#but it was fun to write and when I write things that are fun

[random-remzy]

I stare in horror at the pumpkin in my hands.

It should've worked.

As soon as I put it on my head it should've bound itself! I shouldn't have been able to take it off!

I stare into the carved, hollow eyes of the pumpkin, its carved toothy grin smile right back. It starts to shake in my trembeling hands.

I hear it before I see it.

I cannot see them. Cannot watch them. I have to hear them.

In the peripherals of my vision, I see the bony, sharp talons, just as they sink into the sand, and a long dark leg of little flesh and hollow bone remains.

It's close, right next to me. I can hear the raspy breathing. I can hear it's curiosity as it comes closer.

I do not move, I do not breathe. My eyes, still locked on the pumpkin i hold in my hands. I blink.

When I open them again, I feel the chill.

Long, ebony-colored fingers hover next to my head, they graze my ear, and I feel it. I think it does too. Because it recoils the hand.

The feeling is unnatural. Soft, scarred sin, pulled over cartillage into its shape. It doesn't have unnecesarry bones such as cartillage, it barely has skin at all.

And the skin- My skin is soft. It's skin his rough, mirror black from a distance, but coarse and grooved up close. I know. I've fought them before.

But never here- Never in such abundance. Never unprepared.

The pumpkin feels unbearably heavy in my hands now, it's usefulness is dwindling. While it would still be effective for a little while, all it would take is for one of them to knock it off, and it would be the end.

It clicks in its throat. A sound I have begun to hate since coming into this wretched land. It's how they speak. Clicking in the back of their throat, raspy breaths of sound, a warbled voice that rings in the ears.

But I swear- I swear on the light and the void itself- I can hear it. I can understand it- It's absurd- I shouldn't- maybe it's the land, but I never did hear them in the Overworld. Maybe I am finally going mad- Losing my wits in this land of nothing but sand and stone, and darkness-

But as it clicks and rasps, and then dissapears- I swear I can hear it say-

"Light"

And it's gone-

All that remains, are the violet particles, falling and dissapearing slowly around me. They land on my skin and I feel it tingle, the way an ember would. It burns.

It is all that is left when such things occur. Teleportation is a dangerous thing. The violet particles are discharged as the tears in the fabric of reality seal themselves.

I know this. All too well.

This is a dangerous land. More so than the Nether. A land of all the wretched things that plagued us. Both in the Overworld, and the Nether... and now here.

I have yet to find my companion. I lost him a long time ago. It has been a while since I came here... For how long I do not know. For the sun does not rise here. Nor do the stars shine their light.

I suspect I may have travelled too far...

I hear more, hauntings upon hauntings all around me. This pumpkin was my only chance, my one way to get through this land without having to fight. Without it... My journey will be longer, and more tiring. I will not move as quickly as I wish...

I place it on my head, it's long since dried out and the climate in this land is unlike any other I've ever seen.

When I open my eyes, and finally look up, I see them. A haunting, approaching. They will not attack me. This I am sure of. They will click in confusion and inquiry. But they will not engage.

I sit down, and reach behind me. My hair, long and matted from the journey, come undone from a recent encounter with one of the things.

I split the locks, and weave them accordingly. I do not know where I learned this skill. But for as long as I can remember, my fingers have been skilled in this sense, weaving the coarse strands. Its color a bright contrast to the land I am in, though dulled from the years I've spent on the road.

Once i finish, I tie it up and let it fall off my shoulder. I stand up, sinking into the sand and carefully step onto the stony path. I Pull my satchel and my scarf tighter, And make sure the pumpkin rests well on my head.

The void is endless, and it seems this land stretches for as long as the void does. I tap the hilt of my sword, more so as a reassurance than anything else.

I know there is still long left. I must find my companion. And then we must find a way to leave.

I begin to walk, along the stone path. I cannot help but smile at what that thing had said- Or what I believe it said.

"Light"

What a peculiar thing to say in such a land. There was no light here. Nothing but the void, and the things. with their beady glowing eyes. The closest thing to light here, was the soft glow of the sand beneath my feet.

"Light"

...

What a peculiar thing to say, indeed...

You stole a cursed artifact. You knew it was cursed, you actually stole it specifically because of its curse, but the curse does not seem to be affecting you.

[lizziesfirstwife]

YES!! Grace us with your masterpiece :P

Guardian Angel

jinu x fem!reader

warnings: hints of yearning, depressed themes, obsessed jinu?, clueless reader, use of Y/N, slow burnnn, suggestive language, not proof-read

word count: 3140

authors note: this is my first fic in a long time, so please bear with me as english isn’t my first language. have as much fun reading this as I had writing this! <3

preview to part 2 moodboard for part 2

Jinu hated Sundays. 

Sunday was the one day of the week when most of the population made it comfortable at home, not putting a single foot outside. There was nothing wrong with it being Sunday itself. A few lone pedestrians stretched through the alleys of the metropolis, mostly nurses who had the bad luck of having to work on weekends and teen groups who used the calmness of the city to hang out undisturbed. 

Jinu hated Sundays more than anything.

They were quiet, forcing one to think about all the things that seemingly went wrong the past 6 days. He didn't want to think. A normal person would have used a free Sunday to meet up with their relatives, or spend a spa day in front of the TV. 

The deeper Jinu sank into his thoughts, the more dense and dark the clouds in the sky above him became. He wasn't human. He shouldn't think about whether it was worth getting up in the morning, if it was worth carrying on with the small flame of hope he managed to sustain all these centuries. 

Contrary to all religious and folklore beliefs, demons needed sleep. Jinu slept, but didn't dream. And he was glad. Because not even demons are immune to the ghosts of their past that haunt them. 

The road was clean, the puddles from last night's thunderstorm still deep in the ditch.  

He had swapped his usually colorful clothes for something dark. No colorful pants, no colorful shirt. It didn't seem right to him. He was lost in the small crowd of the city, blending in too well as if he were one of them. One of many aimless figures desperately seeking their meaning in life. 

Sunday was the day Jinu dreaded the most. Not just because it left him alone with his thoughts, but because of the people. Or rather the lack of them. 

Nobody went out on Sundays. Hardly anyone. Not even in this big city, where new gambling stores opened every day and small businesses had to close because the rents were too high. 

The people worked so much, that they spent the time they had left with their families. He wondered what it was like to come home to a warm meal, how it felt to spend time with people who expected nothing from you in return for their acceptance. He wanted to be accepted, deep down. But acceptance was a luxury. Tolerance was a prosperity that was easier to uphold, easier to manipulate. 

Sundays were the most unprofitable days for the soul hunters. Many stores closed on Sundays, almost no activity available for the lost souls of this city. 

And out in the vast emptiness of the city it was too dangerous to do what needed to be done. 

A warm light. Large white letters in cursive script.

✮⋆˙

Had the flour expired? The lettuce leaves looked strangely shriveled, didn't they? 

She had a feeling she would get fired soon because of the action with the cupcakes, but if not, her voluntary letter of resignation would be typed and sent away faster than she needed to get up in the morning. It was supposed to be a part-time job to finance her studies, a shitty minimum wage job as an untrained bakery employee. She had no idea how to even bake bread, because the last time she tried, she almost lost a tooth. 

But she knew how to get cinnamon buns out of the packaging, or how to make a sandwich with instructions. 

She loved Sundays. 

No one wanted to work on Sundays, which meant much-needed bonuses and an exceptionally quiet shift. Working in customer service was not for the light-hearted.

Yesterday, she tried a new hair styling cream that was supposed to have some kind of magical bonding system in it. Allegedly even Zoey from Huntix used it. Y/N was frustrated with her hair. Wearing it up every day for work and the heat from the dozen ovens didn’t help care for it. So she tried it out.

Only for her hair to end up in a low wispy bun this morning anyway. Work rules and such things. 

Y/N sighed. Luckily it was Sunday. That meant that after her shift ended, she could take home all the left over baked goods that didn’t sell that day. 

She wasn’t poor, she still had her parents sending her a bit of money every month. But she didn’t have a job yet. A real job, not this forced university funding job. A job which she could only apply to with her degree in archeology. 

Everyone has told her she wouldn’t find a job in the field, that only the far more experienced archaeologist experts would be getting booked on excavation sites.  Y/N sighed and dumped the weird smelling flour in the trash can under the front desk. 

She knew they were right. Surviving as an archeologist in South Korea was harder than in the USA or Europe, where she would’ve had better job prospects. 

Pulling out the chair behind the counter, she smiled as she sat on it, straightening her apron. She would find a way to get into an excavation. Do some internships, join a few archeological Facebook groups, and she would surely feel better. Fake it until you make it. 

The bell tinkled, announcing the arrival of a new customer.

✮⋆˙

The air in the small shop soured of cinnamon and sakura room refresher. Jinu scrunched his nose. 

He didn't know when he had pushed the door of the small bakery inwards, when exactly he had entered the small space. A few white wooden chairs stood in two corners of the store, accompanied by equally white round marble tables decorated with lacy white table cloths. Tulips that were starting to wilt, filled various vases in the small space. A warm lamp hanging from the ceiling, inviting dust so sit on it if not cleaned properly.

Demons did not have to eat human food. They could, but it didn’t make them survive. They had the burden of robbing people of their souls, their entire lives, who deserved it the least. People at their lowest point. Homeless people. Desperate teenagers who ran away from home at night because they had long since given up hope of a better life. Jinu wanted to feel sorry for them. On dark days, the only thing that kept him waking up from his dreary sleep was the small flame of hope he protected inside himself for all those years.

But what choice did he have, what choice but to take away the only thing they had left in their miserable lives?

A low hum interrupted the path of his wandering eyes, which scrutinized every detail of the bakery.

He turned around. He was used to people starting to scream, especially women, when they spotted him. When they saw the K-Pop star. When they saw the version of him that millions of people loved. Forced smile, clothes that no grown man would voluntarily wear, happiness basically tattooed on his face. These reactions soothed something inside him. 

On days when he wondered what it was like to be really liked by someone, or even loved... on those days it wasn't quite so bad to think about it. After all, he had fans who loved him, didn't he? Isn't that what counted? With every new fan, he reached thousands of others. One step closer to their goal. 

True love and affection, which did not have to be bought or hypocritized, did not exist. 

But she didn’t scream. She just sat there. He almost didn’t spot her sitting behind the counter, which displayed varieties of tuna sandwiches and some adequate looking baked goods. When she spotted him standing there all still, she quickly put her phone aside and stood up. 

Jinu wanted to chuckle. Now he knew where the sakura scent came from. 

Her hair was tied together behind her head, some fashion strands hanging down her temples. It curled slightly, maybe from the heat of the oven behind her. Maybe it was just her natural hair texture. 

Her lips moved, but he heard nothing. She smelled of cherry blossoms and cinnamon, looked as if the word unhappy was not part of her vocabulary. 

Her fingers touched her necklace, nails embellished with pink nail polish. He had never understood why women painted their nails when hardly anyone would pay attention to such things. 

His eyebrows furrowed. 

They looked beautiful.

"Do you need help?" 

His eyes snapped up.

✮⋆˙

Y/N didn’t believe in angels. 

She didn’t have a hard childhood growing up. She had two married parents and an annoying older sister that moved out from home years ago and barely texted her anymore. While most of her friend’s parents got divorced in high school or throughout college and university, her parents stayed together. Simply out of convenience, or out of love that still lingered in their hearts from all those years ago, Y/N wasn’t sure what it was that kept them together for this long. 

They were busy working all the time, her father an architect that traveled abroad often, and her mom a veterinary nurse. Their marriage worked, but as the years went on, Y/N felt more and more invisible to their love. Their affection barely was enough for themselves, and she as their youngest child became forgotten. When she was younger, she used to curse out the devil for making her parents so successful in life. She didn’t believe in angels or the tale of every person having a guardian angel, because if they really existed, they did a really bad job.

But as she looked up to the customer who entered the small shop, ready to recite her studied standard greeting, she froze. 

He was tall. The smell of rain emitted from him, most likely from wandering outside in the still damp streets. But he didn’t say anything, he just stared at her.

He looked at her like she had the answer to all of his life problems, as if she was a puzzle waiting to be solved. 

His eyes looked mesmerizing. A deep brown, almost black, looked back at her own eyes, captivating her in a trance she was unable to escape. Was this how sirens lured sailors into their deathly embrace?

But he didn’t look evil. He didn’t look like the type of man to hurt you, just to feel malicious. 

She tried to speak, but the words didn’t want to leave her mouth. Her fingers wandered to her necklace, touching the small gemstone pendant hanging on it. It was a nervous habit she picked up during exam phase in high school, her fingers playing with her jewelry as soon as she got the slightest bit anxious. 

She certainly wasn’t in high school anymore, and she definitely didn’t know why she was uneasy, why she suddenly felt conscious about her hair, the stains on her apron, or that she forgot to apply mascara this morning. 

Shaking her head, she forced her fingers to let go of her necklace and instead grip on the marble counter in front of her. 

“Do you need help?” 

The man seemed to snap out of his trance, and shook his head. 

“No, no- I mean yes.”

Y/N crooked her eyebrow and hummed. Out of customers talking to someone on the phone, placing their card on the card reader without telling her they want to pay by card, and customers that complained about the prices, the ones who were unsure what to get were her favorite. 

“Any idea of what you want to get today? A sweet treat or a hearty snack?”

He shook his head. Jinu wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone, less a woman who he didn’t know why his words suddenly turned to thin air when looking at. Taking a deep breath, he looked at the displace of products behind the glass. He was a charming, young superstar, who never had to try to get humans to like him. They just did, annoyance and rejection foreign to him. He knew that that affection wasn’t real, but it was the best available for him at the moment. But this woman was blind to his charm it seemed, indifferent to his looks. 

Y/N wasn’t unfazed. She tried to appear that way, at the very least. Inside of her, she was screaming at how sinfully good he looked. She couldn’t afford to think that way about anyone. Love didn’t last, a curse doomed to dissolve under time. But God, if his eyes didn’t want her to jump into his arms, she didn’t know what do think anymore. 

Humming again, she tapped her foot against the wooden floor of the bakery. 

“Do you like it spicy?”

His head snapped up from where he was previously looking at, pupils widened.

“What?”

Y/N furrowed her eyebrows at his reaction. How couldn’t he understand this simple-

“Oh! No, no, not like that! Oh God-“

Jinu chuckled, her reaction making him feel slightly bad for his uncertainty of what to get. 

“Yeah, I like it spicy.”

Y/N looked at the man who was holding back a laugh, and furrowed her eyebrows.

“Are you making fun of me?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, crossing her arms. 

“No. I mean it. I like spicy food. I don’t look like a liar, do I?”

Y/N shook her head, sighing and pointing to the left side of the food display. She was getting underpaid, and she only got 4 hours of sleep. She didn’t want to argue with anyone, less this sinfully charming Korean Adonis. 

“We have chicken sandwiches with gochujang, grilled garaetteok, or plain chili filled rice balls.”

Jinu pretended to think about which option to choose, but in reality he was just using the time to look at her from underneath his eyelashes. He didn’t know what about her made him curious, it just…felt right to look at her.

He straightened up again and looked at her, really looked at her.

“What is your favorite?”

Truth was, Jinu didn’t know how any of these dishes tasted like. The last time he ate food for enjoyment reasons was 400 years ago, the taste of everything he once loved long forgotten in his trapped mind. He didn’t know how to cook either. His mother always cooked for him and his little sister, refusing to let him do anything besides working hard on his career. He shook his head. Laughter echoed inside his head, the smile of a woman he didn’t recognize haunting his mind. 

Y/N didn’t know what to answer to that. No one cared about her opinion, everyone just expecting her to wrap up their food and give them their change. She put a loose strand of hair behind her ear and shook her head. 

“I don’t have one. I don’t like spicy food at all.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Then what made you think I would like it?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You look like the opposite of me. I don’t like spicy food, so I figured you might like it.”

Jinu looked her up and down. She was wearing faint pink colored jeans, a white blouse and over that her black work apron with a few stains on it. Her pink nails and jewelry only complemented her outfit. She was right.

While she was a star trying to shine, he was a meteor trying not to crash into earth. 

“So what do you like then?”

She pointed to a small brown baked sweet treat with white frosting on top, and dried honey in the shape of a heart draped on it. “This is the only thing in here I made myself. Everything else really is just ripped out of a plastic wrap and put into an oven.”

He nodded, not even looking at the other options. “I’ll take it then, your…” He squinted his eyes and looked down at the lettering in front of the item. “…cinnamon roll.”

Y/N smiled at that. She didn’t know what drew her to him. He looked strangely familiar to her, the level of familiar of someone you met in a dream you only dreamed once. 

She took a pair of tongs and placed the cinnamon roll in a brown paper bag. No one ever bought the cinnamon rolls, too special of a taste and too sweet for most people. That’s why she loved them, and the overwhelming taste of hope that came with them. Hope that she carried within her every day she came to work, every time she cried herself to sleep because of her dream job being unavailable to her. Every morning she would come to work early, just to bake the sweet treat over and over again, in hopes of not taking it home with her again like the last day and the day before that. They were the only thing in this store that she wasn’t happy to be able to take home on Sundays.  

She typed something in the screen of the cash register, the imagine for the cinnamon rolls popping up, and selected it. 

“That would make 7000 won (5$). Cash or card?”

He reached into his back pocket, and placed a crisp ten-thousand won note on the counter.

She was already typing it in the register, when he took his bag from the countertop and just shook his head. 

“Keep the change.” He opened the bag and took a bite out of the roll, eyes widening briefly before looking at her. “It’s worth the money.”

With that, he turned around and exited the store, leaving behind a baffled young lady and way too much change.

Y/N looked down at the note and put it into the till. She took out the change, and carefully dropped it into the tip jar on top of the counter. Employees weren’t allowed to take the tips customers gave them home, instead having to put them in the tip jar to be divided under all employees every week. But since it was Sunday and she would be closing the shop, the jar was all hers.

She dropped on her chair she was sitting on earlier, her arms hanging still beside her. Her head felt like a void, empty and shouting simultaneously. 

The strange feeling inside of her lingered, the premonition of this not being the first time they met. Her mind couldn’t put a finger on where she could possibly know him from, and it killed her. 

She shook her head, and wet a rag before wiping down the countertop. 

She didn’t know he was watching her. 

She didn't know that he now had his eye on her.

Y/N didn’t believe in angels, especially not in guardian angels. 

She just didn't know yet, that she now had her very own, very special, guardian.

𓍯𓂃ᥫ᭡.

Thank you for reading! If you liked reading this little piece of fiction in any sense, I would be more than happy about a like, reblog, or a comment! I absolutely love this movie, and it’s a shame how they ended it. But I’m sure we will get a second part, with the way the last scene teased it. <3

Comment if you would like to be tagged in a potential part 2! Requests for this movie are open ۫ ꣑ৎ

Who wants a preview of part 2? Let me know here! .ᐟ>ᴗ<

Vote what my next fic should be about!

tag list: @yoihoshi-maki @kristinthegeek @zozoparsnips @mackenzielaw15 @lunaria1 @blobs-away @thaliasnicket @bakugousimpofawif3 @yoongiprongs @franbowidk @lorain07 @jetblackw1ngs @thesimppotato11 @aubreeiscool @ivorria @iamatinydinosaur

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ᰔ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[marionettesgarden]

THE MANAGER DESERVES A RAISE! | saja boys x reader

SYNOPSIS. through some stroke of luck, you ended up being the manager of a demon boy band. from teaching them about phones and social media to managing their idol activities. did you sign up for more than you bargained for?

CONTENT. crackfic, fluff, lighthearted, gn!reader, one use of (y/n), ambiguous reader, mystery centric (for now), brief mention of needles and piercings, saja boys being saja boys

WORD COUNT. 922

AUTHOR'S NOTE. i've been so obsessed with this show and the songs lol i just HAD to write something (also bc i literally didn't see a single xreader fic on ao3 when i wrote this)! i also want to write more and kinda make this a compilation of minifics bc i also do have an overarching plot for this as well and theyre so fun to write!

“Abs, just sit still.”

The manchild blatantly ignores you, too focused on spinning the chair around and twisting and turning just to see how his stomach flexes in response.

Your eye twitches and you contemplate whether this plan really needed all five of them. Surely a four member boy group would do? 

A hand pats your shoulder and you glance over at Mystery furiously pointing at himself.

“You want to go first?” you ask unsurely.

“Mmh, mmh!” he responds.

Your face drops, unamused. “I know you can speak, Mystery.”

His lips pull up into a shit eating smirk as he raises a hand, twisting it so the back faced you, and. . .

. . . flips you off.

You short circuit, mouth agape before whirling around to the rest of the group who were busily tapping away at their phone (you don’t want to remember how many tears were shed and how many lives–phones–were lost just trying to teach them).

“Which one of you taught him that?!”

Tap, tap, tap.

Some chronically online, brainrot, AI generated meme blasted from Baby’s phone, giggles erupting from the couch he and Romance lounged on as they scrolled through whatever inane app they were on. Jinu wasn’t any better as he wrestled with his bird and Abs was. . . Abs.

Breathe in. Count to five. Breathe out.

You turned back to Mystery, gesturing to the set of chairs–spinnable, of course, Gwi-Ma was paying for it after all–as you pulled a cart over. 

As he sat down, content from showing you just how much of human culture he was learning about, you tugged his chair closer to yours as you plucked up a hollow needle with a gloved hand.

“I hope you know that I’m not letting that slide.” You smile cheerfully, the needle glinting threateningly in your grasp. He nervously gulps and you could feel his gaze fix on the instrument. You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, no, I’m not going to do anything to you right now. But I hope this haunts you every day, even in your dreams, that I could be enacting some plan to get back at you. You won’t know when, you won’t know where, it might be in the bathhouse, or it might not. But know that I will be getting my revenge.”

Mystery’s lips grew still. Behind his bangs, his eyes furiously darted around, to his members, the needle, you, the chairs–wow, they were really nice chairs–then to your face. Oh, nevermind, you were still looking scary. He instead focuses on his bandmates, the people he’s suffered with, bled with, for one last glance at something that would calm his distressed heart before he died in the very near future. 

The sound of random and, quite frankly, unfunny videos blasting from the couch as Baby and Romance cackled, several clicks and flashes of light as Abs took photos of his abs, and Jinu cursing as his bird pecked him again for daring to touch his hat were the last things he witnessed before he closed his eyes. 

Mentally sending two giant middle fingers to each and every one of his members, he shed a silent tear as he began planning his funeral. Hydrangeas, he wanted hydrangeas at his funeral.

“. . . aaand there! All done. How d’ya like your new piercings?” You handed him a mirror and discarded your gloves, eyeing the other boys for your next target.

“It’s nice.” he answered, tilting and turning his head to observe the new jewelry dangling about.

“And?” you pressed.

“And what?”

You let out a sigh, shaking your head as you waved a dismissive hand despite the pang of disappointment welling in your chest. They were demons and soon-to-be idols on top of that, you really didn’t know what you were expecting. You just had to see this plan through, help Jinu manage the team, and, once they defeated Huntrix, you’d be free. Forming any relationship with them outside of ‘convenient helper’ was unnecessary, no matter how desperately you missed inane conversations, inside jokes, and late nights spent trying whatever oddly flavored ramen all of you found.

“Hey, I’m next, right?” 

You blinked, pushing those thoughts back as Romance plopped down on the chair in front of you. A little confused, you glanced over to the couch to see Mystery sitting by Baby now.

Did he. . . ?

No, Mystery was definitely not being nice. It was just a coincidence. He wasn’t being nice and just shooed Romance over so that he could lounge on the couch that they all had an odd obsession with. 

“Yup. Here’re the piercings I have. Since you all heal so fast, you can get pierced with the prettier ones.” you explained, tugging the cart closer as you handed him a mirror.

He flicked his hair, an annoying action he’s picked up from all the idol videos you’ve been showing them, and casually leaned back in the chair. “Obviously, the fans would eat up anything I wore. Just pick whichever you like, cutie.”

You swore you could hear Mystery laughing to himself as you held back a barely restrained scream of frustration. Yeah, definitely not just being nice.

Your phone buzzed beside you as you laid in bed, tucked in and just about to go to sleep.

Mystery

Your good sat You’re good at piercing They look nice That you Thank you

(y/n)

no problem!! ur welcome :)

Suddenly, simple conversations don’t seem all that impossible anymore. Smiling to yourself, you fall asleep with your phone clutched tight to your chest and pleasant dreams of a life you had given up.

divider by @huraxy

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can I just say your write amazingly. One of my top favourite writers. I was wondering if I can request a dad lando fic where reader is like 4 or 5 and when lando dose his drive to survive interview thing he takes his baby girl and the whole crew just love her. And she gets to snap the 🎬

Lights, Camera, Action!

The Netflix crew was already buzzing around the sleek, sunlit studio set when the door creaked open, and in walked Lando—hair a bit tousled, hoodie slightly rumpled, and one hand holding onto the tiny fingers of a girl no taller than his thigh.

She peeked in first, big eyes blinking at the brightness of the room, her other hand clutching a squishy pink bunny that had clearly seen better days.

“This her?” asked the producer, grinning as he pulled off his headset and came forward.

Lando nodded proudly, crouching down to her level. “Go on, love. Say hello.”

Yn blinked at the man, then mumbled, “Hullo…” in a shy but unmistakably British accent that made three crew members audibly coo.

The producer beamed. “And what's your name, sweetheart?”

“Yn,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Yn, that’s beautiful,” he said, genuinely charmed. “How old are you?”

She held up five tiny fingers. Lando chuckled, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“She just turned five last month,” he said. “And she’s very excited to help Daddy today. Aren’t you, bug?”

Yn nodded shyly but clung tighter to his hoodie.

“She’s a little shy at first,” Lando told them, smoothing down the back of her hair. “But she warms up fast. Just give her a few minutes and maybe a biscuit.”

The whole crew laughed at that, already softening under the spell of the little girl with the bunny and the shy smile.

The Drive to Survive crew had seen drivers in every emotional state: victorious, furious, hungover, nervous, indifferent. But this—this was something else entirely.

One of the assistants knelt beside Yn and held out a small tray of juice boxes and individually wrapped cookies.

“Would you like a snack while Daddy does his interview?” she asked gently.

Yn looked up at Lando, and he smiled reassuringly. “It’s alright, poppet. You can sit just over there and watch me if you want. Or hang with the nice lady.”

“Can I watch you?” she asked in a tiny voice.

Lando melted. He really did.

“‘Course you can. You’ve got the best seat in the house.”

He helped her into a small canvas director’s chair just off camera, close enough to him that he could sneak her smiles between questions. One of the sound guys handed her a set of child-sized headphones—not plugged into anything, just for fun—and Yn lit up like it was Christmas.

“All ready?” the producer called out, watching Lando settle into his seat with an amused look.

Lando looked to Yn, gave her a wink, then turned to the camera.

“Ready when you are.”

The interview started normally.

“How does it feel being one of the more experienced drivers now, after all these seasons?”

“Old,” Lando deadpanned, and the crew laughed. “I mean, I still get carded when I try to buy wine, but I’ve been here a while now. It’s weird.”

“And now you’re not just a driver—you’re a dad.”

Lando’s whole face changed. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and the smile that crept across his lips was involuntary and impossible to miss.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing to the side where Yn was swinging her legs, watching quietly. “I’m a dad. And it’s the best job I’ve ever had.”

“What’s it like, being a single parent and a full-time F1 driver?”

“Hard,” he admitted. “Like, really hard. I won’t pretend it’s easy. The schedule’s mental, the travel’s constant, and trying to make sure she has stability in all of that—it’s a lot.”

“But?”

“But I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” Lando said. “Not a second of it. That little girl is my heart walking around outside my body.”

Someone behind the camera whispered a soft “awww” and a few heads nodded.

“I try to take her with me as much as I can,” Lando continued. “Because I don’t want her to feel like I’m always gone. And she actually loves the paddock. She’s got uncles everywhere.”

The interviewer laughed. “Who’s her favorite uncle?”

Lando smirked. “Now that’s dangerous territory.”

“Come on, give us something.”

“She calls Carlos ‘Uncle Giggles,’ because he always makes her laugh. And Max taught her to say ‘chicane’ properly, which is weirdly adorable coming out of a five-year-old. But I think Charles is her favorite.”

He leaned in conspiratorially.

“He sneaks her gummy bears and lets her press buttons on the simulator when no one’s watching.”

During a short break in filming, Yn walked up to her dad and tugged on the hem of his hoodie.

“Can I sit with you now?”

Lando lifted her up effortlessly and sat her on his lap.

“She’s very well-behaved,” one of the crew members commented, watching her tuck herself comfortably into his arms.

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” Lando said. “She’s a bit shy, but she’s got a kind soul.”

“Do you like being on set, Yn?” someone asked her gently.

She looked up and nodded. “I like the big camera. And Daddy talks nice.”

Another wave of chuckles rippled through the crew.

“Think you could help us with something, Yn?” the producer asked.

Her eyes widened, curious. Lando looked intrigued too.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well,” the producer said, holding up the old-school film clapper. “We usually let the talent snap the board before we roll. Think she’d like to do it?”

Lando looked down at his daughter. “What do you think, bug? Wanna help Daddy start the show?”

She considered it for a second, then nodded with an eager smile.

“Alright then!” Lando grinned and helped her down from his lap. “Go on, big moment now.”

The assistant handed Yn the clapper, and she held it in her small hands like it was a sacred treasure.

“Can you say ‘Scene One, Take Two’?” someone prompted.

She took a deep breath and in her clearest little voice said, “Scene One, Take Two!” Then she clapped the board shut with both hands.

Everyone applauded. Lando’s smile could’ve lit up the whole building.

“That was amazing,” the producer said, genuinely delighted. “You’ve got a future in film, miss.”

Yn giggled and ran back to Lando, who scooped her up with ease.

“She’s gonna be insufferable after this,” he joked, kissing the top of her head. “Hollywood’s gone straight to her head.”

Lando let Yn stay in his lap for the second half of the interview.

Her bunny rested on his thigh. She leaned against his chest, occasionally whispering questions into his hoodie like, “Why does the man ask so many questions?” and “Can we get ice cream after?”

“Yes,” Lando replied both times, the second one earning her a quick kiss on the temple.

The crew was utterly smitten. One of the camera operators whispered to the sound guy, “I’d watch an entire show just about him being a dad.”

The questions turned more personal toward the end.

“What do you hope she remembers when she’s older?”

Lando went quiet for a beat.

“I hope she remembers that I tried,” he said softly. “That I tried to give her everything. That even if I wasn’t always home, I was always hers. I hope she remembers feeling loved. Safe. Seen.”

There was a lump in the interviewer’s throat. He glanced at Yn, who was now playing with the strings of Lando’s hoodie, humming quietly to herself.

“You’ve made a beautiful little human.”

Lando smiled down at her. “Yeah. She’s everything.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[kenntoria]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

[em1i2a3]

Only Human

Pairing: Soft!Void!/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been staying with Bob every night since the incident with The Void in hopes to prevent anything like that from happening again. Much to your surprise though, he slips out of Bob to see you one night. (Sequel to ‘The Dark Side’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Fluff, Smut, and like Hurt/Comfort kind of?, Mentions of Injuries that occurred in the first part, Just as a Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, There is some references to supernatural things (we are dealing with The Void here, so it does need a bit of a warning I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️), Reader and Bob are not in a relationship (not at the moment), but they do have feelings for one another.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please lol), Sensual Touching, The Void is Touch Starved (what can I say?), Fingering, Squirting, Mutual Masturbation, Biting, Praise/Dirty Talk (kind of?), Little Bit of Supernatural Elements to the sex, Hopefully I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: People really liked my portrayal of Soft-ish Void in ‘The Dark Side’ and truly I wanted to kind of expand on that and take the story just a bit further too. Writing Soft!Void was so fun and odd, but it was so nice to be able to do it. Hopefully y’all enjoy! Thank you for readin <3 (P.S. Yes I said Soft Void. Don’t worry, normal Void shenanigans will be back soon.)

Word Count: 9,702

“You really don’t ha–have to keep doing this…” Bob’s voice broke softly through the silence like a crack in still glass. It wasn’t really a protest, it was more like a quiet plea laced with guilt. He lingered just inside the doorway, his tall frame half-silhouetted by the dim hallway light that glowed behind him. His tone trembled, stretched thin by exhaustion, “I’m…I’m sure you want to get more sleep than ju-just an hour or two.”

You were already under the covers of his bed, leaning against the headboard with your legs drawn up beneath the thick comforter, shoulder relaxed but eyes wide open. Sleep hadn’t been coming easily lately for you–not with everything still so raw with worry and concern–but being here, in his room with him, had become a kind of comforting ritual for you. A place where you stood guard, and soothed.

The chaos that once wreaked havoc over his bedroom–the splintered furniture, shattered glass, dented drywall–was gone now. Cleaned. Patched. Rebuilt from the ground up basically. The entire team had taken on the task to make everything right again, to erase the brutal traces of The Void’s presence. Even the scuffed floors had been sanded and polished, though some of the deeper gouges remained, hidden beneath the new rug Ava insisted on buying.

You had spent nearly every spare hour of the past week in his room–sorting through broken remnants, salvaging what you could. Bob’s framed photos of the team had been the first thing you tackled: cracked glass removed, splinters of wood from the frames glued back together, and new little pieces of plastic placed against the photos to replace the glass. You sat cross-legged on his floor, each picture spread out before you like fragments, before putting everything back together. You had also tried to salvage some of his mugs, but only two had been saved–Bob was grateful that you even tried to do it anyway.

Then came the dresser. A new one that you ordered from IKEA, that was delivered in a box that was too heavy for you to haul into Bob’s room on your own. You got Alexei and Walker to help you with that, but you stayed behind after they left, kneeling on the carpet beside Bob, helping him screw everything into place and go through the instructions. He had insisted on doing everything himself, even though his knuckles that you had patched up had begun to bleed through the gauze.

When things settled, everything looked very close to normalcy–eerily so. There was familiar furniture positioned back into place, books reshelved in the same order, and picture frames perched in the same areas. But it felt different. Lived in again…Touched by healing hands.

And Bob noticed.

He thanked you feverishly every time you finished a picture frame or replaced something–even when you handed him a cup of tea. He thanked Walker for lifting the headboard, Ava for the rug, Yelena for restocking his little trinkets. He must’ve said those words a hundred times within the week. You could tell he didn’t think it was enough. That it gnawed at him–how much everyone gave, and how little he felt he could return.

Now, he stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him with that same soft care he had throughout the entire week, his shoulder rising and falling with a tired breath as he crossed the room toward his dresser. You watch him from your place under the covers, silent, observant.

His movements were slower than usual. Careful. Painfully so. You saw it in the way he unzipped his hoodie with trembling fingers, the bandages frayed slightly at the edges, stained faintly with ointment from earlier. Your eyes followed every shift of his hand–the one you’d held steady days ago as you pulled a splinter from beneath the nail, listening to him suck in a breath and tell you, “It’s okay, I don’t even feel it anymore,” even though he clearly did.

“Trust me, Bob,” You said softly, your voice breaking the stillness in the room, “I’m okay. I don’t need as much sleep as you think…And regardless of that…I’m the only person that can control him if he comes out again. I need to be here.” He paused, halfway through shrugging off the hoodie. His jaw clenched for a second, then he slipped the rest of the fabric off, folding it slowly and neatly, hands still trembling slightly, before placing it on the dresser. You saw it in his face–there was something haunting him again. A question. A thought he hadn’t dared speak aloud until now. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“…You never told me how you go-got me to come back,” He mumbled, voice quiet, strained, like it was raw just thinking about it. He stared down at the hoodie for a beat longer, rubbing the soft fabric, before wordlessly reaching for the hem of his shirt, turning on his heel to face you. He peeled the shirt off, the gauze clinging slightly to the inside of it. The amber glow of the bedside lamp casted long, soft shadows over his body, bathing him in warm light that didn’t hide a single thing.

The bruises and bandage were in plain sight again.

You had noticed them when you were patching up his hands after you calmed him down that day, but under this light they looked worse. Deeper. Like violet clouds blooming beneath the surface of his skin. The bruising stretched across his ribs, wrapping over his sides and spilling faintly along the edges of his abdomen, as though he’d been caught in a collapse and had barely crawled out from under it. There were a few patches of gauze as well, from where splinters of furniture had scraped and cut him.

He had told you, through clenched teeth, that The Void had made him hurt himself. That in the haze of it all–in the fog of darkness and sadness–he had taken the pain out on himself instead of the furniture around his room. He punched himself, or at least Bob said he did.

It hurt to hear, and it was even more painful to see, yet you still patched him up with such gentleness that Bob felt like he was going to pass out.

Seeing them again made your throat tighten.

He didn’t seem to notice your expression. He was too focused on the motion–folding his shirt with such neatness before throwing it into the hamper. Like it was the only thing he could really control.

”If I told you…” You began softly, your voice low, hesitant, “You wouldn't believe me, Bob.” He paused. Looked over at you, brows drawn in quiet confusion. His concern was already building, you could feel it.

“Tr-Try me,” He said after a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze dropping to your hands where they rested on top of the blanket. Your thumbs brushed against the constellation of beauty marks scattered along your skin—small, quiet things you’d never thought much of before. But now…

Now, they burned.

Not in pain, but in memory.

You thought of what The Void had said. What he knew.

How Bob looked at them when he thought you weren’t watching. How he had memorized them–every last one. How they marked where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you. That stupid piece of folklore you’d only ever half believed–until you saw what your kisses did to him.

The way the freckles had bled through the Void’s form like stars. Tiny galaxies lighting up the dark. One at a time. The shoulder. The spine. The base of his neck. His jaw. The more you kissed him, the more the darkness split open and Bob began to return–like you’d traced a map across his skin and led him home.

How were you supposed to say that out loud?

How were you supposed to tell him the most impossible thing you’d ever done felt like instinct? That somehow, without understanding how or why, your body knew the way back to him even when his mind didn’t?

So instead…You looked back up at him.

His eyes were on you, soft and waiting, concern already building in the faint knit of his brows.

“It’s really…” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, “…confusing, Bob.” That crease in his forehead deepened just slightly as he took a cautious step forward.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head, once, immediately.

“No,” You said gently. “He didn’t. He can’t. He’s weak when he’s around me.”

You watched him exhale, the motion shaking slightly through his chest. His shoulders dropped, but his eyes stayed shadowed with something heavier–dread, maybe. Guilt. You reached over and flipped the blanket open without a word, and with your free hand, flicked off the bedside lamp.

Darkness swept across the room like a curtain. Not suffocating. Not cold. Just soft. Gentle shadows broken only by the pale blue glow from the window, where moonlight cut through the glass in long, quiet angles and kissed the walls.

Bob stood there for a moment–hesitating. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, his gaze cast low like he didn’t quite feel worthy of crawling into the space beside you. You saw it in the way he lingered. The way his mouth parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t. The fear wasn’t just about him. It was about you–what might happen if he let himself close enough to need this. To need you.

“I’m just…” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I’m wo–worried one day he’s going to come out…And he’s go-going to hurt you.” You saw it in his face then–clearer than ever. The helplessness. The guilt. The ache of someone who had come back from a nightmare and didn’t know how to live in the aftermath.

So you didn’t argue. You didn’t offer platitudes.

You just opened your arms.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And that was enough.

He sighed, almost like it hurt to exhale, and crawled into the bed beside you. His movements were slow, careful, like he was trying not to make a ripple in the space around you. Like he thought too much weight in the wrong place might send you drifting away.

You slipped down further against the pillows, welcoming him in without hesitation, your arms curling around his body as he eased closer–until his head found its usual place.

Right over your heart.

He settled there gently, cheek pressing to your clothed chest like he’d done every night for the past few days. His arm came up slowly, resting across your stomach, the other curling underneath you, tentative fingers lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And you held him.

Without fear. Without judgment.

Your palm found the back of his head and slid into his soft light brown hair, your fingers already stroking the strands in a rhythm you’d learned by heart–slow, grounding, gentle.

He exhaled. You felt the breath fan across the fabric on your ribs, warming them slightly.

“He would never hurt me, Bob…” You murmured, your voice warm in the dark, your breath stirring his hair. “Because you would never hurt me.”

A silence fell then–full of trust.

He didn’t say anything, but his body responded. You felt the way he leaned in closer, his grip tightening around your waist, his weight shifting until he was almost curled into your side completely. Like he wanted to disappear into you. Like you were the only solid thing he trusted to anchor him back to himself.

“You don’t have to worry about me…” You added softly, pressing your lips gently to the crown of his head. He let out a small, shuddering sigh at the kiss. It was quiet–barely more than breath–but it echoed in the hush between you. His fingers twitched slightly where they clung to the fabric of your shirt, and then he nodded once, slow and reluctant.

“…Okay,” He whispered, the word brittle and small. Like he wanted to believe it. Like he didn’t, but was choosing to anyway.

Then came the silence.

Thick and warm and filled only by the slow cadence of your breath and his. The soft weight of his body curled around yours. The bed creaked faintly as you both shifted, but nothing broke the stillness of the room. Just the hush of safety. The quiet rhythm of presence.

You knew the exact moment he drifted off.

The soft whistle of air from his nose told you. That tiny snore that only came when he was crushed into you like this–cheek against your chest, limbs tangled beneath the comforter. You smiled faintly and kept your hand moving through his hair, threading your fingers through in a slow rhythm. A grounding gesture, more for him than for you…But now, maybe it was both.

You lost track of time like that.

Until something changed.

At first, it was subtle. A coolness in the air under the blanket–not cold exactly, but different. A shift in pressure, like something holding its breath.

Your fingers stilled.

And then you felt it. The texture. The change in the strands beneath your touch. They slipped too easily between your fingers now–too smooth, too silent. They didn’t catch the way hair should. Instead, they moved like silk underwater. Alive. Shifting.

You looked down.

The crown of his head had gone black. Not just shadowed. Not just dimmed. Black. Lightless, hollow, impossible. The kind of darkness that felt sentient. The kind that could swallow stars.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t pull away. Just stared as the darkness spread, slow and sinuous–crawling down the back of his neck, across his shoulders, seeping into his skin like ink in water. The soft light from the window did nothing to touch it. It just disappeared into him.

And then, he moved.

Arms curling tighter around your waist, the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they’re afraid to wake from.

“No…” The voice came low and quiet. “…No, please. Do not stop suddenly because of me.” The Void’s tone was different from the last time you interacted with him. No malice. No venom. No harsh edge of control. It wasn’t a hiss–it was something closer to a plea. Gentle. Almost unsure. You froze. Heart pounding.

He didn’t move beyond that. Just stayed pressed against you, dark and heavy and cool, his face buried in your chest like nothing had changed at all.

“You…” He began, breath catching faintly, “You have absolutely ruined me.” Your hand hovered inches above where you’d been stroking his hair just moments ago, watching as tendrils of vantablack shadows exuded from his skin and crawled up your arms. Usually they recoiled when you were around, but not this time. It felt like a breeze. Cool and featherlight. Not invasive. Not consuming. Just…Explorative. Your breath hitched as they danced across your skin.

“…I didn’t do anything to you, Void.” You whispered, Your voice trembled, not from fear–but from the weight of the moment. From the ache in your chest that this darkness–the same darkness that once tried to devour the man you loved–was now wrapped around you like something desperate to stay.

He didn’t reply.

So you looked down.

And you saw all of him.

His entire form was draped in lightless shadow, vantablack and consuming, the folds of it shifting like living ink where he breathed against you. But within that sea of black, the constellations built from your kisses remained. Brighter now.

Over his shoulder, at his neck, on the dip of his spine. Every place where you had laid your lips to bring Bob back to you was shimmering. You had branded him, and it was evident by the way he was speaking.

”Where’s Bob?” You asked cautiously. The tendrils continued to slip up your skin, going beneath the sleeve of your t-shirt.

”He’s asleep…” The Void replied, the words soft, almost careful, “I promise…I’m not hurting him.” The tendrils continued to move beneath your shirt, curling gently along your ribs like they were memorizing you–your shape, your warmth. Not with hunger. Not with domination. But with need, and you allowed it…Because they hadn’t done anything to hurt you yet.

“Then…” You started, feeling your heart begin to pick up in pace, “Why are you here?” A silence stretched so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, with the faintest voice:

“…Because I needed to feel you again.”

Your breath caught.

You knew he felt it–your pulse thudding wildly beneath his ear. His head shifted slightly, like he was adjusting to the new rhythm. Listening to it. Drinking it in. You felt his face press even closer to your chest, like he was trying to lose himself in it. The tendrils climbed higher now, curling up your spine, slipping out from beneath the collar of your shirt like silk, wrapping around your shoulders, your throat–soft and slow, like they were bracing him for the words he hadn’t let himself say before.

“You…” He began, voice cracking slightly, “…Have taken me and ripped me apart–and you have no idea that you’ve done it. You closed your eyes tightly, chest tightening beneath the weight of that confession.

“Void, I–“ But he didn’t let you speak.

“I have never had my skin kissed…”

His voice was low and hoarse, but not from anger. It cracked with something deeper. Wreckage and worship all tangled together.

“I have never been treated with such gentleness in my entire existence,” He continued, lifting his head from your chest.

The weight of him shifted slightly, and you felt the cold brush of ink-light against your throat as he rose just enough to look up at you. His face was still veiled in darkness–no edges, no shape, just a silhouette of pure, living shadow–but those eyes…Those pale white pupils glowed like moons in an eclipse. Twin lights in the endless black.

His gaze bore into yours, not with fire, but with something aching. Broken. Like looking directly into grief that had finally grown too tired to be cruel.

“You marked me,” he breathed, and though his voice was still low, there was something fraying at the edges–tightness, tension, a tremble you didn’t often hear from him. “You’ve claimed what’s rightfully yours.”

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly as his eyes bore into you—those eerie, hollow white pupils that somehow shimmered with heat despite their cold hue.

“You have burned yourself into me,” he continued, and his voice cracked on the word burned, the sound splintering like the edges of a dam giving way. “Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, he moved.

His hand–shaped from shadow but solid, braced itself on the mattress beside your ribs, and he slowly climbed higher, crawling up your body with a grace that was too fluid, too precise to be human. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he shifted, his form inching up until you were face to face–your back sinking deeper into the pillows while he loomed above, haloed in ink and moonlight.

The breath in your lungs hitched sharply.

He was so close now that you could feel the coolness radiating from him, his form drawing heat from the air around you. His breath–if it even was breath–fanned over your mouth in chilled waves. And yet somehow, it didn’t make you recoil. It made your skin spark. Tighten. Ache.

“I…” You whispered, but it came out barely audible.

His hand came up to your cheek then–tenderly. Not the shadow-tendrils this time. A hand. Cold. Unnatural. But steady. His thumb grazed the apple of your cheek, stroking slowly.

“…I woke something in you,” You continued, your own voice so fragile it nearly fell apart between syllables.

His touch faltered for half a second, but then he pressed his palm more firmly to your skin, as if grounding himself in it. Like he needed to feel you to keep himself from dissolving.

“I am cursed with the memory of your warmth, Y/N…” He admitted.

The way he said your name–it sounded like reverence and devastation folded into one.

“It has been plaguing me since you did this…”

His free hand reached across his body, brushing at the shimmering mark glowing faintly on his shoulder–right where you had kissed him first.

“Because I…” His voice dropped even lower, raspier, more ragged, “…I belong to you. And all I can have are these moments to admit it. These stolen minutes in the dark. And I can’t–I can’t take it anymore.”

You felt the mattress tremble faintly beneath his weight as another tendril slowly crept beneath the hem of your shirt. It slid along your skin with that same impossible gentleness, settling cold against the softness of your stomach. You inhaled sharply, your ribs stuttering under the touch. He noticed

“Void…” You murmured, a tremor slipping through your tone. “You can’t just come here and admit this stuff to me.”

His thumb traced your cheek again, slower now, and you saw his jaw tighten.

“…Why?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. But your eyes searched his, desperate for something to anchor to in the swirling dark. And then, quietly, you said the only name that ever broke him:

“Bob.”

He froze.

Swallowed hard. You watched the muscles in his neck twitch.

And then he spoke, each word like glass.

“Do you think Bob isn’t the main cause of all of this?” His voice trembled–not with anger, but something closer to despair. “Do you think my feelings are just… conjured up out of thin air?”

You didn’t breathe.

“We are connected,” He went on, more broken now, desperate. “His thoughts plague my mind just like my voice plagues his. His dreams. His love. I feel it. Every second. Every heartbeat he wastes on you, I feel it like a wound that never closes.”

The tendrils at your throat–already wrapped softly there–curled tighter. Still gentle. Still featherlight. Like hands cradling something delicate. Like the hands of someone scared to lose you.

“I can’t ignore the truth anymore,” He whispered. “Not when he dreams of you the way he does. Not when I dream of you now too. Do you understand me?”

You nodded, even though your breath still shook.

Even though your heart still pounded in your ears and your body felt caught between dread and something far more dangerous–want.

His hand cupped your jaw, the coolness seeping into your skin like mist through cloth, and he lowered his face even closer–so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Say it,” He whispered.

You swallowed.

“What?”

“Say you know,” He breathed, voice shaking now. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”

You hesitated. Just for a second.

Then quietly–so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a prayer–you whispered:

“…I know.” He didn’t move at first.

It was like the words had knocked the air from his lungs, like they’d rendered something inside him too stunned to function. You watched his mouth part slightly–lips trembling, breath shallow–and his pupils, those glowing pale moons, flicked down to your mouth.

And then��He leaned in.

So slowly. So hesitantly. As if he were expecting the moment to vanish before it touched him. His lips hovered a whisper above yours–cold, barely-there, and waiting for permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

So you gave it.

You tilted your chin, parted your lips just a breath–and then flicked your tongue out and lightly licked the soft curve of his bottom lip.

A sharp, guttural sound escaped him.

It wasn’t a moan. It wasn’t a gasp. It was something more primitive–like something inside him cracked wide open. Like the memory of your warmth came rushing back all at once and hit him like a storm. His whole form shivered beneath your touch, like even that much gentleness was too much to bear.

And then you kissed him.

Soft. Delicate. A press of lips that felt less like hunger and more like offering. A sacred thing. Like you were silently giving yourself to him–trusting him.

The tendril against your stomach quivered, then spread upward, curling slowly up your sternum. The coldness traced the line between your ribs with aching slowness, pulling goosebumps to your skin like the aftershock of a spell. Another tendril wrapped firmer around your back, pulling you upward, into him, and your hands moved before you could think.

You cupped his face.

Both palms against his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as though trying to soothe the trembling that had begun shaking through his body. And he melted into it–like his form wasn’t solid anymore. Like the sheer weight of being held like this was more than he could survive.

He kissed you back–slowly at first, uncertain.

And then again. And again.

The whimper that escaped him was so raw it sounded like it hurt. Not from pain, but from feeling. From the overwhelming pressure of being kissed like this–like someone wanted him, all of him, even the parts he thought were unsalvageable.

You felt him shift.

The mattress dipped again as he leaned in heavier, his body pressing down into yours, his chest brushing yours. His weight was cold and foreign, but grounding. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just seeking. Wanting to be closer than was allowed.

Your legs parted instinctively beneath the blanket, and you wrapped them around his waist–lightly at first, tentative, as though testing if this was still okay. But when your calves settled around him, he let out another sound–a shaky, broken breath against your mouth that might have been the closest he could come to a thank you.

He deepened the kiss.

Not rough. Not fast. Just more. His mouth moved with such aching slowness against yours, lips cold but desperate to memorize you. He whimpered softly into your mouth, again and again, like the sound was being pulled out of him against his will.

Your hands kept moving. One stayed on his cheek, thumb stroking in soothing circles, but the other slipped down–over his neck, his shoulder, down along his ribs.

You felt him tremble.

Not from fear. But from need. That wild, hollow ache of something that had been starved of affection for so long, it didn’t know what to do with it now that it had finally been touched.

The shadows around you shifted, curling tighter around your form, but they didn’t hurt. They held. They cradled. They tethered. As though The Void himself couldn’t bear the thought of losing contact. Of being separated by even a breath of air.

And still, his mouth stayed on yours.

Whimpering. Trembling. Kissing you like your lips were the only thing keeping him tethered to the body he’d borrowed.

He pulled back slowly–too slowly, like leaving your mouth was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

When you opened your eyes, his were still closed.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged and shallow as if even the act of kissing had drained him. He was trembling–barely–but enough that you felt it through every place your bodies touched. You opened your mouth to speak, but then you saw it.

His lips.

Flecked with tiny white pinpricks of light. The same ones your other kisses had left in its wake. You reached up with slow fingers, reverent fingers, and gently traced the outline of his lips. His breath hitched violently, and his head dipped toward your palm like he couldn’t help it–like he was starved for it. Your thumb grazed the soft swell of his bottom lip.

He whimpered.

The sound was raw. Desperate. Almost painful.

You stilled immediately. “Void…?”

His eyes blinked open slowly–dim moons, fogged and trembling. His voice cracked as he whispered, “It…It hurts.”

Your heart clenched. “Hurts?”

He nodded faintly, almost ashamed. “I don’t…I don’t know how to process this. Being touched like that. Being kissed like that. It’s too much–” He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, then exhaled shakily, as if trying to hold himself together.

“I can stop,” You offered softly, your hand still cupping his cheek, your thumb now brushing beneath his eye instead. “Just tell me and I’ll–”

“No.” His hand caught yours–shadowed, trembling, cold. “Don’t.” Another breath. “Please. Don’t stop. I just…I need to feel it all.”

You nodded once, slowly.

Then, he shifted.

He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still wrapped loosely around his waist. You followed easily, pressing your chest to his again, the blanket cocooning you both in warmth while his shadows curled tightly around you like a second skin. Your face was just inches from his, your breath mingling with his cool exhale.

Your hand slid down his jaw again, trailing lower this time–down his throat, over the defined line of his collarbone. Your palm remained splayed across his chest, cool beneath your fingers, rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths. His shadows still curled around you—gentle, clinging, trembling with a hunger that didn’t come from destruction, but from longing. From need. From the aching vulnerability of a god on his knees, cradled in human hands.

You tilted your head just slightly, forehead still grazing his, voice low and warm as you whispered:

“Tell me how it feels…”

Your thumb traced a soft arc over the center of his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

A breath hitched. A sound caught in his throat—like he was about to speak, but it took him a second to find the strength.

“…Please…” His voice cracked—barely above a whisper, “Please just…keep touching me.”

That was all he could say. All he could manage.

So you did.

You moved slowly like you were tracing stardust across him, like every motion was meant to tell him I see you. Your hand slipped from his chest and down along his side, curling around his waist to hold him closer. The other stayed between you, lifting just slightly to stroke your fingertips along the line of his jaw. Then his cheek. Then into his hair again–inky and cool and shifting beneath your hand like it responded to your touch.

He sighed, trembling, and his own hand came forward to find your thigh beneath the blanket. Slowly. Carefully. He rested his palm there, large and cool against the bare skin just above your knee, like he was memorizing the shape of you. He inhaled sharply at the contact, the breath catching at the top of his chest before shaking loose in a low exhale through barely-parted lips.

His thumb stroked once. Then again. Small, grounding circles against the inside of your thigh, before his fingers curled slightly and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You swallowed.

Then you leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of his collarbone.

A kiss.

Then another.

Slower.

Lower.

You felt the exact moment he gasped–the motion rattling through his chest and into your mouth as you pressed another kiss just beneath the hollow of his throat. Light bloomed beneath your lips–those same soft pinpricks of white, growing like starlight across his dark skin.

“Oh god…” He breathed, his head tipping back slightly, exposing more of his neck to you. Inviting more of you.

It was a prayer and a confession and a surrender all at once.

You kissed higher, toward the edge of his shoulder, lips dragging softly along the cool skin, your nose brushing his throat as you whispered gently:

“You can have this…” Another kiss. “As long as you want.”

A low, broken sound escaped him–something between a moan and a whimper. His hand on your thigh tightened again, not roughly–just anchoring. Needing. Worshipping.

You moved back just enough to look at him again.

His glowing white eyes were glassy now, lids heavy, lips parted slightly. He looked completely undone. Not from lust. But from being seen. From being held.

Your hand came up to his face again, fingers tracing the hollow of his cheek.

“You’re not too much,” You murmured, answering the question he hadn’t dared ask aloud. “You’re not too cold. You’re not too broken. You’re not a mistake.”

His breath stuttered again. He blinked. You saw something fracture across his expression–something soft. Something grateful. Like you’d just rewritten a truth he thought he had to live with forever.

“Touch me again,” He whispered, voice breaking. “Please…”

You shifted closer until your chest pressed to his again, and your mouth returned to his neck. Kissing. Marking. Soft worship. Your hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers splaying wide, grounding him again. He whimpered, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips.

The shadows around you pulled tighter–still not hurting, still not threatening. Just holding. Like they were trying to remember this moment. To keep it somehow. Etch it into the fabric of reality before it could slip away.

His hand remained anchored on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into the warmth of your skin like he was committing it to memory. You felt him shift slightly–closer, heavier. His mouth brushed against your cheek.

And then came the question.

“Can I touch you?”

It was soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–those pale, glowing eyes dim and unsure, shadowed by something fragile.

“Where?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

Instead, his hand slid higher.

Cool fingers brushing up along your thigh, along the hem of your sleep shorts, until his knuckles just barely grazed the waistband. He paused there, eyes searching yours—studying. Not demanding. Just waiting.

And you saw it again–the way his breath caught. The tremble in his touch. The restraint of a creature that could ruin you in a heartbeat…but didn’t want to. Couldn’t.

You nodded.

And he moved.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

You gasped sharply.

The cold was immediate–like shadow-dipped silk gliding against your heat. Not harsh. Not jarring. Just the opposite. The contrast made your body tense, then melt. He felt it—how wet you already were for him–and his breath stuttered, just once.

“Oh…” You gasped.

His other hand rose slowly, almost uncertainly, and came to cradle the side of your neck–his palm cool and steady as his thumb stroked under your jaw, grounding you again. The feel of his fingers below was almost unbearable now.

“You’re so warm, Y/N…” He whispered, and it wasn’t just awe in his voice–it was longing. Worship. “So…So warm…”

His fingers moved gently between your folds, slowly, like he was learning you by touch alone. His middle finger dipped lower, parting your slick with a trembling kind of care, until he found the delicate ache at your entrance.

Your breath hitched.

He stroked along it once–soft and teasing–and you couldn’t help the moan that escaped you. Your hips twitched forward, chasing the sensation, and he groaned low in his throat like the sound of your pleasure was more than he could bear.

“I want…” You breathed, voice trembling. “Guide me to you. I want to touch you too.”

There was no hesitation.

One of the tendrils–slow and patient–slid down your arm like ribbon, curling around your wrist. It coaxed your hand forward, easing beneath the blanket, through shadow and warmth and the press of his form, sliding beneath his waistband until–

You felt him.

Hard.

Straining.

Solid heat beneath impossibly cool skin.

You couldn’t see it. But you knew. The thickness. The weight. The need that pulsed there.

Your fingers curled instinctively around him, and he jolted–his whole body twitching with the contact, breath torn from his lungs in a raw, shuddering gasp.

“Oh god…” He whispered, barely coherent.

You palmed him gently, dragging your hand along the length of him, feeling a wet spot already forming at the tip. His hips flexed forward into your touch. The tendrils around your wrist tightened–just slightly–like they couldn’t bear to let go.

And still, his fingers moved.

He slipped one inside you–slow, so slow–and you cried out, arching into him.

“Void…” You moaned, your voice breaking. “Your fingers feel so good…”

His mouth dropped open at the sound, and he groaned into your neck–low and trembling and desperate. His finger curled inside you, and then another joined–his thumb pressing up, slow and steady against your clit in small, precise circles.

His fingers thrust into you with more confidence now, the earlier hesitation melting away as he felt your heat clench greedily around him. He groaned raggedly against your skin, the sound low and fractured as he buried his face in your neck. Your wrist flexed in rhythm, stroking the length of him with slow, coaxing pulls, and his hips twitched forward again, seeking more.

“Fuck–” He breathed softly into your throat, reverence and disbelief tangled in the single word.

The slick sounds between your thighs were unmistakable now–vivid, shameless, echoing beneath the blanket like they were announcing just how wet you were for him. Every time his fingers curled just right, your hips rolled down into them, grinding against his palm, chasing that pressure. You could feel yourself dripping–your sleep shorts were clinging now, damp and sticky, soaked through as he thrust deeper.

Then he did it–he nipped at your neck. Gentle, testing, like he wasn’t sure how much you could take. His lips grazed your pulse point, breath cooling the heated skin, and then–he latched on.

You gasped sharply, your whole body arching into him.

“V–Void–” You moaned, a tremble shaking through your voice as your hand jerked on his cock, stroking him with firmer, wetter pulls. “That…Fuck, that felt–”

You didn’t even finish.

He groaned at your reaction, grinding his palm up against your clit harder now, his fingers pumping faster, deeper, slicker. The cold contrast of him inside you made the heat coil impossibly tight in your core, and your thighs began to tremble.

You moved your hand faster, too. Dragging your fist up the thick, throbbing length of him, curling your fingers tighter at the base, and then slipping upward, smearing the precum across the tip with your thumb. You could feel him twitching in your palm, feel how much it wrecked him to be touched like this–reverently, intimately, possessively.

“Please–” He rasped, breath hot against your neck. “I can’t–if you keep touching me like that–”

You clenched around his fingers hard, your hips grinding down with desperate rhythm.

“I know…I know…But please don’t stop,” You whispered.

And he didn’t.

He fucked his fingers into you harder–faster–his wrist snapping with a precision that felt unfair. You sobbed his name into his shoulder, your hand jerking reflexively on his cock as your thighs spread wider, desperate to keep feeling him.

Then–his thumb pressed up again, harder, tighter, and you shattered.

It wasn’t a soft climax.

It hit like thunder.

You gasped–a sharp, breathless sound–and your thighs clamped down around his wrist as your hand spasmed and gripped his cock tightly. Your whole body bucked as your orgasm slammed into you, white-hot and wet, your walls clenching wildly around his fingers as a gush of slick spilled into your shorts and soaked his hand.

“Oh, fuck–” He groaned, nearly collapsing into you, his voice broken with awe. “You–god, you just–”

Your hand slipped off him, limp with aftershock, and he kept his fingers inside you as you shook.

You were still gasping when he pulled back–just slightly–and looked down at you.

The mark on your neck pulsed dark in the moonlight.

He stared at it.

Then he leaned down again and bit you.

Not gently this time.

He sunk his teeth–sharp, deliberate–right over the place he’d already kissed, right over your pulsing artery. You gasped again, your fingers tightening in his hair as your hips jerked.

When he pulled back, you were panting–and the look on his face…

Pure, holy vengeance.

The bruise he left bloomed immediately. Deep, dark, and possessive. A perfect mirror to the stars you had carved into his skin with your kisses.

He gazed down at it with a look of worship and darkness all at once.

“That,” He murmured, his voice low and ruined, “Is going to be very hard to explain tomorrow.”

And the smirk that curved his mouth was slow, dangerous, and devastatingly beautiful.

You leaned in first. Pressed a soft, breathless kiss to his parted lips, catching the last remnants of that smirk and stealing it right from his mouth. Your lips brushed, warm against his cold, a slow drag of reverence and claim. Then you whispered against him:

“It’s alright. I’ll figure it out.”

He barely had time to respond before you kissed him again–deeper this time, with heat that made his hands twitch on your thigh. His shadows curled tighter around your hips, bracing for something neither of you could take back.

When you finally pulled away, breath caught in the space between you, your voice dropped to a sultry whisper:

“Lay on your back.”

His pale eyes squinted, caught between suspicion and arousal. “Why?” He rasped.

You leaned close to his ear, let your lips ghost over the shell of it, and whispered:

“’Cause I want you inside me.”

You felt him shudder.

Hard.

The kind of involuntary, whole-body tremor that pulled a sound from his throat–quiet, ragged, and guttural.

Without another word, he obeyed.

The mattress shifted beneath you as he slowly laid back, shadows slithering and curling beneath his spine like smoke. His eyes never left you–not once. Even as your thigh slipped from around his waist, even as you reached down, dragging your soaked sleep shorts down your trembling legs.

You peeled them off inch by inch, slow and deliberate, the cool air grazing your slick thighs as you bared yourself to him. Then your shirt followed. Pulled over your head, discarded to the side.

You were completely bare now–bathed in moonlight, glowing like the stars that had once kissed his skin.

The Void’s body shifted beneath you, shadows writhing like living breath across the sheets. You heard fabric rustle faintly, and then felt it–the brush of his length against your thigh, already slick with precum, already straining.

You climbed over him slowly.

His gaze followed every motion, those glowing white pupils wide and ravenous. His chest barely moved with breath, but his body was tense beneath you–cold and waiting.

The second your knees straddled his waist, his eyes dropped to your chest.

And he sighed.

The sound was deep. Hollowed out. Full of awe.

“Dear god…” He whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

His hands rose almost reverently and cupped your breasts. He gave one a gentle squeeze, like he was testing its realness, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, cool and soft, sending a rush of heat straight through your core.

Around you, the tendrils stirred again.

They slipped along your sides, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, your thighs. Cascading up your back and down your arms in slow, possessive strokes. Not gripping. Just…Holding. Just reminding you that he was everywhere.

You shifted above him, and he let out a low, ragged sigh at the feel of your soaked core dragging over the length of his erection. The contrast of temperature was almost unbearable–your heat against his endless cold.

His hands dropped to your hips, fingers splaying wide, grounding himself in the feel of you.

You rose up slightly, just enough to reach between you, guiding his cock with careful fingers. You lined him up with your entrance, already so wet and aching it made you whimper.

Then you began to sink down.

The stretch made your mouth fall open immediately–a burning, slow ache as your walls parted for him inch by inch. He was cold inside you. Not harsh. Not unnatural. Just…different. Like your warmth was the only thing tethering him to this plane.

He whimpered the moment your heat began to envelope him.

And god, it was a sound you’d never forget–wrecked and vulnerable, a gasp that trembled with disbelief.

You sank down slower, hands braced on his chest, shadows curling tighter around your back. The pressure built. The stretch deepened. The burn crawled higher. Your jaw went slack, eyes fluttering shut.

“F-fuck,” You choked softly, your voice breaking. “You’re…bigger than I thought.”

The Void whimpered again, trying not to move, hands gripping your hips like restraint was the only thing keeping him intact.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered hoarsely. “So tight. I–god, you feel like fire.”

You moaned at the way he filled you–deep and cold and aching. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him as you finally settled, fully seated on him, the stretch bringing on a delicious pulse between pleasure and burn.

He was still.

Too still.

Like if he moved too fast, this would all disappear.

So you leaned forward again, your palms sliding up his chest, your lips brushing his temple. He let out a low, airy sigh as you leaned forward again, your lips pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another to the ridge of his cheekbone. Another to the tip of his nose. You felt him shiver beneath you, his pale eyes fluttering shut like he couldn’t bear the sensation of it–like he didn’t know how to accept being touched so gently, so freely. But still, he held perfectly still. Breathing shallow, jaw slack, letting you do it.

And each kiss left behind a soft gleam of white light.

Tiny constellations bloomed where your mouth had landed–stars flaring into life against the shadowed surface of his face. They shimmered softly in the moonlight, and when you pulled back to admire him, the image took your breath away.

He looked…Ruined. Worshipped. Unmade by your love.

“I’m not going to be able to strike fear into anyone,” He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, “If you keep kissing my face and marking me like this.”

You laughed–a soft, breathy thing that shook lightly through your chest. “Say it’s a birthmark.” His hands clenched at your hips in that moment–fingers digging in with involuntary need–and his hips shifted, just slightly, a subtle thrust upward from beneath you.

It was enough.

Your laugh caught in your throat and turned into a sharp gasp as he nudged deeper inside, your body seizing around him in a sudden ripple of tightness.

“Shit,” You breathed, eyes flying open, “you can’t do that.”

His eyes widened slightly–moons gone soft with remorse.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped, voice thin and stunned, hands relaxing on your hips like he thought he might’ve hurt you.

You shook your head immediately, one hand bracing against his chest, the other sliding up his jaw.

“No, no–it’s alright,” You murmured gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Then you leaned in slowly, mouth brushing along the edge of his jaw, your breath warming the cool skin as you whispered, “But…Does this mean I can start moving now?”

His response was instant.

A nod. Wild and desperate. Then another–faster, almost frantic. His eyes locked on yours, pupils wide and glowing as he whispered, “Yes. Please. I need you to.”

You smiled softly.

And then you moved.

The first roll of your hips was slow. Measured. A gentle pull upward, and then a careful drop back down. The stretch flared again, sweet and biting, your breath catching as you sank onto him fully, the thick weight of his cock dragging deliciously along your walls.

Beneath you, he groaned–low and guttural and barely restrained.

His hands clenched again at your waist, not guiding you, just holding. Just grounding himself. Like the pleasure was too much and he needed your body beneath his palms to remember he was still here.

You rocked again.

A slow, rhythmic grind of your hips that pressed him impossibly deep, the angle shifting just enough that the drag of his cock against your walls made you moan. The pressure mounted with every roll–an intoxicating, needy heat spreading through your core as he filled you, stretched you, worshiped you without even moving.

And he just lay there–utterly undone–letting you take him apart.

“Fuck,” You breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel…So good, Void.”

He whimpered.

That same raw, involuntary sound he made every time your body clenched around him. His breath trembled. His hands flexed.

And then the tendrils began to move.

They curled along your back first–sliding up your spine, cool and slow, trailing over your skin like ribbons of silk. Then two more snaked down your thighs, wrapping around them just beneath your hips. Not restraining. Just holding. Guiding. Supporting you where his hands couldn’t reach.

They moved with you.

Rising as you lifted yourself. Lowering as you dropped down again.

Like they were learning your rhythm.

Your pace quickened slightly, each drop down onto his cock making your thighs tremble, each upward lift a delicious drag of heat and friction. Your hands pressed harder against his chest now, fingers splayed, nails curling slightly into the shadows that made up his skin.

And he was gone.

Eyes wide open now, lips parted in breathless awe, head tipped back into the pillow as he took everything you gave him. Every roll of your hips, every breathless moan. His eyes flicked down to your chest, to the way it bounced with every motion, and he groaned aloud–his hips twitching up into you for the first time in response.

You gasped.

“Void–” You choked.

“I’m sorry,” He rasped again, but there was no restraint this time. His voice was wrecked with need. “I need to–I need to feel you more–”

You leaned down and took his face in your hands again, kissing him hard, your mouth sliding against his with heat and hunger as your hips began to move faster. The sound of your slick echoing now–wet and open and filthy–as he fucked up into you with trembling precision.

The tendrils climbed again.

They ghosted over your breasts, curling gently around them, cool and reverent as they cupped your weight. One traced the curve of your throat. Another danced down the arch of your back, grounding you through every bounce, every roll, every stutter of your breath.

You moaned into his mouth.

He caught the sound and swallowed it–his tongue slipping into your mouth with the most delicate desperation, kissing you like he was starved, like he’d never get to do it again.

You broke the kiss only long enough to pant against him, your forehead pressed to his as you gasped, “Push me down onto you.”

His breath caught.

And he obeyed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he braced you, holding you still against him–just for a moment–before he thrust up hard.

You cried out, the sharp pleasure of it shocking through your nerves like lightning. The tendrils cinched tighter, wrapping you in a cocoon of darkness as his pace began to build beneath you–slow but deep, precise, controlled only by the fragility of your body above him.

Your voice broke on another moan. “Don’t stop, please, I’m–I’m gonna–”

And then you shattered again.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, clenching tight around him, soaking him in wet heat as your nails dug into his shoulders and your head fell forward with a cry.

He gasped.

And then he came.

With a broken moan and a hoarse curse, his body convulsed beneath you, his hands yanking your hips down hard–burying you to the hilt–holding you there as he spilled inside you, cold and heavy and endless.

The tendrils trembled around you, tightening like a final embrace, like they were anchoring him to you while his body seized with pleasure. His mouth parted, breath ragged, eyes squeezed shut as his hips stuttered up one more time–and then he collapsed back into the bed, shaking.

You slumped over him, forehead resting on his shoulder.

Breathless. Glowing. Slick and ruined and full.

His arms came around you slowly, delicately–like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it. But you did. You melted against him, chest pressed to his cool skin, the soft weight of your body settling atop his as you began to breathe in sync.

Your exhales mingled. Your heartbeats echoed, uneven but slowly evening out.

His chest rose and fell in shallow, quivering waves beneath your cheek, and beneath the chill of his skin, you could feel his pulse–faint, strange, but steady. You rested your palm just over it, grounding yourself there, listening to the rhythm until it felt like your own.

The tendrils around you loosened only slightly–enough to ease the tension from your limbs without breaking contact. They kept stroking softly along your back, trailing up and down your spine with gentle pressure, like they were comforting you…Or comforting him through you.

After a moment, you finally lifted your head.

And you stilled.

Your gaze caught the faint white gleam scattered across his face. Dozens of tiny marks, scattered like freckles–no, constellations. Traced by your lips. Etched like a map across the bridge of his nose, along his cheeks, across his temple, haloing his brow. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Jesus,” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, “I really did a number on you.”

He blinked slowly, still catching his breath, then smirked faintly. “Can’t pass it off as a birthmark anymore, hmm?”

You shook your head, amused, gaze tracing every speck of light you’d left behind.

“No… definitely not.” Your fingertips danced over them again, tender, reverent. “But they’re really pretty.”

His mouth quirked upward into something close to a grin–more tooth than smirk this time. You saw the faint flash of his teeth, sharp but clean, like fangs made for something more elegant than violence.

“Lucky it doesn’t pass off to Bob,” He said, voice still low, hoarse. “He’d have even more to explain than you.”

You snorted softly and shifted a little against him, letting your forehead rest beside his. “He’d never live it down. Walker would never stop asking questions.”

“Or Ava,” Void added. “She’d try to scrub them off with a washcloth.”

You both chuckled quietly, the sound soft in the quiet hush of the room. The tendrils still moved slowly across your skin–trailing along your lower back, curling gently around your ribs, one brushing softly against the back of your knee where it hooked loosely over his hip.

“I think…” He murmured after a beat, “he’ll definitely be happy tomorrow morning though.”

You looked at him, blinking slowly.

“But you will have to talk to him about this.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Then, after a beat of hesitation, you admitted, “The soulmate thing may confuse him though.”

The Void hummed softly, the sound vibrating deep in his chest beneath you. “Leave that out,” He murmured, tilting his head slightly. “I think it technically applies to only you and I anyway.”

That made your heart thump–once, hard.

You swallowed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

A shimmer of light bloomed beneath your lips.

His whole body tensed.

Every tendril tightened slightly around you–not harshly, but as if the entire mass of shadows needed to hold you in place, needed to feel every second of that kiss, needed to memorize it.

You pulled back slightly and whispered, “Void…”

His head turned slowly toward you, that expression unreadable but open, mouth slightly parted.

“Yeah?”

You brought your hand up to his face again, palm cradling his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, breath hitching.

“I was really wrong about you.”

His jaw tensed beneath your palm. You felt it–just for a moment–before he whispered, “It’s okay… I made multiple bad impressions and you had a right to dislike me.” He takes a moment, and presses his cheek into your touch. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

You leaned in slowly.

And kissed him again.

Right in the center of his lips.

Another star flickered into life.

His breath hitched audibly this time, chest quaking beneath you, eyes still shut like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you in that moment. Couldn’t believe he was being forgiven.

You rested your forehead against his.

And whispered, “And I’m glad you weaken me…”

His eyes blinked open slowly, lashes brushing your cheeks from how close you were.

“…Because you make me feel a little more human.”

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, the tendrils coiled tightly around your back, around your thighs, around your shoulders–pulling you closer, tighter, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

And for the first time, The Void didn’t feel like a monster at all.

He just felt like a man who finally knew what it was like to be loved.

[kdh-tally]

Huntr/x and Saja Boys Headcannons!!!

This was requested (Here's a summary) : I was wondering if you could do an open world fanfic? Where the saja boys are able to return to the human world since they wouldnt be demons no longer (the defeat of gwi nam). The fansign scene left me STARVING. LIKEEE mystery x zoey and baby being the wingman (nonchalantly ofc) romance x mira x abby (YOU CAN DECIDE WHO GETS WITH MIRA BTW NO WORRIES ❤️) and ofc our NUMBER ONE JINU X RUMI

No idea how long this was but here's my first head cannon thingy :D

The Aftermath

Jinu, the sweet little self-sacrificing boy just shows up one day in the label lobby like hi ☺️☺️ and everyone freezes in place.

Rumi blinks and leaves the room.

Baby, the maknae (youngest member), is like “I’m not crying you’re crying shut up bro.”

The boys don’t question it too hard because they’re just happy he’s back. And now they get to keep playing the hot idol boy group. 

Not that they cared about their fans or anything…

(Spoiler: they love the idol life. They just pretend to be tired.)

Both Huntrix and Saja Boys are definitely under the same entertainment company now. Same building, Same dorm hall, Shared lounges and practice rooms.

This also means people keep taking other peoples stuff. 

Mira wanted to eat the ramen she left on the counter only 3 minutes ago? Too bad, Romance took the cup and left a sticky note: “sorry pinkie. u snooze u starve - R”

The girls didn’t even know when the boys were signed. 

“Wait, are you saying the weird tall guy who always takes my food is one of the Saja Boys??” Mira glances over at Bobby in confusion.

“We’ve been working above them this whole time!!??”

Rumi definitely avoided the whole label for WEEKS once she found out Jinu was alive again.

Abby saw her in the stairwell once when heading to dance practice and she legit LEAPT over the railing to avoid him seeing her.

There will be prank wars.

Rumi suggests it by accident one day, wanting to ensure that Gwi-Ma is sealed forever. “We should just move back into the dorms so we can spy on them.”

Zoey, seeing this as a way to have more fun, gets so hyped, "or we move in so we can BOTHER them!!"

Next thing you know, Huntrix is back in their old dorm and they’re not even subtle about their pranks.

Within the first week?

Baby’s toothbrush gets replaced with a glitter-coated pacifier.

Mystery wakes up to “Zoey was here ;P” written in red lipstick on his mirror. (He stares at it for a good five minutes before wiping it off.)

Jinu goes to work out one day in the company gym only to find that all the motivational posters have been replaced with an image of his head photoshopped onto a barbie doll....

The boys retaliate.

Romance reroutes the girls’ shower water to freezing cold.

Abby writes them a sweet apology note then leaves stink bombs under their couch cushions. (Mira is fuming, cause how DARE he mess with her couch???)

Baby? He would bake them cookies that taste amazing but are actually mild laxatives. He says “oopsie” but is smiling too hard.

Daily Interactions That Would Definitely Happen

Dance Practice:

Somehow both groups would be scheduled to use the practice room at the same time.

Zoey and Mystery would argue over who gets to use the bluetooth speaker first.

Rumi walking in, seeing Jinu sweaty from practice, walking OUT.

Abby quietly waits to stretch but then gets dragged into a Mira vs Romance (she's getting him back for stealing her ramen).

Company Lounge:

Baby would be snacking mid-meeting, sharing with some Zoey (his fellow rapper) and not offering Mystery anything just to start some trouble.

Rumi chooses to sit on the farthest end of the couch from Jinu but he moves closer anyway.

“Mind if I sit here?”

"Um- no! I don't know. Yo-you can do whateeeeeever you want... Heh"

Recording Studio:

Zoey overhears Mystery’s guide vocal and straight up complains. “Ugh. Why is he good at everything.”

He just smirks in the booth (he heard her). She’s blushing. He knows.

Abby helps Mira rehearse her lines in the hallway. Romance pops in with a “need help, pinkie?” and gets hit with her script binder.

Little Scenes

Baby constantly catching Zoey and Mystery coming up with lyrics together in one of the solo-practice rooms. He'd shake his head and walk by, “Not my business.”

(It becomes his business. He’s taking mental notes as to how to set them up.)

Late-night rooftop talks between Rumi and Jinu.

Both of them still haven’t completely come to terms with their demon (and half-demon) heritage.

She’s still so unsure about everything but he's incredibly devoted to her.

“Even when I disappeared I still remember how I felt about you. I mean, I literally gave you my soul” he lets out a small laugh

“Shut up before I cry, you idiot.” (she's already crying into his hoodie)

Romance tries to convince Abby to dye his hair a different colour so that only he matches with Mira.

The Fans

The fans believe the whole “Huntrix vs Saja Boys” rivalry was just a clever concept planned out since the Saja Boys debut.

“Whoa, two groups with an epic fantasy backstory??”

No one knows what actually happened.

They think Jinu’s re-appearance is just him coming back from a long hiatus after health complications.

Little do they know he literally reincarnated.

Fansign Events

Mystery x Zoey Moments (Constant Sarcasm)

A fan is literally spewing so many questions at them “Your concept is sooo realistic. How did you learn to hold swords like that?”

Zoey -> “Extensive training.”

Mystery -> “Yeah. In the mountains. With wolves.”

Zoey -> “That’s why you’re always barking at people huh?"

“I don’t bark at the fans-”

“There’s an hour long youtube compilation of you just-”

Anyways…

A fan brings Mystery a vampire plushie and he just stares at it.

“Do I… give off vampire?”

Zoey shrugs, “I mean, you got the pale skin, hidden eyes, sharp teeth for biting your fans. It’s a fair assumption.”

The fan squeals

Rumi x Jinu (Secret Soulmates)

A fan asks the two “Rumi, you’ve worked with Jinu before right?”

“You could say that.” she smiles while signing their album.

She really means “We literally fought a huge magical demon fire thing side-by-side and he sacrificed himself for me.”

Jinu signs an album with “I’ll protect you forever 😉” and winks at a fan.

Rumi gives him a NASTY side eye and playfully whispers at the fan “He’s not even that charming.”

She is beet red. 

The fan is dying of laughter.

Most fans have a theory that they were cast as rivals in a music video storyline that never ended up being released.

Mira x Romance x Abby Triangle (Pink Trio)

I feel like fans would call them Pink Crayons or something like that cause they all have pink hair.

Fan: “What’s your favorite memory between both groups?”

Abby -> “When we survived our first tour.”

Romance -> “When we survived our first battle-”

Mira, while grinning at the fan, KICKS HIS SHIN UNDER THE TABLE

Romance -> “I MEANT fan battle. On Twitter. With hashtags. Obviously.”

Abby smiles so kindly at fans that they start calling him a “gentle giant.”

Baby Being a single wingman & Secret Keeper

Fans: “What’s it like sharing a company with Huntrix?”

“Loud. Dangerous. Very cursed. I mean—cozy.”

He’s so calm, seeing as he’s the only one who wasn’t being shipped.

He didn’t mind watching his other group members flirting all the time (maybe just a little bit…)

“You know Mystery sleeps like he’s guarding a portal to hell. Kidding. Unless…?”

The fans know he’s the comedic relief between both groups.

Zombie Apocalypse?

Fan: “What would you do in a zombie apocalypse?”

Zoey -> “Take Mira and Rumi and run.”

Mystery -> “I’d already have a plan.”

Abby -> “I’d distract the zombies with my gorgeous muscles.” Proceeds to flex.

Jinu -> “Obviously I’m saving my pets first,”

Rumi -> “Your pets? You still haven’t named them??”

Jinu -> “It takes timeeeeee”

Mira -> “Grabbing my couch, grabbing zoey and running.”

Rumi -> “What about me 🥺”

Mira -> “Jinu won’t let you die so i’m not that worried”

Baby -> “I am the apocalypse.”

Romance -> “What does that even mean–”

[strawbairicake]

stealin’ sweet kisses- various hsr characters x reader 

synopsis: playing the pocky game with your boyfriend! that’s it, send tweet. part 2! 

warnings: uh, none? other than that, idk if my beginner/novice writing counts as a warning. 

word count: 1.4k (oh lord, it’s longer than part 1!)

author’s note: part 1 did pretty well, so here's part 2 no one asked for! i’ll link part 1 here! no beta, we die like my favorite side characters in books! posting this after having a mental breakdown sure is the way to go, huh! disclaimer in part 1 that i'll include here: i genuinely don't know how to write kiss scenes at all! other than like a peck on the lips, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right… right? title was a suggestion from a mootie of mine for part 1, credits to them for the title (credits to you, Sage, lol!)! hope you enjoy! <3

tagging: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @unriding, @sheyfu, @threnodians. @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

Anaxa: 

how you managed to get your lover to agree to this is beyond you. you just slid the box across his desk, then retreated to the cute reading nook in the home office. Anaxa gave you a skeptical look before sighing and making his way over to you. he sits on the ottoman your legs were resting on and he hands you a stick of pocky. 

“you wanted me to indulge in a game? fine. but make it quick, i have things to do.” he says as he rubs shapes on your thighs near your knees. yeah, he totally does not have the time to indulge you. what a loser (lovingly). but upon seeing the smile appear on your face after his confirmation, he thinks he’ll be sparing more time with you than he should. (he brought the whole box when he made his way over to you, by the way. he’s definitely whipped.)

 so you sat up in your chair, took the stick of pocky from his hand, and waited for him to be ready. he looked… nervous? the great Anaxagoras, reduced to a slightly blushing mess and slightly fidgety. the whole time you had been watching him, he was fidgeting with the box of pocky, and clearly avoiding eye contact with you. no matter, it’s whatever. you gesture him with a wave of your hand to come closer, and he sets the box of sweet treats next to him. part of the sweet treat he’s able to taste and as you lean closer, Anaxa cannot bring himself to look at you at all. you’d think for all his bravado he’d be able to do something as simple as holding eye contact but no. and as the stick breaks right in the middle, before either one of you can pull away, he cradles the back of your head with a hand and initiates a kiss. short and sweet before pulling away. now both of you look rather flustered. 

best to play the game again, no? 

Argenti: 

your lover agreed with no resistance and no questions asked... mostly! he seems rather excited to play this silly game with you, bless him. so here you both are, sitting in the living room of your home. a rare moment for Argenti to be with you given how often he travels. he leaves tomorrow, unfortunately, but you thought playing pocky with him could be a fun ritual you start doing the night before he leaves. granted, it makes it harder for Argenti to leave you in the morning, but seeing how giddy and happy it makes you both makes it worth it. so here you were on your sofa, a box of pocky in your hand as you explain (again, it’s been a while!) the rules of the game. 

“so the point is to get as close to the middle of the stick and not break it. we're supposed to kiss, i think,” you explained.

“so what happens if i break it?” he questions.

“you eat it, and we try again!” you reply excitedly. 

let the game begin. 

dear aeons, you never realized how good Argenti was at this game. he’s locked in, keeping eye contact, and being very sweet. if he senses you getting nervous, he breaks the stick off and waits for you to compose yourself before returning. and bless him, he’s so sweet and patient, that’s gotta mean something, right? 

so after you break the stick for the first time, before you lean back and can escape, he kisses you. nothing rough or mean, almost as light as a peck, but it’s just a bit more. right as you begin to reciprocate, he pulls away, leaving you wanting more. 

you know the game he’s playing, and you can see the slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks at you. 

“one more time, beloved?”

Boothill:

always on the run, you both are. always getting into some kind of trouble. except this time, the trouble in question is a game of pocky and doesn’t seemingly have any consequences. which is good, you both need a break from the run and chase you’re constantly on. now that you think about it, maybe being in an alleyway in penacony wasn’t your brightest move. anyone could see you both and report you. not that common folk would, but people who know about you and Boothill might. just a hunch. but you were in a dark alleyway, Boothill leaning against the wall, his legs spread just a bit, and you were standing in between his legs, just chatting. and Boothill was trying so hard to pay attention, but he noticed the box of pocky in your pocket. 

“what’s the box for, sweetheart?”

“boredom, mostly… also i need sugar.”

“don’t know how ya’d need it if we’re on the run. and i'll give ya some sugar,” he winked. you rolled your eyes at the latter comment. 

“i mean for after the adrenaline wears off…” you mutter. your lover chuckles at the faux pout you started making after your previous statement. he places a hand on your hip and fishes through your pocket and gets the box of pocky out. 

“up for a little game?”

“Boothill, we're literally supposed to be running right now,” you deadpan. he laughs.

“you don’t know how to have fun, sweetheart! just one round, i promise,” he replies. 

and so the game begun. he pulls a stick out of the pack and places one part in his mouth and you place the other part in your mouth. as you inch closer, one of Boothill’s hands remains at your hip while the other one rests on the back of your neck. the cool metal of his arm makes you tilt your head up impossibly more. you reach the middle of the stick and instead of a quick peck, it’s a passionate kiss. he cradles your head so you can’t let go just yet, and he notices you’re quite ready to let go either. give or take a few seconds, you tap his robotic chest with your finger, a sign to let you breathe. you both part. the tips of his ears are a bit pink and you look a bit flushed. you’re just about to get comfortable in the silence you both have before hearing a loud  “freeze!” which makes you both turn your heads.

guess you’re back on the run.

Mydei: 

a rough mission kinda brought you down. and sometimes when you’re down, you’ll head to the marketplace in Okhema just to see if anything interesting is there. and wouldn’t you know it, a seller was giving out a box of pocky with every purchase! you bought a couple of baking ingredients and got your free box of pocky, and honestly? made your bad day a lot better, which was really nice. so when you got home and saw Mydei on the couch in the living room on his teleslate (literally it’s a phone, why do they call it that, ew), you thought nothing of it. you head to the kitchen and unload the few baking supplies you purchased: sugar and flour. it wasn’t a lot, and you didn’t need help putting it away. you knew that Mydei would come and help you put the couple of groceries away anyway (he always did, it was an unspoken agreement between the two of you for whatever reason.). so after you unload the flour and sugar, you sit on the counter and open the box of pocky you got. it was your favorite flavor too, how nice! as you do, Mydei comes in between your legs and watches as you fiddle with the box and bag inside. he wordlessly takes the bag from your hands, opens it, and pulls a stick out.

“what is this for?” he looks skeptically at the flavored treat, which makes you laugh slightly. 

“you take one portion of the stick in your mouth, your partner does the same. then you essentially get as close as you can without breaking the stick. the goal is to kiss, i think. but i also eat this by myself,” you reply after a moment’s hesitation. 

and without instruction, Mydei places part of the stick he took out into his mouth and gestures for you to do the same. so you do, you’re not an idiot to refuse him, especially if he’s offering! you both lean in and while the stick breaks pretty close to the middle, Mydei doesn’t pull away. he kisses you briefly before pulling away. he looks at you and smirks a bit.

“wanna try again, or are you going to quit? i thought the goal was to not break it.”

oh it’s SO on now. 

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Eyes up here, amor! - the short story - but not kinda short? - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Fluffy & bit Smutty - Small mentions of breast cancer - Read with care

Writer's note: this is a scheduled upload. I'm still on a bit of a writing break. It was fun writing this one. I hope you all like it.

La Masía, Barcelona, Age 18

Alexia Putellas had this thing she did when she was distracted.

It was subtle. Just a tiny pause. A fraction of a second where she stopped mid-sentence or mid-movement, as if someone had pressed the invisible 'pause' button on her brain. Her eyes would widen. Just a bit. Her mouth slightly open. And her thoughts would fumble like a player miscontrolling the ball.

You recognized it early on. Before even your first kiss. Before the late-night texts turned into sneaking kisses behind the stands after practice. Before she officially asked you out during a half-melted walk through Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter. The churro in her hand forgotten entirely because she was too nervous to eat it.

And you especially recognized that look today.

You were sprawled on the pitch after taking a tackle that was more clumsy than aggressive. One of the boys trying too hard to impress, probably. Your elbow smarted. Grass stuck to your knee. And your shirt had ridden up a little in the chaos. Alexia was already jogging over. The sun catching the glint of the tiny silver chain she always wore under her training top.

“Estás bien?” she asked, a little breathless.

You nodded, brushing dirt from your stomach. “Yeah. My pride’s more bruised than anything.”

And then it happened.

She stopped.

Just two steps away from you, and she froze. Her eyes flickered downward for a split second. Just enough to notice your sports bra had slid a little lower than usual. And that your chest was doing its usual gravity-defying thing you always joked about in front of the mirror.

She didn’t say anything. But her face said everything.

You tilted your head. “Alexia.”

Her eyes snapped up. “What?! I was checking if you were hurt!”

“Right. And my boobs are where the injury would be?”

“They could be!” she defended, raising her eyebrows like it was the most logical thing in the world. “Impact can happen anywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, and she immediately folded under the weight of your suspicious glare. “Okay, okay, maybe I just… noticed them. But I was still concerned!”

You snorted and accepted her outstretched hand as she helped you up. “Concerned in a very visually appreciative way.”

Alexia tried to play it cool, brushing imaginary lint off her shorts. “I mean, can you blame me? They’re nice.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, but you were laughing.

She pulled you close. Grinning. “What? I’m your girlfriend. Am I not allowed to admire the artwork?”

“You’re supposed to be training.”

“I am training,” she said, tugging your hand toward her chest. “Cardio. My heart races every time I look at you.”

“That’s cheesy as hell,” you whispered, leaning in.

“Worked though, didn’t it?” she whispered back. Her nose brushing yours.

It had.

You kissed her, there in the middle of the pitch. Just behind the coach’s blind spot. Quick. Warm. Familiar. When you pulled back, her gaze flickered downward again. Just for a beat.

“Alexia.”

“What?! I’m making sure you’re okay!” she said and then cracked into a helpless grin.

You hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her gaze up to yours. “Eyes up here, amor.”

She laughed and kissed you again. Grinning into it like she’d already forgotten the practice. The turf. The world around you. And honestly, so had you.

Alexia's Family Home, Mollet del Vallès, Age 19

July in Spain meant three things: sticky heat, the constant scent of sunscreen, and the hum of cicadas that never shut up.

The kind of summer where your skin always felt sun-warmed and a little salty. Drinking ice water felt like a spiritual experience. You and Alexia had just come back from an exhausting beach volleyball match. More play than competition, really, though she got very competitive when you teamed up against two smug boys who underestimated your left arm.

You’d crushed them, by the way.

Now, sprawled across your bed in the hazy late afternoon light, neither of you had moved in over an hour. The fan whirred lazily above you. Your legs were tangled somewhere in the middle. Both of you half-asleep. Half-melted.

You were wearing nothing but a sports bra and shorts. Too hot for anything else. Alexia had shed her tank top a while ago. In favor of just lying in her shorts. A light sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbones.

She was supposed to be reading a training manual next to you. Flipping through pages and pretending to care about tactical diagrams.

But the book sat untouched on the nightstand.

Instead, her head rested on your stomach. One arm draped lazily across your waist. fingers idly brushing the skin just under the band of your bra. She wasn’t even subtle about it. Every few minutes, she’d shift. Just slightly. To nuzzle a little higher. Just enough so her cheek grazed the lower swell of your chest.

You felt her do it again and exhaled. Amused.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmured. Running your fingers through her hair. Still damp from the shower.

She blinked, playing dumb. “Doing what?”

You dropped your voice into a mock-serious whisper. “Studying for your Boob-servation degree.”

Alexia let out a snort-laugh against your skin. “I’m telling you, I’m going to graduate summa cum laude.”

“I think you’ve already earned your PhD by now,” you said, rolling your eyes. Though your hand never stopped combing gently through her blonde strands. “You’ve been napping on them like pillows all week.”

“They are the best pillows,” she mumbled. Nose nudging your sternum now. “They’re soft. And warm. And mine.”

You looked down at her. Raising an eyebrow. “Yours, huh?”

“Completely,” she said with that smug little half-smile you’d come to love. Pplayful but also possessive in a way that made your chest flutter. “I’ve done the field work. Hands-on research. Peer-reviewed.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you laughed anyway. Because she wasn’t wrong. Not after last month.

You hadn't planned it, really. Your first time together. It just... happened. One quiet night. After a long talk. When emotions were high and the distance between you too small to ignore. Fingers had trembled at first.

Kisses had slowed down. Breath caught between nerves and want. But when it finally happened, it felt easy. Not perfect. Not like a movie. But right. Like all that trust and love had finally tipped over into something deeper.

Since then, she’d been softer with you somehow. More tactile. More comfortable claiming space against your skin.

And more brazen about her favorite body part.

“Not that I’m complaining,” you teased, “but there is a whole human attached to these. You know, with hopes, dreams, a personality…”

“I know,” she said. Tilting her head up to look at you with that golden brown gaze that still made your stomach flip. “And I love her too. All of her. Especially the part where she lets me fall asleep with my face in her boobs.”

You burst out laughing. “Wow. So that’s your love language?”

“Yup.” She adjusted slightly. Arm sliding around your ribcage. Hand splayed across your side. “Physical touch. Specifically... boob-based touch.”

You rolled onto your side. Gently pulling her with you, so she was nestled even closer. Legs tangling again as your noses brushed. Her eyes fluttered shut at the closeness. Her thumb tracing small shapes on your bare back.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered against her lips.

“And you’re beautiful,” she whispered back. All humor gone from her voice now. Replaced with something softer. More reverent.

You kissed her, slow and lazy and heat-slicked. A little salt from her skin still on your lips. When you pulled back, she buried her face in your chest again with a contented sigh. Both arms around your waist now, fully tucked into you like you were home.

“Best view in the world,” she mumbled. Already half-asleep.

You smiled. Heart full. Skin warm. And whispered into her hair:

“Eyes up here, amor.”

Your New Shared Apartment, Barcelona, Age 21

You’d never thought you could feel so completely at ease in one place.

Your new apartment. A cozy little nest tucked in a quiet street of Barcelona. Felt like everything that mattered wrapped up in four walls. You and Alexia had moved in together a few months ago, and the rhythm of living side by side, sharing stolen breakfasts and late-night playlists, was already becoming your favorite thing.

That night, after a long day of training and grocery runs, you found yourselves tangled on the couch. Half-watching a documentary neither of you really cared about. The windows were open, letting in the faint sounds of the city and the faint scent of jasmine from the balcony.

Alexia was tracing slow circles on your bare skin under your shirt. Her fingers gentle and sure.

“You know,” she said quietly. Eyes locked on your chest, “I could get lost here forever.”

You laughed softly. “You mean my boobs?”

Her gaze flicked up. A smile lighting her face. “Not just your boobs. But yes, your boobs.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was warmth behind the teasing. “They’re just boobs.”

She shook her head. Her touch never faltering. “They’re your boobs. And honestly, they’re incredible.”

Then... withot warning... she shifted closer. Hands moving beneath your shirt. Fingers finding familiar places. She was so gentle it almost didn’t feel like she was doing anything at all. But slowly, a rush of warmth spread through you. The kind that starts deep inside and radiates outward.

You bit your lip. Trying not to make noise. Trying not to let yourself get embarrassed. After all, this was Alexia... the confident captain. The fierce competitor. The woman who’d seen you at your most awkward and still loved every inch of you.

And yet, here you were. On the verge of something you hadn’t expected. Just from her touch on your chest.

When it happened... when your breath hitched and the wave finally crashed... you froze, cheeks burning.

You looked at her. Half-expecting some smug smirk or teasing grin.

But Alexia’s eyes were soft. Mesmerized, really. She wasn’t looking at you like a conqueror. She was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low and gentle.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah... I’m fine. Just... surprised.”

She smiled, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “I’m not surprised. I’m just... amazed. You’re incredible.”

Your embarrassment melted a little under her gaze. Replaced by something warmer. Something like pride and love mixed into one.

“You make me feel safe,” you whispered.

“And you make me feel lucky,” she said, leaning in to kiss you softly.

When you pulled back slightly, catching your breath, you caught her gaze drifting down again. Just for a heartbeat.

You nudged her gently and grinned, “Eyes up here, amor.”

She laughed softly, eyes meeting yours with nothing but love and a little bit of mischief.

“Always,” she promised.

Hospital, Barcelona, Age 24

Cancer wasn’t something you ever thought would touch your life.

Not at 24. Not when you were young, strong, and full of dreams. Playing with Alexia. Planning your future. Laughing over small, silly moments that made life sparkle.

But it did.

You remember the day the doctor told you the diagnosis. A lump found. Biopsies taken. Tests running. The words 'no surgery needed' felt like a fragile thread of hope, but the looming chemo was a storm you had to weather. Weeks of needles. Exhaustion. Nausea. And hair thinning into wispy shadows.

And through it all... Alexia never left your side.

You could barely lift your arms some days. Your body shrinking. Skin pale and stretched over bones that felt unfamiliar. Your breasts... once a source of so much playful attention, the subject of so many loving touches... were now tender and fragile.

But if you thought Alexia’s admiration would waver, you were wrong.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling round of chemo, you sat on the edge of the hospital bed. Drained and fragile. Alexia came in with that quiet smile she always wore when she was trying to be brave for you.

She sat beside you. Fingers threading through your thin hair. Gentle as ever.

“Still mesmerized,” she said softly. Voice almost a whisper.

You blinked. Confused. “By what?”

She looked up. Eyes steady and clear. “By you. All of you. This body, this spirit. You’re still the most incredible woman I know.”

Her hand moved to your chest. Not roughly, but with such tenderness that your breath caught. She traced the outlines of your ribs and collarbone. So softly it felt like a caress more than a touch.

“I love every inch,” she said, voice breaking just a little. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re small and scared. You’re still mine.”

You smiled, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Heart swelling with a love that felt bigger than any illness.

Alexia leaned down, resting her head lightly against your shoulder and murmured, “Eyes up here, amor.”

You laughed quietly through the tears.

“Always,” you whispered back.

Your Shared Apartment, Barcelona, Age 26

The apartment felt familiar, but brand new.

You’d been here a hundred times. Walked through that doorway with groceries. Training gear. Sunburns, Bruises. Laughter in your chest. But tonight, you walked in wearing a white dress and a gold band on your finger.

Your last name hadn’t changed. But something else had. Everything, in the best way.

Alexia was behind you. Barefoot now. Shoes long abandoned. Her bouquet tossed on the entry table. She was still glowing. Cheeks flushed. Hair undone at the edges from too much dancing. You turned to face her. Your wife now. And it still made your heart skip.

Her hands slipped to your waist, pulling you close. “You looked so beautiful today,” she murmured.

“You looked smug as hell when I cried during my vows,” you teased, resting your forehead against hers.

“I wasn’t smug,” she whispered. Eyes soft. “I was ruined.”

You kissed her then. Deep and sure. The way you only kiss someone who’s seen every version of you. Your strongest. Your sickest. Your silliest. Your most sacred.

Later... with your dress pooled around your ankles and her fingers brushing your skin like a prayer, you reached for her hand and guided it to your left side.

“Wait,” you said. Voice suddenly a little shaky. “I have something for you.”

She blinked. “Here?”

You nodded. Then turned, slowly, baring your left side. Just below your ribcage. Curving around the outer edge of your breast.

There, inked delicately into your skin, was a small but unmistakable mark.

Her initials. A.P. Written in the handwriting you’d memorized from years of notes, love letters, and post-its stuck to your coffee mug. Framed by the tiniest heart, barely more than a breath.

Her mouth opened. But no words came out.

“It’s yours,” you said softly. “This body. This life. All of it. Even the part you always stare at first.”

Alexia laughed then. One hand flying to her face. And you weren’t sure if she was laughing or crying. Maybe both.

She knelt in front of you like it was instinct.

One hand reached up. Cupping your side with a reverence that made your knees weak.

She pressed a kiss to the tattoo. Then another. Then one higher. And higher.

“Of course it’s mine,” she whispered against your skin. “You’ve been mine since we were eighteen and you made fun of me for staring.”

You felt tears prick your eyes. “You never stopped.”

“I never will,” she said, looking up at you like you were made of light.

And then... with a cheeky little smirk curling her lips... her eyes dipped just slightly again.

You raised an eyebrow. “Alexia.”

Her grin widened. “What?”

You narrowed your eyes in mock warning.

Then you said it. The line that had followed you both through years of love, loss, laughter, and everything in between.

“Eyes up here, amor.”

She laughed. You ppulled her up into your arms, and kissed your wife like the whole world had led to this one perfect night.

[rafeslvbug]

how did nba!rafe and singer!reader come public w their relationship??

singer!reader and nba!rafe publicising their relationship..

soft launches and hard launches didn’t exist.

there was no curating your relationship for the media, even when your publicists insisted you should.

no, rafe made it very clear that you would do what you wanted.

so you did. you went to rafe’s games, posting highlights on instagram like it was the most normal thing. you walked away with his arm around your shoulders, paparazzi taking pictures and ignoring every comment because you could.

rafe would come to your concerts. be filmed by fans, blushing with every song about him, cute shout outs and kisses you’d blow to him. caught wearing bracelets. caught walking off with you in your tour bodysuit outfit, infatuated and pressing kisses to your shoulder.

you’d talk about each other openly. in interviews. podcasts. online. commenting on each other’s posts. mentioning casual things you did on the weekend or conversations.

– “oh yeah, well, rafe always says he prefers the blue outfit so i wear that more often.”

– “me and my girl went out last night to this Italian restaurant i have to recommend to you, if you’re gonna take your wife anywhere.”

– “rafe tries to explain sports to me, all the time. i support every team he supports because i really don’t know any better, he doesn’t like us going into separate rooms to watch our own stuff so he gets into what i like, and i get into sports for him.”

– “i went to y/n’s recording session once and it’s mind blowing really the work that goes into it. fun too, she let me mess about with her guitar - and she loves that guitar.”

she’d subtly post him on her tiktok/insta, filming a quick video at night, resting on a muscled arm that’s so blatantly rafe’s, because everyone can see the small lines marking his tattoo. or maybe she’d do a quick video recap of her month, and he’d be featured in every few videos.

rafe would always have a picture of her in his photo dumps, maybe a photo of him carrying a purple bag filled with things that definitely don’t belong to him. late night photo of him in bed, you in the background, playing your music and writing songs, having had some midnight epiphany.

[novaimperia]

★ student council secretary!reader and her unconventional quid-pro-quo partnership with enforcer for hire!Toji

“if i’m gonna bust my ass teaching those frat guys a lesson, i’ll need a little more than some over-the-pants petting this time, doll.”

"well, y-you can't grope my breasts again; you're too aggressive and it hurts."

he grunts. "ya gotta shake off y'r habit of mistaking pleasure for pain. and in any case, those assholes give me a rash so, as nice as y'r tits are, it's still not gonna cut it."

you fidget with a loose thread on your skirt. truthfully, you didn’t want to go back to him – toji’s brash, crass, and intimidating. sitting on a contraption to work the quadriceps muscles of the leg, you assume, you’re left awkwardly standing to the side, in the gym, watching as his thighs flex and thicken with the strain.

they’re really impressive things, actually. 

“you eye fucking my thighs?” the scar on his lips stretch ever so slightly with the smirk stealing your attention. “if i had known the pretty secretary had a thing for thighs, we woulda been having much more fun.”

scoffing, you retort, perhaps a little more defensively than you would have liked, “i don’t. ugh, j-just think about it, okay? phi kappa psi has been lax with their charity quota and it’s embarrassing for everyone involved. so, just do what you usually do: make them see things our way.”

he huffs in dry amusement.. “i’ve made my point clear so let me know what ya decide, kiddo.”

‘kiddo’ is worse than ‘doll,’ but you don’t say anything. unsure, you don’t leave just yet. no amount of reminders, of chasing their president and begging the faculty to get involved has convinced the fraternity to make good on their quota. it’s proven to be a huge bother for the student council. 

and, though you’ve already gone above and beyond for your job – rubbing his length, impressive and hot as it is, over his gym shorts or jeans in the janitor's closet or locker room has always left you a stuttering, fumbling mess – there has to be some limits. right?

the worst part, you think, is that it was never to bring him to an orgasm; he just wanted some entertainment. you don't like calling people names but he can be a real jerk.

crazily unethical as it is, you needed to indulge him otherwise the dean would never write a good enough recommendation letter for the top masters program for your interest. if you failed or disappointed him, it’ll be a stain on your perfect record. that just can’t happen. and it won’t. at this point, you’ll do anything to make sure of that. 

“fine.” at the decisive sound of your voice, he stops stretching those powerful legs of his, grunting to show he's listening. “um, what do you have in mind?”

his obnoxious bark of laughter sends heat to your cheeks. people’s heads turn but when they realise it’s fushiguro, they turn away hastily. with grace unbefitting of a man of his stature, he climbs off the machine and stands to his full height before you. sweat makes his skin shine under the lights. a dizzying musk, masculine and oddly sweet, reaches your nose. you step back. 

running a large paw through his slicked hair and showing off the veins bulging in those monstrous biceps you try not to look at so much, he drawls, “well, my thighs do feel a little sore. be a doll and help a guy out, yeah?”

when he wraps a sweaty arm around you and pecks your head, you realise it's already too late to have regrets.

[sydwritess]

A Girl Named Lucy

Oscar piastri x fem!reader

Summary: Oscar has been trying to go on a date with you for a while now, but you decline again and again. One day, he finally asks why, not knowing the secret you keep behind doors.

Second Person POV

Warning: mentions young pregnancy

You were at the Monaco GP, walking around the paddock with your daughter, Lucy.

You were one of the sports biggest sponsors and promoters, so you went to almost every race you could. Also working a little behind the scenes.

You and Lucy had a quick little break after the race, so you decide to take her to explore the circuit.

"Ok mom look at that!" She says, looking to a drink.

"Babes, you're only 5. You can't have that." You say, slightly laughing.

She was jumping for joy all over the place, her ginger hair bouncing around, her little pink coat that she insisted on wearing, flapping around her waist as she walked.

"Do you have to go to work again?" She asked, her voice small.

"Yeah, I do. But you are going to sit in the garage with Uncle Lewis and spend time with him." You say, crouching down to her level.

"Okay." She sighed out. You smile and grab her hand lightly, taking her through the crowd of people.

Some were taking pictures, some were exploring, some were... everywhere. But it started to get crowded. And you felt that through Lucy's hand.

Squeezing tighter and tighter. You crouch down slightly, picking her up a balancing ber on your hip.

"You okay?" You ask, her head cuddling into your neck.

"I don't like the people." She says.

"I know, I'm sorry baby, but I had no one to watch you today." You tell her, rubbing her back.

You try to walk quicker, squeezing through the crowd, making your way to the Ferrari garage.

"Lewis." You call out, suddenly he comes running out in your direction.

"Hi y/n." He says giving you a hug.

"Hi." You smile, hugging him back.

"Hey lucy." He says, holding up his hand for a high-five, but she ignores it.

"You ready to have a fun day with Uncle Lewis?" You ask. She shakes her head, gripping on to you tighter.

"Baby I have to go. I'll be back soon." You say.

"No, I don't want you to leave." She says.

"I'll be right back, I promise." You say, managing to pry her off and put her back on the ground. She only finds your hand and holds it tight.

"Look, you and Uncle Lewis are going to have such a great time, baby. I promise."

"But I want to stay with you."

"I know." You crouch down. "I know. Tell you what, when we go home tonight, we can do whatever you want." You say.

"Like eat ice cream for dinner?"

"Well, of course! You can do that." You say, putting your hand on her side slightly, hugging her. She hugs back tightly.

She slowly lets go of you, and you stand up.

"Thanks for letting me watch her." Lewis says, taking her hand.

"You know it's no problem." You say, hugging him slightly.

"I promise I'll be back soon." You say, walking out of the garage and down to the McLaren garage.

"Y/n, your late." Zak said, crossing his arms and looking at you.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I got side tracked." You say, sitting in a chair across from him. Lando was by his side. Oscar was next to you.

"Doing what?"

"I just... lost track of time, talking with another team about something." You say.

"Right well, we need to review footage of this race, talk strategies, analyze the performance." He says. All of you nod and get out your laptops, sharing the link that he emailed you.

"You sure you don't want to go out with me?" Oscar whispers to you.

"I'm sure." You giggle.

You all start watching the same video. Zak began the video as you took out a notebook, getting ready to write a lot.

"See, there." Zak says, pausing the video.

"Turn 5, you should have braked there. Any other place you could have gone flying into the wall." Zak said, looking at Lando.

"Yeah, I know." Lando said quietly, crossing his arms.

Zak continued talking about the race, going over each little thing until we were done.

You got up and stood outside of the garage, having a few minutes alone before getting Lucy.

"Hey y/n." A voice said behind you, you look over your shoulder to see Oscar there.

"Hey." You say quietly. There was a moment of silence between you.

"Right, I'm just going to ask you." He says, pausing. "Why don't you want to go out with me? Like are- is it me?" He asks.

"No, no it's not you it's just." You breath out.

"I can't really... go on a date. Just, a lot going on now, I don't really have the time." You say slowly.

"It's okay. I understand that."

"I'd love to go on a date with you, you do see like a really nice guy. I just can't." You say.

"Wait- you don't have a boyfriend or anything right?" He asks.

"No, it's not that just... I don't know, I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. Figured I try at least." He joked.

"Ohh momm." A little voice says from afar.

You shut your eyes and shake your head lightly, freezing in the moment.

"There you are!" Lucy says. You turn around to see her run up to you, and Lewis running after her.

"Sorry y/n, she outran me" Lewis said, eventually catching up to us.

"It's okay." You say, crouching down to Lucy.

"Are you okay?" You ask. She nods.

"Uncle Lewis gave me ice cream and he let me pet his dog and he let me watch the cars on the computer!" She says excitedly.

"Well it sounds like you had fun." You say, she nods.

You look up to see Lewis give you 'are you good?' look. You nod and he slowly walks away.

"Can we leave?" She asks, clinging on to you.

"In a minute." You say. You pick her up again, slowly turning to Oscar, who had a surprised look on his face.

"Surprise." You say slowly.

"You have a kid?"

"Teen pregnancy."

"Is her dad still in the picture?"

"No, he left a while ago." You say.

"What her name?" He asks.

"Lucy."

"What a lovely name." He says.

"Lucy, say hi." You say, she shakes her head and cuddles deeper into your neck.

"Okay, sorry." You say.

"It's fine, honestly." He says, smiling. You both go silent again.

"Uhm- how about this, maybe tonight I could... come over and we could hang out, not a date if you don't want it to be." He suggests.

"Sure." You say.

"Perfect. What time?"

"Maybe around 6." You say.

"Alright, I'll see you at six then." He smiles. He walks back into the garage and you walk out of the paddock, through the crowds of people again.

"You ready?" You ask Lucy, who was buckled in her car seat. She nods her head and you start to drive back to your apartment.

"Is that guy coming over today?" Lucy asks quietly.

"Yeah, he's just coming over for a couple of hours." You say.

"Why?"

"Because that's what friends do, they hang out with each other."

"Can I still have ice cream for dinner?" She asks.

"Hm, how much did Uncle Lewis give you earlier?" You ask.

"Just one, with a cone."

"Okay, that's fine." You say, pulling up to the apartment building.

"With sprinkles?"

"Well of course! You can't have ice cream with out sprinkles." You say, getting out and unbuckling her.

We walk up to the building, walking through the lobby and to the elevator. You were on a pretty high floor so it took you a while to get there.

You walk down the hallway and stop at your door, unlocking it and walking inside.

"Why don't you color in the living room, I'll be back." You say, she nods and you walk back to your bedroom, changing into different clothes.

You were doing some chores around the house, cleaning up a bit for when Oscar came over. Lucy was coloring in the living room, and you were making her ice cream.

"Here you go baby." You say, handing her the bowl.

She quickly sets her drawing stuff aside and dig's into her 'dinner.'

You were back in the kitchen, cleaning up when you hear on a knock on the door. You walk over to it, opening it to see Oscar there.

"Hey, come on in." You say. He walks in, standing awkwardly to the side.

You walk into the living room, both sitting down on the couch.

"Hi." Lucy says, looking up at Oscar from the floor.

"Hey Lucy." He says politely.

"Are you in the cars to?" She asks.

"Uh- what?" He says, looking at me.

"Do you race." You elaborate.

"Ah- then yes I am." He says.

"Are you as fast as Uncle Lewis?"

"I like to think so." He said, she quickly went back to coloring and eating her ice cream.

"I had no idea you and Lewis were related." He said, looking over at you.

"We're not... he was there from the beginning. Helped out, always babysat when she needed to be. Things like that." You say, he nods.

"Can you hang this on the fridge?" Lucy asks, holding up a picture in your direction. You nod and look at it.

A picture of her in a Ferrari car, going around a track. You giggle at it, turning it around to show Oscar.

"She's going to be the next gen of F1." He says, smiling.

"You should let me drive your car." Lucy says, turning to Oscar.

"Oh really? Well I'm sure you could. You seem like you know what your doing, yeah?" He asks.

"I do! I watch them go in circles for hours and hours. And someone wins!" She said. She slowly crawled up on the couch, sitting between you and Oscar.

"That's right." He smiles.

"How do you use the bathroom?" She asks him. He laughed slightly.

"We don't, we have to hold it." He said, she gasped.

"How do you eat?"

"We do it before the race."

"How do you drink?"

"We have our bottle, and a tube like thing, and drink it while we drive."

"Do you drive the car fast on the road?" She asks, he looks at you confusingly for an answer.

"Do you drive that car, that fast on the main roads." You say.

"No, I don't. Unfortunately were not aloud to."

"That's mean." She said.

"Very mean." He agreed, smiling at her.

They talked for a while, mostly about racing and work. It had been a couple of hours since he was here.

"Thanks for coming over." You say, the both of you standing at the door.

"I had fun. It was nice to meet her. I do have to say, she loves racing." He says, smiling.

"She's always like that. Honestly I don't know where she get's it from. I think Lewis has been teaching her to much." You giggle.

"Hey, it's never to early to get a jump on things." He says. There was a moment of silence between the two of you.

"So... I met Lucy. Does that mean we can go on a date?" He asks, smirking.

"A date?"

"Yes, A date."

"Your not... nervous?"

"Why would I be?"

"Because I have a whole kid. I mean-"

"And she's lovely. You've raised her right." He said quietly.

"Look, how about this Saturday, at 6. I'll figure out the details. All you have to do is get Uncle Lewis to come babysit." He said.

"Deal." You smile. He pulls you into a hug.

"I'll see you tomorrow." He says, opening the door.

"See you tomorrow." You smile.

Hey loves! Hope you like this! Comment to be added to the tag list! Requests are open

[snippybaby]

A former friend of mine always had all these grand ideas about drag she would do, or things she would write, and in all the years I knew her she never actually took that first step towards doing something creative. She had all this creative potential - and I do think her ideas were great and she probably could make some cool stuff - but never realised it, and she admitted to me that was because she was scared of being bad at stuff. And I told her time and time again when she asked for advice on this like yeah, it will suck at first. You'll be bad at it. But the important thing is to have fun. That answer never changed but she always wanted some way of skipping that step.

I do think one of the reasons our friendship broke down is that she was always jealous of the fact that I actually do write and do other creative things. She was always a cheerleader for my work, but I knew she wished she could do that too. But she could have done if she'd have just been willing to fail.

Potentially hot take but one of the reasons we need art and music in schools is that, taught correctly, they are ideal avenues for teaching kids how to do something, kinda suck at it, keep going anyways and improve over time.

And THAT is one of the most valuable skill sets a human being can have. THAT is the skill set that unlocks soooooo many others.

A LOT of people I see with anxiety and depression do not have this skill set. To suck at something is a threat. Proof that they are doomed to suck at it forever. And then, often, that either THEY suck forever or the task must be stupid/useless/pointless (whence we get AI art fans who have decided actually making art is pointless and degrading the labor and skills of others is fine because these are useless skills).

Or you get the freeze- the inability to try things in case you fail. The sudden lancing shame and humiliation or hopelessness. The sense that anything you haven't learned by now you can't learn. Which is so heartbreaking and so untrue.

I just hate it.

"What if I write it and it's bad" "what if I draw it and it's bad" "what if I play it and it sounds bad" DOING IT BAD IS HOW YOU LEARN TO DO IT GOOD! You can't skip the process of leaning and the process is FUN if you let it be what it needs to be!

[dissociativewriter]

@saybeyonce for some reason tumblr hates me and won’t let me respond to your ask directly :( so we’re doing it this way!

first of all, let me say THANK YOU! you’re very very sweet, but unfortunately i’m not that popular 😅 but thank you for being such a sweetie!

second, this is such a cute idea!! i hope you like how this turned out <3

request event • not proofread

Sylus attracted kittens like he attracted enemies, it seemed.

Though unlike his enemies, any kittens that appeared at his doorstep were taken care of. If they had any injuries, he was quick to clean them up. If they were hungry, they were fed any suitable food he’d had on hand.

They just never stayed.

Sylus was alright with that, he supposed. After all, Onychinus wasn’t the most suitable place to raise a kitten. And with how often he was gone, would they even receive the proper care?

So, he was content to let the kittens leave his care. Content to have his only animal companion be his dear Mephisto, that intricate mechanical crow.

That was, until you came along.

Taking his world by storm, no corner in Onychinus’s base was spared from your influence. There were bits of you everywhere, Sylus found, not that he was upset. Every decision made was made with you at the back of his mind. You were constantly there, a consistent presence he didn’t want to miss. Hell, he didn’t even leave the base that often anymore, in case you decided to visit.

You’d ensnared him. Tangled him in a web of love and care and affection that he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to escape from. He’d do anything for you, drop the world at your feet, supply you with the means to bring its leaders to their knees.

Or, in this case, take in some kittens.

This wasn’t what he’d expected when you shyly came into his office a few hours earlier, ulterior motives hidden behind your disarming smile.

No, he hadn’t expected to spend his free time between missions with a kitten cradled on his forearm and another perched on his shoulder. But you looked so happy petting and playing with the kittens you’d brought home.

“They were in a box on the side of the road, Sylus!” you’d cried. “Who knows if someone was going to pick them up? I couldn’t just leave them there!”

Now here he was, entertaining six frightened yet highly energetic kittens. His sighed as he scrolled through pet sites, researching the best litter boxes, foods, and toys for cats as another kitten climbed his chest, making biscuits on his pecs.

Sylus couldn’t get you to stop laughing.

Your charity knew no bounds, it seemed, as you brought back another kitten the next day. “She was under your bike,” you explained. “What if she got run over? I couldn’t just leave her there!”

This repeated twice more, before Sylus finally told you that nine kittens might be too many.

“Nonsense!” you pouted.

“Kitten, we don’t even have names for these nine,” he sighed.

An hour and a half later, you returned to the base, box in hand.

Sylus raised an eyebrow. “What do you have there?”

“Collars for the kitties,” you answered. “With names on them!”

Taking the box from you, Sylus sifted through the tags. “Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania.” He looked back to you. “The Muses? I didn’t think you enjoyed Greek mythology.”

You shrugged. “Since they’re N109 kitties, it felt fitting. So many things here get their names from Greek mythology, so why not them?”

Sylus nodded, defeat and surrender detailing his sharp features. “Alright, I’ll order more supplies. Go round them up so we can get their collars on,” he muttered.

You grinned triumphantly.

Sylus truly had become prey to Linkon’s Kitty Goddess.

a/n: this was very very fluffy, i had a lot of fun writing it! i also had to get my greek mythology obsession knowledge in there lol. anyways i wrote this kinda fast so i hope you like! <3

comments and reblogs appreciated and asks open!

masterlist

[honeytonedhottie]

journal prompts.ೃ࿔*:･🍨🎀

journaling is one of my all time FAVORITE things to do. its so much fun especially since i LOVE to yap and just write to myself. my journal prompts are super unserious and super girly and just so perfectly me, so in this post im just gonna share some of my journal entry titles as prompts for inspo for the other girlies who love to journal…💬🎀

❤︎ ideas - if u dont write ur ideas down i guarantee you won't remember them so its important to jot things down. i write down all my ideas for my blog, business endeavors, even just things i wanna do.

❤︎ shopping lists - especially ones that i use more than once like my essentials shopping list or my seasonal shopping list.

❤︎ lipstick swatch pages - you can swatch some lip liner and do cute little kiss marks on the pages so u can remember what the shade of gloss looks like when ur on the go.

❤︎ tattoos i wanna get and why - i wrote that page like a year or two ago and as im looking back at it, it still rings true.

❤︎ smash or pass - i have a page of my celebrity crushes smash or pass, and then the people i actually know irl smash or passes. or i'll do kiss marry kill or something fun like that.

❤︎ general diary entries - like talking about my day, everything im grateful for etc etc.

❤︎ sweetest inbox letters - because you guys always write sweet stuff to me and i always copy it into my journal so i can look back on it.

❤︎ all about me page - what can i say, i like talking about myself.

❤︎ letters to future versions of myself - and then i dont open them until later dates. sometimes i'll do a video diary entry or something fun like that.

❤︎ notes to my younger self - this one’s kinda healing. write to the little you with love, and tell her how FABULOUS and gorgeous she turned out.

❤︎ dream outfits i wanna recreate - i screenshot pinterest looks or outfits i see in music videos + write down how i’d style them with stuff i already have or wanna thrift.

❤︎ boy toys - i LOVE how juicy this page is. im a super detailed writer and i come with RECEIPTS. i include names, dates, details, the whole nine yards.

❤︎ my designer wishlist - designer pieces that i want in my closet. im super intentional with my wardrobe so i want very specific things.

❤︎ my spicier techniques - idk how in depth i can go about this on my blog 💀 but i write all my techniques in here. use ur imagination.

❤︎ my emergency contacts - not actual phone numbers but more so things that instantly lift me up when im having like a mood swing. like the exact shade of lipgloss i wear when im sad or my comfort movie and comfort soup order from my favorite chinese food place.

❤︎ my perfume wardrobe - i have a matching perfume wardrobe in my beauty binder but i like to have it in my journal too because its just such a fun page.

❤︎ glow up plans - cuz i love looking my best and thinking about how i can get even hotter.

[backfliips]

As someone who admittedly has attention issues of my own, I think it's important to talk about how attention is a skill that can be learned and often requires conscious and focused effort to build. I think a lot of people despair over the current state of media --- short-form algorithm-driven content that is built to snare and lure and diminish people's attention spans for profit --- and while that despair is certainly built off of legitimate concerns, I want to stress that the damage being done is not irreversible.

Over the course of the COVID-19 lockdowns I fried my brain so intensely with tik toks and instagram reels that I was getting bored 2 seconds into a 5 second video and was finding myself scrolling so quickly that I wasn't even watching anymore. I was lethargic and unhappy and though my mood was definitely simultaneously impacted by the hovering doom of COVID-19 and living in complete isolation for months at a time (I don't recommend that, BTW), I found myself losing passion for the things I loved doing: drawing, reading, and writing. I felt miserable and useless and incredibly guilty for leaving my productive and fulfilling hobbies behind while I chased... not even happiness. Just something to occupy my brain and turn it into mush.

As time passed I realized that I wasn't even having fun on tik tok anymore. I'd see funny videos and get a rush of endorphins, and then the next second I would have completely forgotten what I just watched. I was refreshing social media pages to see numbers I didn't even care about. Everything was an endless loop of swapping between different apps, just time passing and passing and my attention span dipping lower and lower until I would go for days without feeling any sense of joy or accomplishment.

And this was most definitely aided by the fact that I was unemployed and stuck in a terrible worldwide epidemic, but as soon as I deleted the tik tok app and put harsh time limits on instagram (15 minutes a day, which I rationed compulsively) I suddenly wanted to draw again. I started reading books again. I started writing and spending time outside and getting inspiration from the world around me.

Now, years later, I work with teenagers whose lives are dictated by their phones. My coworkers often lament the state of the world today --- which, again, is a valid stance to have --- but in the few months after my workplace implemented a no phones policy, I watched disengaged students bounce back to productivity. Instead of scrolling during lectures they paid attention and asked questions and engaged their peers in conversation. During lunch they played board games and talked to each other. Students even told me about how they didn't even want to go on their phones when they got home from school!

It isn't perfect, and I'm not advocating for a world devoid of phones, but I just want to highlight that these neural pathways can be built and exercised. People's brains are resilient and fascinating and much stronger and more adaptable than many people are willing to give them credit for.

I've expanded my time limits across more apps on my phone, setting days where I can't even access social media at all from my phone, and in that short period of time I've found myself far more engaged with the world around me. I've been zipping my phone up in a bag instead of keeping it in my pocket, adding a step to access it, and I've found that that alone is keeping me from using it to a huge degree. I'll toss my phone across the room when I find myself on it when I don't have any reason to be scrolling. And it's helping!

My main message here is that it's never too late to focus on your focus. Change and improvement doesn't happen until you make an effort on your own.