#Blade Signage | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starkeymeow · 1 month ago

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❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter three, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, first day of training, sneak peak at possible allies? me not proofreading because its 3am

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you wake up to a white light. you blink a few times, slowly coming back into yourself, eyes dragging toward the bedside where a small floating orb hovers over the nightstand. the capitol doesn’t do clocks like back home. this one spins gently, its digital time cycling in slow motion along a ring of light, like a planet caught in orbit.

8:03.

you groan. it feels earlier. like the kind of early where the sky should still be dark and everything should be silent.

your head aches a little from the lack of sleep. you remember finally coming back to your room after standing out on the balcony with rafe. something about that quiet conversation settled your nerves, at least enough to try sleep again. maybe you’d felt . . . human. for a second. despite knowing what he was, what you were, what you both had to become.

you hear the door creak open just seconds later. no knock. of course not. and then a voice you’re already too familiar with.

“rise and shine, sweetheart.”

enobaria. sharp and smug and already dressed like she’s ready to give someone hell. your eyes roll before you even sit up, but you do as told.

the next half hour is a blur. your prep team cycles through you like you’re something to be tuned up. a hot shower, someone checks the water for you first. someone else towels off your hair. someone is already laying out your uniform for the day while you’re still dripping. another pulls your socks up for you.

it’s . . . invasive. overbearing. but you let it happen. what else are you gonna do?

your training attire is simple and dark: a black short-sleeved shirt with a stretch fit, soft red and light gray stripes that loop down your arms and underarms. your district number is stitched into both sleeves and the center of your upper back, almost like a warning label.

your pants match, black, breathable, striped down the sides. the shoes are all black too, a little stiff, leather with a hard rubber sole. you can already tell they’ll be louder than you want them to be. your hair’s pulled back into a tight style, something practical. you barely noticed it happening honestly.

rafe shows up in the hallway right as you’re stepping out, dressed the same. he gives you a once-over and then a small nod. doesn’t say anything about the bags under your eyes, though you can tell he clocked them. good. because you clock his too.

breakfast is short, mostly just food you don’t recognize. you and rafe talk in low murmurs on your way down the long, chrome hall to the training center eventually. just little things, like if he’s got a strategy, which stations he wants to try first. you don’t mention the quiet kid from five who hasn’t said a word since arriving. or the tiny girl from three who barely ate at breakfast.

you enter the training center soon. it's a massive underground space. cold but clean, stretching longer than you expected. the floors are matted in sections, polished dark rubber with drawn rings and arrows and symbols you don’t understand yet.

stations line the walls, each marked by clean signage and equipped with tools, instructors, and polished weapons. there are sections for knot tying, survival gear, plant identification, camouflage. a whole row of bladed weapons. another for climbing, throwing, agility. even a space that looks like a makeshift wilderness setting. nothing in here is for show.

everyone’s standing now, spaced out across a wide circle marked on the main mat. a foot between you and the next tribute. a few inches between you and rafe. no one’s talking. no one’s moving.

then, right on time, the head trainer enters. her uniform is clean-cut and razor sharp. her eyes move over all of you like you’re parts on a conveyor belt, and she stops in the center of the circle and raises her voice, cool and clinical.

“two weeks from now, only one of you will still be breathing,” she says flatly, like she's done this a hundred times before and doesn’t care to sugarcoat it. “the rest? well, you’ll figure out what that means soon enough. if you want a shot at staying alive, you better focus over the next three days—especially right now.”

“let me be clear. there’s no sparring with each other in here, save the bloodshed for the arena. you’ll go through four mandatory stations, the rest is self-guided. and before you all rush for the blades and axes . . . remember this: most of you won’t die from a weapon. you’ll die because you didn’t learn how to survive an infection.”

she pauses, arms crossed. eyes sharp.

“infection, thirst, the cold. all things that’ll gut you faster than any knife if you’re not prepared. so don’t waste time. and don’t waste my patience.”

her words last a minute or two longer, just explaining how the day will go. then silence hangs heavy after she finishes. you glance around slowly. some tributes look shaken, some expressionless. rafe stands still beside you, unreadable.

you glance up at him once the trainer finishes her little speech, her voice still ringing somewhere in the back of your mind. “infection, thirst, the cold”? all of it sounding so casual coming from someone who isn’t about to die.

rafe meets your eyes briefly, dull as ever. it’s the only interaction you get before the peacekeepers start lining everyone up. female tribute first, male behind. straight line. district order. you’re toward the front, but not the first obviously.

then you’re escorted to the first station.

the first test is some free climb, a forty-foot steel wall that’s like a rocky terrain, each handhold slightly different in texture or shape. some are slick. some jagged. it’s designed to screw with your muscle memory.

you don’t fall, but your arms shake by the time you reach the top and slap the buzzer. you hear someone below scream on their way down. not dead, but definitely bruised.

rafe climbs like he’s done this before. one hand after the other, legs locked in, perfect grip. he hits the buzzer before you’ve even caught your breath on the descent ladder.

the second station is rope traversal. thick ropes hang from one end of the platform to the other. the goal is to cross using only your upper body.

your palms burn by the halfway point, and your ribs feel like they’re being pulled apart by your own weight. you grunt through it, don’t fall, but you do let go with a near-drop at the end, stumbling onto the platform as you land.

station three is a weighted sprint. you’re handed a duffel bag filled with an unspoken amount of weight, and told to run two laps around the obstacle perimeter. it’s meant to simulate carrying gear or injured allies, maybe even dragging a kill?

you start off strong but slow on the corners, but you make it. you’re not bad. you’re not the worst. you’re surviving. but next to him, it’s clear. rafe’s built for this.

the final mandatory station is balance and precision.

thin beams rise ten feet off the ground, twisting and zig-zagging over a safety net. the goal is to make it from one side to the other, picking up three sandbags along the way without falling. if you fall, you start over.

you wobble on the second beam, your hand twitching just over the sandbag as you try not to look down. but you recover, breathing slow, keeping steady. you make it, knees bent, hands on your thighs, trying not to show how out of breath you really are.

you catch yourself watching rafe when he’s done, arms crossed over your chest, eyes narrowed just slightly. not in judgment. more like in thought.

you’re glad, in a way. not just because he’s from your district, but because he’s already in your alliance.

you think about districts one and four. haven’t even seen their faces yet, just vague impressions at the line-up from earlier. you don’t know who to watch, but you’ll figure it out soon enough. you have to.

once you finish the final station, your name is logged, and you’re finally cleared for individual training. most people make a beeline for the obvious, the weapons. so do you.

but tributes scatter to different corners of the gym, gravitating toward what feels familiar. some head straight for the swords, others to the climbing walls again, one to camouflage and another to the edible plant stations.

you walk, steady, eyes locked on a small rack nestled near the far wall, one you clocked earlier but hadn’t gone near yet. it's the dagger station. the setup is split in half: one side for still targets, the other clearly for simulations, like moving dummies, real-time challenges, all of it watched over by a quiet capitol instructor with a clipboard and an unnerving smile.

as you approach, there’s already someone there. a tribute. tall, lean, maybe from eight or six, you're not sure, but he’s lingering, standing too still in front of the rack of blades, like he’s weighing the decision to try or walk away before anyone notices his hesitation.

he notices you instead. your boots don’t make much noise on the padded floor, but you know your presence does. you don't say a word. just look at him, one brow slightly raised in passing curiosity as your gaze shifts to the daggers. that’s all it takes. he steps aside without protest. not rude, not scared, just smart. he can sense it, that you won’t wait or ask.

you don’t react. you just stop in front of the rack and let your gaze trail over the knives. sleek, symmetrical, clearly custom-forged here in the capitol. even the grips look different than the ones you’ve trained with back home. too polished. too perfect. not broken in. no bite in the steel yet.

you hover your fingers over the hilts, considering. but before you grab one, you look behind. not for anything in particular, just instinct, and you find him again. rafe. across the room near the maces.

he’s already picked one out. the thing’s massive, iron or something close enough, and he holds it with both hands, adjusting his grip once before bringing it down over the head of a practice dummy. the crash is loud. you can hear it even from where you’re standing.

it’s not clean. not like a sword would be. the mace is messier, heavier, built for blunt force damage. the dummy rocks from the impact, its shoulder tearing where the blow landed.

rafe pulls the mace back, steps aside, resets, and slams it again. over and over, calculated, patient.

you face forward again to wrap your fingers around the dagger hilt, finally. it’s just definitely capitol-made. they cared more about how it looks than how it feels. but it’s not bad. the balance is decent.

you turn it slowly in your palm, testing the blade’s alignment, the way your fingers press against the smooth edge of the guard.

you don’t throw the dagger right away. you just grip light at first, shift your weight slightly, and eye the targets set up in front of you. four of them. they’re just stationary, so they don’t move. not yet. they’re lined up in a row at the far end of the station, each shaped like the upper torso of a tribute with a head, chest, stomach. flat, padded, replaceable.

you roll your shoulder back and bounce the dagger once in your palm. it’s like it clicks into place, the way it fits.

then you exhale slow, step forward, and throw. it’s not precise, it’s just to see.

the blade sinks into the board, low, left, just below the ribcage. not bad, not a miss, but not what you were aiming for.

you tilt your head, glance down at your stance. your mouth tugs into the faintest smile, not out of arrogance, more like recognition.

there it is.

you get it now.

you throw five of them after. by the time you hit the last dagger, you don’t even hesitate. each one lands sharper than the last. headshot. headshot. headshot.

you nod to yourself, barely. just a small dip of your chin, like an invisible pat on the back. that was good. not perfect, because perfect would’ve been being able to get that first one right, but you were close. enough to be proud of without getting cocky.

you step aside to give the instructor room to collect the knives, brushing your hands against your sides and exhaling through your nose. you’re still rolling the momentum out of your shoulders when—

“that’s it?”

the voice is close. too close. it startles you. you turn quick, brows pulling together, and there he is. rafe.

you swear he was just across the floor a second ago. but now he’s here, leaning into your space like he’s always been there, like he didn’t just sneak up on you like some smug little shadow.

you press a hand to his chest, more like a shove. “you’re not funny.”

he barely budges, but his grin flickers to life anyway, crooked and amused. “you didn’t answer the question.”

you roll your eyes as you look away. “yes, i’m done.”

he glances at the targets behind you, then back to you with a raised brow. “you sure? i mean . . . impressive, yeah. solid hits. but kinda felt like the warm-up.”

“i didn’t ask for a critique.”

“i’m just saying.” he shrugs. “they weren’t even moving.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “and what, you think i can’t handle the simulation?”

“i think you haven’t tried it.” he’s already starting to walk backward, slow and deliberate, nodding toward the second half of the station. “which is weird. considering you’ve got decent aim. i figured you’d want to show off a little.”

you don’t move, arms crossed.

he stops a few feet ahead, hand resting on the edge of the rail track, glancing back at you like he already knows you’re gonna follow.

right. a career who doesn’t wanna show off. how is that gonna look in front of the tributes and gamemaker?

you’re silent, just watching. but you finally walk over, catching up to him with a narrowed stare, though there’s a faint smile threatening to tug at the corner of your mouth. he sees it. doesn’t say anything about it, but you know he sees it.

“fine,” you say, stepping into place. “but you have to show me your skills with a mace after.”

“deal,” he says, already watching like he’s waiting for a show.

you turn your eyes to the simulation track, grip settling around the hilt of a new dagger. no second to waste.

you flick your gaze to the instructor, give a subtle nod. no words, just that. he seems to get it right away. he taps a panel on the edge of the control board, and suddenly the whole station shifts.

you step back slightly, give yourself space.

the dummies begin to move.

not all at once, but in patterns. some slide laterally on hidden rails, others pivoting or swaying like they’ve got minds of their own. they’re not human, but they mimic the chaos, like fast feet, unpredictable angles. it’s the kind of motion meant to rattle your focus. but you don’t let it.

you take a slow breath. the dagger is already familiar in your hand. you twist it once between your fingers, then again, and your eyes lock on the first moving target. you step into it.

the first throw is clean. blade sinks into the chest of a dummy mid-glide. not dead center, but close. you don’t react to it, just shift to the next. you pivot on your back foot and hit another one on the right, this time with a flick of your wrist that feels more instinct than aim.

you’re not thinking hard anymore, just flowing. moving like this is something you've done before. not like a killer, but like someone who knows their body. where the weight is. where to let it go.

you spin once, low and fluid, like you’re dodging something invisible, then plant and launch another blade. it cuts through the space, hitting a target mid-turn.

you don’t look at rafe, but you feel him watching.

when the final dummy rolls into place, you throw the last dagger without stopping, and it hits so close to center it gives the instructor a pause.

you exhale, and finally turn your head to glance at your district partner.

he’s leaning against the rail now, arms crossed. his brows are lifted, and he nods once, slowly. “okay,” he says. nothing else. just that.

but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something else. a smirk. a compliment. a challenge.

you don’t push for it. you just smile, barely, and look away. like you didn’t care if he saw or not. like this was always just for you.

your smile swiftly fades the second your eyes drift past rafe. a pair of tributes are watching.

not in the casual, curious kind of way. not admiring. not impressed. they stand shoulder to shoulder at a nearby station, hands still at their sides, not even pretending to train. just watching. both of them.

the boy’s tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of sand after a storm. it flops over his forehead, nearly into his eyes. blue, if you look close enough.

there’s something striking about him, something almost familiar. you can’t quite place it until a memory drifts back. he looks like some victor from a few years ago. it’s obviously not him, but close. close enough it makes your throat dry a little.

next to him, the girl looks different. she’s composed, still, but with a simmer under her olive skin. curls spill down her back in a way that feels intentional, not careless. she stands straighter than him, more poised, like she’s already figured out the game and is choosing not to play her hand yet. she’s just watching with a kind of quiet calculation you’ve only ever seen in people who don’t speak until it matters.

they look nothing alike, but they match.

and they’re both looking at you.

rafe catches the shift in your expression immediately. his head tilts, a little. that lazy kind of curiosity he wears like a second skin. and then he turns. just slightly, barely a full movement, but it’s enough.

his gaze cuts across the room like a blade, and you swear you can feel it. the pair of tributes react immediately.

their eyes dart away fast like they hadn’t been staring at all. like they didn’t just watch every single move you made. they turn back to their station, grabbing at the spears in front of them with quick hands, and neither of them look back again.

you watch them for another second, then catch it, literally stitched in white thread on the upper part of their black shirts. a number.

district four.

cassaline’s voice flashes in your mind, that district four had shown interest in teaming up with you and rafe. an early alliance. a temporary one, if necessary. and now they’ve seen you.

you look up at rafe again. he’s still facing their direction, unreadable. but then he turns his head back to you, slow, steady. your eyes meet.

it’s like you’re both thinking the same thing again. they saw what you could do. and now you’ve seen them.

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jgnico · 2 years ago

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Is someone gonna talk about the use of signage in yesterday's episode? Do I have to be the one to talk about the use of signage in yesterday's episode?

I know we all saw the billboard beside Choso displaying the abilities of his technique in tandem with the narrator, but there were so many more great uses of the signs in the background to convey information.

The first sign (and also one of the first shots) that we see in the episode is a Pedestrian Do Not Cross sign overlaid by the sound of Yuuji running, followed by Yuuji's shadow itself taking up the position of the pedestrian on the sign. You can read this as the sign telling Yuuji not to proceed to where he's going or as an indication of how the upcoming fight will end for the viewer.

The next sign that we get is one telling us to Go Left, which doesn't really seem important, but I promise you, it is. We'll see a lot of arrows pointing left throughout the episode and every single one of them is pointing away from danger. Go Left to avoid danger, essentially.

These two signs are arguably the most important in the episode, but they aren't the coolest use of visual symbolism that we got, so lets keep going.

The third sign that we see focused on in the episode is a No Running sign that Yuuji passes that says "Do Not Rush. It Is Dangerous." Yuuji, of course, runs past it on his way toward the escalators that lead (for him) to Gojo and (for the viewer) to Choso.

Once he does get to the bottom of the escalators, Yuuji is attacked by Choso immediately and Choso's opening move (Convergence), once Yuuji moves his arms up and away from his face, slices up through the subway cieling and the road above to cut the Pedestrian Do Not Cross sign that we saw at the beginning of the episode in half.

We also get out first big Left Arrow, placed immediately in the foreground of the shot and pointing toward the aforementioned sign that's been cut in half (this will be important later), but in a another view, it also points away from station itself. Again, go left to avoid danger.

Our next Left Arrow is on the ceiling between Yuuji, indicating that he should go away from Choso. Interestingly enough, it also points toward the bathrooms that Yuuji will go into later once his fight with Choso in the hallway becomes too dangerous.

That same arrow falls to the floor between them once Choso gets mad after Yuuji tells him about Eso and Kechizu crying, this time pointing directly away from Choso.

Another Left Arrow, this time in a more urgent red. We see this once Yuuji realizes that he's in serious danger, that he'll loose if he continues to fight Choso in the hallway. It's also pointing away from the bathrooms and toward the escalators from Yuuji's point of view beside the bathrooms, indicating that he needs to leave the area entirely.

The previous arrow pointing toward the bathrooms as a safe option has been destroyed and Yuuji has taken some serious damage by the time he moves toward them. The bathrooms are no longer safe. Yuuji needs to leave.

This is followed up by the only Right Arrows that we see focused on in the epsiode, but unlike the Left Arrows, they aren't used to convey how to get away from danger, but rather what is dangerous. Not only do these arrows all point toward Choso outside of the shot, they also have each of his techniques displayed below them.

Once the bathroom fight is over and Yuuji is on death's door, we get a zoomed out shot of his body framed by (two) people cut in half. This sign is shown right before Sukuna makes his only appearance in the episode, where we hear the sound of electricity flickering.

We heard this exact sound earlier from the Left Arrow telling Yuuji to get away from Choso at the beginning of the fight, but I like to interpret it as an audio indicator of Yuuji's life and/or control of Sukuna flickering in and out, becoming weaker.

Side Note: In the previous shot of Yuuji that we get before this one, we see a blade of light cutting Yuuji in half, the same way Convergence cut the Pedestrian Do Not Cross sign in half earlier in the episode. This will come into play later in the post, but keep it in mind.

The next time we see these bisected bathroom signs is when Mimiko and Nanako approach Yuuji to awaken Sukuna. Two people framing Yuuji/Sukuna that have been cut, while those same signs are whole in the hallway to the left. Go left to avoid danger applies to the girls here as well.

Our next important set of signs are actually the same sign, a large green arrow in the foreground that points away from where Yuuji's body is. While Choso stumbles away from it (away from Yuuji/Sukuna) the girls walk toward it.

This is also the first Left Arrow that we see point toward Choso, unlike the one pointing away from him at the beginning of his and Yuuji's fight. Choso, at this moment and onward, is no longer a source of danger to Yuuji or to us, the viewer.

And finally, the final shot of the entire episode, our old friend, the Pedestrian Do Not Cross sign. Yuuji has lost to Choso, the girls have found him to awaken Sukuna, and we get a focus shot of the Pedestrian that previously represented Yuuji cut in half and covered in blood.

I mentioned earlier that we get another shot of Yuuji cut in half by a ray of light in the bathroom.

Here is that shot, and the way that I interpret it is as a reminder that Yuuji shares his body. Yuuji's control of his body has been cut off in the same way that the Pedestrian representing Yuuji has had part of it cut away. What's left is the part that Yuuji can't control, the Pedestrian covered in blood.

Additionally, repeated use of a sign showing pedestrians cut in half and bloody can also represent the civilians in Shibuya, especially now that Yuuji no longer has control of his body.

#anywho ty for reading my long post about signs and their meanings in the episode #i was originally going to make this more meme like and shorter #but after going through the epsiode several times i found it more interesting and cool than amusing #signs man. theyre everhwhere #jujutsu kaisen #jjk meta #itadori yuuji #choso #mimiko and nanako #ryomen sukuna #nicos meta

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cami040405 · 25 days ago

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Pleeeeeeeeeease 🙏, a oneshot of fem reader going with her friends and stops for gas, our girl is on her period, but it ain't the usual one. It hurts a lot, and there's no paracetamol to ease the pain cause Luda sells none. When Thomas comes to hunt them down, he finds her delirious from the sunlight and pain to the point she doesn't even run. So when he's about to haul her over his shoulder, she accidentally grips onto him, and Thomas ends up carrying her in bridal style. She clings and snuggles him for comfort, which makes Tommy second guess himself, in the end, he decided to keep her cause he liked the feeling of her needing him for comfort and protection.

Oneshot: Crimson Sun - Thomas Hewitt x Future S/O with Intense Period Pain

Summary: While on a road trip with friends, you struck with intense period pain and heat exhaustion during a stop at a remote Texas gas station. As your friends mysteriously vanish, you're too weak to run when Thomas Hewitt appears.

Texas heat had a way of swallowing the air whole. Thick. Suffocating. The kind of heat that crawled under your skin and sat heavy on your chest. It made the world feel slower, like the hands of time had melted alongside the asphalt.

You could barely keep your eyes open as the station wagon rumbled along the gravel path toward a rusted-out old gas station. Dust clouds rose in the rearview mirror like smoke, blurring the fading stretch of road behind you.

In the passenger seat, Bree was flipping through a dog-eared map with the kind of irritated energy only someone lost in Nowhere, Texas, could conjure. The other two girls were bickering softly in the front about a weird turn back at the last fork in the road.

You weren’t listening. You were curled up in the backseat like a dying thing, legs pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around your midsection. Sweat dotted your forehead, sticking strands of hair to your skin. Each heartbeat sent a pulse of sharp, relentless pain straight through your abdomen like a blade twisting inside you.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t your normal, anyway.

You were on your period—sure—but this wasn’t the dull, manageable ache you were used to. This was something else. A tidal wave of pain that left you breathless and shivering despite the triple-digit weather. Your limbs ached, your spine throbbed, and your thighs trembled from the effort of not crying in front of your friends.

When the car rolled to a stop outside the gas station, you didn’t even lift your head.

“I’m gonna ask if they have pain meds,” Bree said, swinging open the door with a groan. “You look like hell.”

You meant to mumble something back. Maybe a thank you, maybe a half-hearted insult. But the words didn’t come. Your jaw clenched as another cramp seized your body, curling your toes in your boots.

God, make it stop.

The metal roof of the station shimmered under the sun. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years, except for the faint movement inside—a shape behind dusty windows. No signage, no air conditioning humming. Just a screen door swaying in the breeze and a few cracked gas pumps that looked like they hadn’t seen real fuel since the seventies.

The minutes passed in a blur. Bree came back empty-handed, muttering curses under her breath.

“The woman inside—some old hag with a cigarette—said they don’t stock anything like that. No pills. No vending machine. Just homemade soap and pickled vegetables. What kind of gas station is this?”

You swallowed thickly. “A cursed one.”

“Seriously. I don’t even think she had a register.”

The car grew hotter. The windows trapped the sunlight like a greenhouse, and your skin started to prickle from the heat. Your lips were chapped. Your vision, spotty. Distant voices became muffled—like hearing underwater.

You caught fragments of a conversation.

“The tire’s low.”

“Go check the back.”

“…something’s off here.”

But your ears were ringing now. Your body was a traitor. You couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t focus. Every breath was effort. You slid sideways onto the seat, lying down, the cracked upholstery sticking to the sweat along your back. You barely noticed when the first scream split the silence.

It was high-pitched, frantic, and short-lived.

You blinked. Was that—?

Then came another. This time deeper, masculine. A grunt. A thud. A wet sound. You blinked again, sluggish and confused. The door beside you opened.

“…Bree?” you croaked.

No answer.

You saw a shadow move across the gravel. A shape—wrong, too broad for anyone you knew. The edges of your vision pulsed red, swimming in heat and nausea. You tried to sit up, panic threading through your chest like wire.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

Then you saw him.

At first, he was just legs—thick, trunk-like legs wrapped in filthy jeans and caked boots. Then the apron. The stained, leather apron. Your gaze drifted upward, inch by inch, past heavy arms to a massive chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Then the face.

Or the mask.

It was patchwork—skin and leather, stitched and fused over a large, square jaw. One eye visible through the hole. The other hidden in shadows. Dead, dull, silent.

Thomas Hewitt.

You didn’t know his name. Not yet. But the moment your eyes met his, your body knew.

Death.

You should have screamed. Should have run. Should have fought, clawed, anything—

But your limbs were jelly. You were so tired. So hot. The pain in your stomach flared violently, and your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

He reached for you.

You tried to push away, but it was like moving through concrete. Your hand slipped on the door. Your knees buckled as you stumbled onto the dirt.

Thomas loomed over you. Tall as a tree. Silent as a grave. The chainsaw wasn’t in his hand. Not yet. Instead, he crouched beside you, giant palm reaching down to haul you up like a sack of meat.

“No—wait,” you whimpered, but it came out as a breathless rasp.

His rough hand closed around your upper arm, lifting—

Your hand shot out, instinctively. It grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Not to fight.

To cling.

Your body betrayed your mind. Some part of your subconscious—swimming in pain and heatstroke—recognized something in him. Not safety. Not really.

But strength. Warmth. Your cheek fell against his chest. And then—you snuggled.

Thomas froze.

Completely.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Just held on, weak and shivering, face pressed into the fabric of his apron, nuzzling blindly for comfort like a sick kitten.

A soft sound escaped you. A tiny, pitiful sigh.

“…please…”

Thomas blinked. He looked down at you, dazed, stunned. He’d lifted hundreds of people in this spot. Dragged them kicking and screaming. The usual routine. And yet here you were, curled up in his arms like he was the only stable thing left in your spinning world. For the first time in years, Thomas hesitated. He could feel your fevered skin through his gloves. The way your body trembled in his grip—not from terror, but from weakness. Your breathing was shallow. Your legs were trembling.

You needed help.

Not to die.

His jaw clenched under the mask. Slowly, gingerly, he adjusted his grip—one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. He picked you up, not like prey, not like cargo—but like something fragile.

You didn’t fight it.

Your arms wrapped around his thick shoulders, half-conscious, and your head lolled against his collarbone. You mumbled something soft, incoherent. Words soaked in fever and confusion.

He held you tighter.

And then he walked.

He didn’t toss you over his shoulder.

He didn’t carve you open.

He carried you—through the brush, past the dirt path where your friends had fallen, their blood soaking into the cracked earth.

You didn’t see them. And maybe that was for the best.

When you woke, the light had changed. Dim. Orange. The inside of a house. Warm, but not from the sun—from low lamps and old wooden walls.

The room smelled like herbs and must and something cooked long ago.

You were lying on something soft. A cot, maybe. There was a wet rag on your forehead, and a heavy quilt wrapped around your lower half. You groaned softly, shifting.

Pain still lingered in your gut—but dulled now. Fading.

Your eyes fluttered open.

And you saw him.

Thomas.

Sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room. Looming, unmoving. A beast in the shadows.

But he was watching you.

Not with hunger.

With something… almost tender.

Cautious.

Afraid to move and scare you.

You licked your dry lips. “...where am I?”

No answer. Just the sound of his breathing.

You blinked. “You… didn’t kill me.”

A slow nod.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, wincing. “Why?”

Thomas’s hands clenched on his knees. He looked away. There were no words. Not really.

But there was the memory of you clinging to him in the sun. The way you nuzzled against him like you’d known him for years. The way his chest had ached after, missing the warmth of you curled there.

You were still sick. Still soft. Still needful. And maybe… maybe Thomas had never been needed like that before.

He didn’t understand it.

But he liked it.

And that was enough.

290 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 25 days ago

Note

omg idk what it is about you writing creatively inclined readers but i LOVE IT, and i’m not even musically inclined ;^; . i had an idea, what about silcoxreader where the reader is a relatively famous musician that jinx really LOVES, like her music really speaks to her and the loud sounds and stuff. soooo silco being the good father he is takes her to one of her gigs under his and sevika’s surveillance only to realize that they both know her and that he kinda had a thing with her in his youth, maybe they can go out for a drink after the show? reminiscing on the past, and questioning the present? idk feel free to change this to whatever fits your ✨creative self✨the best. love your work :333🫶

ᴄʜᴏʀᴅꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ || 3138 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴍᴇɴᴛ?

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ

The bass was pounding through the old walls of the venue — a run-down warehouse tucked between layers of Zaun smog and forgotten alleyways. Once, it might’ve been a shipping depot, its bones made of rusted steel and reinforced concrete, the kind of place that saw too many hands and too little care. Now it pulsed with life. Fluorescent neon strips twisted like vines up the metal support beams, casting violet and crimson shadows over the sea of moving bodies. Smoke machines hissed in the corners, sending plumes into the rafters where old signage still clung, chipped and stained with time and ash.

The crowd was wild. Unapologetic. Youthful, furious, desperate. They danced like they were trying to shake the world loose from its hinges.

Jinx was already lost in it, her boots grinding into oil-stained floors as she bounced to the rhythm. Her manic laughter burst through the strobes like lightning. She swayed like a live wire, her blue hair whipping in time with the snare hits, arms thrown up like she was trying to catch the sound itself.

“Isn’t she amazing?” Jinx shouted, turning to Silco with wide, dilated pupils and a grin that carved straight through the noise. She clutched her face in mock-reverence. “Her tracks sound like a bomb going off in your soul, right?! Like—like everything's on fire and it’s beautiful! Gods, I think I’m in love.”

Silco said nothing.

He hadn’t said anything for the last two songs.

He stood rooted to the edge of the chaos, his black coat dragging like a pool of shadow, absorbing the flash and frenzy around him. The crowd flowed around him without touching him, like they could feel the gravity he carried—like something coiled inside him might snap if disturbed.

But he wasn’t looking at Jinx. Or the crowd.

His eyes were locked on the stage.

On you.

You emerged in a blaze of light and sound. Not as someone he recognized—not at first. No. You were a storm given flesh, backlit by crimson strobes and framed by digital flames. You hit the first notes like they owed you a debt, voice cracking through layers of distortion and synth like a war cry. Hair damp with sweat, eyeliner smudged into sharp wings, you gripped the microphone like a blade, like it was your only weapon in a world too cruel to yield.

Behind you, the projection screen exploded with your name in graffiti-style lettering—sharp, jagged lines that pulsed with every drop of bass. The visual shattered, rebuilt, morphed. The letters danced, burned, faded into cityscapes and glitching stars.

Your music was pure defiance. Anarchy and art stitched together with neon thread. You didn’t just perform—you claimed the stage. Claimed the room. Commanded every wandering eye like gravity incarnate.

And Silco… Silco had been staring for nearly three minutes before he realized he wasn’t breathing.

Not fully.

There was a tick in his jaw. A subtle tilt of the head. The slow narrowing of his eye as something clawed its way up from the depths of memory. Familiarity. Disbelief.

“No,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

He took a step closer to the edge of the crowd, ignoring how Jinx kept dancing, shouting her praises with abandon. Ignoring Sevika’s side-eye from where she leaned against a pillar, cigarillo glowing faintly in the gloom.

Another spotlight arced across the stage. You spun with it, caught in the light.

And then you smiled.

That crooked smile.

The same one you used to flash him across low-lit tables in bars that reeked of sweat and electricity. The one you wore when you sang him your unfinished songs, barefoot and drunk on possibility. The one you gave him the night before he walked away—for a cause he chose over you.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t hear the crowd anymore. Not the static of the speakers, or the thump of the bass, or Jinx yelling something about “murder-synth soulcore.” He didn’t hear Sevika stepping closer, or the hiss of smoke at his shoulder.

All he saw was you. You, alive. You, still burning. You, not a ghost like he’d convinced himself.

“Shit,” Sevika muttered beside him, exhaling slowly. “You didn’t know, did you?” Silco’s jaw clenched, the muscles twitching.

His voice was barely audible. “I thought she was dead.”

Sevika scoffed, dry and bitter. “You thought she would die quietly?”

The memory hit him like a punch.

You, throwing your boots up on his table, demanding he listen to your demo. You, shouting at him in the rain outside the Last Drop, tears mixing with stormwater. You, laughing in bed, half-naked and strumming your guitar with chipped black nails. You, gone before the war started in earnest—vanished without a goodbye.

He’d told himself you ran. Got out. Got lost. But part of him had mourned. Quietly. Privately. He’d never expected to see you again.

And now here you were, standing under a sky made of smoke and lasers, electric and untouchable, and singing like you had a score to settle with the gods.

Your last note rang out like a scream in the dark. The lights faded. The crowd erupted.

Jinx was still howling, now practically vibrating with excitement. “That was insane! I wanna die and come back as one of her guitar strings!”

She was halfway through tackling a merch girl for signed posters and a guitar pick when Silco turned away from the stage, his expression unreadable. He nodded once toward Sevika, who took the gesture without question.

“Deal with the crowd,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Sevika grunted. “You going to talk to her?” He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he could. Because there you were—his past, his what-if, his Y/N—very much alive.

And walking straight toward the green room at the back of the warehouse.

The corridors behind the stage were narrow and hot, the walls stained with decades of grime and layered graffiti. The air was a cocktail of ozone, sweat, and the tang of electrical burn. Overhead, exposed copper wiring pulsed like veins beneath flickering overhead fixtures, casting sickly light across the concrete floor. Every few feet, speakers mounted with duct tape and rusted brackets buzzed with residual feedback, a ghost of the music still echoing.

Silco walked slowly, footsteps silent on the worn metal grating. His presence made people part around him, even back here—stagehands, lighting techs, and a bassist vomiting into a bucket. None of them met his eye. None of them dared to.

He moved like a shadow, a storm wrapped in black wool and leather. His coat brushed the backs of his calves, weighted at the hem, and in his gloved hand he carried nothing but time—measured and heavy. He passed cases of battered equipment, tangled cords, a cracked amp with your name stenciled on it in peeling neon ink.

Your name.

He hadn’t seen it in years.

And he hadn’t known—not truly, not until the lights hit your face—that it was you.

His Y/N.

He had stood still in that pulsing warehouse, like someone sucker-punched him clean in the gut. Watching you—alive, electric, on fire beneath a sea of ultraviolet chaos—had made the rest of the world drop away. Gone was the thrum of bass. Gone was Jinx’s delighted shrieking. Gone was Sevika’s voice in his ear.

All that remained was you. Like you always had been, in the places that mattered. In the quiet corridors of his mind that shimmer hadn’t touched.

Now, as he approached the dressing room, the air thickened. The hallway narrowed like a throat. He could hear the gurgling pipes in the walls, the hiss of an ancient ventilation system wheezing above him, the buzz of a half-dead neon arrow pointing toward your room.

He stopped in front of the door. Chipped paint. A faded sign that once said “Talent Only” now read “Ta__nt O__y.” He didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

Inside, the room was a cluttered shrine to noise and heat and memory. A cracked mirror stretched across one wall, its corners yellowed and rust-specked, ringed with old band stickers and torn setlists taped in crooked lines. A string of coloured bulbs hung haphazardly above it, only three of them still working. A vanity littered with makeup, empty bottles, guitar picks, cigarette butts.

And you.

You sat on a worn leather stool, elbows on your knees, head slightly bowed. A towel hung around your neck like a medal from battle, damp from the performance, curling at the edges. Your eyeliner was smeared down your cheekbones in the way Silco remembered—effortless chaos. A chipped ceramic mug steamed between your hands.

For a second, you didn’t see him. Then your eyes lifted—and found him. The tension hit the room like a dropped amp. Your whole frame stiffened, knuckles going white around the mug. The moment stretched like a guitar string pulled too tight.

“…Silco.”

The name escaped you like breath punched from lungs. Quiet. Staggered. But unmistakable.

And it did something to him.

His spine locked, his fingers curled slightly at his sides. You saying his name—it echoed in him. Like it always had. Not a greeting. Not yet. But recognition. Memory.

“You remember,” he said, and his voice was lower than the room, smoother than the ruin in his face would suggest.

You scoffed. One corner of your mouth quirked upward, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hard to forget the man who gave my sound system its first explosion. Literally.”

That smile. Still dangerous. Still sharp enough to draw blood.

Silco huffed, just a shadow of a laugh. “You always said the acoustics in The Sump were shit.”

“They were,” you said, standing slowly, the towel slipping from your shoulders. “You didn’t have to detonate a bass amp to prove it.”

His eyes traveled over you with something like reverence—haunted, careful. You looked older. Hardened. But not broken. Never broken. Your boots were still scuffed, laces fraying. Your jacket was patched with mismatched fabrics, sleeves rolled to the elbow to reveal forearms inked with soundwaves and jagged lyrics. Your hair was wilder than he remembered—longer, streaked with fresh color—and your eyes had that same molten fire behind them.

“You’ve changed,” you said finally, voice softer, not accusing—just noting.

“So have you.”

“The world forced us to.”

You walked past him then, slow, deliberate, and tossed the towel over the back of a folding chair. The room felt too small for the two of you now. Too cramped with unsaid things, shared ghosts. You picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the edge of the vanity and lit it, exhaling toward the ceiling.

“It nearly killed me. Twice,” you said after a moment, voice bitter around the smoke. “But the music? Still mine. Still loud. Still me.”

Silco didn’t move. Just studied you in the mirror’s fractured reflection.

“I looked for you,” he said, eventually. Your gaze snapped to him. He continued, slow and honest. “After the Undercity burned. After the refinery riots. I searched for months. I asked everyone.”

“And when they told you I was dead?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “I believed them.” You turned away, shoulders rising and falling with something held back. The smoke curled around your fingers. “That night,” he said, “the fire by the old rail yard—”

“I made it out. Barely,” you cut in, tone clipped. “No thanks to you.” Silco took the blow without flinching. He deserved it. You both knew it. “But I stayed gone,” you continued. “Let people think I didn’t make it. Easier that way. Cleaner. No attachments.” He let the silence settle.

Let you have your breath.

“There’s a bar not far from here,” Silco said finally, voice quiet. “Quiet. Safe. I’d like to talk. Just… talk.” You didn’t respond right away.

Instead, you looked at him—really looked. Your eyes moved over his face, the scars, the strange stillness in his frame, the ache in his expression he probably didn’t realize he wore so plainly. The silence stretched again, this time different. This time uncertain.

Then—your shoulders lowered. Just a fraction. The wall cracked, only slightly, but enough.

“…Ten minutes,” you said, reaching for your bag. “I pack fast.” Silco nodded once, turned to go—but your voice stopped him again. “Silco.” He glanced back. You met his gaze. “I thought you were dead too.” Then you turned away.

And Silco stood there a second longer, letting those words sink deep into the place in him that still burned, still bled, still remembered you.

The bar was nestled deep in the industrial underbelly of Zaun, tucked behind a set of rust-flaked freight containers and a chain-link gate no one bothered to lock anymore. It wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled into by accident. No neon sign blared its name; only a dangling green bulb buzzed above the door like a half-dead firefly. The door creaked on its hinges when you pushed it open, reluctant to welcome guests. The interior was a dim sprawl of shadows and amber light, with low ceilings and peeling wallpaper the color of dried rust.

The few patrons inside didn’t look up. Regulars, mostly—men with oil under their fingernails, women in soot-smeared coats, the occasional Shimmer-burnt junkie curled in a booth like a warning. Smoke hung in the air like old memories, clinging to the warped wooden beams overhead. A radio in the back crackled low, the signal warped and static-laced, playing some jazz tune that had no business surviving down here. It was a place for ghosts and those who hadn’t realized they were ghosts yet.

You slid into the cracked vinyl booth across from him without a word. The seat hissed beneath you. The table between you wobbled slightly when you leaned your elbow on it. Silco was already seated, his coat draped neatly beside him, shoulders tense beneath the clean lines of his black suit. He hadn’t touched his drink.

You glanced down at his glass—brown liquor, ice long since melted—and then to your own. Whiskey. Cheap, warm, but sharp enough to hold your attention. You took a sip and let it burn down your throat before you spoke.

“So,” you said, casually, as if the question didn’t ache behind your ribs. You tapped a slow rhythm against the side of your glass, just three knuckles brushing the rim. “Is this nostalgia… or guilt?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite denial.

In the amber light, Silco looked smaller somehow. Still sharp around the edges—those knife-like cheekbones, the molten scar that split his face like a broken seam—but the years hung on him now like extra weight. He looked tired. Older. Not just in the grey at his temples, but in his posture, his eyes. In the way he sat like the world still had teeth.

“Is it wrong to say I missed you?” he asked, voice low, barely rising above the hum of the bar.

You studied him for a long beat. Watched the way his fingers curled around the base of his untouched glass, the way his gaze stayed on the table like it might crumble if he looked up. You remembered that voice. That silence. The way he used to speak only when the words truly mattered.

“Not wrong,” you said softly, “just late.”

Your fingers never stopped moving. They traced a lazy beat on the rim of your glass, a sound only the two of you noticed. You always tapped when you were thinking. He’d once called it your metronome—your way of keeping time in a world that never stopped trying to take it from you.

“I waited for you once,” you said, the words heavier than the glass in your hand. “Back when you disappeared after the refinery raid. Everything went to hell, and you just… vanished. No note. No word. No body.”

He flinched, barely perceptible. But you saw it. Felt it like a drop in pitch.

“I thought you were dead,” you went on, quieter now. “Or worse—that you chose to walk away. To let go of everything we built.”

“I didn’t think I had a future to offer you,” he said, voice frayed at the edges.

You watched the shadows move across his face. His eyes flicked up, met yours. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

“And now?”

There was a pause. A beat in which the world seemed to lean in, listening.

“Now I have a kingdom of ash,” he murmured, “and a daughter who only smiles when she listens to you scream into a microphone.”

You blinked, startled. Not at the metaphor—Silco had always spoken in poetic ruin—but at the word.

“…Daughter?”

He gave a single nod. “In every way that matters.”

You sat back, brows furrowed. “The girl with the grenades and the warpaint?”

He exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. “Jinx.”

You let out a low breath, almost a laugh. “She’s… electric. Beautiful, in a terrifying way. I didn’t know she was yours.”

“She isn’t,” he said. “Not by blood. But by choice. I took her in when the world abandoned her. Or maybe she found me. Hard to say anymore.”

“And my music?” you asked, softer now. “She listens to me?”

“She memorizes your lyrics. I hear her singing them in the dead hours of the night. When she thinks no one’s listening.” He paused. “It’s the only time she’s truly calm. Your music gives her something that isn’t rage. That isn’t pain.”

You stared down at your drink. Your hand had gone still.

“That means more than you know,” you whispered. And it did. More than applause, more than credits or fame. That it reached someone.

A silence settled then. Not the brittle kind that comes before a fight, or the aching kind that follows regret. This was heavier. Thicker. Full of things unspoken—of years lost and moments too fragile to touch.

Silco leaned forward. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Stay. Just for a while. Play more shows here. Let her have this. Let me have this. Even if it’s only a flicker of what we lost.”

You didn’t answer at first. You couldn’t. You looked at him—really looked—and saw not the man you’d once loved, but the remains of him. Scarred and shrouded, built of ash and fury and compromise. But somewhere under the soot… the ember still burned.

You slid your hand forward, fingertips grazing his.

“For one drink,” you whispered, “and one song.”

He didn’t smile. Not fully. But his eyes lit with something old. Something vulnerable. And you both knew.

There would be more.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n #reader insert #arcane angst

75 notes · View notes

w3haw3ll · 1 month ago

Text

Velvet Trigger- Max Verstappen MV1

Mafia boss x reader x "I would kill for you" x Dark Romance

Angsty, Dangerous, and addictively passionate.

7.5K Words. (Masterlist)

He ruled the world with an iron fist- until you walked in wearing red.

TW: Smut, Violence, Weapons and wounds. 18+

The Monaco courthouse gleamed in the late afternoon sun like a jewel too sharp to hold. Clean lines, golden accents, tall marble columns — all a lie beneath the surface, where power dressed itself up in procedure and called itself justice.

Y/N L/N walked in wearing red heels, and a matching high-necked blouse, and a courtroom stare that could slice through steel. She didn’t blink. Not when her client was accused of international arms trafficking. Not when she found out the prosecution’s key witness had gone mysteriously silent overnight. And certainly not when she noticed the man sitting alone in the gallery, wearing a tailored black suit and watching her like a predator.

Max Verstappen didn’t belong in a courthouse. He belonged in shadows. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t lean back. Just sat there like he owned the goddamn world and was only here for the sport of it.

Y/N continued her cross-examination like she hadn’t seen him. Like the air hadn’t shifted the second he walked in. But deep down, a single question echoed:

Why is someone like him here? For someone like Moretti?

Marco Moretti was small-time muscle — expensive suit, cheap instincts. Y/N had defended worse, but something about this case had always felt off. The evidence was shaky. The charges felt too big for the man. And now… this stranger in the gallery, still as a blade.

When the verdict was called a mistrial due to “insufficient and inconclusive evidence,” she didn’t smile. She just nodded once, gathered her files, and walked out of the courtroom with calm detachment.

But he was waiting.

“Impressive,” came the voice, low and smooth, just outside the marble steps. She turned and found him leaning against a black Aston Martin, unlit cigarette between his fingers, no lighter in sight.

“You’re either a very good lawyer,” he said, “or you’re dangerously lucky.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And you’re either stalking me or an unremarkable acquaintance.”

A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Max.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He pushed off the car, took a slow step toward her. “I don’t usually attend court. Boring. Predictable. But someone told me about you. Said you win cases you shouldn’t. Said you walk in like you own the floor and make men feel two inches tall.”

“And what, that turned you on?”

“No,” Max said softly. “It intrigued me.”

She didn’t like the way he said it. Like it was dangerous to be interesting.

“I don’t do drinks with men whose names make prosecutors nervous,” she said coolly.

“Shame,” Max murmured, stepping closer. “Because you intrigue me enough to break a few rules.”

He reached into his coat pocket and held out a sleek, matte black card. No address. Just two words in embossed silver:

L’Obsidienne Midnight.

Their fingers didn’t touch, but the air between them cracked like static.

Y/N took the card.

Not because she was interested. Not because she wanted to see him again.

But because something in her blood said you’re already in this.

Midnight – L’Obsidienne

The club was tucked away behind a row of discreet storefronts facing the Monaco harbor. No signage. Just two towering men in tailored suits and an obsidian door that opened only when her name was whispered.

Inside, L’Obsidienne was all shadows and sin. Low lighting, mirrored walls, candlelight glinting off crystal glasses and red velvet. It smelled like sex and secrets. Soft jazz played in the background, but it wasn’t the music that made her pulse race.

It was the way every eye followed her as she was led upstairs — through a black lacquer hallway, past locked rooms with muffled sounds, to a private suite that overlooked the glittering coastline.

And Max.

He stood near the balcony doors, city lights painting his face in sharp silver. No jacket. Sleeves rolled. One hand wrapped around a glass of whisky, the other tucked into his pocket like he was trying not to use it.

He turned when she walked in.

And something behind his eyes shifted.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

Y/N gave a tight smile. “Curiosity is my fatal flaw.”

He tilted his head. “You think this is fatal?”

“I think you’re used to people bending.”

Max approached her slowly, almost like he was circling her. “And you don’t bend?”

“Not for criminals.”

He hummed. “Then call me misunderstood.”

“I’d rather call you predictable.”

Max set his drink down and walked closer, until there was barely any space between them.

“You’re standing in my private club, in the middle of the night, wearing lipstick the color of blood,” he said, voice low and rough. “If I’m predictable, then what does that make you?”

Her breath caught — but she didn’t back down.

“Bored,” she whispered.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “God, you’re fun.”

She reached past him, grabbed the whisky from the table, and took a sip — her eyes on his the whole time.

“You know,” she said, licking a drop from her bottom lip, “most men in power come with a script. I’ve read them all.”

“And?”

“Yours is more interesting. But not unique.”

Max stepped forward, his hand grazing her waist — not holding, just lingering, like a dare.

“I’m not trying to be unique,” he murmured. “I’m trying to see how long I can look at you before I do something reckless.”

Her heart thudded. She felt it in her throat, her ribs, her spine.

Then, like nothing had happened, she stepped back and smiled sweetly. “Goodnight, Mr. Verstappen.”

And walked away again.

This time, she didn’t look back.

But Max… Max stood there long after she left, staring at the door, jaw tight, desire coiled in his chest like a loaded gun.

He’d let her walk away tonight. But he wouldn’t let her go.

---

It started with the rain.

A week had passed since their night at L’Obsidienne, and Y/N hadn’t heard from Max. No calls. No cards. No messages slid under her door with cryptic invitations.

She told herself she didn’t care.

She buried herself in her work, slammed shut the mental drawer with his name in it. She told herself it was nothing — a power play, a flirtation at most. That Max Verstappen was just another man who thought the world was his until someone made him bleed.

And yet…

Some nights, she swore she felt him watching her. At intersections. In the shadows between streetlights. His presence lingered like the taste of that whisky on her lips — sharp, smoky, and far too addicting.

Y/N walked briskly down the Rue Grimaldi, coat pulled tight, umbrella forgotten in the chaos of her exit. The storm had arrived too suddenly — a downpour that soaked her blouse, turned the stone streets slick, and blurred the edges of the world. She moved on instinct, pushing through the kind of night that felt charged, as though something was about to snap.

She was halfway home when her phone rang. Blocked number.

She ignored it. Until it rang again.

The voice on the other end was low, urgent.

“Don’t go home. You’ve been marked. You have 30 seconds to walk to the black car across the street.”

“What the hell—?”

“Go. Now.”

The line went dead.

She froze — pulse kicking. Then she turned slowly, scanning the street. There. Black Audi. Engine running. Tinted windows.

Logic screamed don’t, but her gut — the same instinct that had gotten her through impossible courtrooms and men who lied with polished teeth — said run.

She did.

Inside the car, silence reigned. The driver never spoke. Didn’t need to.

She knew exactly where she was going.

And who was waiting.

Back Entrance, L’Obsidienne – 11:57 PM

The club was closed. The alley glistened with rain and danger, slick cobblestones reflecting the red glow of a lone security light.

And Max.

He stood beneath the overhang, dry despite the storm, a storm of his own behind his eyes. Shirt sleeves rolled, collar open, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

The moment she stepped out of the car, he walked toward her — fast, tense, like a man barely holding himself together.

“You’re okay?” he asked first. Not hello. Not a smirk.

Just raw, open worry.

“I’m here,” she replied, breathless. “But what the fuck is going on?”

Max didn’t answer with words.

He took her hand.

His was warm, rough, grounding — and for a second, it felt like they weren’t in the middle of something that could end in blood.

“They were watching you,” he said finally, voice low. “I thought they might wait. I was wrong.”

“Who?” she demanded. “You’re being hunted, and you pull me into this?”

Max stepped closer. “No. You walked into my world. You showed up that night, and you didn’t look away. You knew something wasn’t right — and you stayed.”

Her voice cracked. “That doesn’t mean you get to decide where I go, Max.”

“I know,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “But I need you to be somewhere they can’t reach you tonight.”

He opened a discreet door behind the club, led her through a silent hallway and into a private elevator. They ascended without speaking, the silence thick with unfinished sentences.

When the doors opened, Monaco’s skyline sprawled before them through glass walls.

His penthouse was dimly lit, all clean lines and dark wood, the kind of quiet that hummed with secrets. A storm rolled in over the sea — lightning flashing distantly, waves crashing against the rocks below.

Y/N stood at the window, arms crossed tightly.

“You should have let me walk away after that first night,” she whispered.

“I tried.”

“And now?”

Max stepped behind her, voice low near her ear. “Now I dream about your voice every night. Your mouth. Your spine. How you never flinch, never fold. You walk into fire like it’s a game and dare me to follow.”

She turned, slowly, and their bodies nearly collided.

“You’re obsessed,” she said.

He nodded once. “Unapologetically.”

Her breath hitched. “And if I’m not interested?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Then I’ll burn quietly. But you’re here. You came.”

Y/N’s hands shook slightly. She hated that he made her feel anything — but it wasn’t fear. It was hunger. Recognition. A flame she’d never dared touch.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

Max’s eyes darkened. “Say it again.”

“Kiss me.”

He moved fast.

His mouth crashed into hers — fire, desperate friction. One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other anchored at her waist, drawing her against the hard line of his body. She moaned, fisting his shirt, dragging him closer, devouring him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

It wasn’t gentle. It was war.

And she didn’t want it to end.

When he pulled back, both of them panting, her lips bruised, he said her name like a sin.

“Y/N—”

Glass shattered.

Gunfire tore through the windows — sharp, precise, and close.

Max threw her down behind the leather couch just as another round of bullets pierced the far wall. Glass rained down like glitter. She ducked, heart hammering, breath ripped from her lungs.

Max was already moving — gun in hand, tucked low. Calm.

“Don’t move until I tell you to.”

Her voice trembled. “How many?”

“Two shooters. Professional. Russian.”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

He looked at her. “Because I trained them.”

The silence was deafening.

Then his hand found hers, warm despite everything.

“I’m going to end this,” he said.

She squeezed back. “You’ll die trying.”

Max leaned in, lips brushing hers again.

“I told you,” he whispered. “I’d burn for you.”

And then he was gone — into the storm of bullets, into the night, into the war that had found her too.

And Y/N knew, without a doubt, this wasn’t just a game anymore.

This was a war she couldn’t walk away from.

Y/N had never felt quiet like this.

Not the peaceful kind. No, this was a brutal kind of stillness — the kind that sat in your chest and made it hard to breathe. It wrapped around her ribcage as she stood barefoot in the ruins of Max’s penthouse, his dress shirt clinging to her damp skin, the taste of his lips still lingering on hers.

She turned in slow circles, surveying the aftermath: shattered glass, bullet holes stitched across the window frames, the scent of scorched metal and adrenaline hanging thick in the air.

But Max was gone.

And that silence? It was turning into something unbearable.

She didn’t know if he’d made it out of the building. If he’d caught the shooters. If she’d imagined everything he’d said right before diving headfirst into a war she hadn’t asked for.

Her phone had no service.

And her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She sat down hard on the leather couch — or what was left of it — her knees pulled to her chest. She wanted to cry, but there was nothing soft left inside her to make tears. Only ash and confusion.

She should leave.

Run. Disappear. Go back to London. Pretend Max Verstappen had never come into her life like a loaded gun aimed at the part of her that still believed in good men.

But when the penthouse door finally clicked open — slow, heavy, purposeful — she didn’t move.

She didn’t need to.

She knew it was him.

Max looked like the storm he always tried to hide.

His shirt was torn at the sleeve, one hand wrapped in gauze that was already stained with blood. A dark patch marred the collar of his jacket — not his blood, she hoped, but in his world, it hardly mattered. He moved like someone who’d spent hours running on instincts alone.

And the second he saw her, his shoulders dropped. Just a fraction. But she saw it.

“Say something,” he said hoarsely.

She stood.

Then slapped him.

Hard.

His head snapped to the side. But he didn’t stop her when she pushed him back again and again, fists hitting the broad line of his chest with every syllable.

“You—don’t—get—to—decide—if—I—live!”

Max caught her wrists mid-swing, breathing ragged.

“I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“Then what was that?” she choked. “You disappear for hours. I don’t know if you’re alive. I don’t know who wants me dead. And you—God, Max—you act like it’s all just another calculated move.”

“I went after them,” he growled. “I tracked two down. The third got away.”

“And what now? You go hunting again? You kill your way back to control and think that’s enough?”

“No,” he said, quietly. “Now I keep you alive. Even if it means keeping you locked in this building until they’re all buried.”

Y/N stared at him, horrified. “That’s not love, Max. That’s prison.”

His face changed at that. A shadow passing over something already broken.

“I never said this was love.”

Her voice dropped. “Then what the hell is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stepped in close — close enough for her to smell the blood and smoke clinging to his collar.

“This thing between us,” he said, low, “has always had an expiration date. But until then…” His fingers brushed her cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours. Whether we burn for it or not.”

She should’ve slapped him again.

Instead, she kissed him.

It was chaos.

It was desperate, angry, starving.

Their bodies crashed into each other like a wave against stone — all teeth and bruised lips and hands that couldn’t get close enough fast enough. She didn’t care about the cuts on his hands. He didn’t care about the blood still on his shirt. They sank into each other like people who didn’t know if there would be a tomorrow.

Max pushed her back onto the couch, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, his hands sliding up her thighs like he owned them. She arched into him, moaning into the storm of it, gasping when his grip tightened possessively.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Never.”

Her kiss wasn’t soft — it was a collision.

She clutched the collar of Max’s jacket, dragging him down to her level, their mouths crashing like thunder against a storm-split sky. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her in one smooth motion, setting her down on the kitchen counter with a thud. She gasped as the cool marble kissed the backs of her thighs — then again when his mouth followed the curve of her neck with bruising intent.

“You’re bleeding,” she breathed.

“I don’t care,” he growled into her skin.

He kissed her again — deeper, messier, like he needed to consume the part of her that made him feel alive. And maybe he did. Because Max was a man surrounded by death, and Y/N tasted like the first breath of air after being buried alive.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and he helped, yanking it over his head, revealing skin marked by ink and scars. She ran her hands down his chest, nails grazing each ridge like a claim. He hissed in pleasure.

“Don’t tease me,” he muttered against her collarbone. “Not tonight.”

“Then do something about it,” she challenged.

That was all he needed.

Max’s hands pushed her thighs apart, tugging her closer to the edge. Her breath hitched as his fingers hooked beneath the fabric of the shirt she wore — his shirt — and pulled it over her head in one swift movement.

She was bare to him, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow waves.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost reverent.

He took his time with her, one hand running up her thigh, the other sliding around her back to draw her closer. His mouth found her breast, hot and eager, while his thumb rolled over her nipple. She arched against him, legs wrapping around his waist, grounding herself with the only thing that still felt real — him.

The kiss turned savage. Tongues and teeth. Her moans were swallowed into his mouth as he ground against her, hardness pressed perfectly against where she was already aching.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured against her jaw. “Tell me before I ruin you.”

“You already have,” she whispered, clawing at his back. “Now finish it.”

Moments later — the bedroom.

They didn’t even make it to the bed properly. Just halfway on, halfway off — limbs tangled, sheets twisted, gasps echoing through the dimly lit room.

Max buried himself inside her in one hard, relentless thrust, both of them crying out at the suddenness of it. Her legs locked around him as he drove into her, over and over, like he could bury the pain and the fear between their bodies. Like if he kept moving, he wouldn’t have to feel how close he was to falling apart.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was possession. It was penance. It was desperation.

He kissed her like he wanted to forget. She kissed him like she wanted to remember.

Each thrust was a promise: I would burn the world for you.

And her nails down his back answered: Then burn it.

When she came, it was a cry ripped from her lungs — not just pleasure, but release, heartbreak, surrender. And Max followed with a hoarse curse, burying his face in her shoulder as if ashamed of how much he needed her.

They didn’t speak for a while.

They just lay there — skin against skin, breath against breath — the silence between them not empty, but charged.

And for the first time since it all began, they were both finally stripped of pretense.

Naked.

Honest.

Human.

The Safehouse – 3:47 AM

She didn’t remember the car ride. Just Max’s voice in her ear, telling her it wasn’t safe to stay. That the penthouse was compromised. That they had to vanish — just for a little while.

Now they stood in the dark heart of an old villa tucked deep in Monaco’s hills — a place with heavy doors, reinforced glass, and no cell signal.

Y/N sat curled on a window seat overlooking the glittering coastline, wrapped in Max’s hoodie, her hair still damp from the earlier rain. She looked like a painting of solitude.

Max leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You should sleep,” he said quietly.

“I can’t,” she replied. “Not when I keep hearing gunshots every time I close my eyes.”

He moved closer, dropping down to sit beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at him. “For what?”

“For bringing you into this world. For not letting you walk away when I should’ve.”

“I wouldn’t have walked away,” she said after a long pause. “Even if you told me to. Not really.”

His brows drew together. “Why?”

She turned her head. “Because you were the first man who didn’t lie to me about the darkness. You showed me yours. And I… I think I wanted to be seen, too.”

Max looked at her like she’d torn open his ribcage with a whisper.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally. “But I don’t know how to keep you.”

And there it was — the realest thing he’d ever said.

No bravado. No armor. Just a man who was more broken than dangerous.

Y/N reached over, took his hand. “Then don’t try to protect me from your world, Max. Let me into it. Let me help you survive it.”

He leaned in, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling.

“If you stay,” he whispered, “there’s no going back. No half-truths. No out.”

“I’m already in,” she whispered. “And if you burn… I’ll burn with you.”

They didn’t sleep that night.

But they weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the ways that mattered.

Y/N sat curled in the corner of the bay window, knees tucked to her chest, watching the ocean churn below. The storm had been brewing for hours, but it hadn’t broken yet — just like Max.

She could hear him downstairs. Pacing. Shouting. Making plans with men who spoke in sharp, urgent Dutch. She didn’t understand all the words, but she understood the fear behind them. The empire was shaking — and he was trying to hold it all together with bloodstained hands.

And she hadn't seen him properly in two days.

Not really.

Not since that night in the penthouse. Not since he made her fall apart with nothing but desperation and devotion in his touch.

He hadn’t kissed her since. Hadn’t even met her eyes.

Just warred, planned, bled — alone.

Until tonight.

---

She found him in the library, the fire low, his glass untouched.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said quietly, stepping inside.

He didn’t turn. “I’m protecting you.”

“Bullshit.”

Max looked over his shoulder, and for a second, something in his eyes cracked. He looked like a man unraveling, stitched too tight for too long.

“I let you in, Y/N. That was my mistake.”

She crossed the room, defiant. “No. Your mistake is thinking you can survive this without me.”

He stood then — tall, dangerous, utterly untouchable. But she didn’t back down. She stood in front of him, toe-to-toe, her chin tilted high.

“Tell me I don’t matter,” she said. “Lie to my face if you have to.”

He stared at her. Silent. Tortured.

Then: “You’re the only thing that matters.”

He grabbed her. One swift, furious movement — his hand tangling in her hair, his mouth claiming hers like he was drowning.

She gasped into the kiss, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the ripple of muscle. He tasted like whiskey and violence — like everything she craved and everything she feared.

“I can’t think when you’re near me,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her throat. “I can’t breathe.”

“Then stop pretending,” she whispered, pushing his jacket from his shoulders. “And start feeling.”

He shoved papers from the desk behind her, lifted her onto it, his mouth never leaving hers. His fingers traced fire across her thighs, slipping under the silk robe she wore, baring her inch by inch until she was exposed beneath him.

He stepped back for just a second — to look.

“Beautiful,” he muttered. “And fucking mine.”

“Then take me,” she whispered.

And he did.

Slowly at first — savoring the arch of her back, the gasp of her breath, the clutch of her fingers in his hair. Then harder, deeper, until she was crying out with each thrust, head thrown back, body trembling.

“Say it again,” he growled.

“I’m yours,” she whimpered.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

When she shattered, he followed — pressing his forehead to hers, sweat-slick and shaking.

They stayed like that. Tangled. Raw. Silent.

Until the world crept back in.

---

In the dark, Max held her close. One arm around her waist, the other braced on the bed as if he were still shielding her from invisible enemies.

“They killed Misha,” he said finally, voice rough. “My second. Since we came here.”

Her heart clenched. “Max…”

“There’s no more hiding,” he said. “This ends now.”

“What are you going to do?”

His voice was steel. “Whatever it takes.”

He stood, bare and beautiful in the moonlight, and reached for a small black velvet box from the drawer.

“I was saving this. For later.”

Y/N blinked as he opened it.

Not a ring. But a chain — with a bullet casing at the end.

“This belonged to my father,” he said. “He died in this life. I swore I wouldn’t give this to anyone unless I was all in.”

He stepped forward and clasped it around her neck.

“You’re not just in this world now,” he whispered. “You own part of it. Of me.”

She stared at him. Breathless.

And terrified.

---

At dawn, she woke alone.

A glass of water. A warm robe. And a note on the pillow.

‘If I don’t come back — don’t follow. You’re stronger than this world. But I made a choice the moment I kissed you in the dark. I’d die before I let it take you.’

Below it: the ring he always wore. Heavy. Cold. Final.

Y/N sat there for a long time, storm clouds swallowing the skyline.

And then, with fire in her chest, she stood.

Because if he thought she’d let him walk into war alone — he didn’t know her at all.

----

It started with a call in the dead of night. A coded phrase from Max’s encrypted burner phone. Three words: “He’s with them.”

Y/N stared at the screen, pulse hammering. She knew who “he” was. Knew what it meant.

Leclerc. Max’s most trusted man. The one who brought her tea when Max forgot to eat. The one who held her hand when Max was being seen to after he got shot. The one who sold them out.

She didn’t wait for orders. Max was gone, but she wasn’t some porcelain doll left on a shelf.

Y/N stood in the center of Max’s war room — screens blinking with satellite feeds, dossiers spread like bloodstains on the marble table. Max was gone.

But not dead.

She could feel it.

And she wasn’t going to wait for news. Not again.

“Track his last known coordinates,” she told Yuki, Max’s tech lieutenant. “Get me a car. And a gun.”

“Max said—”

“Max isn’t here,” she snapped. “I am.”

By sunrise, she was armed, dressed in sleek black, and crossing the border in a bulletproof Bentley. Eyes cold. Lips crimson.

And that’s how she ended up in a stolen Maserati at 3 a.m., chasing down a private jet last seen landing in Marseille. Hair windblown. Heart war-bound.

Monaco was no longer safe.

----

She found Max in Marseille, crumpled in an alley behind a burned-out brothel turned safehouse. Blood soaked his designer suit. A split above his brow leaked down his temple like war paint.

Bleeding, bruised, back pressed to the stone wall of an abandoned French vineyard — surrounded by men he once trusted. Including Leclerc — Max’s childhood friend. The man who toasted him at their first kill. The traitor.

Y/N stepped into the moonlight, gun raised.

“You picked the wrong side,” she said coldly.

Leclerc laughed. “He was always going to die alone. Just like his father.”

Max’s jaw tightened, but his eyes were locked on her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled.

“Saving your ass.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate — she pulled the trigger. One clean shot. Straight through Leclerc’s thigh.

“Next one goes through your heart,” she said. “Try me.”

The others scattered. Some tried to fight. Most didn’t make it far.

Y/N knelt beside Max, cupping his jaw. “You left me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

She leaned in, forehead to his. “Then let me protect you for once.”

Despite the agony, he chuckled. “God, I love you.”

They made it out. Barely.

Y/N drove like the devil was chasing them. Max passed out in the backseat, muttering half-conscious Dutch threats and her name over and over.

They hid in The Hague for two days.

That’s when the footage surfaced. Leclerc. Smiling. Sitting with Interpol. Trading files for freedom. Outing every syndicate member.

Including Max.

Including her.

“He knew where we slept,” Max growled, slamming his fist into the wall. “Where you showered. He—” He couldn’t finish. He just collapsed into a chair, trembling. “He saw you as my weakness.”

Y/N kneeled in front of him, cradling his face. “I’m not your weakness,” she said fiercely. “I’m your fucking spine.”

---

They returned to Monaco undercover — new aliases, false passports, and a plan that could only end in flames.

The vault under the Casino held the last known files. The ones Leclerc hadn’t handed over. Max needed them destroyed. Y/N needed Leclerc dead.

“I’ll be the distraction,” she said.

“No,” Max growled. “I’ve already risked you once.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing her body to his, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to sideline me anymore. We’re in this together — or we’re nothing.”

His hands found her waist. Fingers dug into her hips. “Say that again.”

“In. This. Together.”

He kissed her hard, furious — teeth, tongue, fire — lifting her onto the desk, muttering between each gasp: “I’d burn the whole world down… just to keep you mine.”

Fast. Desperate. Tender in the cracks. Their bodies moving like weapons — forged to fight for something bigger than power.

---

The air inside the Monte Carlo Casino was thick with money, perfume, and the quiet hiss of secrets. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting molten gold across a sea of diamonds, designer gowns, and deadly smiles.

Y/N walked in like a ghost in red silk.

Her dress clung to every curve like it had been painted on — slit to her thigh, plunging down her back, the fabric swishing with purpose. Her heels clicked softly on the marble floors as she made her way through the main gaming hall. She was all smirk and shadow, like sin wrapped in satin.

Whispers followed her.

She didn’t blink.

She didn’t smile.

She was here for one thing: Leclerc.

And the end of this goddamn game.

Through the mirrored corridors and velvet-draped rooms, she finally found the private lounge — the entrance to the underground vault where Max’s empire had once been stored in secrets and blackmail.

Two guards stood in front of the gold-inlaid double doors.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She leaned in, close enough for them to smell her expensive perfume — the one Max always said reminded him of blood oranges and vengeance.

“I’m expected,” she said, voice low, laced with venom.

They opened the doors.

Inside, Leclerc was waiting.

He stood in the center of the vault like a king on his last breath — sharp suit, smug expression, champagne glass in hand. Screens on the walls displayed encrypted data feeds, and stacks of physical ledgers lined the walls like coffins.

And behind him, in a glass case, lay the files. The files — the last link to Max’s criminal empire. The final leverage Luca thought he could wield.

Y/N let the doors shut behind her.

“You really traded all of this for immunity?” she said, eyes scanning the room. “Sold out a man who trusted you. Loved you like a brother.”

Leclerc laughed, swirling his champagne. “Max built a throne on sand and blood. I just made sure I wouldn’t drown when the tides changed.”

She stepped closer, slow and predatory.

“And me?” she asked softly. “Did I come with the price tag, too?”

He tilted his head, watching her. “You were the bonus. Pretty little thing with teeth. I never understood what he saw in you.”

Y/N’s smile was ice. “That’s because you’ve never had anything worth bleeding for.”

He moved to the case behind him, tapping the glass.

“These files are worth millions. Names, deals, bank routes. The whole goddamn skeleton of his kingdom. And in ten minutes, I’ll be giving them to Interpol.”

Y/N took another step forward, unbothered.

“What if you don’t live ten more minutes?”

Leclerc chuckled. “Please. You won’t shoot me. You’d be dead before you pulled the trigger.”

Y/N’s lips curled. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Then —

“Now,” she whispered.

The lights exploded. Smoke burst from the vents. Alarms wailed. Red strobes lit the vault like a dance floor in hell.

Max burst through the smoke, black tactical gear hugging his frame, gun drawn, eyes locked on Leclerc like a wolf seeing red. Behind him, his loyalists — masked, brutal, surgical in their movements.

“Surprise,” Max growled, voice like gravel soaked in rage.

Leclerc stumbled back, shouting for his guards.

Too late.

Gunfire erupted. Y/N dove, rolled, and fired twice — one bullet tore through Luca’s shoulder, the other into the man flanking him. Blood hit the glass.

Chaos reigned.

Max shot clean. Methodical. Calculated violence.

Y/N moved like art — ducking, kicking, shooting — the hem of her gown streaked in ash and blood, her lipstick smudged into a grin of war.

Smoke coiled. Screams echoed.

When the room cleared, Leclerc was on the floor, gasping, bleeding from his arm, dragging himself backwards with his good hand.

Max stood over him, chest heaving, face bruised.

“I should kill you,” he snarled. “But she deserves it more.”

He stepped aside.

Y/N walked forward, gun heavy in her palm.

Leclerc spat blood. “You think this changes anything? You’ll never be free of this life.”

Y/N crouched down, meeting his gaze. “No. But I’ll be free of you.”

She lifted the gun.

“And Max?” Leclerc rasped. “He’ll always be a monster.”

Y/N didn’t blink.

“Then I’ll be the monster’s queen.”

And she pulled the trigger.

One shot.

Between the eyes.

Silence.

The vault smelled like smoke, blood, and the end of an era.

Y/N stood. Max stepped beside her, slipping his hand into hers. His jaw was tight. His grip was trembling.

“I told you to stay behind,” he said.

She glanced at him.

“And miss our big finish?” she whispered. “Not a chance.”

He leaned in, kissed her temple, and whispered so low only she could hear:

“I’ve never loved anyone like this.”

The sound of the final gunshot still echoed off the marble and steel when silence fell.

The kind of silence that screamed louder than war.

Y/N lowered her arm, breath shuddering, the gun hot in her hand. Blood dripped in a slow, rhythmic patter from Leclerc’s body to the floor — a twisted, final metronome.

Max stood across from her, panting, shoulder heaving. A gash on his cheek leaked down his neck. Smoke curled around him like a halo made of fire and fury.

No one else moved.

His men were already clearing the space, securing the files, checking corners — but all Max could see was her.

Y/N. In red and ruin. Gun in her hand. Blood on her skin. Eyes full of rage and something much, much deeper.

He stepped forward, slow and sure.

She turned to him like gravity pulled her.

Neither said anything for a long moment.

Then—his voice cracked, low and raw.

“Are you hurt?”

She blinked, dazed. “I don’t think so.”

He reached out. His hands, always so steady, now shook slightly as they cupped her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks like she was made of glass.

“You weren’t supposed to do this,” he murmured, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve—”

She cut him off, fierce and ragged.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

Tears burned in her eyes, but didn’t fall. Her lip trembled. “You could've died if I hadn't come. You could've died, Max.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “But I can’t lose you either. Not for this. Not for any of it.”

And suddenly she was kissing him.

Not softly. Not sweetly. It was fire — desperate, blood-hot, all teeth and tangled breath. Her fingers tore at his collar, his hands tangled in her hair, the scent of danger still clinging to their skin.

They broke apart just long enough to gasp—

“I could’ve I lost you,” she whispered.

“I’m right here,” he growled against her lips. “I’m always fucking here.”

He kissed her again, deeper, harder, like it was the only way he could stay grounded.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat.

Max turned, murder in his eyes, and his second-in-command raised a brow.

“We need to move,” the man said, nodding at the vault’s surveillance system. “They’ll be here in less than ten.”

Max didn’t hesitate. He yanked Y/N flush to his side.

“Burn it,” he said.

The man hesitated. “All of it?”

Max looked at the files — the empire, the leverage, the power.

Then he looked at her.

“Burn. It. All.”

---

They slipped into the tunnels beneath the casino, guided by years of contingency planning and the faint scent of sea salt.

Y/N walked beside Max, her body aching, her heart even more so.

“You killed for me,” he said quietly, as they reached the boat hidden beneath the cliffs.

She turned to him, wind lashing her hair across her face. “I killed because of you.”

He stopped her there, grabbed her wrists.

“I don’t want you to become what I am.”

She stepped forward, lips trembling.

“Then become something better with me. Let's choose something different, Max. For once.”

His breath caught.

Then he pulled her in, forehead to hers.

“Ride with me?” he whispered.

She smiled through her tears. “To the end of the earth.”

They boarded the boat together — not king and queen of a crumbling empire, but something new. Something free.

The boat roared to life.

Behind them, the vault exploded.

A tower of flame lit the night sky, raining gold and ash into the sea.

And Max Verstappen, the man who once ruled Monaco with an iron fist, kissed his love as their past burned behind them.

---

The Sicilian villa was perched high on a cliff, half-hidden by vines and moonlight. Waves crashed far below like the pounding of a distant war drum, but up here — there was only stillness.

Only them.

Y/N stood barefoot on the balcony, wrapped in one of Max’s black dress shirts. The hem fell mid-thigh, sleeves swallowed her hands, and his scent — leather and danger — clung to her like a second skin.

The wind played in her hair. Her arms were folded against the railing, but her mind was far away — back in that vault, that chaos. The gun still warm in her grip. The weight of it all still in her chest.

Then, behind her, she felt him.

Max.

He didn’t speak. He just came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his bare chest. His skin was still damp from the shower. Warm. Solid.

His lips brushed the curve of her neck.

“You haven’t said anything in over an hour,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He kissed her shoulder.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “You did what had to be done.”

“I didn’t do it for strategy,” she whispered. “Or safety. I did it because the thought of him touching you… taking you away from me—”

Her voice broke. She turned in his arms.

“I love you,” she said, fierce and unflinching. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you scare the hell out of me. I love you.”

He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

Then he kissed her.

Slow. Deep. No rush now — no danger. Just the weight of what they’d survived. The cost of it. The ache in their bones and hearts.

Max lifted her in his arms and carried her inside without a word.

The room was dim, lit only by the fire crackling low in the hearth. He laid her on the bed like she was breakable, but his hands said otherwise — they were hungry, reverent, claiming.

He pulled off the shirt slowly, watching it fall away, revealing every inch of her like he was memorising her all over again.

“You terrify me,” he whispered as he kissed down her sternum. “You walked into fire for me.”

“I’d do it again,” she whispered, voice catching as his lips moved lower, slower.

And when his mouth found her heat, her hands tangled in his hair, her back arching, breath stuttering. He was relentless — not rough, but thorough. Worshipping her with his tongue and lips like she was a prayer he never deserved.

When she came undone, trembling and gasping his name, he kissed her inner thigh, slow and sweet.

Then he moved up her body, his bare skin against hers — strong, scarred, real.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said, voice ragged. “I just want to belong to you.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“You already do,” she whispered.

When he entered her, it wasn’t frantic. It was everything. Bodies tangled in moonlight and sweat. Foreheads pressed. Fingers laced. The sound of skin against skin and the whispered words between gasps.

“Don’t let go.” “Never.” “I love you.” “I’m yours.”

And when they finally collapsed together — spent, breathless, undone — Max buried his face in her neck and held her so tight it hurt.

“I don’t know what comes next,” he whispered.

Y/N stroked his hair, kissed his temple, and whispered back:

“Whatever it is, we survive it. Together.”

---

Epilogue: One Year Later

The villa sat tucked into the Sicilian cliffs like it had always belonged there — old stone, overgrown roses, and warm terracotta tiles that glowed gold in the evening light. The sea stretched wide and endless below, the waves soft now. Not crashing. Just breathing.

It was peaceful here.

And for Max Verstappen and Y/N L/N, peace had been the hardest thing to learn.

Y/N was barefoot in the garden, the hem of her linen dress brushing her calves as she snipped fresh basil for dinner. Her hair was pinned up messily, a few strands loose and kissed by salt air. A radio hummed quietly from the open kitchen window — some lazy Italian love song drifting through the vines.

She didn’t flinch when arms slipped around her waist from behind.

Max.

Still impossibly handsome, though softer now. Stubble dusted his jaw, and a thin scar curved near his temple — a memory of Monaco, one she’d kissed a hundred times. He smelled like sun and lemons and the worn cotton of the T-shirt clinging to his chest.

“You’re late,” she murmured with a teasing smile, leaning back into him.

“Had to convince the old farmer down the road to part with his last bottle of grappa. Almost had to arm wrestle his goat.”

She laughed — the kind of laugh that reached her eyes now.

“Worth it?”

He held up the bottle with a grin. “You tell me.”

They stood like that for a moment — two shadows wrapped in golden light.

Then Max turned her gently, brushing her hands aside and tucking a sprig of basil behind her ear.

“You know,” he said, looking at her like she still stole the air from his lungs, “every time I see you out here like this, I think maybe this is what heaven looks like.”

She raised a brow. “Basil in my hair and dirt on my knees?”

“Exactly that.” He kissed her, slow and easy. “Perfect.”

Dinner was quiet — pasta, wine, bare feet tangled under the table. He told her about the book he was reading. She told him about the stray cat that refused to stop sleeping on their porch.

No bullets. No codes. No blood on the walls.

Just a quiet life they built one sunrise at a time.

After dinner, they sat out on the balcony, the sky streaked with pink and lavender, the stars beginning to bloom. She curled into his side, head on his chest, fingers tracing idle shapes over the faded tattoo on his forearm — the one he'd gotten for her, right after they’d burned their past to the ground.

𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬.

“Do you ever miss it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t need to ask what it meant.

The power. The danger. The thrill of the chase.

“No,” he said honestly. “Not when I wake up next to you.”

She kissed his chest, and they fell into silence again, the kind that felt like home.

Some nights, the past still slipped in through the cracks — in dreams, in shadows, in the ache of old scars.

But every time it did, she was there.

And so was he.

Alive. In love. Free.

They didn’t get a perfect life. But they got this one. And for them, that was more than enough.

103 notes · View notes

xoxorealitygalore · 11 days ago

Text

Look What You Did 10

Jey Uso x Black OC

Summary: After meeting Joshua, Jalisa embarks on an emotional journey, navigating the vulnerability and joy of an unexpected connection.

Tag: @theusotwinzcom @baybehkay @purplementalitybluebird

The gym smelled faintly of iron and sweat, the echoes of clanking weights underscored by the low hum of the playlist Joshua had curated specifically for Jalisa.

It was upbeat, empowering, and just aggressive enough to push her out of the mental fog she’d been in since giving birth. Four months postpartum, and Jalisa was more than ready to reclaim her body. Or at least start feeling like herself again.

Dressed in black leggings and a supportive sports bra that doubled as her armor, Jalisa stretched beside the treadmill, her hands tugging against her shoulder blades.

Joshua stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her with a blend of amusement and pride.

“You sure you ready for this?” he asked, raising a brow.

He looked massive against the mirrored walls, a presence too commanding to miss. He wore shorts and a sleeveless hoodie that exposed his tattooed arms, the Polynesian ink intricate and bold, a story on his skin.

“I’m not trying to body slam anybody,” Jalisa said, cracking her neck. “I just want my booty sitting up the same way Trin’s booty does.”

Joshua chuckled, the sound deep and warm, like gravel softened with honey. “You do know Trin is in the gym four times a week.”

“I can’t do that,” Jalisa pouted, stepping onto the treadmill. “Twins, remember?”

Joshua nodded. “Once a week here. Then we’ll do light workouts at home. Core stuff. Glutes. You’re breastfeeding, and on that low sodium diet... you’re already doing a lot.”

Jalisa started walking, her pace increasing with each minute. “I feel good,” she admitted. “Like I’m doing something for me again.”

He walked beside her, matching her energy. “That’s the whole point. You carried them for nine months. You’ve earned this process to be yours.”

The rest of their workout unfolded like a gentle storm, powerful but paced. Joshua guided her through modified squats, light dumbbells, and resistance bands, gently correcting her form, praising her when she nailed a movement.

By the end of it, sweat was beading on her brow, her muscles humming with fatigue but she felt strong. Powerful. Like Jalisa again.

Later that afternoon, after showering and changing, they pulled up to a building tucked away in a strip near the beach. The signage outside read Sacred Tatau, the walls decked in tribal motifs and framed photos of Mike with famous wrestlers and clients.

“What are you getting now?” Jalisa asked as she stepped out of the car, her hair pulled into a loose bun and oversized shades shielding her eyes.

Joshua grinned. “The twins’ names. I’m thinking upper arms.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you even have left on your upper arms?”

He flexed slightly, and she reached over to grab his biceps playfully. “Honestly, I might have to move a few things around,” he said, still smiling.

As they entered the studio, the cool air and faint scent of antiseptic hit them immediately. A tall man with warm brown skin came out from the back, wiping his hands.

“This is Jalisa,” Joshua said, placing a hand gently on her back. “My baby girls’ mother.”

Mike smiled broadly and extended a hand. “It’s finally nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jalisa said, shaking it.

Mike’s eyes twinkled as he looked between them. “You getting anything done too?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly, laughing. “Maybe some other time.”

“She’s got one tattoo and it’s on her butt,” Joshua added with a teasing grin. “I think she regrets that one.”

“I got it in college, and it was the trend at the time,” Jalisa said with a smirk. “It’s a butterfly, and I was feeling myself.”

“Classic,” Mike said, chuckling. “Butterfly on the butt is timeless in its own way.”

Jalisa sat in the corner, watching Joshua settle into the chair while Mike prepped the ink and needles. The buzz of the machine filled the studio as the first strokes of Jariana’s name took shape on his right arm, just above the curve of existing ink.

“You know,” she murmured, watching the process, “when they grow up and see their names on you... they’re going to love it.”

Joshua winced slightly but kept still. “That’s the idea. I want them to know they’re a part of me, always.”

She reached out, brushing a finger along his forearm. “You already show them that. You’re a good dad.”

He met her gaze, softened by the moment, and nodded once.

Vanessa, 54. Shamea, 49. Tanya, 41.

The sun filtered through the windows of the corner restaurant, casting a warm, golden hue over the dark wood and crisp white tablecloths. Jalisa sat at a round table nestled in a quiet alcove of the bistro, sipping a lemon spritzer as she waited for her siblings to trickle in.

The sounds of soft jazz floated through the air, a welcome backdrop to what she hoped would be a productive, if not slightly chaotic, lunch with her sisters and brothers.

Vanessa, the eldest of the group at fifty-four and every bit the graceful matriarch-in-training, was already seated to her right. Shamea, bold and vibrant at forty-nine, was in mid-story, gesturing animatedly with her fork as she dug into a beet salad.

“And where are the two knuckleheads?” Shamea asked, rolling her eyes and tossing a curl of her highlighted hair over her shoulder.

She didn’t need to say names; everyone knew she meant their older brothers—Lance Jr., fifty-nine and always a bit aloof, and Jason, fifty-six, the self-declared family comedian.

“Still on their way,” Tanya, the youngest of the sisters at forty-one, said as she scrolled through a group text thread. “Apparently, they went to the wrong restaurant.”

Jalisa stifled a laugh and shook her head. “How? You know what—never mind. Leave it to them to get lost, and they picked the restaurant.”

Laughter broke out around the table, the kind only siblings shared, familiar, warm, and laced with history. Jalisa leaned back in her chair and looked at her sisters, suddenly struck by how full her heart felt. Planning their parents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary was no small task, but it was one they were uniquely equipped to handle, chaos and all.

“I told y’all we should’ve met at Mama’s house,” Shamea muttered.

“But then Daddy would’ve overheard us,” Vanessa reminded her. “This is a surprise, remember?”

Shamea waved her off. “Like he can hear anything with that TV blaring.”

The table dissolved into laughter, the kind that rippled through each of them in waves, woven with memories of growing up in a house full of noise, casseroles, and always someone yelling across the hallway.

Jalisa felt a surge of warmth just listening to them.

“So,” Vanessa began, flipping to a clean page in her planner. “I say we do the party on the actual anniversary. That’s a Saturday. We could do a garden party at the estate, maybe mid-afternoon.”

“Ooh, I love that idea,” Tanya said, tilting her iPad toward them with pictures of string lights and pastel floral arrangements. “Something classy but personal. Roses, peonies, maybe some eucalyptus.”

“I’ll call Aunt Bertie and see if she’ll do the peach cobbler,” Shamea offered. “She made it for their fiftieth, and Daddy still talks about it.”

“Can we talk guest list?” Jalisa asked.

“Because I already know if we don’t invite the Hayes sisters from across the street, they’ll start something at church.”

“And if we invite them, they’ll show up in matching hats and try to sing a medley of gospel hits,” Tanya said dryly.

“Let them sing,” Shamea said with a shrug.

“Let them sing, girl. It's one less thing we gotta worry about for entertainment.”

They all laughed again, the sound a melody of familiarity and shared history.

Jalisa reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “I found some old photos of Mama and Daddy in the basement. Like, from their honeymoon and that one trip to Barbados. I thought maybe we could blow some up for the entrance table?”

Vanessa opened the envelope and gasped. “Oh my goodness, look at Mama’s waist! And Daddy had hair!”

“Thick, too,” Shamea said, peering over. “Look at all that edge-up!”

Jalisa beamed as they passed the photos around. “You can just see the love in their eyes. Sixty years, y’all. That’s a whole lifetime.”

“Multiple lifetimes with the way Daddy gets on Mama’s nerves,” Tanya teased.

“And vice versa,” Vanessa added.

They all nodded, smiling.

Before long, the brothers finally walked in, Lance Jr. in his signature khaki slacks and Bluetooth headset, Jason in a button-down that looked like it hadn’t seen an iron in weeks. They both wore sheepish grins as they slid into the booth.

“Y’all mad?” Jason asked, holding his palms up.

“Just glad you made it before dessert,” Vanessa quipped.

“You went to the other Bistro, didn’t you?” Tanya asked, not even looking up.

Jason winced. “It was right next to the post office—I figured same name, same thing.”

Lance Jr. shook his head. “We’re here now, alright?”

Jalisa leaned over and hugged both of them. “Glad you’re here. We’re just going over the party stuff.”

“Oh,” Jason said, glancing at the notes. “What can we do?”

“You’re handling the bar,” Shamea said immediately. “Signature drinks, beer, maybe a wine selection.”

“I’ll talk to my guy at Total Wine,” Jason nodded. “He can set us up.”

“And you,” Vanessa pointed at Lance Jr., “you’re writing the toast.”

He blinked. “Wait, why me?”

“Because you’re the oldest and the first one to make Daddy cry at a graduation,” Tanya said.

“I was also the first to get a whooping for sneaking out of the house,” he muttered.

“Balance,” Jalisa offered with a grin.

For the next hour, they ordered plates of food and tossed around ideas for music playlists, invitations, speeches, and seating charts. They passed around stories from childhood, about when their parents nearly divorced after the great pot roast argument of ‘89, and how they managed to still sneak away for date nights every Saturday ever since.

Jalisa sat back after a while, hand cupping her water glass, and looked at all of them, so loud, opinionated, funny, and fiercely loyal. Her heart ached in the best way. This family, for all its imperfections, was home. And planning a celebration of their parents’ love, their bond, and their legacy felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Vanessa tapped her fork against her water glass. “So… what about a vow renewal? Maybe something simple. Just the two of them, standing under a trellis, reading the original vows or new ones if Daddy remembers to bring his glasses.”

“Yes!” Jalisa said. “With string quartet music playing in the background.”

“And a bubble send-off,” Tanya added.

“Doves,” Jason said.

“No doves,” Shamea said flatly. “They poop on everybody.”

They burst out laughing again, drawing amused glances from nearby tables. Jalisa didn’t care. This was joy, the real kind. It was loud and messy and sweet like lemonade on a front porch.

They lingered at the table long after the plates had been cleared, still debating whether to include that one cousin who always brought drama, still dreaming up surprises for their parents, an old record player restored, a bench swing in the backyard, a poem carved in wood.

Eventually, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and waiters began folding napkins, they stood up and embraced, promising to group text later with updates.

Outside on the sidewalk, Jalisa slipped her sunglasses on and looked at her siblings. “Same time next week?”

“Only if Jason gets the directions right,” Vanessa said.

Jason held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson, I promise.”

Jalisa laughed, linking arms with her sisters. “Let’s go give Mama and Daddy the party they deserve.”

And with that, they strolled toward their cars, the afternoon still golden, their hearts full, and the celebration of a lifetime just around the corner.

Lance Jr, 59. Jason, 56.

The late afternoon sun bathed the neighborhood in a warm amber hue as Lance Jr. and Jason stepped out of Jason’s dark blue SUV, parking just outside Joshua’s home.

It was a quiet street nestled in a newer part of town, with manicured lawns, basketball hoops over garage doors, and the faint smell of someone grilling a late lunch.

Joshua answered the door wearing a fitted white T-shirt and joggers, his hair tied back, a towel slung over his shoulder. He looked surprised to see both of Jalisa’s older brothers standing on his porch.

“Lance. Jason.” He gave them both a firm handshake. “What’s up? Everything good?”

“Mind if we come in for a minute?” Jason asked, glancing behind Joshua.

Joshua stepped aside and motioned them in. “Of course. Jalisa’s not here, though.”

“This ain’t about her,” Lance said, stepping into the cool, open living room. “Well, not entirely.”

Joshua raised a brow but said nothing, waiting as he led them into the kitchen. He poured three glasses of cold water and slid them across the counter.

Jason was the first to speak. “We’re planning your future in-laws’ sixtieth anniversary party.”

Joshua’s lips tugged into a smile. “That’s beautiful. Sixty years… that’s real love.”

Lance nodded. “And we wanted to hand-deliver your invitation. You and your whole family are welcome, your parents, your siblings, anybody you want to bring.”

Joshua took the envelope and flipped it open, the golden invitation catching the light. “Thank you. I’ll be there. With bells on.”

The mood shifted slightly as the brothers exchanged a look. Joshua felt it before a single word was spoken.

Jason leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. “Now… we’re not here to meddle.”

“But we’re also not about to pretend we don’t care,” Lance added. “You’re part of this family now, whether or not things are all the way patched up with Jalisa.”

Joshua’s gaze dropped for a second, his jaw tightening. “I know.”

Jason gave a half-smile. “You’ve been giving her space. That’s good. That’s mature. We respect that.”

“But,” Lance interjected gently, “don’t let space become distance. There’s a difference.”

Joshua let out a breath. “It’s hard. Some days I want to fight for her with all my might. Others, I just... wait. Because I don’t want to push her. She’s been through enough.”

Lance’s voice softened. “We saw the way you looked at her in the hospital. When the twins were born. And we’ve seen the way you show up, even now. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“But don’t forget,” Jason added, “Jalisa’s always been the type to test people’s intentions. She needs to see consistency.”

Joshua nodded. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just letting her lead. I want her to know I respect her timeline. Not mine.”

Lance placed a hand on Joshua’s shoulder. “That’s a good start. But don’t let her forget how much she’s loved. A woman like Jalisa? She’ll forgive, but only if she believes the future is worth the risk.”

“I’d marry her tomorrow if she said yes,” Joshua admitted, voice raw. “But right now I’m just focused on being the best father I can be. Everything else will follow, I hope.”

Jason smiled. “Good. Keep showing up. That’s all we’re saying.”

Lance raised his glass. “To second chances.”

Joshua clinked his glass against theirs. “To earning them.”

As they left, the sun dipped lower in the sky.

The brothers gave him parting hugs, which were firm, brotherly ones that said everything they didn’t need to put into words.

Joshua stood on the porch for a moment longer, watching them drive off, the invitation still in his hand. And just like that, he knew what he’d do tomorrow.

He’d show up again.

Because love was always worth showing up for.

Next: Look What You Did 11

33 notes · View notes

witchofthesouls · 2 years ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/witchofthesouls/728309614022623232/guys-let-me-talk-about-this-new-au-in-the

Could we possibly get a expansion on this post please? Before we got isekaied, what was our relationship with Sentinel? I’d imagine if we had a newborn and he chased us down it would be something like conjux? It also seems he is very possessive if he launches a whole manhunt, but I guess that could be a normal reaction to seeing a carrier fling themselves out of the balcony.

There's a reason why it's called Fight-or-Flight, and apparently even Cybertronians have it.

One moment you're staring into Sentinel Prime's face, then the next you're falling.

The wind whips, and you can't even see the ground from this high up. The skyscraper is a height beyond what humans were/are/will be (?) capable of as you fall through the hazy smog and see the horizon of metal, gleaming and reflective with rainbow hues.

The movies didn't do the planet justice. None at all.

Something clicks in your new head and body, and you twist over to fall parallel to the building. Hands, large and thick and so unlike your own with unfeeling segmented armored plating, dig into the building. You feel nothing, even as you jerk; feet doing the same, digging hard enough to start a trail of sparks.

You feel rather than see a change in your hands and feet, your body thrums as well, and in the corner of your high definition vision, there's an overlay of your frame with various highlights. Metal screams as you leave jagged scars, and you slowly decelerate enough to land hard on a ledge.

Apparently, Cybertronians do have their own architectural designs, like gargoyles.

And you now sport a set of thick talons on each metal finger and blades at the tip of your nonexistent toes like an assassin or a spy from a movie.

There's no other chance to think what kind of body you're currently inhabiting as your new ears prick and shift over. You can't help but swivel in the very direction, and your vision zooms in. In the distance, a few jets are speeding their way.

A strange wave of calmness settles over you, and, once more, your body just moves without your input.

You move behind the metal guardian, palm flat on the empty wall, and your hand sends out a pulse. A map suddenly appears, confirming no immediate biosignatures. Those newfound talons then thrum and superheats into a harsh white to dig deep into the metal, cutting into it with no resistant, smooth like butter, to make a hole large enough to shimmer through it.

In a strange, hysterical note, you place back the wall piece. Careful to realign it, and the cuts simply disappear as if never made.

Whatever came over you, then leaves, and you sag down. The adrenaline (do these metal people even such a thing?) suddenly bleeds out of your entire frame, plating clicking shut as you press into a corner because what the hell!?

And you have no idea what else to do when the map pulses and flares as a pathway is marked out.

It's a persistent prod, tapping in your mind in various pop-ups that easily flow into it. You have no choice at this point. Either wait for another mecha to find you or follow the map.

You take the second option, hoping to find a way out without tipping off more people.

Terrified as doors slide open to reveal empty hallways of nothing. Not even decor or signage. You realize the blades retracted as you try to keep the noise minimal as you pass by entryways.

If it isn't for the active map and its directions, you would take your chances with the jets rather than stay in these never-ending bland halls of a liminal space. There's no noise but a constant low hum. Not even vaulted cameras, but maybe the security tech is a whole other beast.

The alien version of a Google maps guides you to a fucking wall of all things. You try to walk further, just to have the damn thing blare a huge warning that makes your transferred soul make a mean attempt trying to escape its newest home.

Of course, you back track, feeling up the black expanse of the wall, searching for a clue or a hidden mechanism, trying and failing to trigger that pulsing search.

You give into the frustration and kick the wall, and your damn foot sends out that pulse.

There's a room.

You find that it's easier to access your superheated talons and make quick work in creating a new door.

It's a spacious room with no windows and many weird pod-like structures dotting the area. Dark and empty.

You carefully pick your way, mindful of the automation on the floor as you go to the corner, led by the map and instinct.

There, in an active pod of shimmering bioluminescent lights, is something squirming behind the opaque cover. You have no idea what prompted to poke the sac, but you did.

It disintegrates in a curtain of faerie light.

Whatever vague hope you had about an item for an escape is immediately dashed by the sight of two tiny things inside the space-crib-pod-thing.

The room is a nursery. A space nursery.

They're nothing like the supposed baby robots in the movies. These two are reminiscent of a human infant. Rounded, short limbs with a large torso and head. Their bodies are far simpler than all of the adults, and even their faces lack complex overlapping plates and indentations and crests. Soft. They look so soft and malleable compared to everything on the planet.

Colorless in a dull, matte grey with thick, milky optics. One starts warbling like a bird, blindly reaching out, and you can't help but lean forward as the small face ripples, like a pebble in a lake, it vibrates across their body before shifting back to a pristine state. The other is whistling air, optics shut, audials flicking, and Jesus Christ, that's ridiculously cute!

You crouch down, reaching out to help the other flip over to their belly, and you have no idea what happened because a sharp pain erupts in your chest.

A ghostly hand had reached inside and ripped out all your circuitry to replace the hollow space with molten lava. You're burning from the inside, and you can't escape the scorching heat that grabbed your new heart in an agonizing fist.

You're vaguely aware of slamming into the ground, weighed down, and hands? A lot of hands, but the floor is blessedly cold enough to give a moment of relief.

There's crying, and you're being pried open like a cheap 90s toy, but instead of switching out dying batteries, something gets jacked into you. Your side cramps hard, and you try to roll, but you're being crushed and held. There's a strange sensation of something injected, crawling across your physical frame and flowing into your head. A cascade of pop-ups overtake the warnings across your vision, faster and faster until it pixelates and completely shatters into prismacolor blackout.

You're gone.

_______

Ratchet curses as he forces open a sparking chassis with a travel bar and brute force, rerouting coolant lines and pulling out blackened circuitry as he delves into the burning out spark.

Sentinel relaxes. When that medic swears, it's okay. When he's quiet and focused, then...

The Prime stares at you. Even in forced stasis, there's a grimace on your now visible features. You're young as well. Between mechling and adult with the relatively few overlapping plates of your face.

For a half-starved, near-death Wilder, you're beyond lively.

Sentinel was upstairs to give your last rights. No matter Star Saber's misgivings, it's the proper thing to do, especially those that are Primal-descent.

And what a discovery that was! One of the newsparks with a mark of Prima, found nearby you, weakly crying under the meager protection of rockshade and a tattered cloak. And your glyphs of Vector and another Prime. Unknown or forgotten carved neatly in the high arches of your cheeks.

(He isn't alone now.)

Either you have incredible mods, unique sigma abilities, or no sense of preservation. Perhaps a combination because you managed to escape to get to this hidden NICRU without miminal detection, but collapsed by the combined backlash between your abilities and (re?)claiming the foundlings.

You're an idiot, he thinks fondly because he remembers the makeshift fuel-split directing Energon into the newsparks. A skilled idiot.

Then, he becomes aware of Ratchet's commands to transfer out to a critical care center clashing with High Brow's orders to stabilize and take to stockades.

"No." He cuts firmly, letting Ratchet’s apprentice tap into physically restraining your frame.

An immediate flow of counterpoints met his comms as Sentinel carefully puts the howling foundlings by your side. He knows Ratchet will have words, but the two hiccup down to fretting chirps and whistles.

Those options will take you out of his direct purview, and Sentinel intimately knows that many will directly oppose a Wilder walking free in the city-state. You would disappear quietly and easily, especially if word of your lineage spreads.

Sentinel will kill several steel-flizzers with one detonator.

He produces the visor, cracks fixed, and slots it gently back onto your face. The fewer that know your face, the better.

"This is my Intended." He announces, and Sentinel savors the sudden stillness from everyone before the tsunami of action swept everything away.

He can almost hear the screams of the Council and his own High Protector from the distance.

103 notes · View notes

justinspoliticalcorner · 5 months ago

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Christopher Kane at Washington Blade:

Far-right U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.) leveled the baseless and false accusation that U.S. Rep. Sarah McBride (D-Del.) a “groomer” and “child predator” in a post on X Monday, responding to a video shared by the anti-LGBTQ account Libs of TikTok in which the freshman congresswoman is seen reading to kids in a classroom. According to the signage featured in the clip, McBride, who is the first transgender member of Congress, was participating in the Human Rights Campaign Foundation’s “Jazz and Friends National Day of School and Community Readings.” The program is part of the organization’s Welcoming Schools initiative, which provides “trainings and resources for elementary school educators” to help “welcome diverse families, create LGBTQ and gender inclusive schools, prevent bias-based bullying, and support transgender and nonbinary students.” Prior to her first election to the Delaware state legislature, McBride served as press secretary for HRC from 2016-2021. Monday’s post was not the first time in which Greene has, without evidence, accused LGBTQ people and allies of child sexual abuse or grooming, often for their support of age-appropriate classroom instruction on matters of LGBTQ history, sexual orientation, and gender identity. She is not alone. As culture wars over issues of sexual orientation and gender identity have intensified in recent years, conservatives have increasingly used false allegations of pedophilia, bringing back a smear that was historically used against gay, queer, and trans people but until recently was considered out of bounds in mainstream political discourse.

Vile anti-LGBTQ+ wanker Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA) pushed a transphobic smear that falsely impugned Rep. Sarah McBride (D-DE) as a “groomer” and “child predator” for participating in “Jazz and Friends National Day of School and Community Readings” by LGBTQ+ rights organization Human Rights Campaign (HRC). Greene also deadnamed and misgender McBride.

MTG deserves the Anita Bryant treatment, in which she gets pied in the face.