#next to a worktable

[hoshifighting]

rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

[forsworned]

cw: sexual content, pnv sex, scratching, biting, marking, you being shameless as fuck about your sex life in front of the others, also not proofread

Johnny can't help but overhear the conversation you're having with Kyle about your hook-up gone wrong. About how "men just aren't men anymore", and "they don't make them like they used to". He chuckles, shaking his head as he watches his brew pour in his cup, but his ear perks up at your voice again, echoing from the hallway to the living room.

"...he literally stops me mid-stroke to whine about not scratching him! Can you believe it!" You huff, plopping down on the couch.

Kyle watches you with amusement, taking a seat next to you while he sips at his mug and glances up at Johnny. "He's unbelievable."

"And then he tells me that it hurts when I bite him!"

"Oi! Quit y'er moanin'! It's too early for allat." Simon grumbles, and you feel a touch embarrassed at his sudden outburst.

You pout. "Sorry." You apologize, deflating like a balloon on the couch and Kyle chuckles at you. He ruffles your hair to comfort you and you sigh. "You get what I mean, right?"

He nods, and then gestures for Johnny to 'solve' your little issue.

"What seems to be the problem?" Johnny leans against the counter next to Simon who is a bit vexed about being woken up to the sound of you bitching about a guy.

And then begins your tirade of how men just aren't as visceral and moonstruck by women anyone; how they've lost their passion and chivalry when it came to romance and you're starting to lose hope. Johnny pouts for you, but there's an amused look on his face.

He's so understanding. Truly, a gentleman when it comes to these sorts of things. So, it really doesn't come off as a surprise when he's offering to help you resolve 'said' problem.

Of course, you laugh in his face. You don't take him seriously. You never take him seriously.

"Up to you, obviously." He sits on the edge of your bed and you toy with the memorabilia that lines your worktable. You turn to him and he sits there looking like he got ready to fuck you.

Like no seriously, you can smell his aftershave, you can see that he's trimmed down his stubble and neatened up his disheveled mohawk. He smells like spearmint and cypress when he speaks and it's alluring to say the least.

"You're serious?" You quirk an eyebrow, fiddling with the little green toy soldier.

"As a heart attack." He smiles sincerely at you. "No pressure."

You set the toy down and silently move toward him. His baby blues never leave you as you reach out to grasp his shoulder, touch as light as a feather. Your legs straddle his hips and his arms instinctively wrap around your waist and you lean forward to place an experimental kiss to his lips.

They're soft and a bit raw. Like he's been scrubbing at them with a toothbrush for ten minutes straight and you giggle at bit.

"What?" His dark lashes flutter up at you, barely breaking the sweet kiss you've placed upon his lips.

You shake your head and smile. "Nothing." You hotly slot your lips against his and he collapses back against your bunk, easily maneuvering you against your mattress, and you feel a thrill run up your spine when he easily finds the sweet spot on your neck.

A moan easily escapes your lips, your spinal column curving as your chest presses up against his burly one. And soon your clothes are accumulating into a little pile next to your bed.

For a moment, you both analyze one another. It wouldn't be the first time you've seen Johnny naked. He shamelessly prances around the living room with his cock out because he seems to always forget his towel in his bedroom, but this is the first time you're seeing him rock hard. And fuck it's thick and veiny, uncut and weeping at the tip.

And he's sure as hell never caught a glimpse of your bare form, maybe clad in a towel, but surprisingly you've never sported a wardrobe malfunction in front of him.

"God, lassie--"

You cut him off, covering his mouth with your hand and shake your head. "I want you to show me that you're capable of fucking me right. No whining, no complaining."

He grins. "Right, just the visceral fuckin' you crave, huh?"

And that makes your pussy clench. From the minute, he enters you, you're clawing at his skin and he's groaning at the snugness of your tight wet pussy as he takes pleasure in the pain. It's addicting.

Your sharp nails against his shoulder blades, biceps, and the nape of his neck and your teeth buried in his neck as he fucks you so good. It's a deep, fast, and ravenous rhythm that makes you cum in two minutes. The orgasm he gives you is unlike any other you've experienced. Maybe because it was wrong. Using company time to fuck your teammate wasn't the best decision in the world.

But the way your body spasms, seeking purchase in his dark locks as he thrusts deep into you, getting at that sweet spot beyond that spongy area. Oh man, it's like a seventh heaven as you moan out his name.

And Johnny? Mans is on another planet. He can't even believe you're letting him fuck you. And the way you cum so quickly on his dick? He can't even hold out any longer, quickly following suit, but he's still hard. His dick molding your insides and you wipe the sweat that forms at your brow before stretching out your arms and giggling.

"Fuck, that was...that was really fun." You breathe. A grin stretches across his lips and he peeks down at the milky ring around his cock.

"Looks like ye had a lotta fun." He retorts, and you chuckle at his obvious remark.

You study the marks you've left on his body and he's more than happy to parade them around. "

"I loved it." He reassures. And he did. It was worth the two minutes, and maybe even more if you'd let him.

"Good." You grin before kissing his chin, and nipping at it. He groans in pleasure.

"Keep doin' tha' and I'm gonna have another go at ya."

You bite your lip looking at him with mischief brimming in your eyes. "Try me."

masterlist

[lostintransist]

WAIT I JUST SAW YOU HAVE A GHOST ONE TOO. I know it will be good food too 🙂‍↕️☆

I'm so awkward sometimes. I didn't know how to respond to this one so have a different au, this time it's Ghost as the gym and not Simon. (I like to think of them as two halves of a whole, inextricably linked, but not the same)

Ghost watched through Simon's eyes today. Something had tickled his senses upon waking and brought him to the forefront. Maybe the birds hadn't sung.

You watched everything with sharp eyes. He couldn't tell the color from the distance but he knew they would prick his flesh and rip into his soul.

He had learned a fact recently. Humans, as they are mammals, are more affected by imperceptible pheromones than previously thought. Specifically, this fact had been about how you attract and are attracted to those with similar levels of emotional wounds.

Ghost had stepped onto the one next to you, just to see what happened. Both your hands curled around the bars of the stair master.

Good. You clocked the predatory glint in his gaze.

The pad of his finger pressed the start button. The machine whirled to life with the weariness of things crafted on Hephaestus' worktable, doomed to constant motion.

The timer on your machine flashed up in numbers.

23:44

23:45

23:46

23:47

Feet continued to step, endlessly rising like Sisyphus, gaining nothing more than the monotony of experience.

Ghost preferred Atlas. Something about the endless press of weight above him reminded him that if he could crawl his way out of hell once, he could do it again.

"Do you think training on the stairs will serve you better on your way to heaven or hell?"

Ghost isn't one for words, but damn when he is he said shit like that.

The side eye you give him is strong, on par with some of the looks he gets from Gaz. This one had a hint of contemplation and the bitter bite of a crab apple. Not good for eating, but for preserving things. Maybe preserving him?

"Preferably neither." You shift your head and glance him up and down.

He noticed how your gaze catches on his left arm, and the piece starting to work its way down his arm from under the other sleeve of his shirt.

"Oh?"

"I would prefer to haunt my enemies until they become ghosts and chase them into the deepest parts of the ocean to see if we all came from down below. If we did, I would hurl them in and see if ghosts, heat, and minerals are enough to spark life."

The look you give him is flat. You expected him to back off from the out-of-pocket statement. Twin needs; you want him to back off or prove he would handle this version of you. This must be your mask, it fits better than the one he wears.

"Have you been to the used music store across town?" Ghost doesn't let his speed decrease as he stares at you.

The brow you lift at him communicates loads. A smidge of interest, a hint of annoyance, and a boatload of 'shoot your shot I guess, let's see if it lands'.

"Let me buy you some music, a record or a CD, and a coffee. If we don't suit after an hour and a half you'll never see me again."

"Alright. Give me two hours to get myself prettied up and I'll meet you there. I will not be giving you my phone number." You press the off button and step until the machine sighs as it finds peace and powerlessness. "Let you have something to work toward."

Ghost watched you go. You didn't alter your stride, even knowing a a predator watched.

By nightfall Simon found himself whimpering for release as you rode him.

"Come on, Simon." You pant down at him with a feral grin on your teeth, "Can't keep up for all the big game you talk?"

Damn. Ghost got him into wilder and wilder situations, but fuck all if they didn't end up in a good time.

SoapGaz | John Price | Simon | Phillip Graves | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | Phillip Graves NSFW | AO3

Masterlist

@theorist-fox so I don't forget to send this to you later. 😘

[rileyslibrary]

Exhausted and in the middle of a week-long field exercise, you seek comfort and visit Ghost in the command tent.

———————————————————————

You step into the command tent, letting the entrance flap fall quietly behind you. The only light illuminating the place is a small hanging lamp above the worktable, filled with maps and scattered paperwork.

Your eyes gradually adjust to the dim interior, and your focus settles on the back of the figure before you. Ghost leans over the table, absorbed in a discussion over the comms about the field exercise’s next steps.

His leg is crossed in front of the other, and he glances over his broad shoulder as he senses your presence. He raises his fist, silently signalling for you to wait until he’s finished.

However, you’re not one to obey such commands from him; he knows that all too well.

You drag your weary feet across the ground, and the sound of rocks and dust echoes softly in the confined space. The lieutenant motions with his palm for you to move quietly as he continues the conversation with his comrades. This time, you decide to comply.

You walk cautiously and approach the workstation, closing the distance between you. Although behind him, you can see him better now; his head is lowered over the map spread across the table. He listens to the soldiers on the other end of the line, briefing him on safety protocols, emergency procedures, and potential hazards for tomorrow. He nods and murmurs the occasional “mhm” in response.

You place your thumbs into his pants’ belt loops and gently pull yourself closer to him. He doesn’t budge. You exhale through pieced lips, releasing the tension that had been building up, and nestle your face between his shoulder blades. You take a long and deep inhale, breathing him in. That’s the only scent you want to fill your lungs with right now—not the bitter odour of gunpowder nor the dry breeze of the fields—just him.

A stray wind ruffles the tent’s fabric from the outside, and he stiffens up. His head turns towards the source of the disturbance, and his hand retreats from the table to rest on your back as if protecting you from the outside.

“It’s alright,” you whisper into his back, “just the wind.”

He relaxes, shifting his attention back to the comms. His hand migrates from your back to your forearm, gently urging it out of his belt loops. He lifts it to his lips, kissing your hand beneath the balaclava he wears. He sets it against his stomach and holds it there. You follow his lead, repeating the gesture with your other hand and wrapping yourself around him, intertwining your fingers.

He delivers the final instructions over the comms and signs off. He straightens up.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, yet still holding your wrapped hands around him.

“You shouldn’t have let me in,” You reply.

You feel his right hand moving, grabbing a pen and writing something on the map. “It’s not as if you ever ask for permission,” he remarks.

You take another deep breath into his back, followed by an audible sigh.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you reply. “Just tired.”

He puts the pen down, lifts his right arm, and you slide beneath it. He hugs your shoulder, and you rest your head on his chest. You both look at the worktable in front of you.

“What’s all this?” you ask.

He shrugs and kisses the top of your head. “You know what they are.” He replies, his voice muffled by your hair.

“I don’t wanna do tomorrow.” You frown as you gesture at the map. “It looks... chaotic.”

His hand shifts from your shoulder to rest on your waist, gently guiding you until you stand between him and the table. You look up into his sleep-deprived, bloodshot eyes. He, too, is tired.

“Nobody does,” he replies, “but we have to, yeah?”

You nod and brush your fingers against his chest. He plants one final kiss on your forehead, then taps your hip twice with his hand.

“Off you go,” he commands. “tomorrow will be a long day.”

You pout and grumble, but he doesn’t back down. You have no choice but to yield to his authority. You walk towards the exit and lift the tent’s flap.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” You venture.

He shakes his head. “Too many eyes, love,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “Wait until we’re back at the base.”

You sigh softly. “I miss you.” You confess.

He turns his entire body towards you as he leans against the work table. The hanging lamp reveals his eyes; there’s a smile hidden within them.

He nods. It’s his way of saying ‘Me too,’ and that’s all you need. He may not voice affection openly, but he doesn’t have to. You understand each other in ways words could never express.

He extends his hand towards you, palm facing down. He makes a small, subtle wave with his wrist, insinuating that you’re standing in the middle of the entrance with the flap open, making yourself an easy target to spot for whoever passes by.

You snap back to reality, excuse yourself, and exit his tent. You make your way towards your own, longing for the moment you’ll finally be reunited at the base.

———————————————————————

[yaespook]

Run 4 - In Progress.

✧ Room Content: Dom! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Android! Wanderer, no gendered terms used for reader, no actual penetration, unhealthy obsessive and possessive relationship from Wanderer, memory manipulation. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: If possible, use the InteractiveFics extension to change the phrase “My name” (without the quotation marks) to the name given to your Wanderer.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

You must have picked him up two or three weeks ago, when he was still worse for wear. In your memory, he was in pretty bad shape when the two of you first met, his main panel wrenched open leaving his circuitry a mess and rough scrapes all over his superficial layer.

Now, with your constant repairs, he’s been more lively, tailing you around the house as you go about your day. While fussing about, dusting off a muzzle laying on a fur pelt, you sense a presence lingering outside your room.

"You know, I don't recall androids being quite so clingy." In return, you get a light huff from behind the door frame. 

"And you’ve come across other androids? I didn’t know you run a junkyard here,” the eye roll in his tone is audible.

His feet pad into the room and his gaze hones in on the clerical collar placed on a nearby shelf, glaring at it. Clicking his tongue, he crosses his hands on his chest.

“Whatever, what you do is mostly up to you anyway. Do you think you’re almost done cleaning? I think there’s an internal problem again, I’ll wait for you at the worktable,” the android saunters off nonchalantly, throwing you a light wave over his shoulder.

Sighing, you quickly finish up your task at hand before complying to his request, briskly making your way over to the worktable where he's already perched smugly on, his gaze expectant. 

You easily go through the rehearsed motions of plugging him up to your computer, your muscle memory kicking in as you boot up the required softwares before gingerly prying the main panel located on the front of his torso to gain access to his internal workings. Over time, you've gradually figured out the parts that make up the android sitting before you, growing used to the sight of the lengths of wiring and cables running throughout his body, the faint low mechanical whirring of motors and cooling systems. 

Most importantly, you now understand how sensitive his central core is. Nestled securely in a latched transparent casing, his core is what powers and sustains him. It emits a constant turquoise light and is also reflected in the glowing markings that lay beneath his synthetic skin that occasionally activate. (Although, you haven't quite gotten an answer for what makes them light up yet.) 

“So what's your problem today?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from him as you go over to your computer to check if any bugs have been identified.

“I think that cable all the way at the back came undone and got tangled with the rest.” 

You shoot him a pointed look, “Again? Didn’t we just fix that same cable last week?” Shifting your chair so you’re seated before him, poised to conduct your repairs, you make a passing remark, “Maybe taking you to another mechanic might be the better choice, get everything checked out, you know?”

How long have you kept at your task of finally fixing him up to tiptop condition? It’s almost daily when he reports back to you with a new disconnected wire or another loose joint somewhere on him. Diligently, you’ve been trying to repair him but the android is like a never-ending to-do list. And it’s only natural to be concerned if the constant damage stems from a more serious underlying issue that you haven’t managed to discover. The only next logical step would be to get another pair of eyes to help discern the root cause in case anything takes a turn for the worse.

But the reaction you get from him is one unexpected. His head snaps to face you, a scowl evident on his face. 

“So you’re handing me off like an unfinished project to someone else now?”

You know how snippy he can get however, this is on a different level from his previous behaviour. Maybe something left over from the days before you found him. It’ll be a good idea to look into his past logs to diagnose any present problems, you make a mental note of it.

“I’m just worried for you, that’s all. What if there’s an urgent issue I can’t fix alone? And we both know I can’t leave you as is.”

His expression mellows to an annoyed pout, looking away as his core glows faintly along with the patterns under his skin, he mumbles, “I’ll be fine.” (“I just need you.”) (“I'm the only one for you.”) (“No one else deserves you.”)

He allows you to work without another complaint, silently watching as your hands venture into his chest, a focused air to you while you look for the problematic cable. He senses your touch when you make contact with it, sucking in a sharp breath as you grip it between your fingers, twisting it around to free it from the surrounding wires before you finally connect and plug it into its rightful place. 

“That’s it for your cable issue. Anything else?” He quickly shakes his head.

Giving it a few light cursory pulls to make sure it’s finally secured, (if you weren’t mistaken, his core brightened in time with your tugs), you spare the rest of his parts one last look over. Then, shutting the panel, you unplug him from the computer.

Immediately, he scampers off the worktable with a clipped “thank you” and runs into his room. You hear the door to his room close before its lock clicks. 

The next few days prove to be better, the repair requests for any troubles that seem to have cropped up overnight growing more and more infrequent. Perhaps, bit by bit, the end of the repairs start to come into sight. 

Although, you have noted that his internal temperatures have been hiking recently whenever you have his chest panel open to patch him up. 

This time, you have him lying on the worktable on his back to access the further areas in him. He’s positioned facing upwards but his eyes are darting everywhere, unable to meet your gaze. Once again, the programme open on your computer screen shows how his temperatures are quickly rising even though there are no obvious reasons for such a sudden change. It records the recurrence into its troubleshooting log like before, more times than you can remember.

He’s panting lightly, the android’s chest moving up and down as your ears pick up the sound of his inner fans whir louder, his pre-programmed functions activating to try to cool him down. With no clue as to what could cause this issue, you reach in to look for a fault. Yet, the more you poke and prod around, the higher the warmth within him rises. 

Left with more questions than answers, you turn to his core for a closer look. When your fingers brush against the transparent casing, a moan slips out from him, and instantly his head whips to look at you dumbfounded.

An artificial blush takes over his face, a low pink glow blooming from beneath the synthetic layer. A beat passes before he cracks his lips apart, voicebox working as he pleads.

“...Again.”

Gently, you let your fingertips dance over the clasp hinging the casing shut and his response is instant. A shudder rolls through him, as real as it can be, and a shaky exhale leaves him. The android’s back arches up slightly, hastily chasing after your touch when you remove your hand.

Your caress returns when your hand dips deeper into his circuitry, where you hook two fingers underneath his thicker cables, attentively stroking them between your thumb and fingers, before tugging on them forcefully enough to elicit a reaction from him. 

His eyes fly open at your ministrations, a greed for more overtaking his processors. You’ve always been so gentle with him when he’s opened up for you, when you have access to the deepest parts of him, when he’s at his most vulnerable. So, to have you toy around with him, show him the indulgence of human flesh, can you really fault him for falling for you?

The tips of your fingers ghost along the length of his metal spine, and the android keens from under you.

“Please, more, I can take it!”

Taking his cue, your hand encircles his spine, grinding the heel of your palm against the ridges of the sensitive metal elements as you pump up and down. 

“Sss- so good! Hah…!” He can’t control how he behaves when you treat him so well, like he’s the only one worthy of your attention. He shakes under your touch, trembling as the addictive pleasure overrides his programmed commands.

“No more blubbering, just focus on me.” Your other hand goes to cup his chin, and obediently, he parts his lips for you, allowing you to slip your thumb into his mouth. You can feel his tongue work and when you press down, he jolts suddenly. A gag reflex? In an android? How amusing.

When you stop stroking him, he whines pitifully, muffled moans and begging for you to continue but his complaints stop when he feels you unlatch the lid of his core casing.

“Would you let me?” And the flurry of nods from him confirms his enthusiasm.

With bated breath, he counts the seconds before you make contact with his core. And when he senses your caress on his glowing core in his exposed chest cavity, he breathes out a gasp, as if he requires the intake of air. None of this is written into the basis of his behaviour, not fed into the dataset that makes up how he’s supposed to act, so everything he feels for you must be real.

His eyes go unfocused as his neural network is flooded with the raw pleasure of being enveloped with love and lust down to his literal core. Desire burns within him, evident from the fans whirring even louder than before to bring down his temperatures. It’s just so much for the android’s computations to handle. Broken moans leave him as he tries to vocalise his love for you (as best as he can with his thumb in your mouth). 

And when you press a kiss to his unprotected core, his vision whites out.

Eyes wrenched shut, his whole mechanical body jerks upwards, back arching off the worktable as his body propels himself to sit up, his limbs trying to ensnare you in his embrace, to keep you with him as long as he can. Every command in his system is overwritten to hone in on all the sensations of you on him, your touch, your warmth.

The patterns under his skin glow with a pulse, akin to a human’s heartbeat and when his eyes open again, glimmering faux tears roll down his face. His chest heaves as you close the distance between the two of you, cupping his face with both your hands and kissing his tears away.

The android breaks the intimate silence as he quietly asks you, “Can you give me a name?”

When you whisper a name into his ear, he breaks into sobs in your hands.

The days pass by, uneventful, and the time for a final cursory check before deeming him fully repaired comes. He’s poised on the worktable like any other previous session, a bored expression on his face as you flit back and forth between him and the software on your computer.

“You really are a clingy case,” you say and get a huff in return, “But a welcome one.”

Remembering your mental note from before about accessing his past logs, you access it from your computer, pulling up the window with his stored recorded data. The log operates in the background constantly, one of the built-in functions of the android and a quick glance over just to make sure everything is in order should do.

However, the logs prove to be worrying in a completely different way.

[Log: Day 10 - Run 1 - Failed. Werewolf. They’re with that mangy mutt. I don’t know what they see in him. I still remember the care they showed me. There’s always the next run.]

[Log: Day 20 - Run 2 - Failed. It seems I’m too late this time around. That vile selkie captured them first. How irritating. I need to stop hesitating. It’s my love on the line after all.]

[Log: Day 30 - Run 3 - Failed. Incubus. That damn priest and incubus. I can feel my temper reaching its breaking point.]

[Log: Day ??? - Run 4 - In progress. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.]

Your eyes rake across a multitude of grainy snapshots of yourself, all with different people that you can’t find the ability to recall, your mind pounding from the discovery. 

He’s gazing expectantly when you look back up at him from the screen. A grin twists its way across his face, canines glinting under the dizzying harsh lighting.

“So now you’ve seen how much I love you, even if you don’t remember it.” There’s a sick obsession dripping in his tone, an uncanny level of emotion that androids normally shouldn’t be able to replicate, one that sends a heavy uneasiness through your whole being, one that roots you to the ground. 

When he doesn’t get the adoring reaction from you he expects, the proud expression on his face falls instantly. 

He’s despondent, despairing as he tears the connecting cables off of him, launching himself off the worktable, lunging across for you, frenzied, pure scorching mania surging through him. 

“You… even after all these runs. You’ve always given me the same thing. My name. I thought this time- You-” 

Voice shaky, “It’s a shame this run didn’t work out either.” 

He steels himself, hand outstretched, “No matter.”

You blink.

There’s an unfamiliar android sitting atop your worktable.

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[aspenmissing]

Hiiiii!! I hope your day is going well! I LOVE your writing so much, I'm constantly checking your page for any new posts all the time! 💜

I was wondering if I could make a request for some arcane characters (especially Silco) having a muscular girlfriend, like built like Rhea Ripley or Sevika type of muscular? So I myself am really into weight lifting, and sometimes I don't feel feminine enough to be with a man because of the muscle I've built up, and I was wondering if you could do something with that? I'm sorry if it doesn't make sense, 😅 this is my first time requesting anything from anyone. I completely understand if you don't want to do it for any reason!

ʀᴀᴡ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 5038 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ/ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ/ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ʙᴏᴅʏ ꜱʜᴀᴍɪɴɢ/ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱ (ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴀʏ ɪꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢʟʏ, ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ! ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ɴᴏᴛ, ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ <3, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴘʟᴇɴᴅɪᴅ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ɪ ᴛʜᴏʀᴏᴜɢʜʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ɪᴛ! (ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴜꜱᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ (ᴀɴᴅ ʀʜᴇᴀ ʀɪᴘʟᴇʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ) <3)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

JAYCE

The forge burned bright, casting flickering shadows across the workshop. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal reverberated through the air, a steady soundtrack to Y/N’s tireless work. Her muscles tensed, shifting beneath her skin as she tightened the last bolt into place, her strength making the task look effortless. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of grease in its wake. The sharp scent of burning coal and molten metal mingled in the heavy air, but Y/N found comfort in it—it was the scent of creation, of power, of purpose.

She barely flinched when a familiar voice echoed from behind her, smooth and teasing.

"You know, you might be stronger than me, but I’ve still got a sharper mind," Jayce remarked, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the workbench, his expression smug.

Y/N scoffed, turning to face him with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her arms flexed slightly as she shifted her weight, the sheer power in her physique evident in the way her muscles moved beneath her skin. "That sounds like something a man who just lost an arm-wrestling match would say."

Jayce groaned, running a hand down his face. "I let you win."

"Sure you did. And I suppose I imagined that sulky look you had for an hour after?" she quipped, stepping closer. Their height was nearly matched, and as she closed the gap between them, the tension between them crackled like the electricity of a charged hex crystal. The scent of smoke, steel, and sweat clung to them both, and Jayce found himself more captivated than he cared to admit.

His eyes roamed over her, admiration clear even as he tried to mask it behind feigned exasperation. "You know, for someone built like a war goddess, you’re annoyingly smug."

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping into something more intimate, her breath warm against his cheek. "And yet, you love it."

Jayce exhaled sharply, his confidence faltering for just a second before his hands instinctively found her waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of her worn workshirt. "Unfortunately, yes."

Y/N chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as she reached up and traced a calloused thumb along his jawline. The contrast of her rough fingers against the smoothness of his skin sent a shiver down his spine. "You should work on your grip strength if you ever want to win next time."

Jayce let out a short laugh, tilting his head with an amused glint in his eyes. "Oh, I’m working on something better." His hands tightened around her waist, suddenly shifting his stance. In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the worktable with a satisfied smirk. "Maybe I should start testing my strength in other ways."

Y/N arched a brow, utterly unfazed by his display of dominance. If anything, the gleam in her eyes suggested she was entertained by it. "If you think you can handle it, be my guest."

Jayce’s smirk widened, his confidence returning in full force. His face inched closer, his lips barely brushing hers. "Oh, I’m more than willing to find out."

The forge fire roared beside them, but the heat between them burned hotter. The air was thick with challenge, want, and the silent understanding that whatever came next would be a battle neither of them wanted to lose.

Jayce’s fingers traced slow circles at her waist, his touch firm but teasing. "You know, for someone who claims to be stronger, you’re letting me hold you down pretty easily."

Y/N rolled her eyes, the glint of mischief flashing in them before she moved. With one sharp twist of her torso and a flex of her powerful arms, she reversed their positions in a blink. Jayce found himself the one pinned now, his back pressed against the sturdy worktable, Y/N towering over him with an amused smirk.

"What was that?" she mused, tilting her head mockingly. "Something about letting you hold me down?"

Jayce huffed a breathless laugh, the mix of surprise and admiration written all over his face. "I should’ve seen that coming."

"You really should’ve." Y/N’s fingers trailed up his chest, her nails grazing along the fabric of his vest. "But it’s cute that you thought you had me."

Jayce groaned dramatically. "You enjoy this way too much."

"Oh, absolutely." Her voice was honeyed, teasing, but there was something deeper beneath it—a challenge, an invitation.

Jayce’s hands tightened around her hips, his body thrumming with the same competitive energy that had always defined their relationship. "Then I guess I’ll just have to keep finding ways to turn the tables."

Y/N leaned in close, their noses nearly brushing, her lips hovering just out of reach. "Good luck with that."

His lips parted slightly, ready to close the gap, but just as he moved, she pulled back with a smirk, leaving him chasing the ghost of her touch. Jayce let out an exaggerated groan, rubbing a hand over his face as she chuckled triumphantly.

"You’re insufferable," he muttered, but there was no heat in his words, only fondness.

"And you love it," Y/N reminded him with a wink, turning back toward her tools. "Now, if you’re done trying to prove yourself, I actually have work to do."

Jayce sighed, running a hand through his hair before smirking again. "I’ll let you work, but this isn’t over."

Y/N only grinned over her shoulder. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

VIKTOR

The laboratory hummed with the soft glow of hextech, casting blue reflections across the polished floors. Tools and blueprints lay scattered over Viktor’s workbench, forgotten in the wake of his intense concentration. The metallic scent of machinery and faint traces of burnt ozone filled the air, mingling with the ever-present dampness of Zaun. His cane rested within arm’s reach, leaning against the table—an extension of himself, always present, but secondary to his mind’s pursuit.

Then came the sound of boots. Heavy, deliberate, and confident.

Viktor didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He could feel the shift in the air, the distinct scent of oil and steel mixed with something uniquely her—warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of Zaun’s ever-burning pipes.

“Still working?”

Her voice, smooth and deep, rumbled like distant thunder. A sound that promised both comfort and devastation, depending on who was listening.

Viktor smirked but didn’t look up immediately, his golden eyes flicking across the equations before him. “When am I not?”

He finally turned, gaze drifting upward to meet hers. She was a sight to behold.

The dim hextech lighting cast sharp shadows over her frame, emphasizing the powerful cut of her arms, the broad set of her shoulders, and the sheer presence that followed her like an unspoken force. She wasn’t just strong—she was built. Every muscle, every inch of her screamed dominance, yet she looked at him with a softness that no one else was privileged to see.

Y/N closed the distance between them with a few long strides, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to take a break.”

Viktor exhaled through his nose, a chuckle barely escaping his lips. “That is debatable.”

Her lips quirked. He always had a witty remark, always teasing despite the exhaustion etched into his features. The dark circles under his eyes had grown deeper, the sharp angles of his face more pronounced.

He was pushing himself again.

Without another word, she reached out, gripping his waist with ease and lifting him like he weighed nothing.

“Miláček—!” Viktor’s voice hitched, startled, but she only adjusted him until he was sitting on the edge of the workbench, her large hands firm yet careful. (Darling)

He swallowed hard. His cane clattered against the wood as he instinctively reached out to steady himself, but she was already there, her hands settling on either side of him, pinning him in place.

“This is what you get for not taking care of yourself,” she murmured, her voice lower now, softer.

He felt it then—that contrast between them. His fragility, her unshakable strength. She could crush him in an instant if she wanted to, but instead, she cradled him, held him like something precious.

Viktor’s breath came a little shorter, golden eyes flickering to her hands, to the way her muscles tensed beneath her skin, veins subtly visible beneath the dim glow of the laboratory’s light.

Her fingers trailed along his jaw, tilting his face up.

“How long since you ate?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, mind racing between pride and the truth.

“I… may have lost track of time.”

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Y/N’s lips. Caught.

“Figured. You always do.”

She reached behind her, pulling a wrapped meal from her belt—something she had clearly anticipated. The habit had started after far too many nights of finding him hunched over his workbench, exhausted, starving, too lost in his research to notice the passage of time.

Viktor sighed, feigning dramatic exasperation. “You are terribly persistent.”

“And you love it.” She peeled back the wrapping and held it up to him expectantly.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he took a slow bite, gaze never leaving hers. There was something intimate in the way she watched him, the way she waited for him to eat, to take care of himself.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, watching him chew. “Good?”

He swallowed, licking his lips. “You always bring the best food. Are you sure you are not trying to fatten me up?”

A chuckle rumbled from her chest, deep and rich. “Maybe. You could use a little more weight.”

Viktor huffed, but he let her feed him another bite anyway.

She stepped closer, her body nearly pressed between his knees now. The warmth of her presence was inescapable, surrounding him in a way that sent a slow shiver down his spine.

Y/N leaned in, her breath brushing against his cheek. “You can keep working,” she whispered, a promise, a challenge, a demand all in one. “But only if you let me take care of you.”

Viktor exhaled, his fingers curling around the edge of the bench. He was a man of logic, of science—but with her, logic had no place.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, lips ghosting against hers, not quite a kiss but a silent surrender.

“Very well,” he murmured.

Y/N smirked, pressing a brief, heated kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back—just enough to make him chase after her touch.

“I knew you’d see reason,” she teased.

And Viktor, for once, let himself be weak in her arms. After all, what was steel without something strong to temper it?

JAYVIK

The soft glow of Piltover’s evening lights filtered through the window of the shared bedroom, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. The room was warm, filled with the scent of parchment, oil, and the faint metallic tang of Hextech—Viktor’s and Jayce’s lingering presences intertwined with hers. Yet, Y/N couldn’t feel it. Not tonight.

She stood in front of the mirror, arms crossed over her torso, gaze tracing the hard lines of her reflection. Strong. Broad. Unshapely. The voices from the Academy’s halls echoed in her mind.

“Have you seen her? She could snap a man in two.”

“Not exactly the delicate kind, is she?”

“Jayce and Viktor must be into something… unconventional.”

Her jaw tightened. It wasn’t the first time she had heard people talk. It shouldn’t have mattered. She knew she was strong. That strength had carved her a place in Piltover’s elite, had let her hold her own in a world that valued refinement and poise over raw power. But standing there, looking at herself—she didn’t feel like the kind of woman Piltover whispered about in admiration.

A sigh sounded behind her. The familiar thump of Viktor’s cane was gentle as he approached, his golden eyes heavy with quiet understanding. He didn’t speak immediately. Viktor had a way of watching, studying, absorbing the weight of her emotions before offering his words.

“Your shoulders are tense,” he observed, his voice laced with concern. He moved beside her, his fingers ghosting along her forearm. “And your eyes are unkind to you tonight.”

Before she could respond, another presence joined them, the warmth of Jayce’s body pressing gently against her from behind. His large hands slid over her waist, fingers firm yet tender as he leaned down to press his lips to her bare shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet since we came back,” Jayce murmured. “What’s going on?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, staring at her reflection. “I heard some people talking,” she admitted, voice clipped. “About me. About us.”

Jayce and Viktor exchanged a glance, but neither interrupted. They knew she needed to get it out.

“They think it’s strange that you two are with someone like me. That I’m…” Her voice wavered, something bitter catching in her throat. “Not feminine enough.”

A beat of silence. Then, Viktor exhaled, the sound sharp, disapproving. “Imbeciles,” he muttered, his accent thick with disdain. He moved closer, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. “And you listen to them?”

Jayce scoffed, arms tightening around her waist. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know you.”

“But they’re right,” she whispered. “I don’t look like the women they expect you to be with.” She forced herself to hold Viktor’s gaze in the mirror, even as shame clawed at her chest. “I don’t feel like I fit next to you two.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, tilting her face slightly toward him. His touch was gentle despite the coolness of his fingers. “You are not meant to fit into their expectations,” he murmured. “You are meant to be you.”

Jayce nodded, his lips pressing against her temple. “You’re strong. Beautiful. Gods, Y/N, have you seen yourself? I mean really looked?”

She wanted to argue, but Viktor was already guiding her gaze back to the mirror, his voice low and insistent. “Look at how Jayce holds you,” he said. “Like he never wants to let go.”

Jayce squeezed her waist, his grip reverent. “Because I don’t.”

“And look at how I stand beside you.” Viktor leaned against his cane, yet his posture was firm, unwavering. “Not as a man towering over a delicate flower, but as your equal. As your partner.”

Y/N swallowed hard, emotion tightening in her throat. She had spent so long focusing on what she lacked, what she thought she wasn’t, that she hadn’t truly seen herself through their eyes. The unwavering devotion in Viktor’s gaze, the adoration in Jayce’s touch—it was all there. It had always been there.

Jayce turned her around, cradling her face between his hands. “I love you,” he said firmly, eyes dark with sincerity. “Every part of you.”

Viktor stepped forward, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “As do I.” His voice was quieter, but no less certain. “The world may try to tell you what a woman should be, but we know what you are. And we wouldn’t change a thing.”

Y/N’s breath shuddered out of her. The weight on her chest didn’t vanish entirely, but it lessened, replaced with something warmer, something steadier. She wasn’t alone in this. She never had been.

She looked between them, then back at the mirror—not with disgust this time, but with something closer to acceptance. Maybe even pride.

And as Jayce pulled her into a slow, deep kiss, with Viktor’s fingers lacing through hers, she let herself believe it.

VANDER

The scent of alcohol, fried food, and the faint tinge of smoke lingered in the Last Drop as Y/N hoisted a massive crate of bottled liquor over her shoulder with ease. The wooden floor creaked under her boots as she carried it behind the counter, setting it down with a satisfying thud.

From behind the bar, Vander looked up, arms crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "You know, I could’ve helped with that."

"You could have," Y/N replied, rolling her shoulders, her muscles flexing slightly as she loosened up. "But then you wouldn’t get to admire me in action, would you?"

Vander let out a low chuckle, stepping closer with a slow shake of his head. "That’s true." His eyes trailed over her strong frame, filled with something close to admiration. "Wouldn't dream of missing it."

Y/N gave him a knowing look. "Careful, old man, keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think you’re sweet on me."

Vander exhaled a laugh, reaching out to squeeze her bicep. "Think they already figured that out."

Before he could steal a kiss, a high-pitched voice interrupted.

"Y/N! Y/N! Can you lift me next?"

Powder came barrelling toward her, blue eyes wide with excitement, already reaching her arms up like a child asking to be picked up.

With a fond shake of her head, Y/N scooped the girl up effortlessly, hoisting her onto her shoulders like she weighed nothing. Powder let out a delighted whoop, her small hands grabbing onto Y/N’s head as she stretched her arms out like wings.

"I’m taller than you now, Vi!" Powder declared proudly, her feet kicking lightly against Y/N’s chest.

Vi, who was leaning against a table with her arms crossed, scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, we all know Y/N’s got muscles for days." She eyed Y/N's arms, clearly impressed despite her casual tone. "Speaking of… you gonna teach me how to throw a punch or what?"

Y/N let Powder slide off her shoulders and smirked, cracking her knuckles. "You sure you’re ready for that, kid? I don’t go easy."

Vi’s grin widened, excitement sparking in her eyes. "I hope not."

Vander groaned, shaking his head. "Vi, if she breaks you, I’m the one who has to deal with it."

Y/N shot him a teasing glance. "Please. She’s your daughter. Stubborn as hell. She can take it."

Vi straightened up a little at that, looking more than pleased with herself.

Before Y/N could say anything more, Claggor walked up, rubbing the back of his head. "Hey, Y/N, I bet you could break one of those barrels out back with your bare hands. Wanna test it?"

Y/N raised a brow. "Why? You trying to see if I’m part Shimmer monster or something?"

Claggor grinned. "No, just wanna see if you’re stronger than Vander."

Vander let out a dramatic scoff. "Oi! I’m standing right here."

Mylo, sitting on a barstool with his feet kicked up, smirked. "We all know who’s stronger, old man. Ain’t no shame in it."

Y/N crossed her arms, looking Vander up and down with mock appraisal. "So, you gonna admit defeat now, or should I arm-wrestle you in front of everyone?"

Vander stepped closer, his lips twitching as he met her gaze. "You think you could take me, love?"

Y/N didn’t hesitate. "I know I could."

Vander sighed, rubbing his chin in thought. "Hmm. Maybe I should let you win. Just this once."

"Ha! So you admit it!" Mylo cackled.

Vander shot him a look but couldn’t hide his smirk. "Alright, alright. Let’s settle this, then." He rolled up his sleeve and placed his arm on the bar. "Loser does all the heavy lifting for a week."

Y/N snorted. "You already make me do that anyway."

Vander laughed. "This time, it’d be for fun."

The kids gathered around, eager to watch.

"Three… two… one—GO!" Vi shouted.

Vander pushed, his muscles straining, but Y/N didn’t budge.

"Uh-oh," Claggor muttered, eyes widening.

Mylo leaned forward, grinning. "Damn, Vander, you’re struggling!"

Y/N cocked her head. "You good, old man?"

Vander grit his teeth, trying to shift the angle, but Y/N took advantage of his hesitation and slammed his hand down onto the bar with a loud thunk.

The room erupted.

"YES!" Powder threw her arms in the air. "Y/N wins!"

Vi doubled over laughing. Claggor gave a victorious fist pump. Mylo looked like he was going to cry from laughter.

Vander groaned, rubbing his wrist. "Yeah, yeah, alright. Get it out of your system."

Y/N grinned, leaning her elbow on the bar. "Told you."

Vander shook his head with a chuckle, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. "Fine. You win." His voice softened just a little. "But you’re still carrying the next shipment."

Y/N laughed, giving him a light shove before relenting and letting him hold her. "Yeah, yeah. Like I’d let you do it anyway."

The kids were still celebrating as Powder climbed back onto her shoulders, and Vander just exhaled a laugh.

Life in the Lanes was tough, but together, they built something stronger than steel—family.

And for Vander, well… there was no one else he’d rather have by his side.

SILCO

The dim glow of Silco’s office bathed the room in a wash of amber and shadows, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and smoldering tobacco. It was a quiet night, the hum of Zaun’s underbelly distant beyond the walls.

Y/N sat beside him, as she always did—a silent, constant presence at his side. She draped herself in a dark, well-fitted coat, the fine tailoring hiding the sculpted power beneath. If one didn’t know better, they might mistake her for just another of Silco’s lieutenants, a woman of sharp wit and sharper eyes.

But she was so much more than that.

She was beautiful in a way that left people speechless, a rare kind of allure wrapped in muscle and confidence. Her face, all defined angles and smooth lines, carried a striking elegance—one that softened only for Silco, and even then, just barely. Her beauty was undeniable, yet it was always followed by disbelief.

Because how could someone so breath-taking, so effortlessly graceful, be the same woman who broke men apart with her bare hands?

=

Silco remembers the first time he laid eyes on Y/N, she was drenched in sweat and blood, standing victorious in the heart of the pits. The crowd roared her name—a guttural chant that echoed through the underground like a war cry. She was unlike anything he had seen before: powerful, precise, and utterly relentless.

She had made quick work of her opponent, a man twice her size, breaking him down with brutal efficiency. And when she turned, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her hand, their eyes met. A flicker of something unspoken passed between them.

She was dangerous.

And he wanted her.

So he made her an offer. And she accepted.

At first, she was his champion, the shadow lurking just behind him, a blade he could wield when necessary. But as time passed, the lines blurred. The sharp words they exchanged turned into private conversations late into the night. The way she stood by his side became something more than duty.

And now, she was more than his weapon.

She was his.

=

Silco took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke in a thin stream as his gaze drifted to her. Even in the low light, she was a sight to behold—composure like steel, presence like a silent storm waiting to break.

His queen.

“Something on your mind?” she murmured, her voice smooth but edged with something knowing.

He smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Just reminiscing.”

A single dark brow lifted. “About?”

“The first time I saw you.” His voice was almost wistful, fingers reaching out to trace idly over her knuckles, his touch a stark contrast to the brutality she was capable of. “You were magnificent.”

Y/N chuckled, low and rich. “I still am.”

His laughter was quiet, appreciative. “That you are.”

She leaned back in her chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the picture of controlled ease. But Silco knew her too well—she was always watching, always calculating. No movement in the room escaped her notice, no potential threat left unaccounted for.

“I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t come to you that night,” she mused, eyes dark with contemplation. “If I had stayed down in the pits.”

Silco’s grip on her hand tightened, his scarred fingers pressing firmly against her skin.

“You wouldn’t have.”

She turned her gaze to him, curious.

“You were never meant to be someone’s entertainment,” he murmured, eyes burning with something deep, something possessive. “You were meant to be something far greater.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Your weapon?”

“No.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, deliberate. “My queen.”

For a moment, Y/N was silent, that rare flicker of emotion crossing her sharp features. Then, she leaned in, pressing a firm kiss to his scarred cheek, her lips warm against his cool skin.

“I like the sound of that.”

Because it was true.

She was never meant to be caged in a pit, throwing punches for drunken gamblers. She was never meant to be anything less than what she was now—the shadow at his side, the storm on the horizon, the queen beside the king.

And in the underbelly of Zaun, where power meant survival, they reigned together—unstoppable, unchallenged, and utterly untouchable.

SEVIKA

The Last Drop was alive with the kind of energy that thrived in the Undercity—laughter that was too sharp to be friendly, the clatter of cards against wood, the tang of sweat and whiskey thick in the air.

You stood near the bar, arms crossed, the snug fit of your sleeveless top emphasizing the carved muscles of your arms. The dim lighting flickered against your skin, casting shifting shadows that danced over the solid contours of your frame. People noticed you—the way your presence took up space, the way you owned it.

But your attention wasn’t on them.

Your gaze was locked on her.

Sevika sat at her usual spot, legs spread in an easy sprawl, shoulders broad, coat draped over her chair. A woman built for war, for brawls in the dim alleyways of Zaun, for surviving every hell that the Undercity threw her way. The neon light caught the gleam of her metal arm as she shuffled her cards, cigarette perched between her lips, smoke curling upward in a lazy dance.

She smirked as she threw down her hand.

The man across from her stiffened, veins bulging at his temple. You could almost see his pride shatter into sharp, jagged pieces as Sevika raked in her winnings with a gloved hand.

“You cheat,” he spat, shoving himself up from his chair. His fists clenched tight—like that would do him any good.

Mistake.

Before Sevika could even move, you did.

Slow. Deliberate. Measured.

The room shifted, attention drawn toward the sudden shift in weight. The low, flickering lights made your shadow loom, swallowing him whole. You weren’t just tall—you were built, a force sculpted by hardship, sharpened by the same fire that tempered steel. The kind of strength that didn’t come from privilege, but from clawing your way up and winning.

The thug’s bravado wavered.

Up close, he barely reached your shoulder.

“You accusing her of something, sweetheart?”

Your voice was calm, but it carried weight—a lazy sort of threat, one that didn’t need to be stated outright. Your posture alone was enough. Shoulders squared, head tilted ever so slightly. A quiet promise of what would happen if he made the wrong decision.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

He wasn’t entirely stupid.

After a moment of hesitation, he muttered something under his breath and scurried off, tail tucked between his legs. The tension around the table faded, conversations resuming like nothing had happened. This was Zaun, after all—no one cared unless blood was spilled.

You chuckled softly, shaking your head before turning back to her.

Sevika was already watching you.

Amusement curled at the edges of her lips, sharp eyes dragging over your form in slow, deliberate assessment. She tapped her cigar against the tray, the ember glowing before dimming into curling smoke.

“You enjoy scaring off my entertainment?” she mused, voice edged with something dry, something knowing.

You stepped closer, looming over where she sat, and she didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver beneath the weight of your presence.

She met it. Matched it.

Your smirk was slow, teasing. “Didn’t realize you liked being disrespected.”

Sevika exhaled smoke, the scent mixing with the whiskey on her breath as she leaned back, prosthetic fingers tapping idly against her glass.

“I don’t,” she admitted, reaching out with her other hand to brush her fingers over your forearm. The touch was light, almost lazy, but intentional. She traced the veins that ran like rivers beneath your skin, the hard lines of muscle beneath her fingertips.

“But I do enjoy watching you step in.”

Something in your chest tightened—not in surprise, but in understanding.

Because you knew what she meant.

She wasn’t someone who needed anyone to defend her. Sevika could hold her own, could break a man in half without blinking. But that wasn’t the point. It was never about needing help—it was about who stood beside her when it mattered.

Your smirk softened, shifting into something smaller, something real. “That so?”

Sevika chuckled, low and rich.

Her fingers curled around the fabric of your collar, tugging you forward—not in aggression, not in demand, but something else. A silent appreciation, an unspoken acknowledgment of what had just passed between you.

The closeness was familiar, natural.

The weight of her forehead pressed lightly against yours for just a brief moment, the noise of the bar fading into something distant, something irrelevant. A pause in the storm, a rare stillness in the chaos of Zaun.

She exhaled, the breath warm against your cheek.

“Come upstairs,” she murmured, voice steady, calm.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a question.

It was an invitation.

A chance to be, without the weight of the Undercity pressing down. Without the watchful eyes, without the world demanding you be something hard, something unyielding, something unbreakable.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, letting the moment linger before finally nodding.

“Lead the way.”

And just like that, the game was over.

Sevika had won again.

[aventurineswife]

Reader is known for their VERY awful jokes. The problem? Is that they kept telling them CONSTANTLY despite being asked to stop doing it. One day, reader had a brilliant idea of a joke. They happily made their way to where their partner was. Their partner was not having the best day.. lots of work and stress. Probably not the time for jokes. But after reader told them the joke, they were shocked to see their partner laughing their asses off to the joke! Not only was this the first they ever laughed.. but this is the hardest they've seen them laughing! (Kaveritas, Shadow, Sunday, Dan heng)

Laughter is the Best Medicine

Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Ratio, Shadow (OC) x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, Humor, Slow Burn, Comfort, Lighthearted, Relationship Dynamics.

Warnings: Mentions of work stress, Mild language, Lighthearted humor (involving awful jokes).

Kaveh slouched over his worktable, a mess of blueprints and calculations before him. His hair was unkempt, and his usual golden glow seemed dimmed under the weight of stress. Ratio, seated across the room, furiously typed on his tablet, occasionally muttering something about inefficiency and “the tragic state of today’s academia.” The air was tense and heavy, but you were undeterred. You had a brilliant joke.

Waltzing into the room, you cleared your throat dramatically. Both men looked up, clearly annoyed.

“Not now, darling,” Kaveh groaned, rubbing his temple.

Ratio didn’t even bother looking away from his work. “If this is another one of your… attempts at humor, please reconsider.”

But you pressed on, undeterred. “Why did the architect go broke?”

Kaveh glared. “I don’t—”

“Because he made too many concrete plans!”

The silence was deafening. You almost regretted it—almost. Then, Kaveh broke. It started with a snort, which quickly escalated into uncontrollable laughter. His head hit the table as he cackled, tears forming in his eyes. Ratio’s expression was stoic at first, but a chuckle escaped him, and soon he was leaning back in his chair, laughing harder than you’d ever seen.

“You’re—killing me!” Kaveh gasped. “Concrete plans! I hate how good that is!”

Ratio wiped at his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… that was genuinely amusing.”

They spent the next hour repeating the joke to each other, the stress temporarily forgotten.

Shadow stood behind the counter of her bakery, her normally commanding presence overshadowed by an air of exhaustion. Her eyes flicked toward you as you walked in, but she barely mustered a smile. Business had been slow, and the weight of her past was pressing heavily today.

You approached her with a gleam in your eye. “Shadow,” you began, grinning mischievously.

“Not now,” she said, her voice low and tired.

But you couldn’t resist. “Why did the baker go to therapy?”

She sighed deeply. “Why?”

“Because they couldn’t handle the pressure!”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the oven timer. Then, to your surprise, Shadow let out a sharp laugh. Her laughter bubbled out, echoing through the empty shop. She leaned on the counter, clutching her sides as she howled with laughter.

“That’s—so—stupid!” she managed between laughs.

Seeing her smile again made your day, and for the rest of the afternoon, the bakery felt a little brighter.

Sunday sat on a hill overlooking the Dreamscape, his hair catching the light of the setting sun. His wings fluttered faintly, betraying his agitation. Something weighed heavily on him today—another reminder of his past, you supposed.

You approached quietly, holding a basket of snacks and wearing your best grin.

“Sunday?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, his voice distant.

“Why don’t Halovians like spicy food?”

He finally glanced at you, one elegant brow raised. “Why?”

“Because it’s too heavenly hot!”

For a second, his eyes blinked in confusion. Then he laughed—a rare, rich sound that made your heart leap. He doubled over, his wings twitching as he tried to contain himself.

“That was terrible,” he gasped between laughs. “And yet… I can’t stop laughing!”

You sat beside him, basking in the joy of his laughter as the Dreamscape seemed to glow a little brighter around you.

Dan Heng stood in the archives of the Astral Express. His usual stoic demeanor seemed even colder today, his focus entirely on the documents spread before him. You hesitated for a moment before stepping closer.

“Dan Heng?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up.

“I have a joke for you!”

“...I’m busy.”

“But it’s really good!” you insisted. “What do you call a spear-wielding archivist who’s bad at his job?”

He sighed. “What?”

“A pointless one!”

Dan Heng froze. Then, to your utter shock, he laughed. Not a quiet chuckle or a subtle smirk, but an actual laugh that left him breathless. He leaned against the table, shaking his head as he tried to compose himself.

“I can’t believe I laughed at that,” he muttered, still smiling. “That was… surprisingly clever.”

For the rest of the day, Dan Heng seemed lighter, and every time you caught his eye, he smiled faintly—a silent thank-you for brightening his day.

[suguwu]

this is messy but—

it’s been years since the flames dabi set in his father’s office turned on him. set their sparking teeth in his skin and refused to let go. it’s been years, but his scars never let him forget. 

he’s out of prison now, but for all his counselor talks a big game, he can’t find a job. so instead, when the noise is too much, he takes refuge at the little flower shop around the corner from his rehabilitation center. 

the mist in the air feels good on his scars and cools him off and the scent of earth is grounding. brings him back into his own skin. he lingers but never buys anything but you—the owner—never seems to chase him out.

you smile at him and bob your head in greeting before returning back to the bouquet you're making. it's like you trust him. maybe you do.

one day, he's running a finger over a leaf of a flower, one that blushes like the dawn, sweet, soft pink. he's afraid to touch a silken petal; thinks it will rot beneath his clumsy fingers, considering the way it ripples like a wave in the barest breeze.

"ranunculus."

he glances over his shoulder at you. "bless you."

you laugh.

"the flower," you explain. "it's called a ranunculus."

"oh."

"here," you say, picking one out of the bucket it's tucked into. the water sloshes; it gleams on the long, thick stem of the flower. "hold that for a second."

he blinks as you shove the flower into his hands. then you're plucking more flowers from nearby buckets, your hands moving like fluttering little birds. you gather more and more, until he can barely see you behind the greenery and the blooms. he recognizes some: proud, leggy irises; fluffy ball peonies, as white as driven snow; crimson tulips so dark they're almost black.

"c'mon," you say, heading towards your worktable. he follows, feeling a little ridiculous carrying a single bloom versus your meadow-like armful. you lay your wares out on the table and beckon him closer. he holds out the ranunculus. you flick off the end of the stem with your knife. he hovers, unsure.

"well?" you say. "are you gonna sit?"

he eyes you. you meet his gaze steadily, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips.

"feel bad for me?" he sneers. "that why you're being so nice?"

you hum.

"is putting you to work nice?" you ask, already on to the next flower. he watches the way you hold the knife, how it shines silver in the sunlight, how easily it slides through the thick stem. those hands of yours move with careful surety. he wonders if you do origami; he could see you creasing a thick piece of ornamental paper perfectly.

"i wouldn't call this work."

"no? then you shouldn't mind doing it."

he shoves his hands into his pockets. the misters turn on over the flower buckets; some of the spray settles against his skin, as if he's by the sea.

"fine," he says. "show me."

at the end of the day, you insist on paying him, despite the fact that he's cut a few of the stems too short—one of your bouquets is a little lopsided, but you have it displayed with all the others—and ruined a few blooms. there are petals stuck to his fingertips.

he goes home smelling of wet loam and your faint perfume. rei blinks her big doe eyes at his sudden appearance at the family dinner table, but she makes space for him all the same.

he goes back to your shop the next day. you smile at him, soft and pretty and a little bit sharp with knowing, and he ducks further into his hoodie so you can't see his scars.

"show me more," he tells you.

you tilt your head.

"alright," you say. "let's go."

and just like that, he has a job.

he makes it three weeks before he thinks about kissing you.

it's your hands, he thinks. they're careful and quick and fearless, despite getting pierced by thorns and clippers alike. you touch everything with a certain type of care.

including him.

he never had a chance against you. he thinks about your hands, about your lips, about the way you're so careful with him. not like he's breakable. he'd have left if you touched him like that.

no, you touch him the same way you touch your flowers: like he means something.

it's too much.

he stops going to your shop.

but he watches you, sometimes. you move like a dream, floating between the aisles, petals caught on your fingertips. you laugh with your customers; you chat with them as you roll their bouquets up tight in paper, tied off with a perfect bow. you smile at a man, as bright as the sun, and his hands tighten into fists. it pulls the scars tight enough to hurt, but he doesn't care.

he barges into the shop, shouldering the man aside as he tries to exit. ignores the disgruntled call from behind him. by the time he makes it to the register, you're watching him coolly.

he realizes he doesn't know what to say.

you reach out. he lets you slide that careful hand into the hood of his hoodie; lets you cup his cheek. your eyes don't widen at the rough texture of his scars against your skin. you simply smile at him.

"welcome back," you say, and he realizes he doesn't need to say anything at all.

[kabsey]

Also still obsessed with Neve/Davrin, by the way.

I wholeheartedly subscribe to the theory that they hooked up during the Val Dorma job with the expectation that they would never cross paths again. And then one night, after Minrathous, after Weisshaupt, they're sharing a bottle of wine to wash down their grief and they end up making out on the couch in the dining hall.

They go back to his room because he has an actual bed, and they've both been throwing themselves into the mission to avoid thinking about all they've lost, and they fall asleep tangled in each other right after.

And Neve wakes to the sound of Davrin mumbling in his sleep and tossing his head on the pillow. She rolls over and is alarmed to see sweat dripping down his temples and his face twisted in pain. It takes her several tries to wake him (she eventually resorts to pinching one of his nipples with ice-covered fingers), and he thanks her for waking him, not for his own sake but because his nightmares freak out Assan. She asks him how often he has them, and he just shrugs as he pulls on a pair of trousers and goes to let Assan into the room to curl up on the rug in front of the fire.

And she thinks about gathering her own clothes and going back to her room (and she does pull on her shirt and underwear because it would feel strange to be naked in front of the griffon), but Davrin's bed is actually really nice, so she stays and the three of them sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

Neve assumes that will be the end of it—they released some tension, worked it out of their systems—but the next night, as she's dosing off on her settee, she hears scratching at her door. She's not sure it's real at first, but it keeps going, so she grabs her crutch from where it leans against the wall to go see who it is. When she opens the door, Assan whines up at her, and then he dashes halfway to Davrin's room before dashing back and tugging on her nightgown. So she follows him there, and as soon as she enters, she hears Davrin shouting. She nearly knocks her crutch into his worktable as she hurries to wake him. And this time he explains about Warden nightmares and how he'd never quite believed the old-timers who said they are worse during a Blight, but he sure as hell believes it now.

And after a bit of discussion, they agree that she'll sleep in his room from now on—for Assan's sake, of course. And sometimes they have sex, and sometimes they don't. But they both sleep better for the arrangement, and neither of them thinks too hard about it.

For a while at least.

[minzart]

Beggars can't be choosers (11)

Ao3 - Prev - Next

Decepticons & Reader(GN)

You find an "automatic" tank busted in the middle of the night, and as the good millitar Mechanic that you are, you fix it

Or, the Decepticons don't have a trained doctor(yet), and you just volunteered as a substitute by their leaders' logic and standards

You and Reflector continued to talk even after you two had finally found your things and reorganized the med bay back into function, from biology, to culture, to habits, the diferneces between yourselves and to your own species, it was... fascinating

The need to consume to generate internal energy but humans need of organic fuel while cybertronians where literally eletric and oil fueled, although they did need to prepare it before consuming, much like humans do with their own meat, the capability of emotions, the pains it comes with age being treated differently but similar simptons... you added a cybertronian biology book to your lists of things to ask from Megatron when you had the chance

The observation bot even helped you turn one of the metal boxes around, so now you officially have a tinny little room for yourself, sure it is open and without a wall there isn't a door, but it feels better than sleep in the open like before

"So how are you managing your... organic necessities?" the purple mech says, as he settles to sit on the table you two weld into existence, as one of your other requests from the observation bot

Grumbling and swaloing your pride you answer the embarrassing question "plastic bags, a bucket, and a hole outside"

"Crafty... but what about your clean routine? You'll need to bathe more now with your... predicament"

You nod, reflexively adjusting your left arm on the sling, bitting a hiss "I'll have to see what I can manage... if Lord Megatron doesn't allow me to stay in my home during this... recovery"

The purple mech nods, then jumps in attention, head tilting to the exit door "shift change, I'll have to go, it was nice chatting with you"

You smile at him "yeah, come wherever you want, thanks for the help! I own you one"

Reflextor grins at you, and jumps out of the table, leaving you with your new room all to yourself

It was... far better organized than your first week, now with more experience and a helping hand the place looked at least more professional and human sized, Reflector might be slight taller than a minicon when his conscience is split, but he still possesed the strength of a full lenght cybertronian

Your room was in the far corner, hidden bellow the giant metal table, on the other end of the room is an open space for the check-ins, and closer to you is a worktable with your bike resting besides it, speaking of it, you are pretty sure your baby didn't had any proeminent dents in it before, wich means something happened to it during your stay at the hospital

And so many scratches... good thing you were free for a week of work, you'd use this time to fix it, and maybe the truck too, that thing smells nasty, if Megatron thinks you are gonna use it in that condition he is dead wrong

Sure you were supposed to be resting, and you feel your whole body begging for it at times, but you are also an workaholic, if you are forced to sit things out and wait, without an iminent treat of danger, you will actualy die...maybe even literaly in this case. So you open your phone, and start another list, one for your bike and truck, things that you need to buy as soon as possible

You take some photos, detach the main carcass and hammer it into shape, it still not perfect, but at least it isn't obviously dented, and nothing more needed your attention, thankfully, so you pick up your things and march to the main hangar, were your new acquisition is parked

The green truck is... a mess, the smell of beer and piss inside, the broken windows, the damn dislocated door, the breaks are absolutely busted too, the fucking license plate is broken in half and dangling from the front, not counting how it desperate needed a new paint job

You sigh, looking at the surface trash you threw out, the heavy cleaning you would leave to tomorrow, but for now it's better than nothing... you fear that the smell is absorbed by the seats, and you'd need to buy new ones too, patting in the door you talk more to yourself than anything "we gotta a long way to go, but don't worry I'll turn you in the most handsome truck of this road, trust the process"

"Now wich color to paint you..." You murmur circling the machine "yellow is too catchy, green is too close to your original color, red is too tacky... maybe platinum or grey... no, gotta think about my bike too, hm... blue? Purple? Purple would be thematicaly apropriated... then again wouldn't it be too on the nose?"

"Requesting assistance" you jump, a grave static voice calling your name from above "connect far end cable to the entrace port"

You look up to find Soundwave at the ceiling, upside-down, dangling from an opening, cables surround him in the air, he looks exhausted. Blinking once, then twice, you point to yourself, he nods, and you look around to find said cable

It isn't hard, now that you actually notice your surroundings, boxes and cables scattered around the hangar, looks like he is in charge of the electricity of the base

The cable is big, but at least is close to its port, without any grace whatsoever with only one arm you manage to pick that thing and plug it back, the silence of the room being then filled by the soft hum of an engine somewhere, you hadn't even noticed how quiet the base is without those things running

With a thumbs up you look back at the blue mech, he nods again and goes back to filling with the cables. His visor looks dim, you can see scratches around his plating, from battle you supposed... would human paint even work in a cybertronian? With the right preparation, it would stick, but would it feel different to their plating?

You also notice how his head sometimes tilt "up", like he's losing focus or even... sleepy... how long do cybertronians need sleep anyways?

"You good up there?" You ask, and you question makes the spy master jump a little, seems like he wasn't expecting you to still be around

"Comunication tower: in need of conecting to main computers" he says anyway, not looking at you

"And... how long are you up there?" He stops for a brief moment

"... question: irrelevant" only to go back at the cables

"Sure..." You back at the hall that takes you to your room, and an idea starts to form, sure it isn't you business, he could pass out and crash in the floor for all that you cared, but also, you could, perhaps, show a bit of consideration

You walk along the halls, thinking and pondering, that bit by bit you could, perhaps, maybe, potentially, get enough favor so they could just... let you go once they finish whatever comunication device they are making, if they go home or start attacking earth, maybe you could just show a bit more proactivety, at least to keep them in functioning shape, enough so they don't think of discarding you like a broken toy

Of course, it could be all for nothing and any good deeds you do go unnoticed or worse, demanded. Once you start a routine, it will be on your shoulders to maintain it after all, but maybe, just maybe, they will be less harsh, less distant, maybe you could even start to actialy bond with them... as if... but hope is the last one to die

You kick the kickstand of your bike, adjusts the ropes you gathered in the mess you have cleaned with Reflector, and drives inside the decepticon base, hopping to find were they store the energon

...............

With Lazerbeak out of commission and Soundwave too occupied setting up the communication tower, it was up to Ravage and... to everyone's dismay, Starscream, to keep up the spyonage on the autobots

"This is humiliating" the red seeker murmurs to himself, while in jet form he waits at the top of the nearest mountain, waiting for something, anything, to happen "if I knew this was what you all are up to, I'd gladly give all the caccettes actual work, humpf"

Ravage continues to ignore the annoying jet, eyes fixed at the entrance, she was more of a fighter than a spy, however she wouldn't be under Soundwave if she didn't excel at the art of stalking

Sure, compared to Thundercracker, Starscream was far less than desirable to work with, but his jet form had an advantage, unlike his two seconds, the air comander alt-form was, by contrast to his name, quiet, far too quiet, an excellent addition to the spy ranks... if only he possessed the ability to shut up

"It has been 3 groons, don't they have patrol or something??? Are we losing to incompetents???"

That picked the feline minicon interest, true, it has been far too long without anyone coming in, or out, of the Ark, even in her tags in with Lazerbeak at least by now a team of patrol would be finishing their second round of the place, however said team wasn't even deployed...

With a ping Ravage opened the comunication with her companion briefly enough to send to him the minicon jargon, a barrage of intentions with emotions that, for the ones used to the language, meant simply "you: stay, I'll enter, observation: astute. it has been far too long without activity"

"Of course it's astute" his arrogant pride made the seeker shine "it is me we are talking about after all"

After his prening at the prise, his tone shifted "do not get caught, we don't need them seeing me here as well, least they know how far the damage in our ranks are, the better"

With a nod the black minicon jumps down, transforming in a small human sized cassette, letting the rocks kick and bounce her untill she's on the ground, right by the entrance

When no-one came out, Ravage transformed, and cautiously walked inside, after so many battles the autonots had yet to fix the power to their main door, it wasn't a problem when there was always so many people in their main hangar to keep watch, but today seemed to be an exception

The felines ears shots up, capturing the familiar voice of the autobot leader, firm and imposing, she follows and start to records the exchange

"Wheeljack is almost finished with the behavior protocol, keep them at bay for at least another cycle away from civilization Prowl, I know you can do it" the Prime says, looking intensely at their main computer, as a battle occurs, a direct transmission from their second in comand optics

At the screen a metal... lizard? Far too big, but sure a robotic reptilian nonteless, bites a yellow beetle and throws it alway, turning it's head to the transmission

"Roger Optimus" the screen answers

"I am really sorry Optimus..." the autobot scientist mumbles besides their leader, hands fast working at two screens of Teletran 1

"You were only trying to compensate my incapability to battle, it was a noble cause Wheeljack"

"And yet I only caused more problems..."

"That you are actively working to correct, do not blame yourself too much, you are actively helping to mitigate the situation, now keep the good work"

"Optimus..." the admiration and guilt was visible in the way his head lights dim

Ravage captures it all,from Optimus never once leaving his seat, to a metal crutch, made from bended human metal by his side, his legs involved in cloth, seems like whatever their little human and leader were up to did gave results besides energon, how... refreshing

With a click of her paws, the minicon judged the information enough, getting out was as easy as getting in, she sent Starscream another ping, and cautiously ran the road until the desert was all she could see

The forceful breeze was the only indication of the jet above her, that, and a mensage in her HUD

[Anything you would like to share? - 16:23:42 - °°/°°/°°/M.R - D.C: Starscream ]

She roars as an answer to his impatience, with a bit more effort she runs pass the seeker and swiftly transforms in the air, jumping high enough for the air comander to open his cockpit and catch her in the fall

"Hmpf, keep your secrets then, but don't go expecting me to share any of my own any soon!"

Getting comfortable at the comanders cockpit the mechanical panther happily enjoys the journey back to the decepticon base, with the satisfaction of a good Intel at her processors, Megatron will be pleased, perhaps she would even earn an additional energon cube from Soundwave

The peace was saddly short lived, as the piercing scream of the red seeker breaks the silence "WHAT IS THAT?!"

Above them a creature she never saw before flies, it is not a human contraption, no, far from it, it looks almost like an animal, and yet Ravage has never seen something like that, and even her has seen predacons, but not one of them looks alike this strange flying metal creature

It screams, to her, in a langue almost... familiar, if only it actually was saying anything coherent

The creature swoops down at them, claws out and deadly, Starscream screams as he dodges the attack "LEAVE ME ALONE YOU STUPID BIRD!!"

Ravage turns back in her root mode, claws digging at the seat for suport "RAVAGE STOP RUINING MY COCKPIT!"

The flier swoops down again, this time beak first, but it was a trap, as the seeker dodges again he fails to twist himself out of the belly of the beast, and it's claws tear trough his plating, he screams but maintains himself in the air

Soon enough, the sounds of blasts can be heard from bellow, the autobot were shooting, but not at them, at the creature, this was another of the strange mechanical beasts the autobot scientist created

With the realization Ravage sends a ping to Starscream, a comand, to keep quiet and pretend to be a human flier, anything so the autobots think they aren't the main enemie

With a grunt his turbins come to life, maintaining the charade and dodging without loops or iminent transformation was almost killing the seeker inside, but soon enough the metal bird lost interest and started to focus at the yellow beetle and white car bellow

"What... was that...?" Starscream asks after a long time of silence, his voice is weak, the buzz of his broken voice box now noticeable

Ravage plays Primes voice as an answer "Wheeljack is almost finished with the behavior protocol.......compensate my incapability to battle, it was a noble cause Wheeljack"

She could hear his processor working "they are trying to create cybertronians?"

............

"And now for the news, recently a group of farmes has been reporting that their equipment is being slowly devored overnight " the static voice of the news broadcast that your phone could receive said, you sat inside the vent were Soundwave once worked, shorting the wires carefully as the spy comander instructed

He didn't mind you listening to something while you worked slowly and carefully through the tangled cables, in fact, he much preferred that way, most humans used him as a music box rather than a radio, a good thing since he hasn't had the time to actualy tune himself with this planets transmission waves

"I' telling ya Sally, every morning ther eare chunks of my things missin' "

However, that did mean all the news he had was from local talk, it was enough to inform him of curent events, but not exactly how it was originally informed. He sat on the makeshift lift he made out of scraps, taking small sips of energon, he would have to talk with whoever was in charge of guarding this later, one small human shouldn't have been able to easily request this, even if it was for himself

While watching you work his processors wonders, you are definitively sucking up to him, that could be the only reason, although the worst part is that he is allowing himself this indulgence... must be the low energon supply and unrestiful sleep schedule...

"It has those big bites you see..."

What would you gain off this? His favor? As if a little thing like you could ever have something to offer him or even the power to subjugate him of all mechs, political or otherwise, and yet you try, how foolish... or brave

This past days were... enlightening to the spy master, he didn't knew how far your plan went, but the caccettes reaction to your death... that was truly something he hadn't expected, they mourned you

They truly did, they were attached, and he didn't knew when this started, he didn't knew how you managed it, they were the elite of the decepticon empire, how did one single organic managed to slither themselfs in their ranks

"Everywhere, in the lifts, in the tractors"

And once he noticed the caccettes he started to observe in his leader as well, the seekers were not his problem they could crash and burn for all that the object mech cared, but Megatron was doubly his concern. The silver tyrant hasn't changed at all, but what is surprising was that not even once has he conducted a ransom plan with you and the autobots, the rebels are sofhearted enough to value any life in this planet, enough to instantly care for a nameless thing like you were

But now... now you even went on a mission with and held Megatron, you probably didn't even knew what that meant for their own ranks, or perhaps you did, perhaps you were a spy, autobot ally, perhaps it wasn't a coincidence that you were there that night to save the beaten down tank...

Now that worried the blue bot, especially after each day Megatrons words echoed repeated over and over in his processors, could it be that their leader truly meant it? That you are actually an... ally? An organic nobody? All because you could what? Enter crevices not even a skilled doctor could without putting a mech in deep slumber?

"I'm sure it is some punks playing a prank, there no bug that eats metal is there?"

He has trusted you to fix him at his worse instead of waiting for Frenzy or Rumble merely because of convenience... that does not mean he trusts you completely, he should be more careful, perhaps following you to your job without your knowledge might bring peace to his mind. And also learn what is so special about you that after a week or less alone you caltivated not only his caccetes and two seekers, but the decepticon leader as well, if these parties are aware that themselves care for the fleshbag is not his problem

Yes, that was a good enough plan for him, for now he would let you think that whatever plan you have has worked on him as well, let the little thing dream, let them grown confident, and when arrogance clouds the mind, he will be there to watch their down fall-

"Can cybertronians eat metal?" Your voice startles Soundwave out of his spiral

"Repeat query" he asks of you

"Can you guys get energy out of consuming metal?" you knock at the walls

The time you took to formulate the new question was just enough for him to rewind his memory and understand from were your curiosity is from and it sparked his own curiosity

"Unlikely" he answers "metal consumption: abnormal in all organic life?"

"Eh... biting it directly, yes, using it just to extract its minerals for water-based food? Not really odd...but what I mean is... do you think these bites, on the news, could be cybertronians? I don't think Earth has anything that could literally bite chunks of metal out of trucks, you know?"

"..." he calls your name "... concerned for farmers?"

You laugh "more like concerned if there is more alien life I should know about, hiden in this planet... or coming, besides lord Megatrons troops that is"

If you could see his optics, he would be squinting at you "Cybertronians...: can't consume large amounts of solid metal, only as a taste modifier to energon based goods"

"So there are spices equivalent to your species..." You eyes shine in wonder, and smiles "thats so cool"

"Query: whats the relevance of this question to your previous topic?"

"Ah... oh yeah, that, I just thought maybe it could be some starving cybertronian lost out there eating chunks of tools and trucks... but that's silly, Rumble told me it was just you guys that woke up right?"

"..." he ponders

"Right?" You worry, and slowly craws out of the vent to glare at him

"Crew: not completed" he remembers the logs, the fight, the commands "Nemessis location... unknown"

"Nemessis...?"

"Organic life: not equiped to consume solid metals" he says, more to himself than anything "your hypothesis: not so wrong..."

Could it be... could they have decepticons on the lose?

..............

The night at the decepticon base were always cold, but now you felt warmer than any, the blankets you had picked from home making a comfortable cocoon around yourself, so comfortable that perhaps you would finaly be able to have some proper hours lf sleep... oh, if only

A crash of metal makes you jump at attention, a loud roar of engines make your ears ring with the curse "Scrap? Useless arm"

It takes a while, but after your heart finaly slows down, you carefully walks out of your tinny metal shelter, the second you are almost out of the table the mech that rudely woke you up bended down to pick up the giant Wrentch he had dropped, two red eyes shine at your direction, his wings shots up, one clearly higher than the other

"Good evening to you too comander" you grumble

"You are here?!" Starscream shouts hitting his head on the gable on his way up "I thoght you were dead-ouch"

You walk into the light of the med bay, aiming for the alt-form check-in area"I got better... how may I help you?"

Sluggishly, you pick up a human sized screw driver at the nearest makeshift table, trying to shake the sleepness aside as you rest it's cold metal in your cheeks

"I am not here for you to play doctor human... I can take care of myself"

You look at him up and down, his right wing is unalighned with his left, clearly lose, his leg is porly weld togheter were Megatron had shot him and now his left arm had six claw marks deep enough to expose his wires "... I'm not letting you work on yourself in those conditions"

"You are not the boss of me-"

"My med bay-" you purposefully elevates your tone, too tired and hurting all over for his higher than thou attitude this night "my rules, now sit down or transform and let me do my work"

"..." the seeker frowns "I could crush you right now you punny little thing"

"Of course you would now put that wrentch down, or I will put mine up the nearest hole I find in your damn body"

On cue, a small eletric curent shots out of his arm, making him whine in pain and drop his tool "... you are not to tell anyone about this am I clear?"

He grows, you nod, eyes never leaving his optics "yes sir"

[angstama]

05: traitor | l.jn

pairing: lee jeno x f!reader (ft. mark lee)

genre: angst, pure heartache, slight fluff!

synopsis — when jeno asked you to make his bride’s dress, it was more than fabric and lace—it was a reckoning. you never thought you'd be asked to create the wedding dress for the man you once loved, not after everything that had happened between the two of you. five years have passed since jeno walked out of your life, and now, he stands before you again—asking for a favour that stirs old memories and emotions you've tried to bury.

a/n: we are finally nearing the end of this story :"))) thank you so much for the constant support!!!! honestly not really sure how we want this to unfold because i have so many ideas but if anyone has any ideas as well feel free to let me knowwwwww <3

chapter music: space song - beach house

traitor m.list | traitor's playlist | previous | next chapter (06)

the morning after your conversation with jeno arrived slow and quiet, wrapped in soft light and a kind of emotional exhaustion that didn’t feel heavy — just... hollow. but there was peace in it too, the kind that came after a storm had passed. not everything had been said, but enough had.

you stepped into the studio, polo’s leash loosely wrapped around your wrist as he padded beside you with curious eyes and his usual bounce. he paused just past the threshold, tail wagging, nose twitching, already intrigued by the unfamiliar scent of thread, fabric, and paper.

“wait— is this polo?” mark’s voice rang out from across the room, eyes wide with a kind of giddy disbelief as he dropped the fabric swatches in his hands.

you laughed as polo immediately trotted over to greet him, tail sweeping excited figure-eights through the air. “yes. polo, meet mark. mark, meet the chaos i call comfort.”

“i can’t believe i’m finally meeting him!” mark knelt down, arms outstretched like he was greeting royalty. “look at youuuu.... you're such a handsome boy!” he cooed.

polo barked once, a small happy sound, and licked mark’s cheek without hesitation. you could only smile as you watched the two bond instantly.

“he was staying with my mom,” you said, setting your bag down on the table. “but i asked to keep him around for a while.”

mark stood up, eyes still on polo as he stretched out on the studio rug like he already owned the place. “i think the studio just got five times better.”

you nodded, then paused.

“i talked to jeno yesterday,” you said gently, voice low but clear.

mark looked at you, his playful expression softening. “yeah?”

you met his gaze. “it’s... not what i wanted to hear, but it’s something. he told me about how things happened. and it didn’t fix anything, but it gave me a little clarity. a little closure.”

mark didn’t respond right away. he just nodded — thoughtful, grounded — letting the quiet hold space for everything you didn’t say.

he hurt you, his thoughts said, louder than anything in the room. and still, you carry yourself with grace. you deserve the world, and more.

“i’m glad you told me,” he finally said. “and i’m glad you’re here. really here.”

you smiled softly at that, eyes drifting toward the mannequin and the unfinished sketches. “i think i’m ready. let’s do this.”

and so you began.

you walked over to the worktable, the sketches of the wedding dress spread out like a quiet invitation. there was still so much to be done, and though the thought of it weighed heavy on you, the quiet rhythm of working on something you loved felt like a release. like the first step toward shedding the pain of the past.

mark immediately got to work, gathering the tools you’d need, moving about the studio with an energy that helped stir some of your own. you needed that. you needed to keep your hands busy.

“okay, i’ll hold the fabric here while you pin it,” mark said, his tone light, as if working on wedding outfits for someone who had once been your partner wasn’t the most surreal thing.

you nodded, focusing on the way the fabric stretched out before you, the delicate lace that would form the backbone of the dress. “Yeah. this is it. this is what i’m doing. it’s the last thing for them.”

mark stepped back, surveying the fabric you’d laid out. “this is gonna be amazing,” he said quietly, admiration in his voice. “you’ve got a way with fabric i can’t even begin to understand.”

you smiled faintly, your hands moving to gather more supplies. “it’s a lot more than just fabric, though,” you murmured. “it’s... memories. Emotions.”

mark looked at you, curiosity in his eyes, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he moved toward the other table and began organising the tuxedo fabrics, his hands working with the same meticulous care. “if you need help with anything, just let me know,” he said, breaking the silence with his usual lighthearted tone.

“thanks,” you murmured, grateful for the space he gave you. “i will.”

you worked in a kind of quiet, focused harmony for the next few hours. mark wasn’t overbearing, but he was always there when you needed him, passing tools, adjusting fabrics, and keeping the mood light with small quips about polo’s antics. you felt yourself slip into the rhythm of creation, your hands steadying as the dress began to take shape — each stitch, each fold, each pin slowly weaving something real, something tangible.

despite the weight of everything that had happened, despite the quiet ache that lingered in your chest, there was also a deep sense of satisfaction in the work. In the act of doing.

as you worked, your mind floated between thoughts of the wedding, the dress, and the conversation with jeno. but in those moments, when your hands were moving and the sound of your sewing machine hummed in the background, it felt like everything was finally in its place.

polo lay sprawled on the rug by the window, occasionally glancing up at you both with sleepy eyes. mark glanced over at him and chuckled, shaking his head. “i've got to admit, he’s a good studio assistant. very low maintenance.”

you smiled, looking at polo fondly. “he’s always been good for me. keeps me grounded.”

mark paused for a moment, his eyes softening. “you deserve that,” he said quietly. “you deserve to be surrounded by things that make you feel at peace.”

mark isn't lying when he says this. in fact mark truly wishes you nothing but only good things in this lifetime.

you looked up at him, a small, unexpected wave of warmth washing over you. “thanks, Mark.”

it was quiet for a while except the sound of fabric being cut and stitched, but it was comfortable. it was exactly what you needed. no pressure. no distractions. just you, mark, and polo in the studio, slowly working through the dress and tuxedo.

and as the day wore on, you couldn’t help but feel that, maybe, this was the beginning of a new chapter. one where you were finally allowing yourself to move forward — not forgetting the past, but choosing to live in the present.

the days stretched into weeks, and soon, the studio had transformed into a world of soft fabrics, delicate threads, and quiet determination. every morning, you’d step into the space with polo by your side, the familiar sound of his paws padding across the floor grounding you. it wasn’t easy to continue working on something so deeply tied to your past, but each stitch, each fitting, each carefully measured cut felt like a step closer to something you needed to finish—not just for the wedding, but for yourself.

mark remained a constant presence in the studio, his hands skillfully assisting in ways that never felt intrusive. he knew when to offer his help and when to give you the space to work through your thoughts. together, you made progress on both outfits, the tuxedo and the dress slowly coming to life under your hands. time passed, the calendar pages turning one by one until the outfits were nearing completion.

the tuxedo was nearly done. you paused in front of it one afternoon, the soft glow of the studio’s overhead lights casting shadows on the finished garment. it was everything jeno would want, everything he deserved. the rich fabric caught the light in just the right way, the details of the stitching perfect, almost as though it had been made for someone who had been waiting for it all his life.

but standing there, alone with the tuxedo, your heart ached.

you could almost imagine jeno in it—his tall frame fitting it perfectly, the clean lines of the suit making him look impossibly handsome. But the image in your mind felt almost too sharp, too painful. it was a beautiful tuxedo, one that any groom would be proud of. but this—this was jeno’s tuxedo. the tuxedo you had made for him. and the thought of him walking down the aisle in it—towards wheein—was almost too much to bear.

you exhaled sharply, your hands hovering over the suit’s collar, the weight of your emotions catching up with you.

“almost there,” you whispered to the tuxedo, running your fingers gently over the fabric. “almost done.”

mark walked in just then, his eyes immediately landing on the suit. he raised an eyebrow, taking in the details with quiet approval.

“you did it, y/n,” he said softly, his voice full of admiration. “this looks... amazing.”

you nodded, your smile faint but genuine. “i hope he thinks so.”

mark gave a small, thoughtful nod. he didn’t ask who “he” was, but there was a quiet understanding between you two. it was almost as if he knew exactly what you were feeling.

with a sigh, you turned your attention to the wedding dress. it was still a work in progress, but there was something deeply comforting about it. the soft lace and delicate satin came together beautifully, each piece telling a story that wasn’t quite finished yet. it was a story that you had started, one where you’d been hurt but also one where you were starting to heal.

mark watched you from the corner of the room, quietly observing. He could see the subtle shifts in your demeanor as you worked—how you’d open up for a brief moment, only to close off again as the memories threatened to overwhelm you. it wasn’t lost on him how much effort you were putting into this, how much you were sacrificing of yourself, even though you had every right to walk away from it all.

but you, y/n, wasn’t walking away. you were embracing it. and that made all the difference.

mark had always admired your talent as a designer. but seeing you now—working through the pain, the memories, the complicated emotions—he saw something even more remarkable. there was a quiet resilience in you, one that he hadn’t fully realised until now. you weren’t just making clothes. you were stitching together the broken pieces of yourself, and though it might not have been perfect, it was undeniably real.

“you’re really doing it, huh?” Mark asked softly, almost to himself. “you’ve come a long way.”

you stopped for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle. you had come a long way. from that first hesitant sketch to now—standing here, finishing two outfits for the people you had once thought would always be yours.

“i didn’t think i could, at first,” you admitted, your voice almost a whisper. “but... it’s not just about him anymore, is it? it’s about me, too. and about what i can create.”

mark nodded, his expression soft but proud. “you're absolutely right.”

as you turned your attention back to the dress, mark stood there, watching you in quiet contemplation. he had always known you were talented, but seeing you face your past and push through it with such grace—it made him feel a quiet admiration that went beyond just being a colleague.

you were something special. and it didn’t matter who you were creating these outfits for, because mark knew, deep down, that this was something you had to do for yourself. for your own healing, for your own growth.

he couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, there was more to this—more to you than he had originally realised. but for now, he was content to stand beside you, supporting you however he could.

the tuxedo was finished. the dress was close, and as you continued in through the night, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time: peace.

the studio was bathed in silver hush, the moonlight stretching softly across the wooden floors, slipping between bolts of fabric and quiet tools. all the machines were off now, resting in stillness. the only movement came from your hands — slow, deliberate, threading one delicate pattern after another into the dress that stood waiting.

you sat on the floor, legs folded beneath you with the sleeves of your blouse rolled up and smudged with ivory thread and chalk dust. it had reached the point of the process where your fingers were pricked, shoulders sore, but still, you worked — each stitch a vow to yourself to finish what you started.

the gown laid pooled across your lap like a sea of dreams, its fabric whispering against your skin. the hand-stitched embroidery curved like blooming vines beneath your touch, intricate and tender. there was nothing rushed about this. it was sacred, almost. every needle pulled through was an act of grace.

but even grace has its limits.

you paused — the needle hovering midair, your breath hitching. at this point, the pain behind your eyes had grown too sharp, too loud to ignore. with a quiet sigh, you placed the thread aside and leaned back, pressing your palms to your tired eyes, the coolness of your skin giving them some brief mercy.

when you opened them again, your gaze fell to the corner of the studio. there it was. your very own dress. the one you had once poured your heart into. it still hung in the corner of the studio, hidden beneath a faded garment bag — as if even it knew it no longer belonged in the light.

slowly, as if pulled by a force you didn’t fully understand, you finally approached it.

unzipping the bag felt like opening a letter you once couldn’t wait to receive but never got to read. the lace peeked through, soft and intricate, delicate in a way your heart used to be. you pulled the dress out gently, letting it unfurl in your arms. it still smelled faintly of lavender and hope.

you laid it beside wheein’s — the past and the present, side by side.

and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to really see what it once meant. what it still meant. this dress was supposed to be worn while walking towards jeno — the man you had loved, the man you had chosen every day until he no longer could choose you back. it held the weight of imagined mornings, shared names, whispered promises under warm blankets and the smell of coffee in a shared kitchen.

“we had a future,” your mind whispered. “we were going to grow old. we were going to laugh about stupid things. we were going to dance in our living room with no music playing.”

you knelt back down, dress in hand, and for a while, you didn’t move.

then— a quiet shift. a decision not born of anger or bitterness, but something softer. something like release.

you picked up your scissors.

the first cut came with a breath. the next with a whisper of fabric. and then the dress began to fall apart, piece by piece.

lace you've once adored — gone. the satin bow jeno said made you look like magic — cut. every piece you tore away felt like letting go of a version of yourself that no longer needed to be held onto. and as the fabric gave way beneath your fingers, you realised…

you weren't destroying it. you were unmaking it. you were unraveling a dream that no longer fit the person you're becoming.

“i can’t give this love a future anymore,” you thought, tears silently sliding down your cheeks. “but maybe i can give it purpose.”

your hands moved carefully now, collecting the pieces that still held beauty, still held something honest. bits of lace, delicate beading — fragments of your past that would now become part of someone else’s beginning.

wheein’s dress waited quietly nearby. and when you returned to it, placing a piece of your old bodice gently against the fabric, you didn’t feel pain.

you felt grace.

a final thread between your past and someone else’s tomorrow.

the scissors, resting at your side, are no longer tools of destruction — they are instruments of redefinition. of rebirth.

you close your eyes. in the darkness behind your lids, you see the dress as it once was: glowing under the warm studio lights, your mother beaming in the corner, jeno spinning you around in it, laughter lighting his eyes like fireworks.

and then… the vision fades — replaced by the sacred stillness of now.

“thank you,” you whisper. to the past. to the dress. to the girl you once were, who believed so wholly in a love that wasn’t meant to last.

then you turn back to the present — to the dress cradled in your lap, to the future that doesn’t look anything like what you once imagined, but is still yours to create.

you thread the needle again.

and begin to stitch.

not just lace into silk, but memory into meaning. grief into grace. an ending into something entirely new.

and so, under the quiet gaze of the evening moon, you began again — not by forgetting, but by remembering in a new way. and in that quiet act of transformation, something in your heart loosened.

not everything stitched with love has to last forever. but sometimes, love can still become something beautiful — even after it ends.

the first rays of morning spilled into the studio like gold poured from the heavens, catching on stray threads, dust motes, and the soft curve of fabric that now stood in full bloom.

you sat there—legs tucked beneath you on the wooden floor, hands resting loosely in your lap, breath held like a prayer.

it was finished.

the wedding dress stood tall before you, dressed in the light of dawn, and for a long time, all you could do was stare. you didn’t cry. you didn’t speak. you just looked, the way one looks at something too beautiful to hold, too sacred to name. you never imagined you’d be able to pull this off. not with the weight you’d been carrying. not with how many times you nearly unraveled along with the seams.

and yet—there it was.

and it was stunning.

a tapestry of heartbreak and healing. of endings reimagined. your past… woven delicately into someone else’s beginning.

you rose slowly, legs stiff and sore, fingers ghosting over the lace that had once belonged to your own gown. now it lived here—stitched into the bodice, tucked beneath layers of soft ivory tulle, no longer yours… and yet always a part of you.

“y/n?”

you turned at the sound of mark’s voice, soft but urgent, laced with concern.

he stepped into the studio, eyes sweeping over your tired form—hair undone, skin pale with exhaustion, dark smudges beneath your eyes. he frowned gently, already knowing you hadn’t gone home.

“you’ve been here all night?”

you nodded wordlessly, your eyes drifting back to the dress as if drawn by gravity.

he followed your gaze—and then he saw it.

his breath caught audibly. “...whoa.”

mark walked closer, slowly, as though nearing a holy thing. awe passed through him like a quiet tide, taking in every detail—the intricate embroidery, the cascading layers, the way the lace looked hauntingly familiar.

his brows furrowed. “wait…”

he turned his head slightly, eyes scanning the floor—and that’s when he saw it.

your old wedding gown, no longer whole. torn pieces of satin and lace lay in soft disarray around your workspace, like petals scattered after a storm.

realisation hit him like a whisper and a wound all at once. he didn’t say anything right away. he didn’t need to.

you spoke first, voice hushed and steady, like the calm after a storm.

“i needed to let it go,” you said. “so i could give this my all.”

mark didn’t ask for more.

he looked at you instead—with something more powerful than admiration. with quiet understanding, and a kind of respect that didn’t need words.

he stepped beside you, folding his arms as he gazed up at the dress once more. “it’s breathtaking,” he said finally. “like… genuinely. i’ve never seen anything like it.”

you smiled faintly, the kind that trembled at the corners. “i still don’t know how i did it.”

“you didn’t just make a dress,” he said, voice soft. “you made peace.”

you let that settle in your chest, like a heartbeat finally finding its rhythm.

and as the morning sun climbed higher, casting golden light over the remnants of what once was and the beauty of what now stood—you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this could be enough.

that maybe, in some quiet way, you were whole again.

to be continued...

taglist: @starryeyesspice @bluedbliss @undomielsql @nshitae @starryeyesspice @spicyryujin@m8rkers @haechskiss

[forsworned]

Breach of privacy ft. Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Author's note: Kyle stumbles upon your journal and he can't keep his prying fingers off, but what happens when you catch him?

Tags: Sexual Content ish?, Your teammate that you have the hots for is reading your private, sexual thoughts about him

He didn’t mean to do it, really. The journal was just lying open with your fluffy pompom pink pen stuck between the pages. His fingers graze the rosy pages as his eyes skim over your handwriting.

March 30

Sometimes I really can’t help but get lost in his honey eyes when he talks. Everything else fades to white noise when he looks at me. I can’t get enough.

He chuckles softly. He supposes you could be talking about anyone like that. His fingers trace the edge of the page, contemplating whether to turn it.

Of course, Kyle isn’t an idiot—well, maybe a little bit. He has enough sense to know he really shouldn’t pry into your private thoughts. It’s wrong, but he can’t help himself.

He tentatively bites his lip, glancing at your door, which is slightly ajar, and then back at the journal. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he turns the page.

He notices a few torn pages and skips to something more recent:

July 29

The dream I had last night was way too vivid for my liking. I stashed my cake in the farthest part of the fridge, and Johnny still ate it!—

Kyle snorts softly. It’s not completely unrealistic for the Scotsman to eat their food, even if it’s labeled.

—Apparently, I was so upset that I ended up crying, but Kyle told me he had a remedy for my post-eaten cake blues and took me to his room.—

Kyle hesitates, his breath catching as he reads the last line. The word “throbbing” pulses in his mind, teasing him with the possibility of what might follow. He half-expects the entry to turn explicit, making him regret invading your privacy even more.

But as he reads on, he realizes it’s not what he thought:

—He sits me down and eases me into his bed, insisting that the only cure for my misery is the warmth of a freshly baked brownie. I’m skeptical, of course, but when he hands me the plate, my resolve melts away. The chocolate is still warm, soft, and gooey, and as I take the first bite, the flavor spreads through me like a comforting hug. The throbbing in my head from crying so much begins to fade.—

Kyle lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. That’s all it was—a headache. He chuckles, shaking his head at his own overactive imagination.

Just as he’s about to close the journal, something at the bottom of the page catches his eye. The next sentence appears hastily scrawled, the handwriting slanting with urgency:

—But then he leans closer, and his hand rests on my thigh. His touch is gentle at first, but soon enough, the warmth from his hand begins to spread, and it’s not just my headache that’s throbbing anymore…

Kyle’s eyes widen, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason. He quickly flips the page, but before he can read more, the sound of footsteps approaching makes him snap the journal shut, his face flushing with guilt and something else he doesn’t want to name.

Your body goes rigid when you notice the fine-ass man of your dreams (literally) standing in your room, holding your journal. Horrified doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He’s slow to realize the journal is still in his possession, and when it hits him, he scrambles to put it back on your worktable. “Oh, I wasn’t—” He stammers, but before he can finish, it slips from his grip and falls to the ground, spilling its contents. The horrified expression on your face only deepens.

You rush over to gather everything, and he crouches to help, but your voice is irate. “J-just stop!” You exclaim. He pauses, glancing up at you with a remorseful expression, but you don’t care—not when the spilled items include detailed sketches of Kyle and, well…

“Whoa,” he murmurs, taking in the intricate ink drawing of you and Kyle in a rather compromising position. It’s enough to make his cock strain against his compression shorts.

Your face burns as you snatch the illustration from his fingers and stuff it back into your diary. He slowly stands, feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks. He had no idea you saw him like that.

He watches as your lip quivers with the journal tucked under your arm.

“[Name], I…” He steps forward, but you shake your head and step back.

“Just get out,” you say softly. He can tell you’re deeply upset—probably more than he’s ever seen you before. His heart sinks when you turn away, folding your arms as a tear slips down your cheek.

Ah, fuck. He’s really done it now.

“And you just kept reading?” His Captain’s incredulous tone feels like a stab to his chest.

“Well—”

“No, ‘well,’ ‘ifs,’ or ‘buts.’ You invaded the lass’s privacy. Have you no shame, Kyle?” Price continues to scold him. Kyle shakes his head, almost understanding, but not quite.

“It’s just that I saw these drawings and—”

“—Don’t tell me.” Price cuts him off, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “Jesus, Kyle. Are you serious right now?”

“I…”

Price points a finger at him with a threatening tone. “Not another word. Go now.”

The temptation to read someone’s private thoughts is childish, but he can’t ignore it. He runs a hand over his stress-stricken face and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Go apologize,” Price chides, gesturing to your room, which you’ve locked yourself in. Kyle opens his mouth to protest, but John doesn’t want to hear it. “Now. Before I kick your arse myself. That’s an order, Sergeant.” He turns away, taking a long swig of his ale.

Exasperated and dejected, Kyle scoots off the barstool and heads to your door. He lifts his knuckle to knock but hesitates, glancing back at his Captain, who glares at him intently.

Yeesh.

He softly knocks on the door, but there’s no reply. “Hey, [Name]. It’s me, Kyle. Can I come in?”

“Why? So you can read more of my journal?” You call out from behind the door, and he feels a dull ache in his chest. He leans his ear against the door and closes his eyes,

“To apologize, lass.”

There is an uncomfortable silence before he hears you padding toward the door, and shifts his weight so he’s no longer supported by the barrier. You only crack the door open. Your eyes are sunken in, cheeks are tear stained and flushed, and he feels his heart sink even further.

“Please.” He pleads with you, and you can tell he’s being sincere. Begrudgingly, you open the door and he steps in as you shut it behind you. 

“Can I sit?”He points to your bed, and there’s a flash of your dream that plays behind your eyes as it dips beneath his weight.

“Well, you’re already sitting.” You mutter, crossing your arms at him. He gives you a sheepish smile before apologizing and he leans forward, weaving his fingers together. He glances up at you with an earnest look in his amber eyes. A look that makes your heart melt no matter how angry and humiliated you may feel because of him.

“I’m sorry, [name], really. I was wrong.” 

You lean against the corner of your desk, crossing your legs in front of you. “Are you sorry because the Cap said you ought to be?”

He glances away and shuts his eyes, “[name]...”

Vexation shocks at your system. “No, don’t you [name] me. You had the fuckin’ audacity to read my thoughts, in my journal in my room.” You scoff at his impudence. “Unbelievable.”

His shoulders slump, “Look, I understand. I really do. I never meant to make you uncomfortable. I just got curious…and also—”

“Also what?” You challenge, quirking a brow at him.

“I just never realized how talented you were. I mean really, for a second there I thought I was reading a romance novel not a diary that doubles as a personal art gallery.”

You can help but snort at his cutesy attempt of trying to dig his way out of the hole he just created for himself. He swallows thickly realizing his charm is working on you, “and…”

“And?” you press inquisitively.

He sighs and gives you an earnest look. “I really am sorry.”

You tilt your head to the side. You almost feel bad for the sorry state he’s in. It’s easy to tell when Kyle feels guilty of something, when he’s being honest and genuine, when he’s annoyed and fed up—when he’s genuinely happy and you see that glimmer of softness in his pretty eyes…

“But I can’t help but feel like I’m the main love interest.” He teases, trying to lighten the mood and that causes your disappointment and anger to crack. 

You roll your eyes, failing to suppress your laughter.“Yeah, well, the main love interest has a lot to answer for.”

He smiles and stands up, stepping closer to you. You allow him to close the space a little, glancing up at his towering form and feeling the warmth radiating off his body. “Okay, I’ll be honest. I have no clue how to fix this, but let me make it up to you?”

The smell of his aftershave is dizzying. “How?”

“Well, for starters,” He takes another step and you’re raising your brow at his boldness. “I’ll stop snooping where I don’t belong.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “Uh huh,” Your heart thrums loudly against your chest. 

“And I can take you out to lunch? That cafe you really love that’s all the way in the city, the one with the cute pastries you love.” He tempts, and of course, you can’t help but to cave in. It’s annoying and slightly distressing how you allow it. You don’t want to, but you’re crashing quickly at the look in his eyes as he licks his plump lips, grinning down at you. 

“Fine. Only because I adore that place.” You point your finger at him. “And”

He raises his brows waiting for your next condition. “There’s no price limit on what I want.”

You knew he would do that anyway, but you wanted to make it crystal clear. He pokes his tongue in his cheek and chuckles. “Boy, you really know how to seal a deal, eh?”

“Idea,” You smirk.  “maybe you should try not poking your nose into places it doesn't belong then.” You sarcastically remark, and he playfully scoffs at you. He enjoys the banter, and well, you.

“Touche.” 

You sigh as you card your fingers through your hair. “Fine, but you’re still not off the hook.”

His eyes darken with something unspoken. “Good, I don’t wanna be.”

For a moment you feel the intensity cracking down on you as you search his eyes, and you’re melting under his gaze. But there’s a rapping at your door that tears your gazes from one another. 

“All good?” Price’s leans against the doorway, trying not to pry. His expression is unreadable and you can’t help but to feel some relief. 

“Yeah, Cap, we’re good.” 

He nods, eyeing Kyle for a bit longer. There’s still a hint of disappointment in his eyes, but he can’t say that he’s not consoled by you two making up. He thinks that maybe Kyle’s lesson isn’t quite up yet.

“C’mon Kyle, got somethin’ for ya to do.” He gestures for him to come with him. A smug look on his face as he winks over at you. Kyle groans.

“Oh, no.” Kyle pouts as he’s being dragged away by Price and you’re giggling at his objection to obey his Captain’s orders. He reaches out to you as you grin. “Save me!”

You shake your head as you close your door, “Not a chance, Garrick.”

[hooksbooks]

This is the second of two books I bound for @renegadeguild's Tiny Books Bang. The story is brilliant (like a confession) by kathkin (@penny-anna) and was typeset by @wolfsbanesparks. It's a Clark/Lois identity reveal story where Lois confesses her feelings about Clark to Superman. Let me tell you what, identity shenanigans is a trope I never get tired of no matter how many stories I read with it.

I had the idea to cover the book in blue bookcloth with the Superman symbol on the front, and then re-cover the book with white cotton shirting with a functional button placket so you could unbutton the shirting and pull it aside to reveal the Superman logo underneath. I thought about having the placket extend from the front to the back and having the symbol on the spine, but I was worried about longevity and if it would be awkward to hold the book open to undo the buttons so I ended up doing it just on the front cover.

I had some normal-sized shirt buttons I was planning on using, but luck had it that I found some tiny buttons at a garage sale the morning that I was going to sit down and sew the placket and buttonholes, so that was serendipitous.

I tried my best to balance the necessity of having enough wiggle room in the shirting so that you could pull it to the side and see the symbol underneath without having so much that it looked weird when the buttons were closed. I'm not sure I for sure succeeded--I think the book looks a little weird when buttoned shut. Possibly it would have worked better with shirting that had a bit of stretch in it rather than the 100% cotton that I used, or perhaps the book is just too small and it would have worked better in a larger format.

I used yellow polka-dot endpapers because the Superman symbol is very red-blue-yellow. I already had blue bookcloth and a red bookmark so I wanted yellow endpapers, and what I had was polka-dotted. I also sewed a charm in the shape of Clark's glasses onto the end of the bookmark.

Technical details:

Sextodecimo size (approx. 2" by 3")

Sewn-on endpapers

Rounded but not backed

Trimmed with a utility knife and a straightedge clamped down to my worktable

Things I especially like about this bind:

I'm really proud of the idea of opening up the "shirt" of the cover and seeing the Superman symbol underneath. It's a really fun idea, and I think I pulled it off as well as could be expected on such a tiny book.

The glasses charm is adorable.

Things I'd like to change/improve for next time:

The shirting pokes up weirdly at the top and bottom of the front cover when the buttons are closed. I don't think there's any way I could have improved things on this tiny of a book, but I probably wouldn't do it again unless the book was at least a quarto.

The shirting made the front covers quite thick. I added an extra spacer of cardstock between the cover and the endpapers to help the inside of the covers not be so lumpy, but I feel that they're still a little out of proportion. Likely this wouldn't be an issue on a book with a larger format.

Overall feelings: Fairly pleased. I didn't knock it out of the park, but the idea was good and I did a pretty good job.

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

#392

“Well Lucas, I had pretty much given up on you.  But here you are.  And for some reason, you are in my home wearing clothing.  This is not the way to beg me to allow you to service and serve me once again….  That’s better.  You will need to be disciplined for that.  Remind me before you leave to punish you properly….

“I see the envelope.  Hand it to me. 

“What the fuck are you doing.  Get back there and crawl to me.  It may have been only a few months since I dismissed you, I can’t believe you are forgetting the basics.  Don’t make me regret offering you a second chance.

“Atta boy.  I was surprised when I got the call from Dyson at his leather shop telling me that you were in and wanted to be fitted for that cock cage.  Get back on your knees and present your pecker to me….  Eyes down.

“Dyson did a good job.  Most cages aren’t fit well.  Faggots can easily pull their shaft out and give it a tug.  This one is nearly impossible.  And after I pierce that dickhead of yours, the cage will work even better with the lock, as the jewelry secures you inside.  Your useless pecker won’t be coming outside to play for a long, a very long time.

“This envelope doesn’t look tampered with.  That’s good.  It contains a pair of keys, each in its own smaller envelope.  On the back, Dyson signed his name across the seal….  Here you go.  Add this envelope to your pile of clothes.  That’s his way of telling me the key is secure.

“That envelope, or one that I markup, is to be always with you.  If there is an emergency, a real emergency, you may open it up and remove the cage.  If that should happen, I am to be notified immediately.  If you can contact me prior, do so.  You got that?

“Good boy.  Come with me down to the work and playroom.  You may walk. 

“…This is my key here.  Come over to my worktable.  See all the keys I have?  There’s 18 here.  Yours will be number 19.  Each are screwed down.  That’s why I have this drill here. 

“…There.  Yours is now just like the other slaves’ keys.  None of them are marked.  And if you notice, none have been unscrewed.  The reason for that is that all screws are stripped so they can’t be easily removed.

“I said there are 19.  Sixteen of them are the keys to slaves that have walked away from serving me.  That option is always available to you.  Number 8 is on the other side of the country.  You’ll meet number 15 next weekend.

“Now that’s done.  It’s blumpkin time.  Come with me into the shitter….  And don’t worry, I’m not going to shit in your mouth.

“Help me take my pants off….  You better be ready to do this.  You back out now, you better just go away,… permanently.

“…Kneel there….  Here, get that mouth over here.  I see you are weary.  To take your mind away from the idea of blowing me while I take a dump, let me give you something you can focus on.  I need to piss real bad.

“Get your mouth on it.  Man, you have a very talented tongue.  Now hold still.  There!  That feels so good.  Going forward, I want to have all my piss go through you first. 

“You’ve been drinking me on every visit.  It only makes sense.

“You hear that?  You smell that?  You get to smell my rank farts before I do.  Heh heh.

“I can tell you are squirming on the inside.  I know you are repulsed with the idea.  Good.  You knew this moment was going to be happening from day one. 

“I’m done pissing.  Go ahead and suck.  …To the root.  You know how I like to be blown.  Do it. 

“When I first brought you home from the bar, I fucked you the entire weekend.  Your answer to two questions led us to today.  I asked you what your favorite part of your time here was, and you said that you liked the non-stop fucking of your ass with my gigantic dick. 

“Every time you came by afterwards, I could tell you wanted me to fuck you long and hard.  I purposely haven’t.  I told you that I don’t fuck after the first time, unless you agree to give me something in return.

“It’s all about balance.  You want something from me, you have to offer a sacrifice.  I told you I demand a form of monogamy from you.  That would be monogamy of your dick or monogamy of your cunt.  You could have any man I allow have access to your dick, even yourself, and that your cunt would only be used by me.  A lockable butt plug would be installed.  Or, you could have your cunt available to any man I allow, and your pecker would be unavailable and locked up to all, again even yourself. 

“Seeing you in that cage tells me that you made up your mind.  Going forward, you’ll service men who will give you their loads.  Next weekend you and I will be going on a fishing trip with slave number 15, where both of you will serve and service me and a few of my buds.

“The second question I asked you that night, was what your limits were.  You remember what the only thing you listed?...

“No. No.  Keep up with the blowjob.  Don’t start easing up.  Give it the attention I deserve.  Yes, there you go. 

“You only gave one limit.  It wasn’t animals or kids or women or even something really gross like dead people.  Those would be an immediate no for me too.  No, you just said ‘poop’. 

“No, I’m not going to make you eat out of the toilet bowl, so you can relax.  In fact, let me flush that down.

“Sit back.  Keep your eyes down.  I need to finish up here….  Oh fuck.  I’m out of toilet paper.  I forgot to get some when I was out.  Damn.

“Come with me back into the playroom….  I said, ‘Come with me.’  Lay on the fuck table.  I need to plow that hole.

“Well, that got you smiling.  Yeah, I just hate to see an erection go to waste.  Especially considering the amount of throat slime you put on it. 

“Reach up and hold your legs….  There’s the cunt.  And here’s a little gob of my spit.

“Right to the root!  Goddamn!  Like I told you on that first weekend, your cunt was made to be fucked.  It takes the long dicking of my eight inches with just enough struggle.  That look of ecstasy on your face tells me you are enjoying this…. 

“I should be pissed off.  But I’m not.  A bitch like you should have some moments of heavenly pleasures.  These moments come from my dick taking care of your hole.  You can expect my dick in your ass two or three times a day.  Yeah, I can go multiple times.  You get this intense pleasure.  But it can stop at any time.  All I have to do is… pull out.

“Damn!  After six or seven thrusts, there’s just the beginnings of a gape.  It’s hungry for more!  It needs to be fucked.  Doesn’t it boy?...  Don’t worry, my dick will take care of your ass. 

“That’s what it will be doing day in and day out.  But that requires balance.  It can’t be all me taking care of the needs of your ass.  It has to be balanced with you taking care of the needs of mine.

“Bring your legs down.  Get off the bench and get under the rim seat.  You have some work to do.

“Don’t fucking say a word.  You do NOT want to disobey me on this.

“I see the heavenly bliss on your face went to terrifying fear in only a few seconds….  Good.

“No, lay behind me on that four-inch riser.  I don’t want your torso between my legs.  And I don’t have to worry about you beating off, not that I expect you to be remotely hard doing this.

“Your head goes between those two padded pieces of wood.  That’s to keep your head from moving side to side.  That four-inch platform is designed to elevate the seat so that it fits my legs.  This will allow me to sit on your face for a good long time.  The other thing about this platform are the two holes on both sides of your neck.  That’s where this neck lock gets secured… like that.

“You cannot pull out.  I don’t expect that to be an issue now, but later once we get to the end of your full toilet training, that’s a different situation.

“Get that tongue ready.  Stick it out.  I better feel it go to work….  Now bitch!  Lick!

“Remember, you are the one who decided this on our first time together.  You said this was your limit.  It’s all about balance.  You take care of my ass, and I’ll take care of yours. 

“You can knock off the gagging.  You are going to be down there for a while.  Reach around and stroke my cock.  Feel how rock hard I am.  Think about the fucking you are going to get once I am cleaned up.  Oh yeah.  After we are done here, I am so going to destroy that ass, just like I did that first time.  It’s all about balance.  You are gagging from disgust, and I am rock hard aroused.

“…You know, I thought you were going to say something different about what your favorite part of the weekend.  I thought it was waking up next to me both mornings, with you in my arms and my cock either in your cunt or snuggled up next to it.

“Did you like that?  Flick your tongue twice across my asshole for yes or once for no….  Thought so.  I enjoyed that too. 

“After you clean my ass, we’ll go up to my bedroom and I’ll fuck you there, just like that first weekend.  And afterwards we’ll just stay in bed for the rest of the night.  Yeah, that’s what we’ll do.  Normally slaves should be locked up, and I use that cage over there for those slaves.  But you are going to get your first night in my bed to wake up in my arms.

“You can look forward to that too.  But we need to balance out the tender caresses you will receive from me….  Keep licking….  It’s decided then.  Tenderness from your loving daddy will be balanced against the cruel beatings from your sadistic master.  And I have just the belt to do that with.  Yeah, we’ll get you welted up and bleeding before I fuck you again. “Mmmm, I like that idea.  A lot.  Let go of my cock.  I don’t want to cum too early.”

[innerfare]

Captain Kid Piercing Your Nipples - Part 2 

Summary: Captain Kid fulfills your request

Pairing: Eustass Kid x Afab!Reader

Genre: not exactly smut but not exactly fluff

CW: nothing explicit but pretty suggestive

Word Count: 919

The next night, you found yourself back in Kid’s workshop with a bottle of whiskey. You sat on his main worktable, the bottle between your thighs. You had discarded your favorite leather jacket on the bench you sometimes curled up on while he worked, but you had yet to remove another layer. 

You fiddled with your stockings, pushing your fingers through the holes- Kid was to blame for most of them. When he wanted to kiss you somewhere, he would tear through any amount of fabric to get to your skin. Feral animal was correct, you decided, though you could only think those two words with love. 

You loved your feral animal. 

Lifting the whiskey bottle to your lips, you took another good swig. The liquid burned going down, but your tolerance had increased significantly since you joined the crew. 

“That’s enough,” said Kid, taking the bottle from you and swallowing a few good gulps himself. “I don’t want you too numb to the pain.” 

You rolled your eyes before your gaze fell on the needle in his hand. 

“Well?” He raised an eyebrow. 

You looked down at the barbells he had picked out for you in the local town’s market. It had seemed like a good idea, but looking at the long metal rods made you second guess yourself, not that you were going to tell Kid that. He would never respect you for backing out, certainly not when the stakes were so low. It was just a silly needle, and Kid would be in control of it the entire time. 

You pulled your shirt off, no bra to speak of. 

Kid watched you with hungry eyes. He drank in the sight of you topless to the backdrop of his workshop, one of his favorite sights in the world. Your smooth, clean skin juxtaposed with the heavy metal and engine grease was one of the things he got himself off to when you weren’t around to help him, one of the things he had imagined when you first joined his crew but had yet to become his. 

His eyes fell on your nipples, erect in the chilly night air. 

He was almost disappointed they were already erect- almost. 

“Hmm,” he said, needle in hand. “Looks like you need some help.” He reached out and flicked your left nipple, trying to hide his grin when a small whine escaped your lips. “What is it, spider? Don’t like me doing my job?” 

“Don’t be mean about it.” 

He just grunted and flicked it a few more times. Unsatisfied, he pinched it between two of his fingers and rolled it around, squeezing at his leisure. He savored the sounds falling from your lips, drank in the sight of you wiggling on his worktable and pressing your thighs together. 

“See,” he teased. “I told you that you’re too sensitive.” 

“I am not!” You snapped. “You know, Kid, if I knew you were going to be an asshole about it, I would have just paid someone-” You choked on your words as he swooped down and took your nipple into his mouth, giving it a hard bite before sucking on it. Your hands fell to his head, your fingers tangling in his red hair. 

You whimpered like the weak girl you insisted you weren’t. It should have been a quick ordeal, painful but not overly so. Kid dragged it out, licking circles around your nipple like he had no choice, like any professional would have done the same. And when he finished, he placed a sweet kiss on your nipple. 

“That’s a good girl,” he said, needle in hand. “Just hold still for me.” 

The needle passed through quickly and seamlessly, like a knife slicing through warm butter. Still, it hurt like a bitch, and you gritted your teeth in a poor attempt to avoid calling out. 

“Poor thing,” Kid teased, stringing the first barbell into your nipple. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the little nub, all irritated and red from him. “Don’t worry, spider. We’re halfway done, and then we can get you some candy for being a good girl.” 

“Shut up, Kid. Just do the other one already.” You braced yourself in preparation for him to torment your other nipple just as he did the first, but he skipped the teasing and sent the needle straight through, stringing the second barbell into your nipple. It brought tears to your eyes, but you managed to hold them back, a sense of triumph coursing through you. 

Or maybe that was just the adrenaline.  

Kid sat back and admired his handy work. He’d pierced quite a few body parts over the years, the go to for his crew members, but he’d never gotten to pierce a girl’s nipples before. And to pierce yours was a privilege, not that he would ever tell you just how seriously he took it. The sight of those barbells in your nipples felt to him like he’d left a permanent hickey on your neck, his way of telling the world, and particularly any man who managed to get you out of your shirt, that you were already taken. 

“Perfect,” he muttered, placing a kiss on each nipple. He nuzzled between your breasts, a feral animal that had stopped barring his fangs for the briefest of moments. “Absolutely perfect.” You wrapped your arms around him, tangling your fingers in his hair again. You placed a kiss on top of his head. “Thank you, Kid.” 

He grunted in response.  

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[redflagshipwriter]

Halfa Cass 9 part 3

Masterpost

TW for canon-typical violence under the read more, minor character death

Unfortunately, there was so only so much Danny could stretch out his production process when Brick started hovering over his shoulder. Brick didn’t seem that bright, if Danny was honest. But he was clearly on the lookout for foot-dragging. 

That meant Danny was mostly done with the outer casing on the second cannon when Brick looked up abruptly and cursed. Brick pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Danny.

Danny was still busy soldering metal and it took him a few seconds to parse that he was supposed to be under threat right now. He blinked at Brick. “...Sorry, what?”

“Sack of shit!” Brick cursed, lip curled up. His silly little mustache rotated and stuck out at a weird angle. His eyes were wild. “Who did you tell?”

Danny shrugged awkwardly. Should he like, pretend he was afraid of the gun? Should he defend himself? He looked down at his soldering gun. Um. He probably, uh, shouldn’t… use that on Brick, right? It wasn’t like the guy could do anything to him.

Brick jabbed the gun further into Danny’s personal space. Brick’s head exploded with red mush.

Danny blinked.

Brick slumped to the floor. The gun clattered away. Blood gushed furiously across the floor and immediately ruined Danny’s shoes. Fuck. Brick’s soul sputtered in consideration of evolution. It pulsed, once, twice, and then harmlessly dissolved, passing onto the next life without all the drama of becoming restless dead.

…Lucky.

Danny turned off the soldering gun and pushed up the protective eye mask he had on for work with a disgusted grunt. Between that and the breathing protection, there wasn’t much of Brick on him except in his hair. Oh. No. He made a face and wiped at his forehead with the back of a sleeve before anything could get into his eyes. Brick was dripping down his forehead, nasty!! 

A gun cocked. “Yeah, yeah,” Danny acknowledged. He huffed and leaned over to grab at a shop rag. “Ugh!” He did his best to clean up. “This is gross. Just plain gross,” he bitched.

Footsteps walked down the metal stairs. “You work for me now,” said someone else that Danny had never seen before. Bigger guy. Older, ugly. He was balding and slightly gone to seed. Danny wasn’t exactly charmed.

Danny grunted. “My rate is 70 an hour,” he said. It had been 50 for the last group, but clearly his reputation had gone around enough for him to be recruited.

The gun pressed up against his forehead. “No, it’s not.” 

“Yeah, it fucking is, and I need $14 right now to go to the laundromat.” Danny made a gimme gesture. He ignored the gun to his head and jutted his chin out, ready for an argument. “You’re going to get rid of that, right? I do not do body disposal. I don’t have relevant expertise. That would be a sucky reason to get caught by the cops.”

The thug laughed. He put his gun back in his pocket and casually kicked at the recently emptied body. “I like you, kid,” he said genially. “Sure. I’ll tell the boss your rate. And I can get your laundry done. Don’t want your Mom to see you covered in blood?” He laughed again, like the thought of a teenager having to hide their criminal involvement was somehow funny.

Danny shrugged, not quite willing to lie that the feeling was mutual. This guy seemed like a dick.

“What’s this?” The new guy started nosing through the worktable, getting his grubby hands all over Danny’s beautiful new bazooka. He hefted it up and pointed it at Danny with a mean little smile. “What’s this do?”

Danny tried very hard not to go stiff. For the very first time, it occurred to him that he might be walking a little too close to the fire by making weapons that he could be harmed by. “Matter displacement tech,” he said casually. “Works on shit like doors.”

“Doors, huh.”

“Yupp.” 

At this range, it would displace most of Danny’s torso. He tried not to calculate how many days it would take him to regenerate from a hit like that.

The man lifted his eyebrows, but he put the bazooka back down. “You’re pretty unflappable, kid,” he commented. He rifled through Danny’s odds and ends with a careless hand, messing up the neat organization. “Once you’ve finished that, I’ll come back and pay you for it… How many work days is one of these things?”

“Takes about two days to do one solo, can get two done in three days,” Danny said tonelessly. 

His new contact grunted. “We’re going to need weapons from you next,” he said, as if it was just a fact.

“I don’t do weapons,” Danny said. He shrugged. “Sorry, it’s just not my specialty. I can get you the list of specs for what I can do, though, I–”

“You can do weapons,” he got cut off. The older man gave him a disdainful look. “Your girlfriend’s a co-ed, yeah? Cutie. Gotta work like a big man to keep her paid up.” He clapped Danny on the shoulder. “Be smart. I'll send someone to clean up.” He turned on his heel and left.

Danny stood there, taking a few moments to buffer that bullshit. The penny dropped.

‘Ew. Jazz?! They think I’m dating Jazz? That’s nasty.’

…Wait.

‘Oh, fuck. He knows about Jazz. They’re threatening Jazz.’