecting you.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to say something.”

“Well, say something now.” You’d never heard this kind of rawness in his voice. He was almost begging you to say something; not what he wanted to hear, just something. “Did you? Want me to kiss you?”

Having him put it into words made you want to cringe and curl up in a ball and hide underneath the sheets not to come out again until the team had to get back to Virginia. You froze.

“I—” You licked your lips. A nervous tick. “I don’t know.”

He mirrored your action. You don’t know how but he kept his eyes on you. You couldn’t.

“That’s fine,” he says after a few seconds.

You both stood still, frozen in time. You looking at the floor, him at the ceiling. After some time of unbearable silence—not the kind you take refuge in—you decided playing statues was making matters worse so you decided to start preparing for bed like nothing was happening. He didn’t follow, still stuck to the same spot you left him in, until after you had come out of the bathroom and buried yourself under the sheets.

You didn’t address the obvious issue; the singular, smaller than you’d wish bed. You only did so when you caught him walking away with his pillow in direction to the armchair in the corner of the room out of the corner of your eye. You sacrificed the warmth of the comforter and silently made your way over to him. He looked up at you. He didn’t do it intentionally, you knew, but he looked up at you like a kicked puppy. You extended your hand, he hesitated for a moment before taking it and you ushered him to the side of the bed you’d decided was his. You pushed him down, throwing him on the bed to then go back to your side trying to suppress your smile. You got in facing away from him.

“I don’t mind sleeping in th—” he started.

“Shut up.”

“You.”

You smiled. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was too.

The silence that followed left way for all you wanted to say to him and couldn’t seem to. You cursed yourself in your mind. ‘I don’t know?’ Of course you knew. You wanted to turn around and kiss him senseless until you couldn’t anymore and had to give your irritated lips a break. You also knew though, you weren’t one to change ways when something worked. You and Spencer worked; at least you used to.

The mental image of him at the bar, with the owner’s daughter, came back to your mind. You wanted to scream. At yourself mostly. You didn’t have any right to act like you just did. In a way, he was right. He had taken the first step, and all your subsequent actions were of rejection, even if that wasn’t what you had meant to do.

“Spence,” you called. “I’m going to say something and don’t interrupt me because if you do I will take a silence oath for life.”

He smiled as you turned around, tangling the sheets. “Okay.”

“I didn’t ignore you because I wanted to let you down gently. I ignored you because I was scared. I care about us, and I’m stupidly bad at relationships but I like you. I have for years, maybe even longer than you have. As more than a friend.”

He listened, nodding along awkwardly, his head on his hand, and his lips pursed into a tight line, to signal that he had no intentions of interrupting.

“I saw you with the bar girl and all of a sudden I wanted to change career paths and become an unsub myself, which is really unfair because you didn’t do anything. I know this is all my fault. I know that my not talking issue led to all of this and I really didn’t want to ignore you but—this is what I am, Spencer, and if you want to curse me out for being so goddamn stupid and kick me out, that’s fine. I’ll have Garcia let me sleep on the floor,” you half-joked. You were out of breath, and your face was all red and hot to the touch.

“You done?”

You nodded.

“Firstly, this is not entirely your fault. I didn’t say anything either and since I know how you are, I could’ve.”

You wanted to contradict him but he had respected your time talking so you wanted to do that for him too.

“Secondly, I don’t think you’re stupid. And if you call yourself stupid for that then you’re also calling me stupid, in which case I feel offended.”

Your smile turned downwards.

“Thirdly… I’m going to kiss you now. That okay?”

You pushed past the knee-jerk instinct to want to push him away and nodded.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours in the gentlest kiss you’ve ever been given. It had no right giving you the same adrenaline kick that you get on a rollercoaster. Just a chaste peck on the lips. Lips meeting lips for the first time.

‘Hi, it’s good to finally meet.’      

‘I know.’

It brings you back to the innocence of not having been kissed and the butterflies in your stomach as you sit next to your crush in a circle at a friend’s birthday party.

‘I don’t really know what I’m doing but I like you and this is what people do when they like each other.’

He backed up to scan your face. You were still leaning forward, dazed. You felt so much you wanted to scream. Or at least run and jump around the room to waste some of the energy that you felt coursing through your veins, tickling you. You didn’t do that, though.

You all but threw yourself at him, he had to grab you by your elbows, to kiss him again. This time it’s more desperate, hungry, wanting. If it had been anyone else, maybe it would have taken him more than the two seconds it did to match your fervid rhythm.

‘I’ve not stopped wanting you for a second all these years and I’m sorry I let you believe otherwise.’

He gently went moving his hand up to your neck, right below your jaw, thumb on your cheek with the rest of his fingers below your ear, slowly guiding you to a more leisured pace.

‘We have time’

He smiled against the kiss. 

You didn’t speak another word that night. You fell asleep soon after, there had been a lot of work to do the next day and before being two idiots in love, you were profilers. His hand laid on top of yours, where it belonged. No matter how many times your hands let go throughout the night, they made sure to meet again before your alarm woke you up. You didn’t let go when you stepped out of bed, stretching your arms until you were only attached by your pinky fingers, trying not to trip. You had to inevitably separate when you changed out of your sleeping clothes but you joined them again to walk down the stairs to the lobby to meet the team.

“Well, well. Would you look at that.” Morgan raised an eyebrow. He’d always been the one to tease you both the most. Following a close behind was Garcia, who was trying to suppress a smile beside him. In his mind he probably thought his words to you had made this happen. Maybe they had. Now it was your turn to figure out what ‘this’ was.

You stuck your tongue out to him behind Hotch’s back. 

You couldn’t even remember what the fight you’d had the previous night had been about or why you’d eluded him the whole week. Maybe communicating wasn’t so bad nor were your feelings a thing to be so scared of. The world hadn’t fallen apart yet, and you couldn’t say you would have minded it in that moment, with Spencer caressing your hand with his thumb.

thank you for reading, reblogs and replies are appreciated <3

back to masterlist

[kcokaine]

Hi! Just wanted to thank you for your collab, Most Twisted Curse. It's beyond words the quality of it. The story, the dialogues, the characterization (!!!), the fight, the art (<3) everything is just mesmerizing... Satoru is such a delight to read. He is the cutest brat (he's such a babe). Sukuna is as intriguing as always (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome pushed to another level)... It's easy to tell the dedication you guys put to make something that outstanding. It oozes love for the pair, thank you so much!

I must say that what motivated me the most to write this is the art in chapter 8. I invite everyone to detail Sukuna's bloody smile and gaze in the art where Satoru is impaling his heart with his bare hand... The king of curses is the 2D representation of smitten, like... man, I don't want to pierce anyone's ribcage to receive that kind of adoration, but to be looked like that and by jujutsu royalty no less... phew! Satoru is fighting with everything he got, with his brain fried and bleeding to death, hyper-focused on fulfilling what he believes is his destiny, prepared to sacrifice his life. And Sukuna is like "you are going to be my wife you like it or not, no backsies"...

I'm so sorry if I interpreted the art incorrectly, but I just adore how you express Sukugo, so thank you and your partner for such an incredible work.

MAKING ME BLUSH AND GIGGLE!!!! NO! You absolutely interpreted it perfectly. Its the first look of adoration from Sukuna, the first heart eyes he makes at GOjo and then it just keeps happening. Gojo misinterprets it as eyes of hunger, eyes of a ravenous cannibal but Sukuna is actually infatuated with him on much higher level than a dinner dish. Ofc there is hunger but most improtantly passion. He is passionate about Satoru. you can notice i tried to replicate the same looks here hehe

Its a playful passioan and infatuation. Somewhat of a cheeky interest

compared to the realization he is in love with him

(ofc sukuna himself denies it)

[thewinterdrafts]

07 - Disobedience | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier

Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)

Word count: 5,192

Summary: A tense confrontation forces Yulia and the Soldier into a battle of instinct versus reality. As control unravels, buried truths surface, leaving them both facing something neither is prepared to understand—but can no longer deny.

Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.

Warnings: strictly 18+, Graphic medical procedures & surgical descriptions

A/N: i worked 12 hours and fried my brain bringing this to you guys. i hope you'll like it, happy reading!! (hopefully)

❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience - you are currently here Note: The Frostbite series has officially migrated to bigger platforms! Check out the rest on AO3 and Wattpad ♡

📍Masterlist

Note: This chapter is written in third person, and all dialogue takes place in Russian, but it has been presented in English for readability.

Yulia’s breath catches in her lungs as she stares at her hands in shock. It's full of blood. Elena’s blood. She looks down at the her like she can't believe her own eyes. She in unconscious. She is dying. They are trapped in here.

She presses down harder on the wound, her own hands shaking so badly she can barely keep them steady. "Come on," she whispers. "Come on, please—"

A sound drags her attention upward—not even a sound. A breath, that could belong to any wild animal.

The Soldier.

His eyes are locked onto Elena’s limp form. His chest rises and falls so fast, he might pass out any minute. Yulia quickly wipes her tears to take a better look at him, but she wishes she didn't, because he's visibly panicking. She's never seen him panic before. The thought should terrify her, but it doesn’t—not in the way it should. Because this isn’t a weapon malfunctioning.

This is a man falling apart.

"I—" His voice is rough, like he's never talked before. The metal cuffs keep him locked down, his pinned arms are yanking against them as he tries to move, tries to reach.

But he can’t, and it's driving him mad.

"No."

Upon hearing the strong Russian word, Yulia flinches so hard she nearly drops the fabric she’s pressing against Elena’s side. "I did everything." Her voice is hoarse. "I don’t—I don’t know what else to do, she needs to—She has to tell me."

His breathing is louder and louder. Everything about him is wrong. The tension in his jaw, the way his body strains against the restraints, the desperation in his eyes. Weapons shouldn't break down. So what's happening with him?

"She’s—" He stops, the frustration flickers over his face. His fingers twitch like he wants to tear through the chains, like he doesn’t understand why he can’t. "She is—"

His voice fails. He doesn’t have the words, because they never gave him the words for this.

Yulia swallows hard. "She’s dying."

The Soldier’s entire body seizes. His throat bobs as he tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Yulia, kneeling on the cold floor, watches with terror as his breath hitches. There's a heavy silence between them, before—

"No."

It wasn't a refusal. It was an order.

His arms pull against the restraints once again with a force so strong, Yulia feels the floor move. He is trying to get to her, but the chains weren't designed to break easily, and his metal arm is still useless. He looks up, pools of desperation in his eyes, as he realizes that he won't be able to break free. 

Yulia grips Elena tighter, pressing down against the wound, trying everything to stop the bleeding. "I—I don’t—She'll die on me."

His jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists. He's struggling, searching. His head tilts slightly as his gaze rakes over Elena’s still form. He's assessing, like he would on a mission. Like she is just another part that needs to be put back together.

"Repair—" He stops. The word doesn’t feel right.

He tries again. "Put—" Another sharp inhale. His eyes flicker, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "Make it—no, her. Make her—"

He exhales sharply through his nose with his teeth clenching, muscles in his jaw twitching. Nothing sounds right.

"Fix," he finally says. "Fix her."

Yulia’s freezes. He just gave an order to her. She doesn’t dare speak or move. She’s too stunned, too horrified by what’s happening—because this is wrong. The Soldier doesn’t give orders. The Soldier doesn’t act on his own.

But then his voice comes again, this time, with urgency.

"Pressure. Stop—" He exhales sharply, his head jerking slightly like he is trying to shake something loose. The words. They won’t come out right. "Bleeding must stop."

"I know that!" Yulia's voice cracks as she snaps. "It won’t stop! It’s too deep!"

The Soldier’s fingers dig into his palms. His eyes flicker across Elena’s body, taking in the damage, the irregularity of her breathing. It's too slow and too weak.

"Cut."

Yulia’s breath stutters. "I—I don’t—"

"Now." His voice drops lower, ragged, barely holding together. "You must."

"She’s lost too much—she’s not responding—"

The metal clangs violently as the Soldier jerks against his restraints. "No. No failure. No stopping."

"I don’t—I can’t lose her," Yulia whispers.

"You will do it."

Yulia swallows down a whimper. She wants to run. Every survival instinct inside her is screaming at her to get away, to shut the Soldier out, but Elena is still bleeding, still getting colder, and she cannot lose her. Not like this.

She swallows back the lump in her throat. "Okay. Okay, I’m doing it. Just—just tell me how."

His hands flex, straining against the cuffs as his frustration is mounting. He cannot reach her, he cannot fix it himself, and the thought of it alone makes him crazy.

"Cut. Close. Repair—no, stabilize." His voice is cracking now, each word more unsteady than the last. He is grasping for control, and failing.

Yulia presses a hand to her mouth, trying to swallow the fear rising in her chest. Then, she looks down at Elena, who's becoming more and more pale with every passing second. She forces herself to breathe. 

She is not a doctor. She is barely a nurse. But she is all Elena has right now.

"H-her rib—" Yulia swallows. "I—I think one is still out of place—"

"Yes." His voice is cold, but not cruel. It's measured and precise. "Cut."

Yulia freezes. "No. No, I can’t—I can’t do that."

The Soldier jerks against his restraints. "You will."

Yulia shakes her head violently. "She’s barely stable—I can’t just—!"

"Now." His voice is like ice, but the desperation is visibly peaking through the rigid mask.

Yulia swallows thickly as her pulse hammers against her throat. She can’t do this. She isn’t strong enough. She isn’t trained enough. Elena would know what to do.

But Elena is unconscious.

"No, no, no—if I do this wrong—"

The Soldier’s restraints creak violently. "Now."

Yulia jumps in fear, gasping, her heart pounding in her ears. 

She grips the scalpel. Her hands are trembling so hard she can barely hold it straight. She's about to cut into a person. Into Elena. She bites her lip as her vision blurs to the thought. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. But if she doesn’t do it, Elena will die.

She presses the blade to Elena’s skin. Her hands shake harder. She can’t do it. She can’t do it. Yet, she moves.

Yulia gasps as she presses down, slicing into Elena’s flesh. She doesn’t breathe. Neither does he. The room is suffocating, like a tomb with no oxygen.

Elena doesn’t react—she is too far gone to react. Yulia is crying now, tears spilling down her face, onto Elena's exposed skin. She isn’t strong enough for this. But the Soldier watches her every movement with his breath sharp, and his shoulders locked so tightly they tremble.

The skin splits. Yulia gags. She wants to vomit. She wants to stop.

"Deeper."

Tears slip down Yulia’s cheeks, but she listens. The incision deepens and the muscle gives way. Blood wells up, hot and dark.

Yulia’s hands shake violently, her vision swimming. "I—"

"Locate the break."

Yulia’s breath shudders violently. "I—I can’t—"

"You will."

She squeezes her eyes shut as she presses her trembling fingers inside. The moment she feels the jagged shift of bone, she nearly collapses. The Soldier inhales sharply.

"Move—move the bone—align it."

Yulia gags, nausea clawing at her throat. "I don’t—I can’t—"

"You must."

Yulia sobs. She doesn’t know if it’s from the horror of what she’s doing or from the terror of knowing that if she fails, Elena will die. With a shaking breath, she adjusts her grip, and moves the rib. A sickening pop reverberates under her fingers.

She gasps violently as her entire body jerks away from the wound. She did it. Yulia slaps a hand over her own mouth, rocking back on her heels as the nausea is crashing through her. She did it, but at what cost?

The Soldier releases a slow, measured breath. He has been holding it.

"More."

Yulia blinks with her vision swimming in hot tears. "What?"

The Soldier breathes harder as his fingers curl into fists. "Not enough. Check... check lung."

Yulia’s stomach lurches. "I—I don’t know how."

"You do." His voice is barely above a whisper, but it is absolute. "She must breathe."

Yulia hesitates, her breath coming in gasps. She doesn’t want to touch Elena anymore. She doesn’t want to make it worse.

"Now."

The order is softer now, but no less urgent.

Yulia swallows her nausea and moves, pressing a trembling hand to Elena’s ribs.

There. Another break beneath her fingers. A sharp displacement where there shouldn’t be one.

"It—it’s bad. If I move it, I could—"

"Fix."

"I don’t—"

"Fix."

Her hands shake harder. "I—I’m not a doctor!"

The Soldier’s breath is ragged. "Now."

She wants to scream. She wants to run. But instead, she presses her palms against Elena’s ribs and shifts the break back into place. The sound it makes—a horrible pop—makes her whole body lurch.

"She—she’s not waking up," Yulia stammers.

The Soldier is breathing hard now, his whole body shaking against the restraints. "Breathe."

"She’s not—"

"Breathe."

Yulia’s hands move on their own, pressing against Elena’s chest desperately.

A beat. Another beat. Then—a gasp. Elena’s body jerks as her breath catches sharply.

Yulia sobs in relief. In terror. In exhaustion.

The Soldier breathes with her.

"Close it."

Yulia hesitates as her pulse is still thrumming in her ears. Her fingers feel foreign and useless, but she forces them to move. She doesn't have time to break.

She grabs the sutures, but her hands are slick— there's too much blood.

"Clean."

She does. She wipes them on the ragged edge of her sleeve, the blood is smearing across the fabric. Her breaths are shallow and unsteady, but she focuses. The stress is so consuming now, that she barely feels like herself anymore.

The first stitch is slow and clumsy. Her fingers tremble, but she forces the needle through flesh, tying off the first suture with a shaky knot. The Soldier watches. Each stitch is a battle against the panic crawling up her throat, against the nausea rolling in her stomach.

Elena still doesn’t move.

The last suture pulls tight. She ties it off. It’s done.

Silence.

Yulia collapses back onto her heels. She barely has any time to ground herself, before the Soldier speaks again.

"Not enough." His voice comes in sharp. "She will freeze."

Yulia blinks, still gasping for breath. "What? No—she’s stable—"

"Cold." The Soldier pulls against the restraints. His movements are jerky and panicked. "She cannot be cold."

Yulia swallows as her heart hammers in her chest. She knows immediately. He is afraid of her freezing.

"She’s—she’s not that cold—" Yulia tries to reason, but the Soldier won't have it.

"Move her."

Yulia frowns. "What?"

"On me." The Soldier’s voice cracks. "Put—put her here." His chest rises sharply. "Now."

Yulia stares at him. He cannot be serious. But oh, he is.

"You—you want me to—"

"Yes."

Yulia flinches. The desperation in his voice—it isn’t like before. This isn’t a command made from force. This is something else entirely, but her mind is too cloudy to figure it out just yet.

She glances at Elena’s still form, then back at the Soldier. He is watching her with his breathing shallow and erratic. His body is shaking. He lost control.

"Too far," he forces out, but his voice is barely a whisper. "Move her."

Yulia’s throat tightens.

"I— I can’t lift her alone," she stammers. "She’s too heavy."

The Soldier jerks so violently against the cuffs that the metal is biting into his skin. "Move her."

Yulia jumps as her trembling hands clench. He is coming apart at the seams. His breath is too uneven, like he’s barely keeping himself from screaming.

"She will freeze. She will freeze." His fingers flex, tugging hard against the chains, but they do not budge. His eyes are locked onto Elena. "Fix it."

Yulia swallows back her own panic and she steps closer. She has never been this close to him—not like this. She can clearly see everything in his eyes, how much he wants to do, but is unable to. She swallows thickly as she watches the Soldier unravel. She needs to do this. Otherwise, he will break.

Her hands shake as she grips Elena’s shoulders. Her muscles are screaming in protest as she tries to lift her. Elena is dead weight. Too heavy.

"I can’t— I can’t just throw her on top of you," Yulia gasps with her arms buckling under Elena’s weight. "I need help!"

The Soldier’s body jerks again. "I cannot." His voice is so raw and broken. "I cannot. I cannot. You must."

Yulia grits her teeth. She has to move. She has to do it. She shifts her grip, her breath hitching as Elena’s body slides limply. She drags her higher as she feels her muscles burning from the effort. The Soldier watches with wide eyes while he is trembling with urgency.

Yulia snarls through gritted teeth, sweat dripping down her face. Elena is slipping.

"No, no, no—" The Soldier thrashes again, and Yulia has never heard that kind of desperation before.

Her breath stutters. "I’m trying, I’m trying—" Her voice cracks as she struggles to lift Elena higher, with her arms shaking uncontrollably.

"Slow. Do not twist."

Yulia nods frantically, adjusting her grip. With the last of her strength, she pulls Elena up and over, pressing her against the Soldier’s chest. The second Elena’s body settles against his, the Soldier shudders violently.

Yulia stumbles back, panting, her lungs burning as she tries to get in as much air as possible. Her whole body shakes in exhaustion. The Soldier's muscles, once locked in unbearable tension, finally relax. His flesh hand moves as much as the restraints allow, finding Elena’s wrist immediately. He grips it gently, pressing two fingers against her pulse.

Once. Again. And again.

Checking. Rechecking. Grounding himself.

Yulia watches, pressing a hand to her chest, still gasping for breath. "You—you okay now?"

The Soldier does not answer. He is not listening to her.

His fingers remain pressed against Elena’s wrist with a light but unrelenting grip. Counting. Checking. Again and again.

His breath still comes sharp, but the urgency has changed. It's no longer the erratic panic from before—now, it is something deeper. His eyes drag over her form, over the way her chest barely rises, how her skin is still too cool against his. Not warm enough.

"Check again," he murmurs. It is not a request.

Yulia hesitates. "I already—"

"Again."

She exhales sharply but obeys. Her fingers press against Elena’s neck, her jaw tightening as she counts under her breath. "Still stable. Pulse is steady. She’s holding on."

The Soldier’s eyes do not leave Elena. His hand tightens slightly over her wrist, as if he's testing the pulse for himself, ensuring Yulia is not lying to him.

She is warm. But not warm enough.

His jaw clenches. Something is wrong. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is him.

His free hand, the metal one, remains still at his side, restrained and useless. He cannot assess her properly. Cannot fix it himself.

"Breathe." His voice is low, but commanding.

Yulia’s brows knit together. "She is breathing."

"Louder."

Yulia hesitates, then leans in slightly, listening closer. The sound is faint—too faint—but present.

"It’s there," she says softly. "She’s breathing."

Yulia sits down onto the cold tile floor. Elena is breathing. Alive. She can't take it anymore. This was too much. She needs a moment to stomach the things she's done.

The Soldier exhales, but it is not relief. It is calculation.

He moves slightly—or tries to. The weight of Elena against his chest keeps him grounded with her bare skin pressed against his, the heat of her body barely seeping into his own.

His breath stutters. It's suddenly too much contact. Too much bare skin. He doesn’t understand.

His mind races as he's trying to categorize, to define what is happening. This should be function. Warmth. Stabilization. But it feels like something else, something unknown. He flexes his fingers against her pulse again. Still there. Still steady.

"This is correct," he murmurs to himself. "Positioned correctly. Heat exchange. Circulation."

His voice is almost robotic. Almost.

"Stable. Not cold."

So why isn’t it enough?

His breathing doesn’t slow. His chest feels tight. His muscles coil like something is wrong. There is no threat. No failure. But he cannot let go. He stares at her face and watches the slow, shallow breaths move through her.

"She must not freeze."

The words feel heavier now. He flexes his fingers again. The heat of her wrist against his palm feels fragile. 

His breathing is wrong. He can feel it—the irregularity, the imbalance. His body reacts to something it shouldn’t. Why? He presses his head back against the cold metal of the chair while his fingers are twitching against Elena’s pulse point. Too much heat. Too much sensation. Too much.

But she is still cold. Still too cold.

He shifts slightly beneath her, his restrained arms straining as if to adjust her—to hold her properly. He cannot wrap his arms around her, and the thought unsettles him more than it should. His fingers slide down to her forearm, feeling the soft skin, the fine texture of it. This is different. This is not combat.

"Not necessary," he whispers under his breath. But he does not pull away.

His brow furrows. He has felt human skin before, in training, in kill missions. But never like this. Never… never like something fragile. He forces his breath to steady, listening for hers, counting each shallow rise of her chest. The rhythm is wrong. But it is there.

He does not understand why he keeps counting.

"Alive," he says, his voice hoarse. "Warm."

Then why does it still feel like something is wrong?

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitc as he grips her wrist. He is supposed to let go now. She is stabilized. The task is complete.

But he doesn’t.

His breath shudders as he listens to her heartbeat through his fingertips, the steady rhythm against his palm. It is steady. It is real.

"Alive" he murmurs again.

Meanwhile, Yulia shifts on her feet, exhaling shakily as she wipes her bloodstained hands on her torn uniform. Her heartbeat finally died down from her ears as she grounded herself to reality. Elena is stable now. They did it.

"Alright," Yulia mutters, forcing her exhausted body to move. "We need to get her off of you. She’ll rest better somewhere else."

She reaches forward to lift Elena—and stops.

The Soldier doesn’t let go.

Yulia frowns. "Hey—"

His grip on Elena’s wrist tightens.

She blinks. "She’s fine now. She doesn’t need to be here anymore."

No response.

Yulia places her hands under Elena’s shoulders and tries to shift her weight—barely a fraction of movement—the Soldier jerks. A sharp inhale, a twitch of his metal arm against the restraints—his entire body tenses as if she had just ripped something away from him.

Yulia pulls back, startled. What the hell?

She tries again, slower this time. "She’ll be more comfortable—"

"No."

The single word is hoarse.

Yulia’s stomach twists. She stares at him. "No?"

The Soldier doesn’t even look at her, his focus is entirely on Elena. His flesh fingers remain curled around her wrist, while his metal arm is straining against the cuffs like he’s trying to reach—trying to hold her tighter but can’t.

Yulia swallows as a sudden uneasy feeling flods right through her. What is this?

"She needs to rest," Yulia tries again. "She’ll be safer—"

"Stays."

The sharpness in his tone makes her flinch. She stares at him. "She stays?"

His grip flexes, just slightly.

"You’re… holding onto her," Yulia says, almost to herself. A chill runs down her spine. "She’s not going anywhere. She’s stable now. You don’t have to—"

"Stays."

The exact same word. The exact same tone. Yulia’s heartbeat stutters. This isn’t normal, this isn’t anything she has ever seen from him before. She watches his stiff, unreadable face, as she tries to figure the reason out. This is no longer function. He should let go. Why doesn't he?

She tries to move Elena again, just slightly. The Soldier tenses. Every muscle locks, his breathing turns harsh. Yulia lets go immediately, raising her hands in surrender. 

"Okay. Okay, relax. I’m not—"

He doesn’t relax.

His fingers tighten around Elena’s wrist, as much as his restraint allows, and Yulia swears she sees his jaw tremble.

"Why won’t you let her go?" she whispers.

The Soldier says nothing, but his grip says everything. He's breathing hard now, visibly shaking, with his chest rising and falling too fast. He looks like he is being torn apart.

"Stays," he grits out, and this time, his voice is almost broken.

Then, he does something that makes Yulia startle. 

His fingers, still locked around Elena’s wrist, shift just slightly—just enough for his thumb to move, and he strokes the inside of her wrist. It's soft and subtle, an unconscious movement. She stares at his hand, watching as his thumb moves again in slow, instinctual motions.

She almost thinks she is hallucinating, but then he does it again. A trembling motion—not once, but twice, three times—his fingers brushing over Elena’s pulse in a pattern, like he’s memorizing it. Yulia's breath catches. She looks up at his face, expecting calculation and focus, but instead, she finds him watching Elena. Not as an asset or a mission.

Her mind stumbles over itself as soon as she's hit with the realization.

Oh.

Oh.

"You feel for her."

The words barely leave Yulia’s lips before the Soldier reacts.

His entire body jolts as his muscles lock so tight that it looks downright painful. He panics as hand tightens around Elena’s wrist too hard, almost bruising it.

"No."

The response is immediate. Automatic.

Yulia blinks, startled. "What—"

"No," he repeats, his voice cold. "Not allowed."

She understands it instantly—the panic laced into his sharp breaths, the tension in his shoulders. He’s not just denying it. He’s terrified.

Yulia studies him. "Not allowed?"

The Soldier nods. "It is not permitted."

She exhales. This is his programming speaking. She recognizes it now, the instinct to reject anything that suggests he could be more than a weapon. 

"I understand. You’re not supposed to feel," she says softly.

His fingers twitch. "Weapon does not feel. Weapon does not defy. Weapon does not—"

Yulia claps back immediately. "Okay, then let me move Elena—"

"No!"

The word tears out of him loudly and desperately. His fingers clamp down hard, pulling Elena toward him, protecting her, shielding her. His metal arm strains violently against the cuffs, the metal groaning under the pressure.

Yulia looks at him knowingly. That was pure instinct, just like she predicted. The Soldier stares at her in disbelief, like it is her fault that he reacted in any way. Then, just as fast, panic spreads across his face as he turns his head towards Elena.

"Compromised," he whispers, voice cracking slightly. "I am compromised."

Yulia’s heart clenches. God.

"No," she says firmly. "That’s not what this is."

His chest rises in sharp, quick inhales. "Compromised. Malfunctioning. Error."

"No." Yulia’s voice is steady for once. "That’s not being compromised. That’s being human."

His eyes snap up to her then, wide, dark, terrified. "No."

It comes out as a plea. As if the word was a curse in itself.

"They told you this was weakness, didn’t they?" Yulia presses, taking a careful step closer.

His fingers twitch. He doesn’t blink.

"That if you ever felt anything, you were compromised. That it made you defective and useless."

His throat bobs as he swallows hard as his entire body vibrates with tension. This is the first time he’s ever been forced to confront it, and it's confusing him.

"You’re not defective," she says gently. Then, she looks down to Elena. "Just like she said."

She was right all along.

The weight of the realization settles over Yulia like a heavy, inescapable avalanche. He feels.

She stands there, frozen, as the truth coils itself around her thoughts, forcing her to accept something she never thought possible. The Winter Soldier��HYDRA’s perfect machine—is not a machine at all. And worse, he feels for Elena.

Her chest tightens, and for a brief, ugly moment, something sharp twists inside of her. 

It should have been her.

Yulia clenches her jaw, shoving the thought down before it can take root. No. No, that’s not fair.

She watches him, the way he still clings to Elena’s wrist, the way his forehead remains pressed lightly against the side of her head, as if that single point of contact is keeping him steady and grounded.

Elena always knew. She always believed. And she doubted her.

Yulia swallows hard as her shame is creeping in alongside the jealousy. Of course, it’s Elena. Of course, it’s the woman who never stops fighting, who never stops believing, who stares down monsters and sees the broken pieces inside them. And now, here he is—a man who doesn’t even know what he is feeling, but still holding on like he’ll shatter if he lets go.

Yulia exhales slowly. "She cares about you, you know."

The Soldier doesn’t move but he listens. Yulia can see it in the subtle tilt of his head, in the stillness of his shoulders. He is absorbing her words.

"She’s been fighting for you this whole time," Yulia continues, her voice less guarded now. "Even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everyone—when I—thought she was insane for it."

The Soldier’s fingers twitch against Elena’s wrist, as if he recognizes something in Yulia’s words but doesn’t know what.

She laughs, short and bitter. "I didn’t believe her. I thought she was delusional. And now—"

She doesn't finish. The Soldier’s breathing is slow and measured. Too measured. Like he’s forcing himself to stay still, to take in what she’s saying without breaking apart. Yulia hesitates before taking another step forward. She shouldn’t say this. But she does anyway.

"She wasn’t wrong."

The Soldier finally lifts his gaze from Elena, meeting Yulia’s eyes for the first time. There is something lost in them. Searching.

Yulia watches him carefully now, the sharp edges of her emotions dulling into something softer, almost painful. "You don’t know why you feel, do you?"

The Soldier blinks slowly with his breath unsteady. Like a child hearing a new word for the first time.

"I don’t think you ever had the chance to understand it."

His jaw shifts, his grip still tight on Elena’s wrist, as if he’s holding onto the only thing that makes sense. Yulia looks back up at him, at the way his fingers still ghost over Elena’s pulse; like he’s terrified it will disappear, like she is his only tether to anything real.

And Yulia finally understands. Not just him and Elena. She understands why she was jealous. Not because she wanted what Elena had. But because she wanted to be what Elena was. 

Someone worth holding onto.

She exhales shakily and takes a step back, her voice softer now. "She deserves to know."

The Soldier jerks as if he was struck; his body instantly locking tight as his breathing turns sharp erratic. His fingers clamp down on Elena’s wrist too hard and sudden, while his metal arm strains against the restraints, the sound of groaning metal filling the silence.

"No." The word rips from his throat.

Yulia blinks, startled by the sheer force of his reaction. "She has a right to know—"

"No." Harsher this time. His grip tightens, his body coiling like a live wire ready to snap. "Not allowed. Not permitted."

He speaks like a man reciting something beaten into him. 

Yulia studies him, watching the way his chest heaves, the way his metal arm trembles despite its strength.

Fear.

"She won’t be angry at you," Yulia tries. "She would never—"

"No." His voice fractures, splintering at the edges. "No—no—" He shakes his head sharply, as if he's trying to rid himself of something crawling under his skin. "She—she—Punishment. No."

Realization slams into Yulia like ice.

He doesn’t care about himself. He’s afraid for Elena. 

"The operative will know," she presses gently. "That’s what you’re afraid of."

There's a flicker in his gaze—panic, understanding. His hands shake where they hold Elena, and that's the only movement he makes. He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t have to.

"You’re protecting her," Yulia murmurs.

The Soldier doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. But everything is written in the way he holds her, the way he shields her even now, like he is waiting for someone to rip her away from him.

Slowly, carefully, Yulia reaches out.

Her fingers touch his cold, rigid metal wrist. Just barely, a light press. A reassurance. She doesn’t pull, doesn’t push. Just lets him feel that she is here, that she understands.

"Okay," Yulia says quietly. "I won’t tell."

His breath shudders in relief.

Yulia gives him a moment, then carefully, gently, tries again. "Let me take her now."

His fingers don’t move. He stays locked and frozen, watching Elena.

She waits, not forcing or rushing him. She's letting him decide, just like Elena would. There's a long beat of silence before—finally—his fingers relax. Not much, just enough so Yulia can take her. She doesn’t waste time. She lifts Elena as carefully as possible, pulling her weight off of him. 

The Soldier stays completely still. His hands remain open and empty, like something important has been taken from him. But he doesn’t stop her. His breathing remains ragged as he stares at his own hands, as if they weren't even his.

Meanwhile, Yulia moves, supporting Elena’s weight as best she can, carrying her to the small cot in the corner of the operating room. She lays her down gently, adjusting her so she’s as comfortable as possible in such a place. Safe. Or as safe as she can be.

The moment Elena is settled, Yulia straightens. Her movements are slower now. Heavy. The weight of what just happened still pressing into her ribs.

She turns back to the Soldier.

He hasn’t moved. He sits there, shackled and silent, his hands open, empty, and lost. His gaze remains fixed on Elena, watching, searching—ready to jump.

Yulia hesitates, then steps closer.

"She won’t know. When she wakes up, she’ll never know. I promise."

But the Soldier knows. And as he stares at Elena, he wonders if feeling something is worse than feeling nothing at all.

[vinelark]

Congrats on the conclusion of bbts!! I read it the whole way through in like two days and loved it! I'm so here for the Drama, but I appreciate that the conflict came more from the situation they found themselves in over questionable choices that they made. They were honest with each other and it's a nice take, and the cards still would have fallen the way they did if things were a little different, and they still had the strong connection needed to make everything right in the end.

Question: is there a translation for the Portuguese attached anywhere to the fic? I was hoping it would be in the end notes for the chapter and sadly my meager Spanish is not doing enough heavy lifting to make it, haha. Love your writing!

thank you! i’m so glad you enjoyed and that the flavor of misunderstanding worked for you. they’re so smart and young and trying their best and they got there in the end.

re: translation: i did not attach a translation to the fic! happy to share it here though. the bolded dialogue below is what i shared with @tigerjpg, who not only translated it but also guest stars in this scene as the unimpressed churro truck vendor.

◇

The smell of cinnamon and fried dough hangs in the air, warming it, and when they reach the window the employee is loading churros into a paper bag.

“The usual, right?” they ask. They’re young, short-haired, cheeks and neck flushed from the heat of the fryer inside the truck. Kon recognizes them from the last time he was here with Clark; they’d spoken rapid-fire Portuguese to Kon like they were testing to see if Superman being a polyglot was just a fluke, and seemed pleased when Kon answered in kind. (He didn’t tell them that he wasn’t actually like Superman in this regard—that Clark mastered language by learning at high speed, but he still learned, while Kon had his language settings pre-loaded before he opened his eyes. That Kon had overused certain phrases he picked up from TV his first few months, English still shaped strangely on his tongue as he tried to make the words feel like his. But at least having a few thousand Duolingo owls in his brain made for a good party trick sometimes.)

“Yes, please,” Kon says now as they set the bag on the counter. “Sorry if we kept you late.”

“Barely,” they tell him, waving away his concern with one hand and shaking open a second bag with the other. “Anyway, we get bonus overtime if one of you shows up, so you’re basically doing me a favor.”

Well, nice to know eating churros can count toward his good deed tally, if they really get a bonus when a super swings by. Speaking of— “Oh,” Kon says, rummaging through his thigh pouch. Clark always leaves a little tip in the jar. Kon usually carries an assortment of currencies—Robin’s idea for standard mission ancillary supplies—but, damn, he left that billfold at the Tower a few nights ago. All he has are a few US $20s and the Titans emergency card. He holds up the bills. “Can I give you these?”

The employee raises an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend already tipped.”

Kon blinks. He hadn’t seen Tim move, but there is indeed a fresh hundred-euro note in the tip jar. Kon and the employee both turn to Tim, who is very intently studying the chalkboard menu on the side of the truck.

“Did you just—have a hundred Euros on you?” Kon asks.

Tim shrugs. “Just in case.”

“In case what?”

Now Tim does look sideways at him. “In case a teenage superhero decides to take me on a spontaneous trans-Atlantic churro run, obviously.”

Kon feels like he should be boggling over the rich people-ness of it all, but he’s a bit distracted by the deepening flush on Tim’s cheeks. Also distracted by boyfriend, and hoping Tim doesn’t know a word of Portuguese, while at the same time kind of hoping he does.

“What’s his deal?” the employee asks Kon.

“He’s, uh, American,” Kon says.

They raise their other eyebrow.

“And rich,” Kon adds.

“Ah.”

[eilaafterhours]

Champion’s Gloves [Lighter Lorenz]

Content: Glove Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Pussy Slapping, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: None (AFAB)

Header: selenitis on Bluesky

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don't forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

Remember: I’ll block you if I catch your ageless or under age (not 18+) ass in my activity :)

This work's concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

“You see something you like?”

“Yeah. You—but more specifically, your gloves.”

“What? You wanna wear’em?”

“I want them in me.”

And that’s how you ended up on Lighter’s lap. Your legs were hoisted up on his, keeping you spread nicely as his leather-bound fingers stretched your pussy even better. 

“Hah…fuck…!” Your hips bucked suddenly which pulled a chuckle from him. 

“You like it that much?”

“Mmm…and your fat dick likes it too—so shut the fuck up.”

He yanked his fingers out suddenly, and you were about to curse at him when that same hand gave your wet cunt a slap. You jerked off him a bit (you probably would have completely fallen off him if it hadn’t had a firm grip on your hip). 

“You keep talking like that, and I’ll stop here.” He slapped your pussy again. “So what are you gonna do?”

It took you a second to respond as your brain was a little fried from the sudden waves of pleasure that it had been assaulted with. 

“I’ll…behave…” 

“Good.” He shoved his fingers back in your cunt, immediately curling them and hitting that spot. “It ain’t that hard to being good.” 

You bit your lip, to keep yourself from potentially proving him wrong, but also because of how quickly he was working you. He had also pulled his cock free from the confines of his pants, so his fatass cock was leaking beads of pre-cum down your back.  

“Don’t bite your lip, baby.” He had leaned down to your ear. His voice was hot and heavy with want. “Lemme hear you. Say my name.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice. 

“Lighter, Lighter, Lighter—!” The speed of his fingers has picked up.  “Lighter!” Your eyes rolled back as your body convulsed in his arms. You couldn’t feel anything but the electric pulses of pleasure. 

Once you had come down from your high, Lighter spoke. “Wow…I didn’t know you were a squirter.” 

You peeled your eyes opened to assess the damages of your climax. Your body flushed as you took in the sight. It not only made it on the coffee table in front of you, but on the floor on the other side of it. You had never done that before, and you told him as much. 

He chuckled. “So I made you do that. I like that.”

“I bet you do.” You grumbled. 

“Yeah.” His grip on you changed, and suddenly your back was pressed against the couch cushions. “Let’s see if I can do it again, but with my dick.” 

I've been wanting to write something like this for a while. Left my phone and computer for a moment and thought of that opening dialogue, damn near ran back to my phone to write it down lol.

I'm also becoming backlogged lol. I've had this in my head, then Sylus' Myth came out (still haven't read that because--) and then A Date with Death returned with the Beyond the Bet DLC, and I've got to write something for that soon because I'm literally rattling my cage with what was in there, but ANYWAY! Yeah, swamped and all I've got are ideas.

Masterlist

[ddejavvu]

oh my god i don't know if you are taking requests right now but i just saw a scene from al pacino's movie "the panic in the needle park" where there was a dialogue that goes "you know what you are?" "what am i?" "you are my girl". ahhh that's so cute! so i immediately thought of eddie. can you write a cute little something inspired by this dialogue? i love your eddie pieces.

i'm not gonna pretend to have seen the scene you're talking about so i have no idea how it was said/used but my brain went 'argument scene' so that's what i did here <3

--

"You're too impulsive, Eddie," You groan, pointedly looking away from his bleeding knuckles, "You can't just punch anyone who says something mean."

"I'm not impulsive." Eddie insists, and you play into dramatics to drop your jaw in a comically aghast expression, "I didn't punch him for shits and giggles, babe. He said something nasty about you."

"And you had the impulse to punch him. I'm not calling you unreasonable, I'm calling you impulsive. Because you are impulsive." You huff, arms crossed as you refuse to settle into the passenger's seat of Eddie's van. He's got the engine turned over, but you're stalling in the parking lot, one step away from taking the bus home from school instead.

Eddie's brow scrunches, "Yeah? Well, y'know what you are?"

Defensiveness places itself like a shield over your chest. Guarding your heart, it rears its ugly head, denting itself in preparation for words like nagging, ungrateful, god forbid bitchy to be thrown out.

"What?" You spit with sharp eyes.

"You're my girl." Eddie mutters, eyes narrowed with frustration, but not anger as he looks at you, "And I don't like it when people say mean shit about you. Okay? I just-" He glares sideways at his mirror for a split second, catching his own reflection in it, "Maybe I am impulsive. But it's- it's not an impulse to hurt people, okay? It's an impulse to protect you."

The defensive shield you'd thrown up melts with the surge of warmth that Eddie's statement brings to your heart. Falling away with it is weight you'd been carrying since the second your boyfriend's knuckles had connected with the sophomore's face, and you let it all escape in a sigh that drains your lungs.

You inhale, voice much softer now, "Eddie. I'm happy I'm your girl. Really, it's just- I don't need protecting. Or at least, not like that. You can protect me by saving me the headache I endure every time you knock someone's lights out over me."

You chance a glance at him, disarmed by his sentimental speech, and find his eyes similarly smooth to your voice. He reaches out with a cautious hand, the one that isn't red at the knuckles, and you don't hesitate to take it and hold onto it.

He cracks a sad smile, and you mirror the expression.

"I won't punch people anymore," He offers, his voice quiet, "Or- well. I'll try. You're right, I-" He drops his eyes to his lap, speaking softer than you'd have thought possible, "It's an impulse. But I'll work on it."

"Thank you," You gush, rubbing your thumb over the back of his hand, "And thanks for wanting to protect me, Eddie."

"Anytime," He seems almost embarrassed to pledge it, and you let it slide because you're both still getting used to dating and what that means. "Uh, do you still wanna take the bus, or-?"

"If you still want to take me home, I'll stay.' You muse carefully, "Do you still want to take me home?"

"Yeah," His careful smile gives way to an easy grin, a slight relieved exhale whooshing from his nose, "Buckle up, babe. We can stop for fries on the way."

"I want a milkshake instead," You decide, reaching for your seatbelt, "Is that okay?"

"Good taste," Eddie nods, eyeing you in the rear-view mirror, "I'll dip my fries in, and we can use it to ice my knuckles."

[shakespearean-dream]

TW!!! — blood, scarring and mild body horror ahead 🥲

benny’s turn!

before i start i wanna clarify i hesitated a bit on posting this because lovely mutual @vor-leser just posted his benny interpretation (go look at it and follow him btw), and idk if we like mind melded or smth but our human benny’s are super similar LOL. i damn near scrapped the whole thing out of fear someone would get mad at me but i Would Not be able to start over and get this done ever so this is as good as we’re gonna get. 😭 my apologies niko love u /p

this has been like a full 7 days in the making 😭😭 the art block that i felt coming on while doing ellen and ted hit me like an optimus prime sized semi truck this week along with a depressive episode so i definitely appreciate that happening and i am not upset about it at all! /s i’m totally good so don’t worry or anything /gen, mental health is just weird and i also wanted to explain the gap in my posts 😔

i do not know how to feel about this drawing if i’m so fr with you; i’m proud of myself for AM-ified benny cause i think i got the slowly rotting from the inside out primal freak energy down pretty good, but on the other hand this feels kinda empty?? i usually have a lot more commentary squished in here but i think my brain’s a little fried 🤦‍♂️ i love drawing me some beautiful buff men though so drawing normal ben was familiar territory. however his wack ass haircut i gave him is his punishment for being a PRICK!!! go sit in the corner and think about ur actions benjamin.

like ted n the rest of the sillies i’m not straying too far from canon with his personality, he’s an ass and a murderer and a hella smart dickhead who desperately needs to be punished by the universe (thank you for that one AM). hot take i did not like his “redemption arc” in his game scenario and i don’t think with how he was throughout the entirety of his life (and also throughout the game, main example his inner dialogue) he would actually go out of his way to help the kid because he means it??? n prove he changed to the guys he killed cause he means it??? i dunno maybe AM torturing him made him have a main character “omg i’ve been in the wrong this whole time!!1” moment like the game suggests i’m just not buying it 💀 i’m sure it’s just cause bennys scenario couldn’t be too long and they couldn’t fully flesh him out which i won’t fault the game makers for. i’m a steven universe fan, i know what time constrictions can do to a plot and redemption arc 😭 looking at you white diamond…

his wife n kids are up top and they’re kinda neat to me— i was considering the hc that part of the reason manya (his canon wife) left him is because she realized she was a lesbian which would be funny as fuck considering benny’s also One Of Them Queers 😭. i think during the brief times he was home and able to parent his daughters they got really scared and tired of him, one because he’s just a very threatening powerful and overbearing man, but also because i feel like he would’ve been on their ASS about everything. grades, extracurriculars, friends, wardrobe, this guy was micromanaging his family to an annoying extreme (ofc because of his perfectionist complex). he probably loved manya and the kids in his own weird way, but it was more contractual to him than any real personal relationship. maybe he inherited that from his own parents?? i doubt he ever talked to them after he moved out.

that’s about the end of my thoughts on this fucker. 🥲 funny storyyyy i just remembered i have laundry to finish so im gonna go do that, lord help me. thank you for reading all this if you did!!!!! we’re over halfway through so who do yall want next? wanna save AM or nimdok for last? i’ll see u guys later :]]]

[justapoet]

Random dialogue prompt list

"Have you ever been in love?" "No. Why?" "I think I'm in love with you."

Distancing themself from the other because they start to think that there is definitely something wrong with them

Stuttering

"I missed you so much, I don't know why. But, I did."

"You look perfect in this outfit." "Oh."

“Tell me you did not go to a fight without me.” “I don’t need you to protect me.” “It’s not about protection-”

"Did you forget that it was your turn to grab the groceries today?" "Yeah, sorry. I thought I'd wait for you so we can go together?"

“The problem lies within the fact that I want more. That’s what scares me the most, because I don’t want to want more. But I can’t help it.” 

“You said you loved me last night.”

“So that confession…” “Didn’t mean shit ‘cause I was drunk. And I don’t want you accepting that. Let me confess to you, properly, at the least.”

“I swear I didn’t murder anyone.” 

"Who are you when you're not performing?" "Fuck. Marry me."

“You have the most beautiful smile, you know that?”

“I just want(ed) to make you smile.”

“I was just getting my coffee, but then I fell in love with you”

"I…I missed you." "Oh."

“I desperately want to kiss you.”

“Maybe it’s a good mood. Maybe it’s a manic episode.”

"Don't open your eyes"

"Goddammit, don't say that!"

“Fuck it. I’m in.” 

“Too late. I’m already yours.”

“Nothing - no matter how weird or dark - could ever change the way I feel about you.”

“For once, I’m completely serious.”

“I don´t believe that you know what the hell you are doing half of the time.” 

“There isn’t a single unit of thought behind your eyes.” “Of course, not. I’m looking at you. My brain doesn’t work when I’m looking at you.”

"Are we going to talk about it?"

“I’d tear down mountains and rewrite the stars just to see you smile.”

“You weren’t part of my life plan.”

“So, tell me, what do you feel for me?”

“I’m this close to resorting to physical violence if shit continues to not work out.”

“I don’t know what to do.” 

“Say another word and I´ll shove these fries down your throat.” 

“Could you even try to be nice to me today?”

“There are about thirty-five ways this could go wrong. I’d say that’s pretty good odds.”

"Are you seriously considering to go through with this complete absurd?"

"It's a miracle you're still alive." "Mom does say you're a miracle worker, yes."

"You're sick. Did the fever make you forget how to dial my number?"

"Just do it, you moron."

"My self-control is hanging by a thread right now. Please, don't do this to me."

“Hey, neighbour, I’ve never met you before but your dog just destroyed my garden."

“Well, I’m afraid that opinion’s going to change once you get to know me.”

"Ever thought of stepping outside, or have you become part of the furniture?"

"Can you just look at me? Please?"

"I needed to hear your voice."

“Just to clarify: We are in a relationship, right?”

"You're the only thing I should be afraid of, and that fear died off years ago."

“it’s a bit frustrating to how oblivious you are.”

“what do i have to do or say for you to notice that i’m in love with you?”

“Yeah, that wasn’t supposed to happen and I was not supposed to say that, I’m so sorry.” 

so, hi! this is just a silly prompt list, but I'd very much like to ask you to send me asks and resquest a fic from any of them!

I'll be writing for the following couples:

Buddie (9-1-1)

Percabeth (Percy Jackson)

Nick and Chalie (Heartstopper)

Aziracrow (Good Omens)

Polin (Bridgerton)

Kathony (Bridgerton)

If you have any other couples from these universes that you might want, you can send them to me, as well. Other than Buddie (that it's not canon just yet), I like best to only write canon couples.

[internetskiff]

hoo boy. SOMA. I definitely do not think of that game often ahaha that game certainly has not affected me in any way

Anyways!! Catherine Chun is honestly my favorite deuteragonist in gaming because of how well she's written (sorry Wheatley (he's a close second though)). On my first playthrough I (and I assume a lot of other people) just immediately decide "OK, she's the only other sane 'person' on this station, so she's automatically a friend", and hell, it seems that's how Simon himself views her from the moment they first speak at Upsilon's comms center. But reading into her dialogue, she really doesn't seem to view Simon as a buddy at all up until like.. Their heart-to-heart at the Climber methinks. Just look at how she speaks with him whenever he starts getting existential.

She speaks to him as more of an annoying coworker at times. Considering her attitude towards other sentient machines, I think it's extending even to Simon. She sees him as a means to an end, or at least tries to, up until she has to copy and paste his mind into a new diving suit. And then, when she fails to hide the original Simon from the newly created duplicate and he is rightfully distraught and furious - I think that's when the actual weight of it all hits her.

This interaction still fucks me up a little. The distress in that "Please, stop" as Simon (very righftully) lashes out at her. It's even worse when you consider this is how most of the people she scanned treated her. They're all desperate. They hope that when they sit down in that Pilot Seat and close their eyes, they'll open them in paradise. But when they end up exactly where they were. and realize a copy of them is going to be living it large on a spaceship while they continue rotting down at Pathos II, it's no wonder they'd suddenly view the whole thing as cruel and disgusting. It's still wrong and selfish, of course - especially directing that anger at the one person responsible for preserving humanity simply because you refuse to understand how brain scans work. It's worse when you realize she never got to defend herself from all of it, and in the end she was killed by her own desperate coworkers. And now she's experiencing it again. Unknowingly, Simon's putting her through the exact same thing her human template went through over and over and over again. She viewed him as a means to an end, but I think that stopped after she had to go through that. She shares her memories of home with Simon. I'd say they only REALLY start getting along at like, Phi, which makes the exchange immediately after the ARK is launched that much more gut wrenching. The thing is, while I think Catherine stopped viewing Simon as a means to an end, Simon didn't stop viewing her as one. From the moment she tells him about the ARK, he was probably itching to get on it. Sure, saving humanity is great, but you'd probably also want to be saved aswell, no?

The fact that this is her last exchange and these are the last words she manages to say is absolutely fucked up. You can just imagine what was going through Catherine's mind as she was saying this - Simon telling her she's "Fucking disgusting!", a sentiment echoed by people she considered acquaintances (people she was saving), seeing her own corpse with it's head bashed in by a wrench.. This wasn't just aimed at Simon, I think. This is basically her finally standing up for herself. Her standing up to everyone who despised her simply because THEY didn't understand how brain scans work. She did everything right, she saved humanity - and she was still treated like garbage in the end. And she doesn't even get to finish her sentence before her chip fries and she dies for the second and final time. And if Simon saw things from her perspective for once, he would have the time to pull her Omnitool out and save her from that.

[glassartpeasants]

How To Love .04

Trafalgar Law x F!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, vandalism, awkward ex encoutners

A/N: here, eat up

music playlist

~~~

“Finally! The rush is over.” After what felt like hours, there were no customers or online orders to be fulfilled. Finally, your heart rate could go back to normal.

Picking up some water, you chug it down. “Thirsty much?”

“Piss off, Killer, you’ve been taking orders, and I’ve been running to make them!” You pant as you try to drink more water. 

“So rude.” Killer laughs before going to restock things. “I saw you finally got a car.”

“Yeah! I finally got my driver's license after waiting for my appointment to come up. Law was super happy for me when I told him.”

“How are things with you and Law?” 

“You're never gonna believe this! So yesterday, we almost kissed, but I got cockblocked by the delivery guy!” A sudden cackle fills your ears, making you turn to see Killer holding his chest.

“Oh, so the only time you laugh is at my misery?” Killer continues to laugh as he grips the counter. “Stop laughing, damnit!”

“Six months of waiting only to be cockblocked is the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Hey! I was healing from a breakup, you ass! I wasn’t gonna go out and kiss the next man I saw.” You huff while throwing a paper cup at him. “You're lucky we're in public, or I swear!” Leaning against the counter, you can’t help but let your mind wander back to yesterday.

The rain beat against the windows as the movie played to drown it out. Fighting and the dialogue of the villains ring in your ears. Both you and Law were waiting impatiently for your food to arrive.

“God, I’m so hungry. How long does it take for some grub to get here?” You complain.

“Calm down, it’s 3 pm. The rush is right now.” Law says as he can’t help but chuckle. “Plus, if we had just gone to get it ourselves-”

“But that would require changing, and I’m perfectly content on not doing that right now.” Shifting around, you get slightly closer to Law. “Also, I'm warm and toasty right here.” Law smiles as he looks down at you. Feeling his gaze, you look up and softly smile as your eyes land on his lips and yours.

“Law...” You whisper before moving just a bit closer, as does Law. His breath fanned against your lips, making your heart beat faster.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The two of you quickly part faces, burning at the ruined moment.

“I’ll go, um, get it.” Law stumbles as he gets up to get the door.

“Yeah, sounds good.” Laughing nervously, you look away. As soon as Law was out of sight and earshot, you hit the couch cushion and whisper yelled a soft “Fuck!”

Letting out a huff, you push yourself off the counter. Last night's memories flood your senses as you feel your body heating at what could’ve happened if the delivery man had been only five more minutes late.

DING DING DING

“(Y/N) can you get that? I’m in storage at the moment!”

“Sure!” Turning around and running to the counter, you shake away the memories. “Hello, how can I-”

“Ah. I…didn’t know you were working today.” Your brain fried as you see your ex standing in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah.” The awkward tension felt suffocating as you tried to find the words to say. It’s been almost six months since you’ve seen Eustass, and he still looked the same as the day it all went down.

“Do you still get the same drink?”

“I was gonna get that expresso shit you guys do. Didn’t sleep much last night.” You raise your eyebrow. 

“I thought you hated expresso?”

“I do. I’m just working a twelve at the shop, and I don’t want to be sleepy.”

“Well, why don't you get a cold brew? And I thought you guys had a coffee machine at the shop?” Eustass's face went red as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I broke it.”

“You…broke it?” His face got even redder as he shifted his gaze.

“Killer and I were throwing tools to see if they’d stick into the wall, and one bounced off the wall and hit the coffee machine.” A silence fell between the two of you as you looked at him wide-eyed and slightly agape. After a few seconds, you managed to compose yourself.

“I have no words other than your total is 5.18.” Eustass let out a cough before pulling out a ten. Grabbing it, you cash it out and give him his change.

“I’ll go make the-”

“I got it.” Killer cuts you off and grabs the ticket before you can make it. You could feel your eye twitch, but shove your irritation down with a sigh. Turning your head, your eyes met Eustass’s, and all the questions you’ve had since rushed through your mind.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Eustass's eyes sift as he sees you grip the counter. “Did I do something wrong?”

With a gentle sigh, he responds. “No. There's nothing wrong with you, and you did nothing wrong. It’s me who has something wrong with them.” Eustass runs his fingers through his hair. “I should’ve got my shit together and grown up instead of always chasing a constant thrill. Too immature that I kept staring at other women.”

“Out of all the people in the world. Why (.....)?”

“Wrong place at the wrong time. She came over to see you cause, apparently, you two had plans that day, and she had just come over early. And you know what happens after that…” You look at him like he was speaking another language cause you know for a fact that you did not have plans with her that day. 

“We didn’t have plans that day.” Eutass looks shocked at your revelation.

“What? Why did she come over then?” You throw your arms up.

“How am I supposed to know?!” Another silence falls among the two of you before Eustass speaks.

“Whatever the reason is, it doesn’t matter. Just know that none of it was your fault. Not my cheating or anything. You were perfect in every sense of the word. And I'm a fool for taking you for granted.”

You look away and sigh before turning back to Eustass. “Despite the fact I still want to kick your ass, I’m glad you’ve taken responsibility.”

“It’s the first step to maturity, right?” A small chuckle leaves the two of you.

“I supposed. Just don’t change yourself too much.”

“Here’s the cold brew, Eustass.”

“Oi, thanks, Killer.” Killer nods before leaving you and Eustass alone again. “Wait, I thought I got an expresso?”

“I rang it as a cold brew. It has more caffeine in it and is not as bitter. And it’s cheaper.” Eustass looks down at the coffee before giving it a whiff.

“Just try the damn thing!”

“Give me a second woman, god!” He huffs before taking a sip. “Oh, that’s not so bad.” You roll your eyes before you see another customer come in.

“I guess that's my cue to get the hell outta here. It was…nice to see you and talk to you again.”

“Yeah…you too.” Turning around, he waves before closing the door to the cafe, leaving you to boil in your thoughts.

‘Yeah, you too? Why the hell did I say that? I didn’t miss him at all! Did I?’ The inner turmoil from all those months ago resurfacing. Even if some of his words gave you closure, you still couldn’t help but feel pain in your heart.

The fact that even after breaking your heart, he was still so easy to talk to. That he even got a chuckle out of you! Why? How on earth did he still manage to make you laugh? Why was there this burning in your chest when you thought of him? Months ago, you were filled with hate and hurt, and now, even if it was for a second, talking to him feels normal again.

“Hi, sweetie, how have you been?” An old, gentle voice breaks through your voice.

“Oh! Mrs. June! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. But I’ve been okay.” You give her a small laugh as you look at the little old lady. Your week was going great, but now having that talk with Eustass fucked it up. Filling it with doubt and more questions.

“Is it about the man you were just talking to?”

“What?! No! I’m okay! Really!”

“Dear, I was your age once too. Not to mention, I have children your age, too. I know when troubles are caused by a boy.” The caring voice she carries makes you let out a sigh.

“My ex just came to the shop after not seeing him for six months since he cheated. Talking to him felt so normal, just like it used to be. But I don’t love him anymore. I shouldn’t love him anymore. I’ve fallen in love with someone else. Everything was fine. I was happy. But now he just had to waltz back in, and there's a burning in my heart.” Admitting it did feel much better. Instead of keeping it down and suffering, having an unbiased opinion is nice.

“Oh, sweetie, you simply miss the memories. You miss what once was. It’s normal. I’m sure you loved him very much, so it’ll always hurt, no matter how much time has passed.”

“But I’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

“It happens to everyone. You're not a bad person for it.” Letting out a breath of relief, you feel a weight lifted off your shoulders.

“You really know what to say. Thank you, Mrs. June.” She places her hand on your own.

“Anytime, dear.”

~~~

The day seemed to drag as he couldn’t help but think about you and the kiss you almost shared. How, after dreaming of your lips on his, he would finally get to feel them. But of course, it was just his luck; the delivery guy ruined the moment. Law’s never wanted to strangle someone more in his life.

“Hey doc, we got a female, age 24, coming in for back pain. Room two.”

“Hmm? Oh. Okay, thanks.” Grabbing the chart, Law movies towards the room.

“Hello, I’ll be your-”

“Law! It's you!” Hearing that ear bleeding voice ring in his ears make a scowl appear on his face. Of course, it had to be her, of all people, when he was already annoyed. Gritting his teeth, Law could only picture going home to you and Bepo to calm him down. You smile and ask him about his day, and Bepo comes up to welcome him home.

“I’ve missed you so much! I’ve tried to get in contact with you, but-”

“You said you're here for back pain, correct?”

“Well, yes but-”

“Have you hit anything? Where does it hurt specifically?”

It’s evident that Law’s lack of normal conversation bothered (.....). Her nostrils flared, and her eye twitched, but she quickly shoved it down. “How’s Bepo doing? I’m sure he misses his mom.”

“He’s fine.”

“I mean, I’m sure he’d be delighted to see me.”

“He doesn’t care. He’s a cat.” While Bepo obviously was more than just a cat, (.....) didn’t deserve the thought that she was missed, even if it was something as simple as a cat.

“I’m sure you’ve missed me, isn’t that right, traffy?” Her voice, trying to be sickeningly sweet, only sounded like the screaming of a fox. Her use of her old nickname for him makes him feel sick.

“Don’t call me that. It’s Dr. or Trafalgar to you.” Law snaps at (.....). No one was allowed to call him that. Hell, she was the only one that did. The nickname grinds his gears.

Cracking her knuckles, (.....) takes a deep breath before scoffing. “...Is that mooch (Y/N) still living with you?”

Law gripped the clipboard violently. He was already struggling with remaining calm just seeing her, but now that she’s trying to insult you? The one person who seemed to get him and care about him genuinely? That would not stand.

“She’s not a mooch, and yes, she is.” Law answered with gritted teeth.

(.....) rolled her eyes before continuing. “She’s probably still working that dead-end job at the cafe. I told her that she was going into a stupid career path.” (.....) words made Law grip the clipboard even tighter. “She isn’t even good at art or writing.”

Hearing (.....)’s final words, Law’s grip on the clipboard was tight enough to put a crack in the plastic. “Take that back (.....). Right now.”

“Why? We all know it’s true.” Seeing red, Law finally snapped.

“She’s one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. Her creativity is something you could never hope to achieve. Not to mention, she took those as minor classes. If you ever dared to use your fucking ears, you’d know she went to major in being a chef.” Law’s words pierced through (..... like bullets. Each more painful than the last.

“Everything about her is nothing you could ever hope to be!”

“You're acting like you love her!”

“That’s because I do!” Law immediately slammed his mouth shut with his hand. The room became tense and silent.

“That fuck did you just say?” (.....)’s voice drops as she clutches her fists. Her pupils dilate. Once full of awkwardness, the room is now full of uneasy tension. Law’s body filled with concern as the look on (.....) was murderous.

“There’s no fucking way I’ll let that bitch take you away from me.” She sneered as she looked at Law. “I refuse to let that bitch take you!” Her scream echoed off the walls. 

“What the hell?! I’m my own fucking person.”

“You are supposed to be with me!” Suddenly, two men come into the room. The screaming from earlier had already prompted security to call.

“We got called for screaming?”

Pointing to (.....) Law quickly answers. “Her! She needs to leave!” Nodding and taking his word as fact, the security guards go to (.....).

“Ma’am, you need to leave. Please don’t make this harder than this has to be.”

“Don’t fucking touch me! I’m not leaving until I finish talking to Law!” (.....) turned her head towards Law, who stood by the door.

“Leave (.....) there's nothing to talk about.”

“No!” Pushing past the guards, (.....) tries to run up to Law, only to be stopped by security. “Get off me!” The sound of (.....)’s scream echoed throughout the hospital as she was dragged out of the hospital.

The whole encounter had Law shaken as he sat in his office and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Holy fuck…” Of the two years he’s dated (.....), never has he seen that side of her. It’s been so long since he’s broken up with (.....), yet with her reaction, it felt like it only happened yesterday. It was unnerving, to say the least.

DING

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he sees a text from you and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. With a soft smile, he opens it.

“It sounds great.” A soft chuckle leaves Law’s lips before he replies and puts the phone back in his pocket.  Looking down at his desk, he couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of getting off work to see you once again.

-I made a drink inspired by you :)

-Is it good?

-Of course it’s good! I also made Bepo out of wiped cream

-Bepo’s not that fat

-One day, you’ll take off your rose-colored glasses. Does pasta sound good for dinner?

~~~

As the day turned into night and the street lights shown bright, it was finally time for you to go home. With all the rushes through the day and that emotional encounter with Eustass, the concept of home sounded heavenly.

Considering Killer left earlier for a doctor's appointment, you were the only one to close up. Thankfully, the rest of the day was quick and easy. There were no rude customers or rushes. It's the perfect night to be closing by yourself.

It also happened to be the first day you got the car you had saved enough money for and bought off the Facebook Marketplace. It was a beater, sure, but it was your first car. Taking the bus was fine for the first two months, but after almost getting robbed at the bus station, you decided it was time to face your fears and go get your driver's license.

You didn’t tell Law until it was all said and done because you wanted it to be a surprise. Even getting in to take your driver's test took eons. It was booked months out! So when you finally managed to take it, you made sure you passed that test. After that, you just had to save up. And now, you have a driver's license and a new car. There was a nick or two of missing paint, but you loved it.

As you close up shop, you notice something on your car's back window. Squinting your eyes, you let out a gasp at the sight of your back window shattered.

“No, no, no, no! What the hell happened?!” As you run up and get closer, your mouth drops open, and you can only look on in horror.

The closer you got, the worse it got. Instead of what you thought was just a broken window, you're met with your tires slashed, every window shattered, and horrible names carved into the side of your car. Glass shards covered the pavement around the car and in the inside of your seats. The metal of the car ruined as the words ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’ were carved into the car doors. Each headlight busted along with your mirrors.

The car you had spent so long saving up for and were so proud of is now reduced to nothing but a hunk of junk. As you stared at your car in horror, one thought ran through your mind. ‘Who could have done this?’

A feeling of unease fills your body as you look around the dark, empty parking lot. The only one there was you, and what was your car. Grabbing the store key from your key ring, you run back into the store. As soon as you lock the door behind you, you make a break from the security camera footage.

Logging into the computer, you click on today’s date and start recording. You put it on 2x speed as you scan carefully. It showed your co-worker opening the shop, and then a few others showed up before the customers. The day goes by before you show up. Now, you get even closer to the monitor, determined to figure out who would do such a thing.

Finally, at 7 p.m., you see a person dressed in all black emerge from the shadows. Trying to get a closer look at their face, you see they are wearing a mask, which makes you frown, but you continue.

You watched them pull out a knife from their pockets before slashing each of your tires. Zooming in, you watch as they use what you assume is a key to carve into your car. They go to both sides before getting up, looking around, and moving out of frame. Not even seconds later, the person comes back into the frame. Your mouth drops open as you watch them use a rock to violently smash your windows.

“What?! How did I not hear that?!” Switching to the inside security camera, you fast-forward to 7 p.m. to see what was happening. You immediately lower your head and let out a quick “God damnit” at the sight of you dancing to the music you had on blast while closing. 

Standing up straight, rage boiled in your veins as you kicked the nearby trash can “Fuck!” Looking down at the camera footage again, your heart stops when you see the hooded figure staring straight into the camera only minutes before you see what happened to your car. The shine of a knife in their pocket made you swallow the lump in your throat. 

You pull out your phone and get to Law’s number. “Come on, come on, come on!” The sound of the ringer going to voicemail causes a sweat to start. Ending the call with Law, you immediately try to call Killer. Every second you heard it ring, it felt as if you’re getting grey hairs. Yet just like Law’s, his, too, went voicemail.

You begin to panic as you try to think of anyone else to come pick you up or at least talk you through what to do. You didn’t have many friends. At least ones that you trust enough to give you a ride. Biting your lip, you start panicking before a number comes to you.

“No, I can’t call him.” You begin to pace around as you fight with yourself. Finally, after taking another look at your destroyed car in the camera footage, you dial the number.

“Please pick up the phone.” Crossing your fingers, your heart beats with every ring.

“Oi-”

“Eustass! Is this you?!”

“(Y/N)? What-”

“I know you said you're working late, but please, I need you to come to the cafe.”

“Are you okay? What’s going on?” Your breathing becomes ragged.

“It’s hard to explain, but I don’t feel safe right now and-”

“I’ll be right there. Stay inside the cafe till I get there, alright?”

“Alright.”

“I’ll see you in five.”

“Okay.” the call ends, and you look at the security footage and set it to live.

~~~

Like he said, it took only five minutes before you heard his car pull up. You watched him park up front and get out of the car, and only then did you go back outside. “Thank god you're here, Eustass.”

“Yeah, so am I. What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Follow me.” You wave your hand for him to follow. As you stop in front of your car, you hear Eustass exhale before running his fingers through his hair.

“Holy shit, is this your car?” Nodding, you look at it with heartache.

“It was my car. But some hooded figure vandalized it while I was closing up shop. I couldn’t see their face or anything. What’s worse is that after they trashed it, they stared at the camera for a minute or two before leaving. They had a knife to slash my tires, and when they looked in the camera, they made sure I could see it.” Crossing your arms, you sigh as you think about it all.

“I didn’t even know you got your license. So this is a bigger shock than I originally thought.”

“I just don’t understand. Who have I done wrong to deserve this? Not to mention, I had just bought this car yesterday!”

“Maybe it was a case of the wrong car?”

“No one has a car like mine. At least that I work with.”

“How about you call the cops and have them check it?”

“That’s not a bad idea. But can you stay here until they come? I’m not sure I feel safe being alone…”

“Yeah, of course.”

~~~

Despite the cops taking forever to arrive, they managed to tow your car to the station as they took your story and the security footage. You gave them your number, and they said they’d contact you with any updates. This left you now in the passenger seat of Eustass’s car with a bag of McDonald's chicken nugget meal and a shake, taking a fry from the bag every once in a while.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so depressed eating fries.” Eustass chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “Do they taste bad?”

“They taste like 3,000 dollars down the drain.”

“Not very salty?”

Grabbing another fry from the bag, you pop it into your mouth. “No.” Laying your head down on the window, your eyes follow the street lights. “Thanks for taking me to get chicken nuggets and driving me home.”

“No problem. It’s been a day for you.” The tense silence was as overwhelming as the elephant in the room, suffocating.

“I got a dog.”

“Oh? I thought the place didn’t allow animals?”

“I moved a month after you left. Bigger place and allows animals.”

“What kind of dog?”

“It’s a pittie I found eating out of my trash can.”  You couldn’t help the small chuckle that left your lips.

“Probably smelled all the beef jerky wrappers and thought they were in for a snack. What’s their name?”

“Rocky.”

“Of course, you named them Rocky.” The two of you begin to argue playfully as you approach you and Law’s apartment. It felt nostalgic almost. Sitting in the car talking and arguing about whatever. But even if it felt nice to talk, the thought of Law and the way he looks at you has overtaken the spot in your heart the Eustass once owned.

As you once again enter the apartment's parking lot, a sigh left your lips. “Well, we’re here. Thanks again for staying with me and driving me home once again during all that.”

“It’s fine, I promise. I’ll see you sometime…?”

“Yeah…see you sometime.” Leaving Eustass’s car, you make your descent up the stairs.

Throwing his head back, Eustass stares up at the roof of his car. “Can’t believe I fucked it all up.” He sighs. Looking at your shared apartment with Law, Eustass rubs his eyes from the tears that threatened to spill. “Treat her better than I did, Law.”

~~~

Parking in his spot, Law gets out of his car and is finally ready to be home after such a long day. Looking around, he notices your car isn’t anywhere to be seen. Were you still out? Law scratched his head before walking upstairs.

As he unlocked the door, he heard cries and saw your shoes on the shoe rack. You were home but crying, and without the car, you were so excited about. Slowly closing the door, Law listened to your cries. It led him into the living room, where he saw you crying. A case of chicken nuggets was open, and a half-drank shake was on the coffee table. Tissues were overflowing the trash can.

“(Y/N)?” Taking a simple step, he sees the mascara running down your face. “Are you okay?”

“No! I’m not okay!” Plopping a nugget into your mouth while you sniffled. “My car got vandalized to the point I can’t drive it! I haven’t even had it for a full twenty-four hours!”

Law’s eyes widened at your words. “What? What do you mean vandalized?”

“My tires were slashed, windows busted, the side of my car carved with horrible names, and my mirrors and headlights smashed! Everything was destroyed!” Letting out a hiccup, you take a sip of your shake. “Then I fucking saw Eustass today, so that was perfect!” You huff.

“Really? Odd. I had (.....) at the ER today. That was a whole ordeal.-”

“That’s when I tried to call you and Killer. Neither of you answered, so I had to call Eustass to pick me up and bring me home!”

“I’m sorry (Y/N) if I had known…”

You sigh. “It's not your fault. It was just an awkward and horrible day.” Law looks at your form. He hasn’t seen you so distraught since the first day he took you to his place to stay.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Law looks at you. “Do you…want a hug?”

Nodding, you get up from your cocoon of blankets off the couch. “Yeah.” You wrap your arms around Law’s frame and begin to cry into his clothes. Wrapping his arms around you, Law delicately places his chin on your head. “It’s not fair.”

“Not it’s not. But I'm sure the police will find the asshole that did it.” Law tried to reassure you.

“I tried to check the camera at the cafe, but there was a hooded figure with a knife. They even looked into the camera and made sure I could see it.” You let out a shaky breath and hold him closer. “How did they know it was mine? I was the only one closing, and no one was there with me. What would have happened if they decided to break in or wait for me to leave the store?”

Rubbing your back, Law tries to comfort your worries. “You're home now. Your home, and I’m here.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “I promise. I won’t let anything ever happen to you.”

“Thank you, Law.”

~~~

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[stickthroughthephases]

Bi-Han headcanons from the deepest part of my brain

Doesn’t believe in fiction books or doesn’t care to read them because he’s always been told to “gain knowledge” and he wasn’t allowed to read fantasy novels, the closest thing was reading up on the type of beings in other realms hence the entire dialogue with Nitara

Despite being a cryromancer, hates hates hates cold food and drinks, his tea MUST be piping hot (he never gets burned) as compared to Kuai Liang who leaves his food and drinks to cool down before having them 

Would make ice flowers for his mother since Artika doesn’t really have flowers growing from the ground

Takes long walks in the forest, at night, whenever he doesn’t feel in sync with himself and just kinda wants to reset and calm down

Doesn’t like to be touched, especially his hair, which is why he keeps it long because he hated people touching or cutting it when he was younger (Kuai Liang wanted to follow his older brother so he also keeps it longer, #twinsies)

Likes desserts that are milky and not super sweet (custards, puddings), will only eat deep-fried desserts during special events 

Always stays up to watch the first snowfall of the winter season (yes I know it is always cold but whenever the winter season begins, he waits for the first snowfall because he is sentimental like that, it is when he feels his strongest)

Insecure sometimes about not having complimenting powers as Kuai Liang as compared to Tomáš (Where there’s smoke, there’s fire), worries it affects the bond they share

Used to help sneak snacks out of the kitchen quarters for Tomáš and Kuai Liang because those two together couldn’t stay quiet long enough to avoid getting caught (he would always steal cookies from both, not because he actually wanted them but because they would always whine and try to hold the packets away from him, yes he’s THAT person)

Horrible to buy any sort of gifts for, nobody knows what he likes except maybe the brothers and even they are stumped on what to get him 

His father hated how he would always show attitude (sassy ass eyebrow raises, dirty looks, side eyes, eye rolls and more) but it made him do it more

Contrary to people's idea of him, I really don't think he is purposefully mean to those he loves/likes BUT he can overstep in the name of being honest or straightforward, doesn't like to beat around the bush or be fake with others (social skills are pretty limited)

He gives me vibes of someone who doesn't have many hobbies because he's a workaholic and training/being Grandmaster is his job

If you enjoyed this list, I will be back in 2-3 business weeks for either a part two or a different MK character!