#if seal: point of view shifts

[if-seal]

Hi if seal!!! (throws you a fish) I was wondering if you had any insight as to decisions regarding multiple POVs. I’ve seen some games integrate an RO/outsider POV as its own chapter/interlude, while for some it’s kept exclusively to side/bonus content. And of course, some don’t include it at all! What are the benefits/drawbacks of each approach? How do you decide what’s best for your story? Thanks!

Greetings, thank you very much indeed for the fish!

I confess this question gave me some pause for thought: I am not honestly sure how to know which perspective might suit what type of story! Perhaps a game which relies heavily on mystery might not suit them so well...?

My second confession is that I am not a seal who is particularly fond of in-game perspective shifts, but I am very aware that there are many who are fond of them, so I shall share what I've heard from them:

It can be a thrill to see directly what another character (usually romanceable) thinks about the PC, especially if the character is not very open about such things in the game

It can be interesting to see the PC's behaviour through another person's eyes, especially if the PC's narrative voice is particularly unreliable

It can be fun to have an insight into another character's perspective on events in the game, or into their background

It can give space to scenes in which the PC does not appear at all, therefore adding flexibility to a perspective which is often contained to the PC themselves

It can give breathing room between events devoted to the PC's perspective

It gives more for those who are excited about particular NPCs

I believe all of these advantages apply perfectly well to side stories or bonus material, if the author and players enjoy making and reading it - although I would caution spending too long on them if it causes distraction or drains your energy from your main project.

It is not wholly to my taste for them to be included in the game themselves for the following reasons:

If applicable, it can feel strange to suddenly control a character with whom your PC would usually interact

It can throw off a game's pacing and feel intrusive

It can put a dent in the immersion of a PC's perspective; unlike a book with many multiple perspectives, it is not usually an ensemble cast, and is more often majority-PC and occasional short NPC diversions, which takes away from time with the PC

If a formerly unknown emotion or action is illuminated in the perspective-shift, it can reduce the impact when it's discovered/encountered by the PC because the player already knows what's going on in the NPC's mind

More is not always better

With all of the above in mind, it's very much an individual author's choice! I do not believe it is necessary; I know many people are very excited to have more time with the characters they adore. Some authors include them in the game with options to skip them, which is likely a good compromise to account for those who love them and those who do not.

So it all depends what you want to spend your time on! If writing perspective shifts energises you, it is well worth doing. If it doesn't, that's your answer.

As ever I would love to hear other people's thoughts on this so please do share - do you like or dislike perspective changes, or have preferences about how they're handled if they occur in-game?

[stellewriites]

cry harder, lost lamb

cw: slasher horror, period sex, non con, vague gore

you clasped both of your hands over your mouth to try and silence the heavy panting, fingers digging into your cheeks; only letting one drop when you felt your friend, faith, grip onto your shirt. you linked your hands together over your hip, both sweaty and covered in blood and dirt, but it didn’t stop either of you from holding on tight.

you heard her whimper and darted your eyes to her in silent horror.

she had clenched hers closed so there was no way to tell her to stay as quiet as possible with your desperate wide-eyed look. you weren’t risking speaking to calm her or even giving a gentle shush.

he’d found the others for less. if you had to you’d cover her mouth like you were your own, shaking hands or not.

as you shifted where you crouched, you could feel the uncomfortable stick of blood between your thighs. of all the times to be on your period. you’d bled through your pad a while back and paranoia had you feeling like you were leaving a trail behind you for him to follow even though you knew it wasn’t true, not even if you were at your heaviest. it was more likely he’d just be able to sniff you out like a shark.

regardless of blood or noise being your downfall, you weren’t feeling so lucky that you’d be able to get away if he did find you; from the lack of screams in the forest, it had seemed that the attacker had already caught the rest of your friends so there’d be no distractions to give you a head start.

bile rose in the back of your throat as tears dripped down to the tight seal of the hand still clamped tight and harsh over your mouth. you couldn’t think about the others right now, the state you’d seen some of them in, the sounds you’d heard.

you let out a slow, shaky breath through your nose and squeezed faith’s hand. there had been no noises after she’d initially whimpered; not from her or the forest.

the silence had you uneasy. it felt like he was close.

crouched as you both were behind the large, old fallen tree trunk, you wouldn’t have the best start to run for it if needed. you swallowed and tried to listen for any footsteps but there was nothing.

you frowned. you should be hearing something at least; the cicadas, or the owls or foxes, not just nothing. your heart dropped to your stomach and you scoured the forest from your point of view with darting eyes. you tugged faith to get her attention and nodded your head forward, towards the light in the distance, when she looked at you.

we need to run, you tried to convey. she understood going by the renewed flood of tears and tired slump of her shoulders. she shook her head defeatedly and you tensed waiting for her to make a noise and reveal your spot to the predator you knew was lurking in the shadows.

you squeezed her hand and nodded back firmly. this wasn’t going to be a debate, you didn’t have time and this was your best shot for survival. removing your other hand from your mouth you tried to smile at her reassuringly and wipe away her tears as she clung to your hand with both of her own. after a moment she relented and with a loud sniffle that had you jerking to look over her shoulder you both clumsily pushed up from the rustling leaves and started to run on weak legs.

“come on, come on, keep going,” you whispered desperately, breathlessly, as you dragged her along with you. he’d have already spotted you, there was no point staying silent now and faith needed all the encouragement she could get. she’d twisted her ankle and although you’d done your best to wrap it, it had made her significantly slower. “the cabin is this way. the car— if we can get to the car...”

you looked back over your shoulder as you ran, paranoid and ignoring ever horror movie rule you could remember, and choked on a wet gasp when you saw him.

he’d lost the hammer he’d arrived with, smashed gina’s head in with; the axe he’d taken from the cabin you and your friends were staying at and used to hack jason to pieces; the bear trap you’d watched him drag scott away with; but that didn’t make his presence any less frightening.

faith heaved loudly, sobbing hard, as you tried to pull her along faster, faster.

but her ankle gave way and her hand slipped from yours as you automatically kept running.

“no, wait, wait! please, no, please,” she cried and begged as you slowed and turned back to her. he was barely twenty paces from her now, if you went back you’d both be—

and the cabin was just there, you could see it, you could see the lights and the car parked next to the back shed. the keys were in your back pocket.

you turned away from her and sprinted.

“w-wait, please! don’t leave me, stop, you fucking bitch, don’t leave me, please!”

you skidded to a stop at the shed and opened the door, pulling out the first garden tool you could get a hold of - a shovel - and looked back at the sound of her scream getting cut off.

the light was dim with how far they were from the cabin’s porch light, the trees were not too tightly packed however that you saw how he knelt over her, strangling her as she kicked and clawed at him uselessly.

it would be a slow enough death that you could still get to the car without him catching you and try to drive on the shredded tire, even with the delay, but instead you ran back towards your friend.

you heard her gasping gurgles as you got closer and let out a guttural cry as you swung the shovel at the man. the monster.

his hands let go of faith and caught the metal edge with a wince and a huffed groan before it could hit his head. you heard faith suck in a gasping breath before choking on the sudden airflow and build up of saliva in her mouth.

he stood, still holding the end as you struggled to pull it back, and you saw where the edge had cut into his palms from the blow you almost landed. human after all, you almost laughed deliriously at the realisation. it only encouraged you to keep fighting back.

you tried again to pull it from him and he snarled, holding tight as you yanked and yanked until he finally let it go just as you put the last of your strength into it. the momentum caused it to reel back and you smacked yourself in the face with the handle. you stumbled to the ground with a cry, the shovel dropped and forgotten as you tried to catch yourself on the cold ground. your cheek throbbed, already beginning to swell, and a sharp ache echoed in your teeth where the handle had landed.

faith hadn’t stopped crying once she had her breath back, stuck laid prone between his feet, but when she started whimpering pleas you tearily looked up to see him lifting the shovel back up and spinning it so he had hold of the wooden end instead of the flat, metal spade. he raised his arms over his head, the shovel parallel with his body, and slammed it down, cutting off faith’s begging with a sick, slick crunch. you barely had time to look away before her blood spattered your temple and cheek.

you shuddered, your breath coming in short and thin.

“f-faith, faith,” you mumbled. you could see her, what he’d done to her, in your peripheral and it had you frozen. “oh god.”

he stepped over her, into the puddle of blood spreading ever closer to you, and crouched in front of you so you couldn’t see her.

“that was brave,” he said surprisingly softly, looking at you with inquisitive eyes. he gently tilted your face closer to his own and he smiled when you shut your eyes tight, your lips pressed closed thinly to hold back your scared sounds. “you’re more interesting than i’d thought. not so cowardly after all, eh?”

you didn’t answer as his palm drifted over to your plump cheek. it left for a moment but you didn’t dare move; his palm had been warm and the brief interlude before coming back left your skin cold in his wake. his fingertips were wet as he traced them along your cheek, dragging in the crude shape of a heart.

you opened your eyes as his hand pulled back again and saw his fingers covered in blood. faith’s blood.

your shoulders heaved with a gag and a sob while your stomach clenched as it tried to upheave your lunch for the nth time that evening.

he laughed as he watched you hunch over your knees dry heaving and stood to his full, looming height.

“i’m going to give you a chance, little lamb,” he offered plainly. “get running, let’s see if i catch you.”

you could tell by his grin this wasn’t going to be fair by any means, that this ‘chance’ was really just an extra layer of sociopathic fun for him. the hunt isn’t fun if your rabbit just lays down to die, the chase brings excitement.

you were tempted to say no, but you were well aware he could still manage to drag this out, painfully so if he wished; you could still hear faith’s chokes echoing. shakily you got to your feet and waited for him to indicate you could go, tempted almost to ask how much of a head-start he’d give or to try and dive for the shovel again.

“good girl. off you pop,” he said dismissively, and waved his hand as if shooing you away.

you scowled back, pissed that you were not only about to be murdered, but that it’d be done by a condescending prick, just to rub salt into the wound.

his smile widened and you knew your disgust was written clear as day across your face. you didn’t dawdle any further though, and instead turned on your heel to run towards the car not twenty five feet away.

you didn’t look back as you tried to pick up the pace, unsure on how long he’d give you your head-start, though maybe you should have if only to brace for the impact as he slammed into your from behind. he dragged you to the floor and pressed you flat even as you struggled wildly.

“get off me! get off!” you screamed, blubbering.

he grabbed your head and slammed it once into the ground, dizzying you and making your movements sluggish. your nose ached furiously and fresh tears sprang to your eyes.

he leant up and shuffled so he was knelt just behind your arse, keeping your legs pinned tightly together. you thought you could see lena in the distance from where you were laid, where he’d impaled her next to the fire pit.

you wanted to turn your head away but you didn’t have the strength and he kept one hand pressed between your shoulder blades while the other rested at your waistband.

“you on the rag, love? bled through a tad,” he snickered as he caught sight of the stain leaking through your jeans. you felt embarrassment wash over you and hated him all the more for it. why couldn’t he make it quick like he had with the others? or had he spoken to and taunted them the same? “let’s get a better look, shall we?”

he tugged at your jeans, letting go of your back to use both hands to pull at the sides until the button and zip gave way at the front beneath his ministrations.

realisation as to the intention of his actions came over you slowly, your imminent death clouding your thoughts until suddenly your arse was bare and his fingertips were running between your bloody lips.

“stop, what are you—?” you reared up to try and shake him off, but he pushed you face first back into the dirt. at least now you were facing away from lena.

“i just want to know if this pussy is more of a crybaby than you are,” he sneered into your ear before pushing two fingers inside. the blood helped slick his way, but you yelped regardless, feet kicking uselessly behind him. he set a rough rhythm and pulled more surprised cries from your throat.

“please,” you begged wetly, snot running from your nose and causing dirt to cling to your face alongside the tears. “just stop—“

“bleats like a lamb too,” he laughed. “the gift that keeps on giving, aren’t ya?”

he pulled his hand free and shifted your shirt up to your shoulders. using his slick fingers he drew on your back, another bloody heart. he snorted at the sight of it.

“you and i are about to have some real fun, love,” he promised. at the sound of a belt unbuckling you clenched your eyes shut.

[lumiambrose]

✰ the winning hand

kinktober 24 - day twelve

featuring: aventurine x f!reader

summary: you were taken by surprise when the aventurine of the ten stonehearts requests a private match from you. although, a gamble with him requires high stakes, and even higher rewards.

tags: smut, gambling, praise, degredation (if you reaaally squint), p in v, cunnilingus, use of sex toys, public sex, petnames (sweet girl, pretty, doll), not proofread (i drank too much last night mb fam)

wc: 2.2k

“so the winner of this next round takes all?” you clarify, unsure if the man in front of you has gone insane.

“spot on, pretty. if you win, i’ll be your loyal servant for the rest of the night. although if i win… you’ll be mine.” yeah. he’s lost it.

you’re currently in a private sector for the eclipse’s executives. it’s slightly elevated from the rest of the floor, almost like a private balcony with a gorgeous view of the grand casino. how you ended up here? you don’t even know. you were sipping on a sweet cocktail when aventurine, one of the ten stonehearts, requested a game from you. his assistant didn’t give you time to react as he led you away from the central casino and toward a far more private, lavish, hall.

ever the gentleman he is, aventurine picked you up there and stole you away to the balcony you now find yourself at. seeing as it was too late to decline, you figured you should get the most out of this experience as he explained the rules to you.

a standard game of poker shouldn’t be too hard, right? is what you tell yourself, despite struggling immensely against the man in front of you. you’ve only won… twice? out of the many rounds you’ve played and you’re getting worried, you can’t keep losing like this. almost on cue, aventurine suggests one final round to decide the winner, which is how you’ve ended up in your current predicament.

you eye the cards in your hand, desperately trying to keep your expression neutral. aventurine lounges across from you, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, his other hand casually toying with his chips. he’s confident. too confident.

“ready, pretty?” he’s teasing you at this point. the dealer, not making a sound, reshuffles the cards before sliding them your way. you glance at your hand and immediately regret your decision, but you don’t lose hope just yet.

the dealer reveals the first three cards on the table: jack of diamonds, queen of clubs, seven of spades. your stomach drops. aventurine smirks. it’s over.

with a hand like this, you shouldn’t even bet, but you go all in anyway, hoping the bluff works. of course, it doesn’t. he meets your bet, then raises.

the final card flips. king of hearts.

aventurine reveals his hand—ace and ten.

a straight.

you blink, stunned. aventurine leans forward, that damn smirk widening, “looks like you’re mine now.”

this was it, your fate had been sealed. only god knows what this man has planned for you. you let out a long sigh, accepting your defeat before locking eyes with him, waiting for his orders.

with a quick snap of his fingers, the dealer leaves the room, disappearing through the door without a word. “stand up,” you oblige, adjusting your short dress and hair as you rise from your chair, facing him. he does a one-over on your body, taking in every inch and curve, staring like a starved man.

the room suddenly feels much smaller as you’re left in aventurine’s company. he’s still lounging on the sofa before you, but this time, a more terrifying aura radiates from him. 

his next command is simple. with a predatory smile and commanding tone, he orders, “your panties, take them off.”

for a second, you thought you didn’t hear him right. you hesitate for a moment, but the look in his eyes leaves no room for argument. slowly, you reach through your skirt, your hands trembling slightly as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and push them down.

he holds out his hands, glancing at the panties before his gaze shifts back to you. you hand them to him as a blush creeps up your cheeks. his hand grazes yours as he takes them from you, stuffing them into his pocket with a victorious smile playing on his lips.

“oh, one more thing,” he reaches over to a small box resting on the table, opening it and taking out a small vibrator. “you’re a smart girl so i’m sure you understand what i’m getting at. if you manage a few games without cumming, i might even reward you,” he coos. “you like the sound of that, doll?”

even if you wanted to refuse, you know you couldn’t. begrudgingly, you put the vibrator in your, now naked, pussy, letting out a soft sigh as it enters you. as much as you should be disgusted right now, you’re filled with nothing but adrenaline facing the man in front of you. the fear that you once had now slowly turning into excitement.

he sets up the next round of poker, shuffling a new deck of cards and sliding some your way. “no need to bet with chips anymore, if you manage to win as much as one game, i’ll make sure you’re cumming on me tonight.” his voice suddenly shifts into a darker tone “although, if you fail… we’ll keep up this little game of ours until you're begging on your knees for me.”

the hums of the vibrator fill the room as he turns it on from the small remote in his hand. any fear you should’ve felt from his threat going straight to your core, letting out a small moan at the danger.

the next few hours we’re nothing but agonising pain. you played his cruel game, as he abused the power he had over you, making you crumble for him. you were close? too damn bad, he turned the vibrator off, leaving you whimpering in agony. you tried bluffing? he saw right through it and set the vibrator to pulse inside of you, only switching it back to normal once you confessed your lie. sometimes you’d even be so distracted by the sweet pleasure between your thighs that your hand would accidentally slip, giving aventurine a complete view of your cards. but lady luck was on your side today as somehow, somehow, you beat him. maybe he let you and you didn’t notice as you were too distracted by the vibrating pleasure or perhaps you just got lucky. either way, you celebrated your victory, excited for what came ahead.

“congratulations, sweetheart,” he leaves the sofa for the first time tonight, slowly approaching you. “i’m a man of my word,” he kneels in front of you, pushing your legs apart. “i won’t stop until you’re cumming all over my tongue.”

without any further warning, he removes the vibrator, leaving you empty, only to replace it with his tongue.

he eats you out like it’s his last day alive. sucking, biting and slurping on your pussy. “so good,” he muffles, “you taste so fucking good.”

he continues to lap your folds, stuffing your cunt with his tongue and sometimes nibbling on your clit. he’s so shameless too, not attempting to hide any noises he makes while drinking you up. the longer he eats you out, the more dissolved his words get. filthy encouragements and teasing praises slowly turning into incoherent babbles, growling against your cunt. each vibration going straight toward your impending orgasm.

“you close, pretty? can feel you shaking around my tongue,” he says with one last lick on your folds before you come undone all over his face. your orgasm hits you like a wave, your juices crashing down on aventurine’s mouth.

he pulls back, slowly rising from his knees. “fuck– you taste divine,” he licks any excess juices from his face, “could eat this pretty pussy every day.” he grabs your hand, pulling you up from your chair and bringing you to the sofa he was once lounging on, “but that wouldn’t be any fun now, would it?” he bends you over with your back to the casino table, giving you a perfect view of the central casino.

“try not to attract too much attention, sweet girl.” with that, he hikes up your tiny dress and enters you in one slow, painful thrust. you moan at the sensation, definitely attracting a few curious eyes from below, but you’re in to deep to care anymore. he lets out a sigh of relief as he bottoms out, feeling your tight cunt already squeezing him.

“hah– so tight f’me,” he started to rock into you at a slow pace, taking his sweet time destroying you. as much as he desperately wanted to give into his primal urges, rutting into like there’s no tomorrow, he wanted to keep his promise. he wanted you to completely come apart on his dick, turning you into his little fucked-out doll. his one hand rest on your hip, keeping him steady as he moves inside you while the other snakes its way down to your clit, teasing your overstimulated bud.

the pleasure is overwhelming, leading you closer to your orgasm by the second, moaning out praises for the blonde behind you. “aah~ so good– i’m so close!” you can barely get the words out, but once you do, he can’t hold back anymore. “gonna make a mess on my dick, pretty?” he speeds up, thrusting at a faster pace, fingers working harder too.

“you close, doll?” he vibrates against your ear, “that’s my good girl… go on, cum on my dick, make a mess for me.” 

that was all it took to push you over the edge, you clenched him tightly as your second orgasm hit you. moaning out his name as you gripped the balcony railing, letting yourself come undone for him. it didn’t take him long until he was also reaching his high, swiftly pulling out and releasing his cum all over your ass and back, staining your dress.

after he releases his grasp on you, you collapse on the sofa, breathless and still sensitive from the little game you both played. he takes his place next to you, moving your legs to rest on his lap. “looks like your dress is stained,” he traces a line down your leg. “give me your number. i’ll arrange a replacement.”

after exchanging numbers, you clean yourself up as much as possible before heading to the exit.

“oh, and sweetheart,” he calls out to you before you can leave. “call me when you want your rematch.”

taglist: @ryescapades @iamjellyfish @143-ilyuu @maruflix @pixelcafe-network

©lumis kinktober 24' ─ do not translate, repost, copy any of my works

[noorpersona]

Husbandry: Tsukishima

Tsukishima Kei had always been a man of quiet focus. He wasn’t one for unnecessary emotions on the court, and even in a high-stakes match, his expression rarely changed from that of mild indifference. It drove some of his teammates crazy, especially during moments like this—tied score, final set, the pressure mounting like a heavy storm cloud over the court.

The crowd roared around them, the energy in the gym palpable, but Kei remained as impassive as ever as he stepped up to serve. The ball rested in his hand, his fingers flexing over the synthetic leather, calculating the perfect trajectory. He took a breath, tuned out the noise—

And then he heard you.

“LET’S GO, KEI! YOU GOT THIS, BABY!”

Your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, loud and unwavering, filled with pure, unfiltered enthusiasm. It was the kind of cheer that had heads turning—not just in the stands, but on the court as well. The sideline players of the Sendai Frogs exchanged looks, one of them letting out an amused snort.

On the bench, the sideline players of the Sendai Frogs nudged each other, exchanging grins.

"Man, they're such opposites," one of them chuckled.

"Seriously," another added, shaking his head. "I bet he just tunes it out entirely."

Kei, however, did not react. Not outwardly, at least. He merely exhaled, tossing the ball into the air, bringing his arm back, and striking it with precision. The ball sailed over the net, untouched, an ace. A perfect point.

You erupted from your seat. “WOOHOO! THAT’S MY HUSBAND!”

Your cheers drowned out the announcer’s call, your hands clapping wildly as you beamed at the court. The energy was infectious, even drawing a smirk from one of Kei’s teammates.

“He really doesn’t deserve someone as fun as her,” a player on the bench teased.

Kei, who hadn't actually heard the comment, still felt like he was being talked about. His gaze shifted toward the teammate in question, sharp and unreadable. The player stiffened slightly under the weight of the look, laughing nervously. "Uh—never mind."

Though his expression remained neutral as they reset for the next point, you didn’t miss the slight twitch at the corner of his lips—a flicker of something, almost imperceptible, but you knew better. You knew he heard you. And you knew, despite his attitude, he didn’t mind.

The match pressed on, the tension thick in the air. Every point was fought for, the score inching closer and closer to victory. You kept cheering, never once faltering, your voice the constant, unwavering backdrop to Kei’s unshakable calm. Each time he stepped up to block or assist, you felt your heart race, willing him to succeed. Even when he wasn’t actively playing, your eyes remained glued to him, catching the subtle movements—his sharp gaze, the way his fingers curled into his palms, the way he subtly adjusted his position to anticipate the next play.

One of the opposing players served a near-perfect ball, fast and aggressive, but Kei anticipated it. His block was perfectly timed, and the ball slammed to the floor on the other side of the net. The referee signaled the point, and the crowd went wild.

“YES! THAT’S MY MAN!” you shrieked, standing up so fast that the people next to you startled.

“Hey, sit down, you’re blocking the view!” someone called playfully, but you barely heard them. Your entire world was on the court, watching Kei as he straightened, not even celebrating the way his teammates were.

And then, the final point.

A perfectly executed play sealed the win, and before you could process it, the Sendai Frogs were celebrating. The crowd erupted in cheers, but none were as loud as yours.

“YES! WOOOO!”

The players exchanged congratulations, the team huddling together in exhausted relief. Kei, as always, stayed a step behind the others, rolling his shoulders as he walked toward the sidelines. But his eyes flickered to the stands, just once, just enough for you to catch it before he looked away.

Your grin stretched even wider. He didn’t need to say it. That glance alone told you everything.

Tsukishima Kei was not a man of grand gestures or loud emotions. But you were, and that was okay.

Because when the dust settled, when the match was won, and the crowd began to disperse, Kei walked straight toward you. And in that split second before he passed by, his fingers brushed against yours—a silent acknowledgment, a fleeting moment of appreciation just for you.

You didn’t need anything more than that.

But you still made sure to yell one last time as he walked past, just to see his ears go a little red.

“I LOVE YOU, KEI!”

His teammates howled with laughter as he groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“…I regret everything.”

And yet, as he walked toward the locker rooms, his fingers lingered just slightly against the edge of yours, as if to say he didn't regret it at all.

[thollandsgirl2013]

𝐀 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨'𝐬 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐰

Parings → Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings → angst, fluff, bickering

Summary → Peter Parker and Y/N, classmates with clashing views on Spider-Man, constantly bicker until they unexpectedly start dating. When Y/N discovers Peter’s secret, their relationship is tested, leading to love, trust, and acceptance.

You sat at your usual lunch table, picking at the corner of your sandwich. MJ was engrossed in her sketchbook, adding tiny details to a scene that only made sense to her. Ned was, as usual, scrolling through some Reddit thread about Star Wars theories. And then there was Peter, sitting directly across from you, stealing glances at you between bites of his apple.

Peter Parker. Your classmate. MJ’s friend. By default, your friend. Except you weren’t sure “friend” was the right word when all you ever did was argue.

It all started a month ago.

You had been lamenting over the state of your mom’s flower shop—crushed display racks, smashed windows, and shattered pots after a Spider-Man fight. You weren’t exactly his biggest fan before, but that incident sealed the deal. Since then, any mention of Spider-Man sent you into a tirade, and Peter, for reasons unknown to you, always felt the need to defend him.

“Y’know, I don’t get why you hate him so much,” Peter started, leaning forward on the table. “He’s literally out there saving the city.”

“Oh, please,” you snapped, glaring at him. “Saving the city? More like destroying it in the process.”

MJ smirked but didn’t look up from her sketchbook. She always found these debates amusing.

“He’s trying his best!” Peter argued, raising his hands defensively. “It’s not like he plans to wreck things. Do you know how hard it is to fight a supervillain while keeping everything intact? ”

“I don’t care how hard it is, Peter. He’s supposed to be a superhero. If he’s going to throw someone into a building, maybe pick one that’s already abandoned!”

“Buildings aren’t labeled ‘abandoned,’ Y/N!” Peter shot back, his voice rising slightly.

“And who asked you to be Spider-Man’s PR guy?” You retorted, crossing your arms.

“Someone has to defend him against unreasonable critics!” Peter huffed, his cheeks flushing.

Ned let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go again.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Peter continued, pointing a finger at you. “You’re ignoring all the good he does. What about the times he’s saved people? The bank robberies he’s stopped? The kids he’s rescued from burning buildings?”

“Yeah, and what about the innocent people he’s hurt in the process?” You fired back. “My mom’s flower shop was destroyed, Peter. Destroyed! And all he did was yell, ‘Sorry!’ like that would magically pay for everything.”

Peter winced at that, and for a brief moment, you thought you’d won. But then he leaned forward, his brown eyes narrowing.

“Well, maybe if you knew the first thing about being a hero, you’d understand that sometimes sacrifices have to be made!”

“Sacrifices? Oh, so now my mom’s livelihood is a sacrifice?”

MJ finally looked up, raising an eyebrow at the two of you. “You guys do know you sound like an old married couple, right?”

“WHAT?” You and Peter shouted in unison, your faces burning.

Ned chuckled. “I mean, she’s not wrong. The bickering, the tension… it’s classic rom-com material.”

“There’s no tension!” Peter exclaimed, his voice cracking slightly.

“Yeah, because there’s no romance!” You added, glaring at him.

MJ smirked knowingly and returned to her sketchbook. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

---

Later that day, as you packed up your books after class, Peter approached you, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hey,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What now? You want another Spider-Man defense speech?” You asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your tone.

“No, uh… not that,” he said quickly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

That caught you off guard. “Sorry? For what?”

“For yelling at you earlier,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to downplay what happened to your mom’s shop. That sucks, and you have every right to be mad.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Oh… um, thanks, I guess?”

Peter smiled awkwardly, and for a moment, you saw a side of him you hadn’t noticed before—genuine, kind, and a little shy.

“Anyway,” he said, stepping back, “I just thought you should know that… Spider-Man would probably feel awful about what happened. If he knew, I mean.”

You frowned, puzzled by his choice of words. “Yeah, well… too little, too late.”

Peter nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he walked away.

As you watched him leave, a strange thought crossed your mind. Why did he care so much about what you thought of Spider-Man?

And why did his apology make your chest feel weirdly warm?

---

Over the next few weeks, your heated arguments with Peter began to mellow out. Sure, you still disagreed on Spider-Man—he’d throw in a sly comment about his heroics, and you’d roll your eyes and retort with something snarky—but the intensity had dulled. MJ even joked that you two were “maturing,” though Ned claimed it was just because you were running out of insults.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, you found yourself… enjoying Peter’s company. He was annoyingly persistent, yes, but he was also witty, kind, and, admittedly, kind of cute when he got flustered.

You weren’t sure when the dynamic shifted, but it became clear one sunny afternoon in the cafeteria.

---

“You’re telling me Spider-Man doesn’t do anything for the city?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip of his chocolate milk.

“I’m saying he does some things,” you admitted, stabbing your fork into your pasta. “But he could learn to be a little more considerate. Not everything is about showing off with a backflip mid-fight.”

Peter nearly choked on his drink. “A backflip mid-fight? Are you serious right now?”

“It’s true!” You insisted, laughing despite yourself. “What, does he think the villains will be so impressed they’ll just surrender?”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, but then he stopped, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you shot back, grinning.

Across the table, MJ and Ned exchanged knowing glances.

“Okay,” Ned interrupted, leaning forward. “This is officially weird. When did you two stop hating each other?”

“We never hated each other,” Peter said quickly, his ears turning red.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Yeah, Peter’s more like… a really annoying little brother.”

Peter scoffed. “Little brother? I’m literally older than you.”

“By, what, four months?”

“Still counts,” he retorted, but his smile softened the blow.

---

A few days later, as you packed your books into your bag after chemistry class, Peter lingered by the door.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Hey, Peter,” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “What’s up?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you’d come to recognize. “So, um… I was wondering if you wanted to, uh, grab coffee or something. W-With me. Like… like a date?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “A date?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, his cheeks flushing. “I mean, I know we argue a lot, but I also think you’re really smart and funny and—”

“Peter,” you interrupted, smiling. “I’d love to.”

He blinked. “Wait… really?”

“Yes, really,” you said, laughing. “But if we’re going on a date, you better not spend the whole time defending Spider-Man.”

Peter grinned, his confidence returning. “Deal. As long as you don’t spend the whole time calling him a diva.”

“No promises on that,” you teased, brushing past him as you walked toward the door. “Pick me up at seven?”

“Seven,” he repeated, nodding like an eager puppy.

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Peter Parker wasn’t so bad after all.

---

Peter had been the perfect boyfriend for the past six months—sweet, caring, and thoughtful in every way. He always seemed to know how to make you smile, whether it was sneaking your favorite snacks into your bag or staying up late on FaceTime to help you with homework.

Today, you wanted to return the favor. With his favorite brownies in hand, you headed to his apartment, excited to surprise him

When Aunt May opened the door, her warm smile immediately made you feel welcome. “Y/N! What a surprise,” she said, stepping aside to let you come in.

“I brought brownies for him.” You said with a smile.

“Oh, he'll love those. Peter’s in his room,” she said, drying her hands on a dish towel. “He’ll love that you came.”

“Thanks, Aunt May,” you said, your excitement bubbling as you made your way down the hallway to his bedroom.

Without knocking, you pushed it open. “Hey, Peter—”

The words caught in your throat.

Peter stood in the middle of his room, his back to you. He was peeling a red and blue suit halfway down his body, revealing a torso covered in bruises and cuts. The mask lay discarded on the bed.

Spider-Man.

Peter's Spider-Man.

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. You froze in place, your mind racing.

Peter turned at the sound of your voice, his eyes going wide with panic. “Y/N!”

Before you could react, he darted forward, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside. He shut the door behind you and leaned against it, as if trying to block out the world.

“Baby, hey,” he said quickly, his hands gently cupping your face. “Look at me. Y/N, please. Just breathe, okay?”

Your chest tightened. Words wouldn’t come. It all made sense now—why he defended Spider-Man so passionately, why he limped sometimes, why he was late or distracted on dates.

“Y-You’re… Spider-Man?” You finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Peter winced, his hands falling to his sides. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart sank. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

“No, I—I wasn’t lying,” Peter stammered, his voice laced with desperation. “I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought… I thought you’d hate me.”

“Hate you?” You repeated, your voice rising. “Peter, why would I hate you?”

He hesitated, his brown eyes searching yours. “Because… you hate Spider-Man.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. “That’s why you didn’t tell me? Because you thought I’d hate you?”

Peter nodded, his shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want to lose you, Y/N. You’ve always been so… so vocal about how much you don’t like Spider-Man. I thought if you knew, you’d look at me differently. That you’d leave.”

You stared at him, your emotions spiraling—anger, betrayal, confusion, worry. “Peter, I hated Spider-Man because of what happened to my mom’s shop. But you—you’re not just Spider-Man. You’re Peter. How could you think I’d leave you?”

“Because I’ve seen the way you talk about him—about me,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “I thought… if you knew, it would change everything.”

You took a shaky breath, your chest tight with conflicting emotions. “Peter, you lied to me. You hid a huge part of your life from me. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“I know,” he said, his voice thick with guilt. “I know I messed up. I should’ve told you. But I was scared, Y/N. Scared that I’d lose you, and I couldn’t handle that.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the fear in his eyes, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t know how to feel right now,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m mad at you, Peter. But I’m also… worried. You’re out there risking your life every day, and I didn’t even know. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Peter stepped closer, his hands hovering near yours. “I get it. I do. And if you need time to figure things out, I’ll give you all the time in the world. Just… please don’t walk away. Please.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at him—the boy you loved, the hero you’d misunderstood. “I need to think,” you said quietly.

Peter nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “Okay,” he whispered.

You turned and left the room, your heart heavy with the weight of everything you’d just learned.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, one thought echoed in your mind: You loved Peter Parker, but could you love Spider-Man, too?

---

The walk home was a blur. Your mind replayed the scene in Peter’s room over and over—his bruised body, the half-on Spider-Man suit, the raw fear in his eyes as he begged you not to hate him. You couldn’t decide what hurt more: that he’d kept such a massive secret from you or that he genuinely believed you’d leave him for it.

The next few days were agonizing. Peter gave you space, just as he promised, but it didn’t stop the text notifications from lighting up your phone.

Peter: I’m sorry.

Peter: Please let me explain everything. I owe you that.

Peter: I miss you.

Peter: I love you.

Each message was harder to read than the last. You missed him, too. But every time you thought about reaching out, doubt crept in. Could you handle being with someone who risked his life every day? Could you handle knowing the person you loved might not come home one night?

By the third day, MJ cornered you at lunch.

“Alright, spill,” she said, sliding into the seat next to you.

You blinked at her, feigning innocence. “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Y/N,” she said, crossing her arms. “Peter’s been moping around like a kicked puppy, and you’ve been weirdly quiet. What happened?”

You hesitated, unsure if Peter had told MJ the truth about being Spider-Man. But the knowing look in her eyes answered your unspoken question.

“You know, don’t you?” You asked softly.

MJ slowy nodded. “I’ve known for a while. He’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Yeah, except from me.”

MJ sighed, resting a hand on your arm. “Look, I get why you’re upset. But Peter’s not a bad guy. He didn’t tell you because he was scared. He’s always scared when it comes to you.”

“Scared of what?” You asked, your voice cracking.

“Of losing you,” MJ said simply. “He thinks you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, Y/N. And he’s terrified that being Spider-Man will ruin that.”

Your chest tightened. You’d spent so much time feeling hurt and betrayed that you hadn’t stopped to think about how much Peter must have struggled with his decision.

---

That evening, you found yourself standing outside Peter’s apartment. You didn’t even remember deciding to come—it was like your feet had a mind of their own.

Aunt May opened the door, her expression lighting up when she saw you. “Y/N! Oh, thank goodness. Peter’s been mopping around since the day you left. It feels like a gloomy cloud in here.”

You managed a small smile. “Is he home?”

She nodded, stepping aside. “He’s in his room. Go on.”

Your heart pounded as you stopped in front of his door. This time, you knocked.

“Come in,” Peter called, his voice muffled.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. Peter was sitting at his desk, his back to you, but he froze when he saw you in the reflection of his computer screen.

“Y/N,” he breathed, turning to face you. His eyes were tired, his hair messier than usual, and there was a bruise on his cheek that hadn’t been there before.

“Hey,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Peter stood, his hands fidgeting nervously. “I—I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I needed time,” you admitted. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged in relief, but his eyes were still filled with uncertainty. “Are you… okay?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I’m still upset. You kept something huge from me, Peter. I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“You do know me,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “Spider-Man is just… something I do. But Peter Parker? The guy who loves brownies and terrible science jokes and can’t go a day without thinking about you? That’s me. That’s who I am.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I’m scared, Peter. Every time you put on that suit, you’re risking your life. How am I supposed to be okay with that?”

Peter reached for your hands, his touch gentle but firm. “I can’t promise I’ll always be safe. But I can promise I’ll do everything I can to come back to you. You’re the reason I fight so hard, Y/N. You make me want to be better.”

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t perfect, but he was Peter—the boy you fell in love with.

“I’m still mad,” you said, your voice wavering.

Peter gave you a small, tentative smile. “I can live with that. As long as you’re still here.”

You let out a shaky laugh, finally letting a tear slip down your cheek. “You’re lucky I love you, Parker.”

Relief flooded his face as he pulled you into a hug, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. “I love you, too. So much.”

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar warmth of his embrace grounding you. For better or worse, you were in this together.

And for now, that was enough.

‎∗ ࣪ ˖༺ 𓆩☆𓆪 ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

[konigbabe]

PERISH

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x gn!reader Word count: 1.6k Tags/warnings: no y/n; manga spoilers (post Shibuya timeline); canon-compliant; angst; death; emotional breakdown; hurt/no comfort; loss; grief Summary: For the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks. Happy start of JJKS2 writing week.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

November 2018 8 minutes until Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

"Don’t worry, I’ll make it on time. I’m right behind the corner."

"We can wait," Yuji’s voice carries through the car, the static of the Bluetooth speaker occasionally cracking.

It feels like years have passed since you last saw him. Sealed away in the prison realm, Gojo’s state remains a mystery. There’s no telling how being locked in a place where time and space don’t exist can affect even the strongest minds.

That’s what worries you. What if he’ll break? What if he goes crazy on all of you? What if he explodes; wipes you all out with his technique? An endless sea of ‘what if’ swirls inside your mind as you take another turn, the mountains on your left with an ocean view on your right.

"Don’t," you reassure the youngster, "don’t wait any longer."

"You should be here, though," Megumi jumps into the conversation, "You’re closest to that idiot. He’ll want to see you."

His words draw a smile on your lips. It’s finally happening. The sleepless nights are coming to an end with the arrival of your lover.

"Then I’ll just opt for a dramatic entrance while you keep him busy," you respond before tightening your hands on the wheel. A familiar feeling washes over you; sudden knowledge of a new presence. Heart picking up, your eyes search the road for the source while the car’s speed slowly drops.

32 seconds; that’s how long it takes you to locate the source. A curse spirit manifestation stands in the middle of the road, blocking you. Its small hunched build stands a mere meter above the ground; four arms decorated by translucent fins hanging by its body, the prehnite skin glistening in the last rays of today’s sun, giving off a wet, moist appearance.

"Boys," you announce, stopping Yuji’s and Megumi’s bickering while still keeping up the cheerful, light voice in an attempt to not raise suspicions about your current predicament, "don’t wait any longer. Unseal Satoru and stop worrying ‘bout me. It’ll be fine."

Bringing the car to a slow halt, Yuji’s tone shifts into a more attentive one as your name seeps through the speaker before you hang up after one more reassurance.

As you step out of the vehicle, the curse's malevolence engulfs the air, almost tangible in its intensity. It clings to the atmosphere like a poisonous fog, penetrating your senses with a pungent sulfuric odor that threatens to overwhelm you.

Your hand slips inside your jacket to retrieve a carefully preserved seal, reserved for such precarious situations; just like this one.

"I’m sorry," with every footfall, the curse seems to shrink in size, yet its malicious nature grows stronger, the smell of sulfur almost suffocating, "but I’m in a hurry right now and you," pointing the parchment paper towards the spirit, "are in my way."

Swift and precise, your movements carry an aura of practiced precision. With little effort, you firmly press the seal upon the spirit's head, causing it to stumble momentarily before dissipating into thin air, vanquished by the power contained within the sigil.

Yet, the energy lingers.

Stronger than before. Stronger than a second ago. Its absent defense, non-existent attempt to fight or flee…it all makes sense now —

A powerful grip; a strong hand adorned with talons as keen as the finest blades dig into your shoulder as an inhuman force pushes you to the side.

As you're thrust aside, your vision catches a subtle glimmer of chrysolite, a hue that seeps into your perception; its scales are sturdy, each edge honed to a dangerous sharpness. Driven by instinct and the will to protect yourself, you reach out, your hand making contact with the curse spirit’s scaly hide.

The jagged edges of its scales cut into the delicate flesh of your fingers, leaving trails of crimson in their wake.

— it was a decoy.

Your body collides with the unforgiving side of the mountain, back meeting the rough and unyielding surface. A symphony of pain resonates within your bones, their structural integrity compromised as multiple cracks reverberate through your form.

Gasping for breath, your body instinctively seeks solace, but find none amidst the terrain. The curse doesn’t wait either. Swiftly moving forward, it lunges at you. Unforgiving. With a clear intent to strike. To kill.

During Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

There is no pain. The moment the curse’s hand breaches the barrier of your chest, you expect it. Expect some kind of visceral reaction. But there’s none — a gentle pinch, akin to a fleeting touch when the sharp claws first pierce through the protective layers of your breastplate. A slight discomfort upon the feeling of having a foreign object that’s found its place within the confines of your ribs. The barrier of your rib cage offers minimal resistance, yielding to the relentless advance that seeks to reach the very core of your being. The heart.

It all feels confusing.

"Kenjaku sends his regards," it whispers, the words slurred by the razor-sharp fangs that protrude from its mouth.

October 31, 2018 — 8:09 PM

"What’s the worst that can happen?"

Satoru saunters around the corner of the table, his presence punctuated by the audible slurping of juice from a small cartoon container. All while your palms rest on top of the said furniture, fingernails tapping at the surface.

The news has spread fast through the jujutsu community, faster than wildfire. Whispers of an unknown curtain cast around Shibuya an hour ago, trapping all non-sorcerers, innocent civilians, inside its insidious grasp with only one demand: Bring Satoru Gojo.

"Don’t say it like that, Satoru," you turn to face the man whose casual and dismissive demeanor only adds fuel to the worries setting inside your bones.

"They’re a bunch of curses," his hand finds its place on your hip bone while placing the empty container away, "Some special grades, yeah, but they’re weak compared to me. I’ll deal with them, save some people in the meantime, and bam," he snaps his fingers loudly, "We can go home. Get that sunset date you’ve been babbling about. Life is good," he finishes with a kiss on the crown of your head.

Life is good.

You watch the sun dip below the horizon behind the curse spirit’s back, indulging the sinister being in a halo glow.

Yeah. In the end, life was good.

2 hours and 48 minutes after Satoru Gojo’s unsealing

For a moment, he stands still. Unable to look down; frozen in time. The weight of it all seems to bear down upon his shoulders – now that Sukuna’s taken over Megumi’s body, Nanami’s and Yaga’s death, Suguru’s body being used as a vessel, the slow crumbling fall of the Jujutsu world – and now you; being gone.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer of the current time. Yet even his immense power proves futile as the people he loves keep dying on him…because of him.

A burden that threatens to crush him beneath its insurmountable gravity.

The air around him hangs heavy with sorrow, as if the very essence of grief has manifested itself in the atmosphere. A storm of emotions swirls within him; a combination of disbelief, anguish and a gnawing ache that gnashes at the core of his being.

He clenches his fists, fingers trembling with a mixture of sorrow and determination. In that agonizing moment, he finds the strength to finally lower his gaze, to confront the devastating truth that lies at his feet.

Everyone holds their breaths, the weight of his misery echoing in the silence as his eyes meet the lifeless visage of the one he holds dearest.

Of you.

Hand reaching out, his fingers graze the once-soft flesh of your hand; now cold and stiff. It serves as a confirmation of reality. There’s no getting you back, no way Shoko can nurture you back to health with her technique.

You’re gone.

And in that harrowing instant, the façade crumbles. The walls he built to contain his pain come crashing down, and Satoru Gojo, the epitome of strength, breaks.

Crumbling down on his knees, the vulnerability that spills forth from his broken form is raw and unrestrained. Only a handful of those closest to him stand behind to witness the symphony of torment that pierces the silence. Tears stream down his face, each drop carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words, moments you two could’ve spent together.

One hand covering his mouth to silence the guttural sounds, the other reaches out to you, tenderly cradling your lifeless head upon his lap. He clings to the fragile hope that if he could provide just enough warmth and love, you might return to him.

Yuji looks around the room, at the people who silently observe their friend fall apart. Taking a step towards the hunched man, a soft grasp stops him mid step; Kiyotaka shakes his head, pushing his glasses back in place as Shoko looks down. For the first time, she’s unable to figure out her classmate, her childhood friend, the man whose side she’s always stayed by.

"Gojo," Yuji doesn’t allow Kiyotaka to stop him. Believing in what’s right, he stands behind his teacher’s back.

Hand laying on the tense muscle of his shoulder, he doesn’t attempt to comfort Satoru with any words — no words in this universe would bring you back anyway. Instead, his hand just rests there. Unmoving. Gentle.

"Who did it," his words cause Shoko to look back up as Satoru, stone-faced and stoic, speaks in a firm, devoid voice. Imagines of unspeakable horror flashes in his mind as he stands up, towering over the wide-eyed Yuji.

"Tell me now," his eyes search Kiyotaka’s, voice filled with undeniable authority, "I’ll kill them, kill them all."

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 8/?)

Violence is a vicious cycle, one you learned long before Silco entered your life. The difference now is that he doesn't shy away from it; he embraces it, urging you to accept the brutality that once repugnant. It's your choice to accept or no.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 8,4K

Warnings: blood and violence, graphic violence, slight hints of reader's past, deaths, description of deaths, attempted murder, threats, use of drugs as medicine (shimmer), kidnapping, canon-typical Silco violence, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

This chapter was written in a non-linear manner, pay attention to the times specified at the beginning of each change of point of view to understand the sequence of actions.

Part 7

03:57 AM

It was easy to get used to.

You no longer had to prepare yourself to smile and please people whose faces would become nothing more than blurs by the end of each shift at the brothel. You no longer had to pretend to be charmed, to act as though it was all part of some glorious destiny, or that you genuinely cared. That forced smile, that nauseating submission, the feigned devotion to bodies and egos you could barely tolerate—all of it was behind you. No more idolizing them as if they were gods and you were a mere offering. With Silco, things were... different. Strangely simple, despite everything. And indeed, it had been far too easy to get used to.

Life at The Last Drop had its own kind of illusion. You walked the hallways with the apparent freedom of someone who seemed to belong there. No one stopped you; no one looked at you with disdain. You were recognized—or at least tolerated—and that gave the illusion of control. But it was just that: an illusion. Deep down, you knew. You felt the watchful eyes of the guards in every corner, aware of their constant vigilance. Pretending not to notice their scrutiny was almost a game. Just like pretending you enjoyed sleeping in, when in reality you spent your nights wide awake, staring at the ceiling or tossing and turning in bed while your mind relentlessly tormented you with things you preferred to forget.

The problem was that The Last Drop seemed to know how to unlock doors in your mind that you had fought so hard to seal shut. Every corner of that place carried an echo — not of physical memories, but of something deeper, more visceral. When you closed your eyes, the dreams came like an attack — memories of the past that you wanted to bury but now insisted on resurfacing, sharper and more vivid than ever. Mostly happy memories. But for some reason, those were the ones that hurt the most.

You were never good at dealing with grief. It had always been easier to bury it, to pretend it didn't hurt, that it didn't matter. But now, it seemed impossible. It was as if every moment in The Last Drop chipped away at that protective barrier, letting the pain seep out bit by bit.

Paradoxically, Silco helped. Not in a gentle or compassionate way, of course. His presence pushed the thoughts and memories away, replacing them with a suffocating anger and a frustrating attraction that consumed you. He was a constant storm, and being near him felt like clinging to a branch while the current threatened to pull you under. And in a way, it helped. The intensity of his presence clouded your mind, wiping away what you didn't want to feel. It was almost a relief.

But at the same time, you hated it. Hated how easy it was to deal with him, hated that he made everything simpler. You wished he were more difficult, more unbearable. Maybe then you'd have the courage to pull the trigger now.

His body lay asleep on the couch in front of you. Silco looked uncomfortably at ease, as if exhaustion had finally overpowered his eternal vigilance. You had laid him down after he'd passed out sitting up, his good eye closed in an almost peaceful expression, while the scarred one remained open, blank, as if still keeping watch — a detail that made him even more unsettling. Despite that, you were entirely certain he was deeply unconscious.

You'd made sure he was drained. Part of you took pride in that. Even though he wasn't exactly young, Silco had handled your energy well — perhaps even better than you'd expected. But that was irrelevant now.

In your hand, the weight of his revolver anchored an impossible choice. The gun was unlocked, the barrel pointed directly at Silco's head. Your finger hovered over the trigger, trembling, hesitant. It hadn't been hard to find the revolver. He kept it in one of the desk drawers, the same drawer where, curiously, you'd found something else. A piece of fine lace — your panties, which he had taken for himself during your last visit to the brothel a month ago. The memory stirred a mix of discomfort and nostalgia, but at this moment, it felt utterly insignificant.

You'd been standing there for at least fifteen minutes, motionless, lost in this internal battle. When you entered the office, this wasn't part of the plan. You hadn't come to kill him. You'd orchestrated this encounter because you needed to examine something you'd found earlier but hadn't had the time to analyze properly. You needed to act without worrying about Sevika's relentless shadow, whose routine you had memorized over the past few days. The middle of the night was perfect, with only the night guards on patrol, their steps and intervals quickly committed to your memory. All you needed was to keep Silco out of the way for a few hours. And you had succeeded.

But then you found the revolver. And now you were here.

He looked so human while he slept. His breathing was heavy but steady. The constant tension in his shoulders had vanished, leaving him almost... serene. So different from the man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders when awake. Even his scars looked less severe in the flickering light of the desk lamp. It was strange to see Silco like this, almost vulnerable.

But as you watched him longer, you realized that not even sleep brought him peace. Every so often, he would furrow his brow, murmuring something incoherent. Perhaps a nightmare, perhaps a memory haunting him. It made him seem even more... human. And you hated feeling that.

Silco was a monster. A trafficker who had turned Zaun into a suffocating chaos of despair and violence because of Shimmer. A manipulator who didn't hesitate to sacrifice lives to achieve his goals. A man who had very likely kidnapped a child — the child you had sworn to find. A cruel, heartless, soulless killer.

You hated him.

And yet, you couldn't pull the trigger.

Why?

You could blame that small part of yourself that had attached to him too quickly. Too strongly, like a silent plague that crept in before you realized it. The part that held onto the moments between you two as if they were precious relics, no matter how torturous they were. You had to admit, Silco had gotten under your skin, and that terrified you. It wasn't just the sex, though it was impossible to ignore how good it was — intense, almost transcendent, as if you both were trying to devour each other in an effort to feel something beyond just flesh. But it was more than that. Something you didn't want to name.

It was the little things. The subtle ways he showed affection, even in his twisted, fragmented way. Like how he always held you after sex, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin as if trying to memorize every inch of you. Or how he always seemed to want to touch you, even outside the heat of passion. Those touches were different, softer, almost reverent, as if he was making sure you were really there. And that damned look of his... A look that seemed to see right through you, beyond your armor, into the darkest corners of your soul. A look that said he saw what you were — and worse, accepted it.

Maybe that was what killed you. That unbearable acceptance.

Or maybe it was his obsession — twisted, dangerous — that somehow resembled affection. Not the kind you'd dream of, but something as chaotic and destructive as he was. Like cannibalism as a metaphor for love, a consuming that was both intimate and fatal.

And now, here you were, with a loaded gun aimed at the man you both desired and hated. Perhaps hatred was just another form of desire, a corrupted and impure version but inescapable all the same. You hated him, above all, for making you feel anything. For breaking through that hard shell you'd built around yourself.

And that was why he had to die.

Because deep down, you knew. Everyone you began to feel something for ended up dead in the end. It was a curse, a cycle you didn't know how to break. Silco would just be another name on that list; you convinced yourself of that. If there was even the slightest chance — no matter how remote — that this feeling, this damnable feeling, could grow, could become something worse, something stronger, you needed to cut it off at the root.

He had messed with your head in a way no one else ever had. More than your time at the Institute. More than the losses. More than anything.

You sighed, the sound echoing in the room like a muffled scream. Your hands trembled, but you moved with precision to open the cylinder of the revolver. Carefully, you removed all the bullets, leaving only one in the chamber. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was the only way to make this decision without overthinking it. Russian roulette. That was it. Fate would decide. It would be easier this way. Easier than facing the truth — that you wanted just as much to pull the trigger as to drop the gun and fall into his arms.

You closed your eyes, letting your finger rest on the trigger. One breath, two. But before you could do anything, the metallic sound of something hitting the floor interrupted your concentration.

You quickly aimed the revolver toward the sound, your senses on high alert. Something had fallen near Silco's desk, breaking the silence that filled the room. Your eyes scanned the beams in the ceiling, searching for any movement or suspicious presence, but you found nothing. Just in case, you glanced at Silco. He was still lying on the sofa, his body unmoving except for a slight shift, seemingly caused by the noise. His breathing remained steady. He hadn't woken up.

You began reloading the revolver, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though caution lingered. Your gaze returned to the floor, to the object that had disrupted the quiet. With calculated steps, you approached. The tension in your chest dissipated the moment you saw what it was: a small, cylindrical metal object with a design etched on the surface. A blue rat?

You picked it up, studying the lines of the drawing. It seemed childlike, crafted with care but lacking the precision of an adult's hand. Your eyes darted between the object and Silco's ashtray on the desk. The doodles were similar, as if made by the same hand. Involuntarily, you glanced again at the ceiling beams. Why did you feel like this hadn't been there before?

Either way, it hit you like a bullet — like a cold shower snapping you out of the chaos of your own thoughts. Reason returned like a violent tide, pulling you away from the impulsive and absurd decision you had almost made. What you were about to do to Silco... it was unthinkable now, seen under the stark light of lucidity. The weight of regret already pressed on your chest, even though the act hadn't been carried out.

You clutched the metal object against your chest, not caring if it could be dangerous. In truth, it seemed almost irrelevant. The simple cold touch of that piece of metal was what brought your good sense back. You stared at the thing, still confused about how that mechanical rat — which looked very much like an invention or a toy — had ended up in Silco's office. You didn't know its origin, but at that moment, you silently thanked its presence.

You holstered the revolver and walked to Silco's desk, your breaths heavy, your hands still sweaty. Carefully, you began sifting through the papers. The reason that had started this entire plan tonight was somewhere here.

And you found it.

It was a drawing. Simple, made by small hands and scribbled in bright colors with uneven lines. It depicted what seemed to be Silco — the scar on his face and the orange eye made that clear. Beside him stood a little girl with two blue braids. The caricature was clumsy but unmistakable. Your fingers gripped the paper tighter than you intended as you looked at the drawing and compared it with the metal cylinder. There was no doubt. The same style, the same child.

Jinx.

Or perhaps little Powder, if you were foolish enough to cling to false hopes.

You held both the cylinder and the drawing tightly, as if they were relics you couldn't let slip away. With quick, almost anxious steps, you headed for the door. Your thoughts spiraled, blending with the rapid thud of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Suddenly, that office had become suffocating, and you needed to get out as quickly as possible. You needed to go somewhere safe, to calm down, to distance yourself from all of this.

From The Last Drop.

From your turbulent mind.

From your conflicting feelings.

From Silco.

Even if you were already taking something of his with you.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:05 PM

Heavy breathing, trembling and bloodied hands, the raw pain of repeated impact throbbing in his knuckles. The metallic smell of blood mingled with the scent of aged wood and sweat. The body before him was still alive — at least in strictly biological terms — but the soul of that man seemed to have been beaten out of him. He lay on the ground, each muffled groan only feeding the tension inside Silco.

Silco closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control the wave of rage threatening to overflow once more. He took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs in short, labored gulps, as if the simple act of breathing was a monumental effort. He needed to regain composure. He needed to think. But the words of that miserable fool — that idiot who thought he could open his mouth and try to explain his failure — echoed in his mind, each syllable a cruel reminder of a failure Silco was unwilling to acknowledge.

She escaped.

The idea was so absurd he almost laughed. How? How could that even be possible? He had taken care of every detail. Not just the practical ones, but the emotional ones, too. He had been... generous, more than he normally would be with anyone. He ensured her needs were met, her requests heard. He even allowed her to keep a semblance of autonomy — a dangerous concession, but one he deemed necessary. All to ensure she would stay. That she would accept her new reality without resistance.

So, why?

Why had she escaped? Why had she abandoned him now?

The word lingered in the air: abandoned.

He hated the implication. It wasn't abandonment. It couldn't be. That would imply something he wasn't willing to accept about his own feelings. Something he refused to admit, even to himself. Silco stopped. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, fresh blood staining the cuff of his shirt. He felt an internal storm, a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't control: anger, frustration... and a pang of something he hated to acknowledge. Fear.

She was important. More than he was willing to articulate, even in his most private thoughts. And the idea of losing her after finally getting his hands on her was inconceivable.

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. No. This wasn't the time to get lost in such musings. He had a problem to solve. And he would solve it, as he always did.

With a swift motion, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands, the movements almost automatic but lacking the care needed to remove all the grime. The stain of violence lingered, in the small cuts and scratches that formed trails of dried blood. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back with a nervous touch.

"I can't believe she managed to escape because of a damn blind spot during the guard shift." Silco growled, his voice deep and low but laden with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavier. He wasn't yelling, but the anger in his words was as clear as the blood still staining his knuckles. "A single window..." he straightened, turning fully to Sevika, his eyes cutting into her like sharp blades. "How did you let this happen?"

Sevika, with her usual steel posture, swallowed hard before responding. "I gave orders for all the windows to be checked after the bar closed." her voice was firm, but there was tension beneath it. She knew it wouldn't be enough.

Silco took a step forward, the lamplight highlighting the harsh lines of his face, his expression a mask of frustration and disdain. "Then it seems your orders were being ignored." he retorted, each word dripping with contempt. "An unarmed woman, under constant surveillance, in my territory, managed to disappear without anyone noticing... How the hell does someone like her simply vanish before anyone realized it was too late?"

"The guards—"

"The guards failed!" Silco cut her off with a tone that felt like a whip. His voice wasn't loud, but every word was delivered with cruel precision. "Idiots." he muttered to himself, venom dripping from his tongue. "All of you, incompetent. You let her slip away right under your noses. I'm surrounded by amateurs."

Sevika stood firm, but the clenching of her jaw was evident. She was frustrated, maybe even furious with herself, but she knew that at that moment, any explanation would only anger him further.

"Silco, no one expected her to—"

"That's irrelevant!" he roared, cutting her off again, his voice cold as ice. "She's out. Which means she could be anywhere. Anyone could find her before we do. And if you think that's acceptable, you're all more foolish than I imagined."

He took another step forward, stopping just inches away from Sevika. His eyes, one blazing with fiery orange, pierced into hers with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. Silco could resemble a demon now. "Find her." he ordered, his voice now low but laden with absolute authority. "I want everyone looking for her. Every corner, every alley, every damn hole in this city. No matter the cost. No matter the effort. I want her back."

Sevika nodded firmly, though there was a glimmer in her eyes betraying her own frustration. "Yes, sir." she responded, her voice controlled, though tense.

The title of "sir" tasted so bitter now.

Silco didn't look away. "And get rid of that damn dead weight on my floor." he added, indicating with a slight tilt of his head the still-unconscious, bloodied body lying in the middle of the room. He then watched as the door closed with a dull thud after Sevika left, dragging the unconscious guard.

He remained motionless for a few moments, his fingers drumming softly on the surface of the desk as his mind raced, drawing scenarios, all of them undesirable. He knew she was clever — cunning, even. But the audacity to defy him? That was something he hadn't anticipated.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to dispel the rage boiling beneath his skin. The gesture was almost useless. The headache throbbed at his temples, a persistent buzzing filled his ears, and the beating he'd delivered to the guard hadn't done much to relieve the growing pressure in his chest. Silco disliked losing control, hated succumbing to emotion, but this day was testing his limits.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Not now, when everything was already slipping through his fingers. Slowly, he moved to the worn leather chair behind his desk. He sat down with a weight that seemed to drag the entire room down with him. His eyes fixed briefly on the darkness beyond the window, but he quickly averted them, reaching for the injector in his drawer.

His fingers moved automatically, preparing the dose of Shimmer he needed. He didn't think about the gesture — it was something he did almost unconsciously, like a reflex conditioned by years of habit. Then, he stopped, tilting his head slightly upward.

"How long have you been there?" to an external observer, it might have seemed that Silco was talking to himself, but he knew he wasn't.

A childish voice responded, hesitant and thin, with a trace of apprehension. "Since you started beating the crap out of that guy."

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping in a gesture of exhaustion. It wasn't just the anger or frustration that hit him now; it was the awareness that someone else had been watching. Someone who shouldn't have witnessed that.

"You weren't supposed to see that."

Before he could say anything else, he heard the sound of something falling directly onto the desk. A few papers slid to the floor, along with some random object. He turned in his chair and found Jinx there, curled up on herself.

She was sitting in her usual position — hugging her knees, her face partially hidden between them. Her eyes, which usually sparkled with a touch of mischief or curiosity, were distant, lost in some point within the office. In that posture, with her hunched shoulders and chin tucked in, she seemed even smaller than she really was. A reflection of the fragility she rarely let show.

"I see Sevika beating people up all the time..." her voice was low but carried a faint, false attempt at disdain. "So, whatever."

Silco sighed again, this time more controlled, almost resigned. He knew the world he was shaping around Jinx didn't allow for the absence of violence. She would have to learn to live with it, to see it, and eventually to execute it with precision and detachment. Still, there was something different when he was the one committing such acts in front of her. He felt there was a specific image he needed to preserve for Jinx — and a man acting like a mindless, violent animal wasn't part of that vision.

He moved the injector toward her, watching as Jinx hesitated briefly before taking the device. Her small fingers held the object carefully, and she stepped closer to the edge of the desk. Silco leaned back in his chair, tilting his chin upward to let her position it. He felt her hands on his face, still somewhat uncertain as she tried to find the right angle.

There was a slight tremor in her fingers.

"Keep your hands steady." he said, in a tone that even surprised himself. It was soft, almost paternal, as if the irritation he'd felt moments earlier had been washed away from his body. "You're not going to hurt me, Jinx."

"But you always writhe in pain afterward."

"There are pains in life that are necessary." he replied, shifting his eyes to meet hers briefly. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed under the dim light of the office, his expression calm and patient. "You'll understand that better when you're older."

Jinx pursed her lips into a pout, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. But his words seemed to be enough to encourage her. He saw her determination slowly return, and soon she was adjusting the injector to his eye and pressing the button. The sensation was immediate. The injection released the liquid directly into Silco's system, and the pain that followed was like liquid fire coursing through his veins. He felt his nerves throbbing, every muscle in his body contracting in involuntary spasms. The heat of the Shimmer seemed to intensify with every second, his heart pounding fast, almost erratically.

Silco arched his body slightly in the chair, his fingers gripping the wooden arms tightly. A single drop of Shimmer slipped from the corner of his scarred eye, a gleaming, purple tear that fell to the floor with an almost inaudible sound. He took a deep breath, steadying the erratic rhythm of his heart as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, dispelling the lingering trace of that searing pain. He was used to it, despite everything. The pain, the discomfort, the feeling of being consumed from within — it was all part of his routine.

"She could have killed you yesterday."

Jinx's words cut through the silence of the office like a sharp knife, thrown into the air with seemingly casual indifference. Silco lifted his eyes from where he sat, surprised by the sudden comment, but before he could even ask for an explanation, Jinx continued, her voice light, almost casual, as if she were recounting some trivial story.

"You were passed out on the couch." she began, her tone as nonchalant as if she were narrating an ordinary event. "And she just stood there... still. With the gun in her hand, staring at you. She looked like a statue, you know? Didn't move for almost half an hour."

Silco tilted his head slightly, frowning as he absorbed what the girl was saying. "She could've shot at any second." Jinx went on, curling back into her previous position, hugging her knees tightly, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor. "But she didn't."

The silence that followed was heavy, almost tangible. Silco didn't respond immediately. He absorbed the words carefully, letting them settle like a slow-acting poison. He had no reason to doubt Jinx. She wasn't the type to make up stories, especially something so specific. He should have been more surprised by the revelation that the woman, from whom he expected obedience and hatred in equal measure, had once again held a weapon against him. But, to be honest, he wasn't. Of all the betrayals that could occur, this one seemed almost inevitable. What bothered him more wasn't the attempt itself but the fact that she had hesitated.

Why didn't she pull the trigger?

That question lodged itself in his mind like a blade. He knew hesitation could mean many things — guilt, remorse, a fragment of something human she carried for him... or perhaps something more strategic, a game he had yet to understand.

Silco tilted his head slightly to the side, intrigued. "And then?"

Jinx shrugged, as if recalling something trivial. "Then I decided to throw a bomb to distract her."

"You threw a bomb in my office?"

"It was just a smoke bomb!" Jinx protested, looking up at him. "And it didn't even go off."

He leaned slightly forward in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface of the desk. "Did she see you?"

"No... I don't think so." Jinx replied, frowning as if trying to recall. "She turned in my direction. Looked up, right where I was. It was close... really close. But I hid before she could spot me. Then I ran out when she got distracted."

"You didn't see her leave the office?"

"No." Jinx admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I'd already bolted. I don't know how or when she left."

"You should have told me about this immediately, child."

"I thought you already knew!" Jinx shot back defensively, though she avoided meeting his gaze.

Silco turned to her, his eyes locking onto hers, sharp and penetrating like a father educating his child. He knew she wasn't accustomed to handling situations like this — at least not with the seriousness he expected from her. However, Jinx's survival instincts were an asset, and he couldn't deny that, even in her impulsiveness, she had protected him from possible death.

"Next time, you inform me." he ordered, his voice icy but tinged with a paternal tone he rarely allowed to show.

Silco leaned back in his chair with a sigh, feeling the familiar, throbbing pain behind his eyes intensify. He was trying, with all his might, to analyze the events of the previous night pragmatically, separating the emotions that insisted on creeping in. But he was growing exhausted. Every piece of this puzzle seemed out of place, and the thought that he needed to confront that woman, to make her explain what the hell was going on, only fueled his irritation.

He knew he would find her. It wasn't a question of "if" but "when." And when that happened, she would have a lot to explain. However, as his mind worked relentlessly, one detail made Silco freeze for a moment. Jinx had been in his office. Last night. The same office where he and that woman... Oh, for the Gods' sake. A sudden chill ran down his spine.

"When exactly did you get here last night?" the question came out with a casual, controlled tone, though internally, Silco was on the verge of being consumed by embarrassment. He wouldn't know how to handle the realization that the child knew exactly what he did behind closed doors.

"When she was already standing in front of the sofa."

Jinx's response brought immediate relief. Silco almost exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. At least Jinx had arrived at the end of the night. That was something. He allowed himself to relax slightly, but not for long.

"Are you worried about her?" the question caught Silco off guard, but he didn't show it. He tilted his head, casting a glance in Jinx's direction. She now looked at him with an expression that was hard to decipher.

"No. I just want her back here."

"Why?" Jinx tilted her head to the side, her face twisting into something that resembled indignation. "She's just a prostitute. You can pay for another one."

If Silco had been at the edge of his patience before, that statement dangerously pushed him to the brink. He didn't allow himself to react immediately, but internally, he was both surprised — and, in a way, irritated. Not so much at what Jinx had said, but at the fact that she knew enough to make such a claim.

He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her carefully. It was evident that Jinx had more awareness of the world around her than he liked to admit. One thing was her becoming accustomed to the environment he had provided — violence, strategy, controlled chaos. Quite another was her having knowledge and understanding of... intimate details.

"How do you know she's a prostitute?"

"Sevika told me." Jinx shrugged, her expression indifferent, as though there was nothing wrong with repeating what she'd heard. "She said you pay her to keep you company so you don't feel lonely. If that's the case, you can just find another one, or I can stay here so you won't feel lonely. I'm free."

Ah... the sweet, uncomfortable, and relentless innocence of children. Silco had to resist the urge to rub his face with his hands, exhausted. He was not about to explain the complex and often dark nuances of human relationships to her. He didn't have the patience for it, nor the will.

"Her kind of company is different from yours."

Jinx frowned, visibly confused by the vague response. Silco remained silent, showing no intention of elaborating. The explanation stopped there, and he knew it would irritate her. As expected, the girl huffed in frustration, jumping down from the desk with careless energy that sent a few papers scattering to the floor.

Silco watched her as she moved around the office with her typical restless, clumsy motions, touching things she shouldn't and completely disregarding any notion of manners or decorum. Yet, there was something reassuring about seeing Jinx being Jinx, even when everything around him seemed on the verge of falling apart.

"Right before I ran off, I heard her mumbling something about 'going to a safe place.'" Jinx's voice broke the silence, her tone casual as if she were reporting something insignificant. She was now rifling through a pile of objects in the corner of the office, tossing small metal pieces from one side to the other, clearly bored. "Maybe she's in that so-called safe place."

Jinx's words, seemingly spoken without any awareness of their weight, made Silco bring a hand to his chin, diving into careful thought. A "safe place." That could mean anything, but he knew that for someone in her position — a fugitive at a disadvantage — a "safe place" was rarely an abstract concept. He could think of a few places where she might have scurried off like a rat.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the wooden armrest as he analyzed the possibilities. He knew Zaun like no one else. The shadows of its streets, the narrowest alleys, the makeshift hideouts where the desperate curled up, believing they were out of his reach. Silco had eyes everywhere. No one could hide from him for long.

"This could be useful." Silco murmured, almost to himself. The low tone, however, didn't escape Jinx's sharp ears.

She knocked something over on purpose — a loud crash echoed through the office. Then she turned to him with a questioning look. "You're really going after her?"

"I thought I'd already made that clear." Silco replied, not raising his voice but with enough firmness to leave no doubt that the decision had already been made. He knew it was his responsibility, not just as a leader, but as a strategist. That woman's escape wasn't just an affront to his authority; it was an inconvenient reminder that he was still vulnerable to small missteps.

Jinx shrugged but didn't seem particularly convinced. "If she doesn't want to be found, it's gonna be tough. She seemed... smart."

The corner of Silco's lips curled into an almost predatory smile, devoid of any warmth or kindness. "No one in Zaun can hide from me for long, child. No matter how clever they think they are."

Jinx, however, quickly lost interest. She climbed onto a chair and started swinging her legs, her restless movements starkly contrasting with the heavy tension lingering in the air. Silco watched the scene for a moment, the contrast between his calculated calm and the girl's restless energy almost making him smile.

He let out a low sigh, his hand resuming its rhythm of tapping against the arm of the chair. This woman thought she could disappear, that she could find some refuge in his city without him noticing. Foolishness.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:10 PM

You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing it firmly to muffle the sound of your breathing. Your body was frozen, pressed against the rough, cold wall of the apartment as if trying to merge with the structure. Any movement, no matter how small, could draw attention too soon.

In the next room, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the worn wooden floor. Two men. You didn't need to see them to know they were big and bulky — the kind of enforcers who could break bones with a single blow. The rhythm of their steps was slow, almost lazy, but the tension in the air betrayed that they were alert, ready to act at the slightest sign.

Running wasn't an option. They were in the way of the only exit — the front door of your tiny apartment, which looked more like a crumbling ruin. You knew that if you tried to run, they'd catch you before you even made it to the hallway. That left only one option: fight.

All of this could have been avoided. You knew Silco would eventually send men to your home. That's why you were here — not to hide, but to gather everything that could connect you to Vander and take it somewhere safe, somewhere no one, least of all Silco, could find it. The plan was simple, straightforward, and would've been quick if everything had gone as you'd envisioned. All you had to do was grab the bag and disappear for just a few days. They'd only notice the disappearance later, when it was too late to track you down.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

The two brutes had burst into the apartment before you could leave. Maybe they had followed some trail, or maybe Silco was faster and more cunning than you wanted to admit. Now, instead of being on your way to the mines, you were cornered in the living room, forced to hide like a trapped rat. You had no idea how they had reached your apartment so quickly. The Last Drop was far enough away that you should've had time to escape.

You heard one of them rummaging through your room. The wardrobe door slammed open and shut violently, the contents inside being tossed carelessly onto the floor. Soon after, the sound of the bed being dragged scraped through the silence, followed by the bathroom door being opened in a rush. More sounds of objects falling and hitting the floor echoed around you. And as they did this, they talked to each other, but you couldn't focus on what they were saying.

Your mind was racing like a runaway horse, each thought slipping away before you could hold onto it. You needed a strategy — something that didn't force you into a prolonged direct confrontation. Not because you were a coward — you had already proven you weren't — but because you simply couldn't afford it. There was the risk of blacking out if you overused that, and in this moment, blacking out meant dying.

In an ideal scenario, you'd need to take them both down in under ten seconds. Beyond that, your chances of success would plummet to near zero. But there was a problem: they were too far apart, making it impossible to ambush them both at the same time.

Silco's dagger in your hand was heavy, though not uncomfortably so. It was the weight of something familiar, almost reassuring. The cold metal handle felt like it was molded to your palm, as if it was always meant to be there. A bitter memory surfaced: you were made for this. Every fiber of your being, every enhancement, every grueling training session — it was all for moments like this, for killing.

That thought gave you the certainty you needed. You rose from your crouched position, your muscles already tense, ready for what was coming. Instinct took over. In one swift motion, you kicked a metal can lying near you. The clang was loud, metallic, reverberating off the walls. Silence. One second. Two.

Quick footsteps came in your direction. Heavy, determined. They were moving like predators that had finally cornered their prey. Both of them stormed into the room at the same time. Each was armed with a knife, their eyes locked on you. The bigger one had an arrogant smirk on his lips, as if he had already won.

"Come on, sweetheart." he said, his voice slow and condescending. "Just come along like a good girl before you get hurt. We've got orders to bring you in alive, but accidents happen, don't they?"

You didn't reply. There was no need. They weren't here to talk, and even if they were, it wasn't something that mattered now. Your gaze fixed on the two men as you felt the steady pulse of adrenaline course through your body. The dagger's handle pressed against your palm so tightly your knuckles were white. You exhaled through your lips in a long sigh, like a pressure valve releasing, as a wave of forced calm took over your body. It was almost ironic, given the chaos about to unfold.

And then it happened.

That familiar sensation began. The world around you slowed down, as if time itself hesitated to move forward. The tingling started in your eyes, a subtle electric current dancing through your vision. The edges of your field of view flickered, and every detail around you sharpened. The man on the left, the more confident one, had a small, poorly healed cut on his lip. The other, hesitant, gripped his knife with stiff fingers, as if afraid it might slip.

They moved at the same time.

The first came straight at you, his knife aiming for your left shoulder. You dodged before the motion could complete, twisting your body to the side and forcing his blade to slash through empty air. A swift movement of your dagger in response left a trail of blood along his side before you repositioned yourself. The second man tried to capitalize on your supposed distraction, coming at you from the side. But your reflexes were beyond what he could anticipate. Your free hand grabbed his wrist, twisting it with a quick, brutal motion until you heard the dry snap of a dislocated bone. He screamed, but you didn't hesitate. Your dagger found his throat with surgical precision, a quick, clean slash.

The man dropped to his knees, hands clutching his neck as blood poured between his fingers.

The first had already recovered from the initial strike and charged again, his confidence now replaced by fury. He attempted a wide, lateral slash, but you lunged forward, closing the distance into his guard before the knife could reach its mark. A swift motion and your dagger found the spot between his ribs. His scream echoed through the room as you stepped back, letting him collapse to the floor like an empty sack.

Your body hit the hard floor right after, your knees striking the surface with a dull thud. There was no pain — or maybe there was, but exhaustion swallowed it before you could feel it. Everything seemed distant, as if the world around you was submerged in a dense fog. Your muscles were stiff, refusing to respond, while warm, sticky blood dripped from your nose, tracing lines down to your chin.

Five seconds. You'd spent five damn seconds.

Panting, you let the dagger fall to your side, your fingers trembling too much to hold it any longer. Your eyes, previously alight with that unnatural glow, were returning to normal. You blinked, trying to adjust your blurred vision. The room spun around you, the contours of the walls blending into a strange dance of shadows and light. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth, mingled with bile threatening to rise. You tilted your head back, closing your eyes, trying to grasp at the remnants of strength you had left. But that damned side effect was like an anchor, dragging you down, draining every last ounce of energy.

You lay there on the ground for long minutes, perhaps longer than you should have. Time lost all meaning as you forced yourself to breathe, a simple task that now felt like an endless climb. But you realized you had made a mistake. You could have won that fight with ease. You knew that. After all, you had been conditioned to handle worse situations. But after all these years, your precision and practice had rusted. Complacency was a slow poison. And now, you were paying the price.

There were three of them.

You noticed this too late. The realization only came when footsteps began to echo around the small space, drawing closer until they stopped in front of you. Your vision was blurred by the effort, but even so, you forced your eyes open enough to take in the scene. A man was crouched, staring at you with a mix of boredom and curiosity. Judging by his relaxed posture, he no longer saw you as a threat.

"She took down two." he said, his disinterested voice cutting through the silence. It wasn't directed at you — that much was clear. Something gleamed in his ear — a communicator, probably. The device emitted a faint blue glow, and you recognized it immediately: Piltover tech. The bastard was talking to someone, and you could imagine who.

"Yeah, she seems to be on 'recoil'." he continued after a pause. His head tilted slightly, as though listening to a response. "Ten, maybe fifteen seconds? I don't know, I wasn't paid to count the seconds." another irritatingly long pause. "But listen, buddy... your boss paid us to bring her in, nothing more, so stop complaining."

Your hand slid across the floor, searching for the dagger that had fallen nearby. Your fingertips brushed against it, and you grasped it tightly, ignoring the pain radiating through your body. The man kept murmuring, perhaps to someone on the other side of that device, but you no longer heard him. It didn't matter. Only one thing mattered: you would not go back to Piltover. Not again. Never again.

The idea forming in your mind was suicidal. You knew that. But the alternative was worse. Going back to them? No. You would rather die here, now.

The familiar tingling returned to your eyes — a mix of adrenaline and desperation that allowed you to ignore exhaustion and pain but also reminded you there were limits, and you were dangerously close to them. Blood began to flow from your nose again, faster this time, a clear sign your body couldn't hold out much longer.

"Send more people to clean up this mess." his voice echoed through the room, each word carrying the weight of an irrefutable command. He didn't even glance at you as he spoke, exuding the arrogant confidence of someone who believed they had already won. Maybe it was the boredom in his posture or the lowered guard he displayed, but you knew at that moment he had made a fatal mistake. "That chemical baron will be a problem if he finds out—"

The sentence died in his throat.

The muffled sound of a blade piercing flesh and the sudden shift in his expression were almost cathartic. He froze, his eyes wide, disbelief written across his face. His hand instinctively rose to his neck, trying in vain to stem the blood gushing between his fingers.

You barely had time to register the scene. Your body gave out, too heavy to support anymore. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the floor. Pain exploded at the back of your head as it hit the rough wood, but you could no longer focus on anything except the sound of the man collapsing beside you.

The blade was still embedded in him, the weapon he never saw coming.

Look at that — you really hadn't lost your touch. Silco was right, after all. You were like him. A trail of ruins followed your every step. But unlike him, you had tried — truly tried — to stop being the monster they had created. Tried to believe you could be something more. Something different. And yet, here you were, falling back into the same cycle.

The edges of the world began to blur, a black void swallowing everything. For a moment, you hoped this was the end. If you had to choose between going back or dying right there, on that filthy floor in Zaun, death seemed merciful.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

01:45 PM

The scene in that modest apartment was, for Silco, a spectacle as unexpected as it was disconcerting. Not because he wasn't accustomed to the sight of bodies, the acrid smell of blood, or the chaos of a devastated space. Silco had seen more than his share of brutality. Zaun was a land that chewed up and spat out the weak without mercy, and he had long since grown desensitized to the sight of piled corpses and spilled blood. But something about this scene unsettled him deeply — perhaps because it wasn't supposed to be this way here, in this space, in what should have been her private refuge.

He stepped forward, his heavy boots creaking against the worn floorboards, breaking the oppressive silence as he approached the focal point of the carnage. Sevika was crouched beside the two bodies on the ground, analyzing them with her characteristic calm. When Silco drew close enough, she glanced up at him, her expression a mix of seriousness and faint cynicism.

"They're not our men."

Silco narrowed his eyes and took a few more steps, stopping beside her. He examined the bodies closely, leaning slightly. The stab wounds in their torsos and necks were precise, almost surgical. There were no signs of a disorderly struggle or desperate attempts at defense. Whoever had done this knew exactly where to strike — and how to kill.

"Find out who they belong to."

"He's alive!" a shrill voice suddenly called out, echoing off the aged walls of the apartment in a tone that grated on Silco's ears. He turned slowly toward the source of the sound, his eyes narrowing with an expression teetering between disdain and cold fury.

The young, wiry medic Silco had brought along as a precaution visibly flinched under the weight of that penetrating gaze. Trembling, the medic adjusted his glasses in a nervous gesture and pointed toward the third body in the room.

"Er—This one still has a pulse." the doctor stammered, his hesitation making his voice weak. "But it's very faint. The cut on the throat... it didn't hit the main artery, but he's lost a lot of blood. If we don't treat him soon, he won't survive."

Silco strode toward the fallen man, his footsteps echoing like hammer blows on the wooden floor. His presence seemed to fill the space, his shadow looming over the doctor in an almost suffocating way. He stopped beside the body, his gaze fixed on the faint rise and fall of the chest that confirmed shallow breaths. A life hanging by a tenuous thread.

"Make sure he stays alive." Silco ordered, the underlying threat in his tone as cold as it was precise. "Or you'll join him."

There was something about the calm, measured way Silco spoke that made the threat all the more terrifying. The doctor swallowed hard, hurriedly opening the small bag of supplies he carried. Bandages, glass vials containing various substances, needles, and a small tube of Shimmer were quickly spread out on the floor, his trembling hands working to stabilize the injured man.

As the doctor busied himself, Silco let his gaze wander around the room again. That's when he saw it. Near the body on the far right — the one the doctor was trying to save — the blade still glistened with fresh blood. He crouched and picked it up carefully. His dagger. The blade he'd used with her the night before in a very different context, now stained again, but this time with someone else's blood.

The dark, viscous blood stained Silco's glove, leaving marks that seemed to seep into the leather like an uncleanable curse. He stared at the stain with a mix of disgust and restrained fury. His lips twisted into a sneer as he slid the bloodied dagger into his pocket, as if tucking away not just the weapon but the promise of vengeance it carried.

For a moment, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to crush the fallen man beneath his boot, to reduce that pathetic heap of flesh to a pile of broken bones. But Silco knew how to control his impulses. It wasn't blind rage that gave him power, but cold, calculated anger. He took a deep breath, burying the desire to kill under layers of self-control. There would be time for that later. First, he would extract everything he could from this wretched creature. Then, he would decide what to do with the useless lump of flesh. Perhaps leave him to rot in the gutters, a feast for Zaun's rats.

"I managed to stabilize him!" the doctor's voice broke through Silco's thoughts, tinged with relief and pride, as if he had just saved the world. Silco shot him a quick glance and noticed the faint purple hue around the wound. The man had used Shimmer. Clever, Silco thought.

"Take him to The Last Drop." he ordered, his voice low but razor-sharp. The command was followed immediately by a frenzy of movement from his subordinates, who began lifting the semi-conscious body with clumsy haste. "And get rid of the other bodies." he added with indifference. Those corpses didn't deserve the privilege of a burial. Their insignificant lives had ended as they were lived: worthless, disposable.

He didn't even glance back as he left the scene. There was nothing there that warranted any more of his time. She had been here. She had fought, survived. But she wasn't safe. That was as clear as the blood now staining his gloves.

Silco would bring her back, even if it meant turning all of Zaun upside down to do so.

Part 9

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The next chapter will be a little more violent than this one, so be warned. If you're here for the obscenity, you'll have to wait a bit. To make it easier to visualize both this chapter and the next ones, you can imagine her ability as a mix of the strength and resistance of the bestial version of Vander (in this case Warwick) and the agility of Jinx after Shimmer. Destructive for both the person being attacked and the attacker. You'll understand better as the story progresses.

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[averycutesalamander]

hello baefy….. humbly requesting 18 or 24 from that list you rbed:3 with the silly cowboy….. geheheheh

BEACH EPISODE BEACH EPISODE BEACH EPISODE !!!!! kinda did my own twist on this one :) suggestive toward the end

24: Tracing your names together in the sand.

Boothill has to admit that you have impeccable taste in vacation spots, because he's not sure he's ever seen a beach as stunning as this one. 

The water is incredibly reflective to the point that he can't see beyond the surface, which gleams like molten, glittering silver in the daylight. The sand on the beach is exceptional as well; it's white and strangely glassy, shifting colors depending on the angle he looks at it from. The view when the two of you first emerged from the treeline was fantastic – a kaleidoscope of color meeting with a sea of silver, stretching into the horizon. He's not even sure how the hell you managed to find this place, because there's not a soul in sight other than the two of you. 

Oh, but it all pales in comparison to the sheer look of awe that envelops your expression the moment you lay eyes on the scenery. 

(There's so many ways that he finds you beautiful, but there's something a bit exceptional about the way you look like this – continuously and routinely dazzled by the world around you, no matter how many other fantastical sights you've seen. His chest aches with an affection so deep and heartfelt that he swears it'll kill him, one day.)

You were tentative about this location, admittedly; his body can handle water just fine, but it forces him to replace parts more often – doubly so for salt water. Thankfully, this is a freshwater beach – which means he can get into the water with you without too much concern. The water is pleasantly cool, which lets him seal off his vents without much worry of overheating. He still sinks like a rock, granted, but the water is shallow enough that he's at no risk of accidentally drowning himself. 

It's not so shallow that he can't vanish under the surface, however; he can hold his breath quite a bit longer than a human – and what kind of man would he be if he didn't use it for nefarious purposes?

Surprisingly, visibility beneath the surface is impeccable; it's almost crystal clear aside from a faint grey hue. Naturally, this means he can see exactly where you are – but the opposite isn't true at all. He lurks beneath the water, crawling around like the horrible little goblin he is, circling you as you cluelessly marvel at the mirror-like surface above; you were so mesmerized by it when he went under that he's certain you haven't even realized he's vanished. Tiny fish dart away from him as he prowls, retreating under stones or into miniscule burrows in the sand below. 

When he gets close enough to you, he brushes his fingers against your ankle – just hard enough to be suspicious. He retreats backwards as you jump, and he grins wildly at the muffled yelp that escapes you as you spin around. 

Through the water, he hears you grumble, “Oh, that is so unfair.”

He laughs despite himself, bubbles escaping his nose; your goggles are still in your bag on the shore, which means you're practically blind. 

He only realizes his mistake when you turn right toward where he's hiding – and lunge.  

He yelps as he scrambles away, just barely dodging your seeking hands as he flees into deeper water. You fumble for a moment while the sand and water settles, then promptly give up once you've realized that he's slipped away. 

“C’mere, little sharky,” you croon, spinning slowly as you search for any sign of him. “I thought you wanted to play?” 

Oh, he'll certainly play. 

Now that he's sure he's hidden again, he resumes his gradual circling, careful not to move too quickly, lest he disturb the surface and give himself away. His hair drifts around him like a curtain of silk, and he can feel the grit of sand in his joints, but he already knows this is going to be worth it. You don't move away from the spot you're standing in, clearly trying to spot him – but he's cautious enough that he won't give anything away. Gradually, he closes in on you, his lips twitching in open amusement. 

He leans closer, ever-so-slowly, careful not to disturb the water – and then he takes a chomp at your calf, careful to angle his teeth in a way that will only scrape, but not pierce. 

You jump damn near two feet out of the water in surprise, and the cutest little shriek leaves your throat. He's honestly expecting you to move away instinctually – but you catch him off guard when you leap toward him again, faster than before. He squawks as he scuttles away again, but this time, he's too slow and too close, and your hand grabs blindly onto his ankle. 

Ah, fuck. 

He flails like a caught fish – which he supposes he is, at the moment – careful not to use too much force but earnestly trying to slip out of your grasp. You don't let him get away, splashing down halfway on top of him as you blindly fumble to get a grip on him. 

Then, he grins, wide and wicked and menacing. He braces himself on the sand and surges upwards, gathering you up in his arms and laughing triumphantly as you flail and giggle. He clenches you tight against his chest as you squirm, burying his face into the crook of your neck and chomping theatrically, noises and all – though he's careful not to catch your skin on his teeth, so he's more or less mouthing at you like a fish. 

He only lets you push him away when you start to go breathless with laughter. He pulls away, grinning down at you. “Looks like you're just chum, now.” 

You're still snickering as you ask, “Am I tasty chum, at least?”

A lascivious look crosses his eyes, and he leans down toward you and purrs, “Oh, you're delicious, baby.” 

He watches in delight as the euphemism hits you full-force, your eyes widening as you sputter. Then, he waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously, instantly breaking the atmosphere he created, and you both burst into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all. 

“You're such a fucking dork,” you snicker, pressing your face into his chest as he turns and starts to cart you off to the shore. “I can't believe anyone thinks you're intimidating.”

“I'm plenty intimidating!” he proclaims haughtily. A moment later, he reopens his vents to let some of the heat escape; the sun is already warming him significantly, but it doesn't compare to the radiance of your smile.  

“I'm shaking in my boots,” you say dryly. “Practically quivering in fear.”

“You're just sayin' that because ya already play close to the fire, sugar,” he huffs as he sets you down on the towel you set up in the shade, settling next to you with his feet still in the sand. For effect, he snaps his teeth close to your nose, snickering at the way you jump. “Don't forget that I could burn ya.” 

You hum dismissively, still smiling widely as you lean closer. “But what if I like the heat?”

He grins, moving to meet you, his eyes hooded and tempting. “Well, that'd make ya a lil' fudgin' freak.” 

He laughs in sync with you, foolishly amused by it all. You press a quick kiss to his lips, clumsy with your snickering. You lean back, and the two of you stare at each other fondly, oblivious to the world around you. 

(He'll never get over how pretty you look like this – how your smile lights up the world like the sun. He'll do anything to see it again.)

Suddenly, you turn your gaze to the sand beside you, hunching over before beginning to drag your finger through it. For a moment, he thinks you're just idly fussing with it – but then he realizes that you're moving quite deliberately. 

Curious, he watches you work, openly befuddled. “What in the world are you doin’?”

“One sec,” you deflect, biting on your lip in concentration. Cute. After several more seconds, you look up at him, your eyes damn near sparkling. Brightly, you proclaim, “It's you!”   

He peers down at the lines in the sand, his brows furrowed. It sort of looks like a blob? Is that a… fin? Suddenly, he sees it – a cartoonish little shark, grinning widely, touting a crude version of his hat and gun. 

He bursts into laughter, hearty and earnest and so painfully endeared that it makes his chest ache. He looks over at you, and you have the dumbest, cutest fucking look on your face, so irresistible that he wants to bite you. 

“You're too cute for your own good, sweetpea,” he says, shaking his head. “‘S gonna get ya in trouble with me, one of these days.” 

You smile, rolling your eyes playfully. “Oh, no,” you drawl, long and exaggerated. “I'm so scared. Whatever will you do with me?”

His smirk widens into something devious. “I dunno,” he drawls. “Come over here and find out.”

“And fall right into your trap?” you say skeptically, raising your brows. “You're gonna have to try harder than that.”

He hums, giving you an evaluating look; then, he drops his gaze down to your cute little doodle in the sand. 

Hm… He thinks it could use some company. 

He slowly begins to trace a tiny drawing of his own, biting down on his tongue as he focuses. You watch eagerly as he scrawls, and when he's done, he looks up at you with the goofiest grin he can conjure. 

You squint, peering at the lines quizzically. “Is that… a shrimp?” 

“Yep,” he snickers boyishly. “‘Cause you're my cute lil' shrimp. Bite-sized n’ everything.”

You laugh, your eyes sparkling. “Oh, I'll show you bite-sized.”

(Hook, line, and sinker.)

Just as he hoped, you pounce on him playfully, and now you've become the devious shark, chomping obnoxiously at his jaw and cheeks like it's your life's purpose. He laughs and lets you have your fun, pushing at you with just enough force to be playful – though he does legitimately start to squirm when you begin to target the place where his skin meets his metal; he doubts that he'll ever get used to that strange dual sensation. You cling to him like a leech, though, relentless in your assault. 

Then, in one quick motion, he grabs you by the waist and flips you, grinning at the way you yelp as he pins you onto the towel. 

“Didn't have to try that hard to catch ya, huh?” he says smugly, a note of mischief in his voice. 

To his surprise, you meet him with a look twice as sly. 

“Are you sure I'm the one that got caught?” you ask, your eyes glittering with mischief.

Before he can even fully process what you've said, you clench your fist carefully in his hair, yanking him down until he meets your lips in a bruising kiss; he groans quietly into your mouth, a heated thrill of pleasure skittering up his spine. He leans further into you as you slowly comb your fingers through his hair, and he shivers when you nibble at his lip. Obediently, he lets you press your tongue slightly into his mouth, slowly tracing the sharp points of his teeth. 

All too soon, you tug him away by the roots of his hair, and he has to bite back a disgruntled whine when his lips break away from yours. 

“Say,” you begin slowly, your smile widening deviously, “I think I got some sand under my bathing suit.” With a heated look in your eyes, you lean closer, just out of reach of his lips. “Do you think you could help, honeybee?” 

He swallows heavily, caught off-guard by your intensity – but he certainly isn't opposed. 

“I'm sure I can figure somethin' out,” he rasps, raking his eyes down your body. Slowly, his fingers trace up the heated skin of your thighs, skirting closer to your hips. 

…Perhaps there are some unforeseen benefits to finding such an isolated beach. 

@opheliaflavoredinstantnoodles @ikeagroceries @shadowstadium @theswashbucklingspy @cosmo112 @fxngtasy @rinzis

[chlorinecake]

If it's possible, could you make a yandere enhypen story, where the reader usually goes out late at night to a convenience store for some late night snacks, but some pervert tries her, but one of the members had been following her and help her, I'm sorry if it doesnt make any sense but yeah...😀 (recently my delusions have been getting to me)

“convenient chances” 🎱 

pairing: stalker!yandere!enhypen x afab!reader

cw: harassment, violence, mentions of smoking, paranoia/anxiety, language, kidnapping, bad-ish ending lol

wc: 3.1k — read part ll and lll here

LIKE A DUNGEON with fear cementing every corner, you struggle to savor the silence in your waking life.

Doubting all and believing none, your close friend Sunoo convinced you that your nervous aches and night sweats were a mere result of paranoia. He always judged the way you’d peek over your shoulder in public as if waiting to be attacked.

Clicking sounds from your window startled your rest during the night, with nightmares of seven tall hooded strangers blinding your judgement.

You're sure everyone's experienced the phenomenon of “gaze perception” at least once in their lives, in which a person might sense or assume that a pair of predatory eyes are stalking them from afar.

You didn’t like to use the word trauma to define your past experiences, but this wasn’t your first time feeling like a cloud of trouble waited to pour down on you. At this point, all you could do was hope that your intuition wasn’t right this time.

It was only a few months ago when you broke up with your abusive ex-boyfriend, Jay. The memories still linger as if they occurred yesterday, freshly cryptic in your mind. From your point of view, he started off as a charming casual acquaintance, which soon developed into a crush and then a toxic relationship. He outlined a list of rules for you to follow when he was away, ordering you around like a child. Anytime you even came close to breaking one of his orders, he’d beat the shit out of you, saying that his rage was out of love.

From Jay’s point of view, you weren’t just an obsession, but a belonging—his favorite humanoid toy to play with. He threatened that if you ever left him, he’d come back for you one day, saying that he’d never stop watching you.

And so, you moved. Not far, but a good distance away. You didn’t feel protected anymore in your usual environment. Though, there was one place in which you felt completely safe—free from watchful eyes and hostile hands. It was the tatty old convenience store a few blocks from where you live. The place hadn’t developed much since what appeared to be a decade or two ago, but they always supplied the most tasty, high quality snacks you could get your hands on.

As silly as it may sound, the fallout shop was your haven, and you grew particularly fond of shopping there late at night when it was less crowded.

You walked passed the familiar electronic doors, the fluorescent ceiling lights sparkling off of the bleach-mopped tiles. The usually uplifting radio station was replaced with the chilling whoosh of air circulating through the vents.

“Hello! Welcome to Goldman’s 24-hour convenience,” a friendly accented voice chimed. “Hello,” you returned with a nod, a bit confused by the new face. The usual cashier was an elder women by the name of Mandy. Her laughter alone could make some of your darkest nights glimmer again.

The young man wore a name tag on his dark blue collared shirt: Jake. You couldn’t help but wonder why Mandy wasn’t working her usual night shift, but you didn’t care enough to interrogate the seemingly content boy.

Picking up a hand basket, you explored the aisle's shelves in search for something savory or sweet to snack on. Your gaze swiveled ahead of you before landing on the sight of two hooded strangers blocking your path. This time, a bit of their faces showed, revealing the devious smirks that spoke so many silent words through their sealed lips:

You can run, but you can’t hide from us, ____. For as long as we live, you’re not allowed to feel safe anywhere.

Goosebumps sprouted on the surface of your skin, nerves dancing around in your fingers until they became wobbling rods. It’s almost like you forgot to breathe due to the overwhelming terror, feeling frozen from within as the plastic basket slipped from your grasp, a loud clatter echoing throughout the store.

You remembered all of the horrible things Jay said he would do to you once he found you again. The bruises you concealed with makeup that Jay referred to as his "strawberry kisses” would have nothing on what you felt was coming your way.

“Are you okay, miss?” A kind male voice asked, snatching you from your trance and back to reality. You turned to meet the man behind you, revealing his concerned yet warm features. He picked up the basket you dropped, still processing that your mind successfully tricked you into seeing something that wasn’t actually there.

“Yes, I’m alright, t-thank you,” you smiled but it didn’t reach your eyes, looking more awkward than reassuring.

He pressed three finger's against your forehead, “I don’t think you’re being honest with me,” he frowned, your hot and damp forehead telling him that something was wrong. “I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself yet,” he stuck out one hand for you to shake and the other to pass you back your basket. “My name is Heeseung,” he smiled, “I’m new in town with an affinity for convenience stores.”

“____, with an affinity to drop flimsy baskets in public,” you replied, suddenly feeling at ease from the humor. You started trailing to the ramen section and Heeseung was walking behind you. If it wasn’t for his kindness earlier, you’d probably be freaking out about how close he was. You reached for a spicy udon noodle pack that came with dehydrated tofu and seaweed sheets. Meanwhile, Heeseung grabbed a can of Spam and chicken flavored ramen.

“Speaking of your liking for convenience stores, I come here almost every night and I’ve never seen you before.“

“Well, yeah, I’m usually here earlier in the day. I just happened to need some gas and got hungry while waiting, so I decided to stop by for my favorites,” he peered into your basket, "You might wanna get some milk with those, too. It's ungodly how spicy they are!"

"I know, right? They're just so delicious, I can't resist them..."

"Still, Sapporo Ichiban instant noodles are the best! They always cook perfectly. Never too soft or too firm. It's my comfort food, honestly. I wanna hug the person who created them," he replied passionately.

"Eh, you're just gonna ruin 'em anyways."

He gave you a double look, "Are you passively judging my cooking skills or fat shaming me?"

"Neither. I'm shaming that pink block of salt you're gonna punish your organs with."

He scoffed, "This anti-Spam movement is outrageous! I'm starting an online protest where you'll be the number one convert."

"As if I'd ever try that...stuff," you rejected.

"Welp. More for me, I guess," he mumbled, digging into his jacket pocket.

“Dammit, I forgot my wallet in my car,” he said, placing his basket high up on the shelf. “If you see anyone try to take my stuff, kick ‘em in the shin for me,” he said before running out of the shop.

Analyzing your surroundings, you noticed that a few groups of shoppers and some solo snackers began raiding the bread aisle. You distracted yourself by heading to the refrigerator section, considering Heeseung’s recommendation of getting a smooth beverage to accompany your spicy noodles, tossing in a pack of strawberry flavored Pocky's on your way.

That’s when you felt an arm wrap around your waist, pulling you in before giving your head a sniff, his nose was wet and cold like a dog as he inhaled your scent. “What the hell are you doing?” You barked, pushing the creepy stranger away.

He was a middle aged man with a receding hairline and a few scars decorating his thin chapped lips. You wondered how many of those scares came from women he tried that “arm around the waist” shit on.

“Sorry, doll. I’m a hugger and figured you might've needed one,” he grinned, revealing the gnarly set of teeth that lined his grey gums. You couldn't tell if it was his foul breath or filthy clothes that smelled more like smoke. Either way, you were thoroughly disgusted by him.

“Well, you should learn to ask before throwing yourself on people,” you retorted, reaching for a container of banana milk.

“You like swallowing bananas, cutie? I bet I could force four of 'em down that pretty mouth of yours,” he slithered while adjusting himself in his pants.

What the hell is wrong with this guy, you thought to yourself.

You tried to ignore his lunacy, only for him to grip your ass like a stress ball, landing a harsh slap across the curve of your jeans. You yelped at the sting, your own words being caught in your throat from the shocking act. You couldn’t believe that this freak actually just did that to you.

He met your eyes with a wink, smelling his hand as if you just provided him with an expensive perfume sample, "You got a lover at home, sweetheart?"

Tears dared to pour from your rage-ridden eyes as you balled your fists so tight, your bones might break. That's when a protective figure filled your blurry peripheral vision, stepping in front of you to block the man off as he tried grabbing you again, pushing him with such a force that he lost his balance.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, y'scrawny mother fucker,” he growled, pulling up is pants.

“You can’t do that kind of sick shit to people, pervert! Now get the hell outta here or I'll call the police,” the younger boy fought back.

“I was just trying to have some fun, kiddo. Ain’t nothin' wrong with that. I bet honey doll misses me already,” the older man went on, licking at his lower lip.

“I’ll knock every last rotting tooth from your mouth if you don’t leave in the next five seconds-"

“Hey, what’s going on over here?” Jake asked in the middle of the commotion, the older man already fleeing the scene. Jake looked at the younger boy first before eventually meeting your eyes. You wish you could hide how shaken up you felt. The container of milk was bleeding out its strong banana scent on the once spotless floor, tears finally streaming down your cheeks.

“Oh my God, Jungwon, what happened,” Heeseung came running over, asking the boy who defended you. “It was nothing,” you interrupted before Jungwon could answer, the three boys standing dumbfounded around you in a puddle of banana milk. “Do you need a ride-" “Don’t worry about me,” your voice cracked in embarrassment.

Is there any way to explain how the world made you ashamed of your own tears?

You left your basket behind, apologizing to Jake who had to clean up the sticky mess. You didn’t wanna leave just yet, afraid that the older guy might be waiting for you outside, so you went to the ladies restroom instead to call your friend Sunoo.

“____?”

You cleared the lump in your throat before answering, “Sunoo,” you began shakily, “I need you to come and pick me up from Goldman's.”

“You sound terrible, is everything okay? You’re worrying me, what happened?”

“I’m sorry, Sun. Everything’s okay, I just really need you right now.”

“____,” he sighed. You suddenly felt guilty for even calling him.

“Sunoo, if you can’t make it, I won’t be mad at you,” you said in between the silence, trying to encourage him to make a choice.

“I-I can’t, well, I can, but, not soon, at least. I’m only an hour away, if you’re willing to wait that long.” The pity in his voice made you wanna cry all over again. Looking at the time on your phone, it was six minutes til midnight, and you refused to haul your best friend out on the road this late. “No, that’s alright, Sunoo. I’ll just call an Uber.”

His side of the phone fell quiet for a moment. “____, I know how much you hate Uber's. Don't do that to yourself because of me."

"I'll be okay, Sun, just get yourself some rest."

He paused before asking, "Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Of course! Call me when you get home!”

You finished up in the bathroom, mentally preparing yourself to face the strangers beyond the not-so-comforting walls of the restroom. To your surprise, Heeseung and Jungwon were still in the store. Huddled around Jake at the checkout counter, the three of them took loud sips from steaming cups of ramen. “Hey, ____,” Heeseung began, resting his snack on the counter. “We could help you file a report against that guy, if you want.”

Jungwon met your eyes with his own sincere ones, “He should pay for the way he treated you.” Jake put your basket from earlier on the counter, dry items taking the place of the previously wet ones.

“Do you still want these," he asked shyly. After everything that happened, you felt empty in more than one way. Some warm broth and noodles is exactly what your body needed at the moment. You nodded, handing Jake a $20 bill. Beeping sounds immediately met your ears as he scanned your items with a strange haste. You looked back to Heeseung and Jungwon.

“Getting the police involved will only make it harder for me to forget this ever even happened. Thank you for your concern, though,” you smile at the humble pair before they took the final gulps from their ramen cups before discarding them.

“Here’s your change,” Jake chirped, handing you the plastic bag of goodies. “Thank you,” you bowed, heading to the exit.

“Y'sure you don't need a ride?” Jungwon asked. You flashed him your phone screen. “Uber,” was all you said before walking into the black of the night, the sliding doors closing behind you.

According to your smartphone, you should expect your chauffeur, Sunghoon, to arrive shortly in a black truck with tinted windows. The vehicle came speeding through the parking lot, a chill wind hitting your features. The truck was so dark, that it almost blended into the night. He rolled down the window, looking you up and down.

"Name?"

"Uh, ____," you said, his blunt question catching you off guard.

"Get in," he replied, directing a thumb to the back seat, unlocking the door as you slid in, bumping into another passenger. Immediately caught by his dark eyes, the boy waved slightly, muttering a deep “Welcome aboard,” before fixing his gaze out the window again. The truck sat idly as Sunghoon delayed taking off, exchanging a few hushed words to the guy sitting in the front passenger's seat.

Click.

The backseat doors opened from both ends, Heeseung, Jungwon, and Jake joining you in the black vehicle. "Scoot over, Niki," Jungwon complained, trying to get comfortable in the crammed space. That's when you saw one last person join you all in the truck, his face capturing the moonlight like a thief.

"Sunoo?! W-what are you doing here? I thought you were an hour away!" All he did was frown in response. He always made that face whenever he was hiding something from you. "Sunoo," you pressed, nudging his shoulder.

"Oh please, would you just shut the hell up already," the hostile driver growled at you.

You screwed your eyes brows in confusion, "What's going on here," you inquired, now feeling anxiety start to creep up on you.

"The very thing I warned you about before you abandoned me," the front passenger bit back.

That voice. You knew exactly who it belonged to.

It was Jay, your looney ex-lover, sitting right in front of you. An angry yet pitiful scowl contaminated his handsome features.

You pushed through Heeseung, reaching for the door handle, only for Niki, the quietest yet scariest one, to snatch your wrist, pulling you into his tantalizing grip. "Let me go," you yelped, only for Jungwon to harshly cover your mouth.

Screech.

Sunghoon pulled off at a dangerous speed, causing your bodies to shake in the truck. Heeseung crossed his legs cooly as if he wasn't just casually talking with you in the store, “So when do we get to have fun with her, again? It’s not like she did any good entertaining me through conversation.”

Jake rolled his eyes at Heeseung, “I could’ve used your enthusiasm when I had to stuff that fat old chick in the freezer. Alone. On top of that, I had to mop the floor quintillion times before the blood stains got out.”

“At least you’d make a good house husband,” Sunghoon joked.

You felt your heart sink to the pit of your stomach at Jake’s confession: He killed Mandy.

"I'm sorry, ____," Sunoo whispered, fighting back tears as he hid his face from you.

Everything was starting to make sense now.

The visions of seven hooded boys.

The clicking sounds you'd hear from outside your window at night.

The way you could never shake the feeling that you were being watched.

Jay’s past words echoed in the back of your mind:

"If you ever decide to leave me, don't ever think that you'll get very far before I catch up. I'll always be watching you."

You bit Jungwon's hand, causing him to retreat his palm from your flushed face. "Sunoo, you betrayed me! You told me that I was paranoid when you knew exactly what was going on behind my back! I felt safe with you...I trusted you! And you fucking lied to me!"

"God, I've had just about enough of her nagging," Niki said, landing a fisted blow across your face. As you faded out of consciousness, Jay tried to soothe your daze.

“Even though I betrayed you and beat you, it was only my funny way of expressing how much I love you. Can’t you see that I did all of that out of love?”

You could still hear Sunoo pleading for your forgiveness in the background as you held onto the last strand of your consciousness.

"I've been watching you for a long time, love. You always try to escape me and I never understood why you just wouldn't listen to me. All I've ever done is love you and try to protect you. This time, I’ll make sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

And that was the last thing you heard before retreating to the vacancy of your mind, floating around in the silence of your oblivion. Left in the hands of seven reckless boys who’d successfully lured you into their cat trap, you didn’t know what to expect once you’d open your eyes, but you knew it wouldn’t be anything good.

In that time, you came to the unsettling conclusion that broken toys were Jay’s favorite, and if you weren’t already broken upon being found, you would be by time he’s done playing with you.

☆ ᴀ/ɴ: in no way, shape, or form does this fanfic intend to romanticize unhealthy relationships or abusive behaviors. i simply write for entertainment and creative purposes. thus, reader discretion is always advised.

☆ ᴘ.ꜱ: special thanks to the fabulous anon who requested this piece! i played around with the plot a bit, but I hope you all enjoyed reading it! if you guys would like a version of this story with a happier ending, let me know in the comments!

☆ taglist (based off of users that personally requested to be on my taglist, my faves, and people that I've noticed interacting with my yandere content) ~

@fanficfactoryfoxxx @ashgonedash @yourmomscuntis2tighy @yngwife @03sunoos @kaykay11sworld @maryismad @gigiramirezsblog @hoonsyo @en-thralled @haechansheart @night-en-shining-armor @cutiejseong

[danithy]

Davesport codependency

Speaking my truth because it's my tumblr and I've yet to be stopped!!1! Davesport - to me at least - is a codependent relationship, regardless of whether you see them as platonic or romantic. 

Although not the cause of their codependency, it is also important to note that there is a connection through the way they are united in their situation. Whereas other springlock victims had their heads replaced with phones and their memories erased, Jack and Dave survived as living corpses with their memories intact. Both regularly received comments on their physicality; Dave most often on his purple skin, and Jack most notably on how he looks soulless in Peter’s speech towards him in the legacy route of dsaf 2. While this isn’t verbally addressed, I do imagine it gives them a sense of companionship which already ties them together. 

Now, for their actual codependency: for Jack, the absence of his soul plays a major role. As Henry said in the found cassette tape: strong emotions manifest in the soul, and these determine the magnitude of a soul. With this I don’t mean to say Jack is emotionless; he still exhibits emotions in several scenes such as regret when redeeming himself as Legacy towards Blackjack, but I do imagine it messed up his already repressed emotional palate because Blackjack is a strong soul considering he was able to drag Henry towards the void. We also never see Jack (seriously) cry, outside of joke endings like soapy ending, but even in the dsaf 3 route he doesn’t cry: the little emotions he does experience are repressed. Dave, in contrast, functions merely on the remnant of his soul which repossesses his corpse and therefore harbours primarily strong emotions. Because Jack’s lack of a soul limits his feelings and emotions, I imagine he experiences them through Dave since the intensity of his soul more easily conveys onto Jack. He depends on Dave to feel alive and human; he is the soul to his heart. 

Now, as for Dave; he depends on his devotion to Henry and his legacy to be able to repossess his corpse, as also speculated by Henry in the joy_2 tape: “My current theory is that he repossessed his own body out of desperation.” To an extent, Dave tries to fill the hole where Henry once was in his life with Jack, exemplified in little ways such as Jack wearing the Fredbear suit and Dave even mentioning that it was Henry’s at some point. Now, there’s a noticeable shift between dsaf 1 & 2: in dsaf 1 Dave doesn’t view Jack as much of an equal, their conversations being impersonal and transactional, along with Dave calling Jack condescending nicknames such as kid. In dsaf 2 this changes; Jack is now exclusively called old sport, Dave follows him on several occasions, and from his diary entries we can see that he’s pretty crazy about Jack. I think this is because, somewhere in Vegas, Dave realised he made a friend who he could sympathise with, instead of a replacement for Henry. This, in my eyes, is what caused part of Dave’s devotion to shift towards Jack. Again, there’s a lot of things that show Dave’s attachment towards Jack is unhealthy; from his diary entries to Davetrap persistently staring through his window. Additionally, Davetrap doesn’t repossess his corpse when Jack decapitates him in dsaf 3’s bad ending, despite technically being able to. This shows that Jack turning on him is enough to finally make him abandon his vessel, and his soul’s devotion relies at least partially on Jack. 

Generally, Dave is more dependent than Jack; he needs Jack to be alive, whereas Jack only needs Dave to feel alive. I think this is also what allowed the 30-year gap between dsaf 2 & 3 where they didn’t see each other to happen. Dave had to be sealed in the saferoom to be kept from Jack, while Jack could manage on his own, although it likely made even more miserable. Doomed apart and doomed together. Basically; I hate them !!1!

[yandere-sins]

Do you think yan Diluc writes love letters?

I actually haven't thought about that yet! But I really like the idea, it's so... disturbingly sweet, if you know what I mean :D

At the end of the day, he's just a fool in love, after all. He might have you in his mansion, locked away with the servants' tongues sealed tight, but he doesn't have your heart. A fact that is both upsetting to his infatuation and heartbreaking on his better days. A small part inside of him wants to understand your point of view, but he keeps telling himself it's for your safety and protection. That he's doing it for you. Everything is all for you.

Still, his feelings rage inside of him. Guilt about doing this to you, longing for you to reciprocate his love. He wishes you wouldn't glare at him so much, never letting him forget he's the villain of your life, while it also frustrates him when you deny any attempt of his to make your life easier. Screaming at him, not eating, throwing your amenities around, all of these behaviors make him angry—at himself. He could never be angry at you, but when you make him feel so helpless, his feelings quickly turn into frustration and anger.

And the worst part? There's no way to communicate this with you.

Your relationship only seems to worsen each day, so how could he make you understand his point of view? Diluc is endlessly tormented by his decision to hide you away—protect you—but he doesn't regret it even in his weakest moments. You need this, you need him. Even if you push him away for the rest of your life, at some point, you must understand that everything he ever did was for your own well-being and nothing less.

But in the meantime, what does he do with all these feelings? Scream them into the forest? Punish other people to make up for his own lack of capabilities? Kill more Fatui? Those are all options as Diluc finds himself slipping further and further into despair about the situation. However, there must be something better. Something that actually helps.

And that's when his eyes fall on the paper and feather on his desk. There was one thing he used to do more frequently when you were still out in the world, finding your place out there and constantly getting into "trouble" (as he would define it). Diluc used to write you short letters, telling you not to go to this or that place he knew was filled with danger and not to see certain people because he had his spies confirm their suspicious activities. All he wanted was to keep you safe and make sure you wouldn't get hurt. It made him feel better to do something, even when you weren't that interested in meeting and talking with him directly.

Maybe this could be the way to go, still?

It's just a jumbled mess of words and feelings at first. Mostly anger—at himself, the world, the fact he had to do what he did to keep you safe. Diluc never blames you, oh no. How could he? You are the best thing to happen in his life, his whole world was made right when he met you. All the pain and suffering disappeared when the hole inside of him filled with love for you. There is nothing to blame you for; it's always someone else's fault. Well, maybe you do have a habit of attracting trouble. You are just too good, too lovely, too wonderful. A beacon of hope in a world sullied by bad people and their even worse intentions.

That's the point where the mess on paper begins to turn into a vaguely unsettling confession of praise. All his emotions shift from negative to positive as he counts down all the things he loves about you, both physical and personality-wise. How much he loves the sparkle in your eyes when you eat your favorite dish, or your laugh, sounding like a symphony of happiness in his ears. That Diluc imagines running his finger over the curve of your nose at least three times a day, and how much he longs to kiss you even if it's selfish of him.

You are just too good, and he is not. How could he ever think he was good enough for you?

But he simply continues, page after page, until all his feelings are laid bare on the paper. It has his heart pounding and his breath unsteady, but once it's out, Diluc's head clears. He stares at the endless profession of love and devotion before him and suddenly blushes way too hard for a man his age, quickly grabbing the papers and shoving them into a drawer. No one should ever see the vulnerability he displayed, although he wishes he could show it... to you.

It's not long until the feelings threaten to overwhelm him again, and he sends everyone away as everyone else just agitates him more. When he finally reaches the breaking point, he is already back in front of the paper, realizing he has to write these feelings out. It's the only way to get rid of them, no matter what. Diluc even starts neatly folding and sealing them with wax as if they were letters, buying an expensive wooden box just to keep them.

Every time he adds a new letter to the slowly growing mass, he longs to show them to you more and more. It's like a little devil on his shoulder, taunting him for being weak. How will he protect you if he can't even give you a letter with his feelings? You'd probably feel terribly inconvenienced by it, but then again, there isn't as much to do as you were used to, so maybe reading his thoughts and feelings would actually bring you two closer?

Diluc walks up and down in front of the door to your room for a long while, holding the letter in his hand, thinking of all the possibilities. This cost more overcoming his own anxiety than anything he had ever done before. But it needs to happen. You have to know. He owes it to you. He loves you.

Bursting through your door, you are slightly startled to see him, but he steps up to you confidently, holding out the letter, hoping for you to read it and understand. Diluc waits for a few seconds until you take it, then nods and leaves again, stopping only when he is halfway out the door before turning back. And perhaps for the first time... ever, he smiles. Brightly, warmly, a little boyish. This is the start of your relationship with each other, and even if you don't agree, he now has delivered the message you need to understand him.

The only question that remains is...

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Like there was no tomorrow." CH.2—Daryl Dixon.

Chapter Summary: Everything seems peaceful the few days you spend in the prison while your best friend recovers from an illness, but after a rough night when walkers threaten to break in, the so–called Governor attacks the place the next day, causing Daryl's group to scatter, leaving you and him to go on your own.

PAIRING: Daryl Dixon x reader

WARNING: Death, blood, a lot of bad words hehe (but also romance and even some comedy if I can get it right hehe)

ERA: From prison onwards.

A/N: Sorry if this is boring :( I didn't elaborate on the fight between the prison group and the governor because they were different scenes and this chapter was getting really long, but I hope you like it. Spoiler alert: Daryl talking bad about your falcon a few times made me laugh hehe

Chapter 1

“What happened to your arm?”

With a slight nod, you point to Daryl’s left arm, specifically to the inner part of his elbow that is covered by white tape. On the way back to the prison, the quiet place stretches between a dirt road and dust that the car kicks up, trees on the sides and a lot of vegetation that almost creates the illusion that nothing happened to the world, but every so often when you two leave behind a walker that is swinging aimlessly along the road, you realize that nothing is as it used to be.

“Nothin’.” Daryl shifts uncomfortably, shooting you a glance before looking ahead. You roll your eyes even though you knew you were probably the only person Daryl had ever fully opened up to, (showing you his scars and all), but he still maintained that reserved personality of his even when the world had changed, and it’s silly, but you are kinda glad to know those little things are still intact. “Can ya tell yer rat to stop lookin' at me like that?”

Sitting on your right wrist, Aeris has her eyes fixed on Daryl, her deep, dark–colored gaze watching for the slightest movement, but it’s like she’s searching the depths of his soul. It’s an overflowing interest that makes you chuckle.

“Look at my baby hating you.” Your free hand strokes her soft fur, black and white feathers and a mix of them. “Good girl.”

Daryl frowns.

“How ya even know she’s a girl? Did ya look up her skirt?”

You try to hide the mockery in your next words.

“Aeris was hurt when I found her, but she learned to listen to the walkers as you call them and find her way out of those flesh—eating things on her own. I don’t mean to insult you, but I don’t think a boy would be that smart without being taught first.” You shrug. “You know that men’s stupidity knows no bounds.”

Daryl scoffs.

“Yer hatred is bigger than yer height.”

Shocked, you laugh.

“Asshole!”

He looks at you in exasperation, but remembering and missing those old times.

“Woman, ain’t ya tired of cursin’ at me? I still don' know how I let ya kiss me with that dirty mouth.”

You frown, playing dumb.

“Well, it’s not like a curse you while running, is it?”

Daryl scoffs again, but a smile appears on his lips.

“Yer silly, y’know?”

You chuckle, settling into your seat as the sight of the prison comes into view. The place is big, but so is the horde of walkers stacked against the fence, always growling, all day and all night, hands outstretched and mouths open in their relentless attempt to kill. A man and a woman are on the other side, stabbing their knives into their heads through the grates, trying to lessen the dead weight hanging over the bars.

When the man sees the car arrive, he opens the secondary and main gates, and Daryl drives inside through both as the people outside seal the place back up. The moment the car shuts off, you put Aeris on your shoulder to grab your backpack from the floor, opening the door to feel the first rays of the day’s sun on your covered skin. The grass is losing its color, and in the distance you can see the land that has been piled up, with cross—shaped woods on top of it.

Graves.

When you turn to meet the two people, the young woman stops dead in her tracks, the man a step behind.

“Shit. Is that a falcon?” Her beautiful green eyes glint in the light, but her gaze is unsure.

“No. S' a flyin’ rat.” Daryl stops beside you, but he ignores the serious look you give him. “(Y/N), this is Maggie and Rick. This is (Y/N), my…”

His next words hang in the warm air.

“Believe it or not, I’m his ex. And probably the only one.” You smile as you shake their hands, trying to hide your laughter at Maggie’s incredulous look, the way her mouth struggles not to hang open in surprise and Rick’s frown and slightly widened eyes. “Nice to meet you two.”

“Yeah. Same here.” Maggie clears her throat before continuing, trying not to smile too much as she glances at Daryl before looking back at you. “I’ll take you to Sam.”

You nod before walking with her, leaving the men behind. Daryl's gaze follow you, his blue eyes narrowing under the stifling heat and the feeling of being exposed like that, because you always had that strange power over him, the way you could mock him and he would hate you silently (again, not seriously) while saying thank you at the same time.

Love was confusing, and stupid sometimes. Daryl knew that better than anyone, but when he turns around to meet Rick, he has to swallow, trying to keep a serious expression.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just… you never mentioned you had a girlfriend." Rick shakes his head, doing his best not to smile too much. "She's beautiful and she looks like she can take care of herself, you know? With the gun and her falcon, but she kinda hates you. I can see that."

Looking away for a few seconds, Daryl swears in a low voice.

"Nah. Hatin' me is her love language." Suddenly tired of that conversation, Daryl walks away towards the fence, without being able to hear Rick's chuckle. "C'mon, I'll help ya clear the way."

Back inside the prison, you find out Sam was developing peritonitis from her appendix, which was a few days away from rupturing but was treated in time, thankfully. You feel relief in your bones knowing that surgery wasn’t necessary, and although Maggie’s dad could perform it, knowing that he’s a vet made you feel slightly nervous but infinitely grateful.

“So…” Maggie tries not to smile too much, still in disbelief, because she too finds it strange and fascinating to know more about Daryl’s past, considering that he didn’t let much of himself show. “You and Daryl? I see you like men who don’t comb their hair.”

You laugh.

“What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants.”

She laughs with you, leading you towards the cells on the left of the large place.

“I met Daryl when the group came to our farm, and no offense, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of man who was in a relationship, was it something serious?”

“Uh. Something like that…” You shrug, just to downplay the silent pain that came after that night. “We actually broke up months before all this started. But don’t let his rudeness fool you, because between us…” You move closer to her a little, only to whisper a comical revenge against him. “Daryl liked to cuddle.”

Maggie has to cover her mouth with a hand to keep from laughing out loud, stopping at a half—open cell.

“When you’re done talking to Sam, I’ll be outside if you want to join us.”

She gives you a kind smile, the same one you return.

“Thank you, Maggie.”

As she walks away, you enter the cell. The first thing you see is Sam’s hair that’s spread out on the pillow, hands clasped together over her stomach, one of her arms hooked up to an IV, closed eyes that flutter open as she senses your presence in the small room. At that moment, her tired face lights up through the pain she’s surely still feeling inside, but she smiles when she sees you sit on the edge of the small bed, Aeris making a sound that seems to be her own way of greeting her friend.

“I’m glad to see your favorite girl has taken care of you while I’m gone.”

As your hand takes hers, Sam squeezes it lightly, sighing at your warmth mixing with her own.

“Don’t be jealous. You two are my favorite girls.” You chuckle, but the happiness merges with the huge relief in your chest at seeing your person still alive. “I’m so happy to see you’re okay, Sami. I guess running into Daryl wasn’t a curse after all.”

You’re joking to lighten the mood and she knows it, laughing with you at Daryl’s expense.

“Daryl’s been so attentive ever since I got here that night, always coming to check on me, asking if I needed anything else, even staying to talk to me for a while, though we always ended up talking about you.” Sam smiles, weakly. “It’s pretty clear that Daryl hasn’t forgotten you, love. But really, maybe that’s why I wasn’t surprised when Maggie told me that he was the one who gave me blood all this time.”

For a second, you feel your heart stop, eyes slightly wider, but now the tape on his arm makes all the sense in the world.

“What?”

“Yeah. He even joked that he had special magical blood. Didn't Daryl tell you that?"

You shake your head softly, trying to put your scattered thoughts in order.

“You met him. Daryl is awfully quiet most of the time.”

“Really?” Sam frowns, but keeps a smile. “Well, with you, Daryl seemed like a different person. I liked the way he looked at you, kind of intense, but it seemed like he was trying to tell you what you meant to him: maybe the poor guy didn’t know how to use his words. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice his hand on your lower back.”

For a few seconds, your gaze gets lost in an empty spot in the room. There in the back of your mind, stored deep in your memories, you always thought about his reasons for breaking up with you when everything seemed to be fine. The lack of love was painful but understandable, but other reasons didn’t seem to make sense, not when it was Merle who said that, if Daryl had fallen in love, he would be in love for life.

“But that’s in the past.” You say, looking back at her. “Now we just have to worry about you getting better so we can go home.”

Sam nods, though neither you nor she delves into the fact that maybe the word home no longer exists.

“How are the old folks? I miss them. You left them protected, right?"”

You smile softly.

“They're fine, worried about you, but fine. And yes, I left them all the things they needed until we can go back.”

When Sam’s eyes begin to close, you can see the heaviness of her exhaustion, so you let her rest before heading out of the prison to help.

When another heavy night falls, and with a candle that smells like cinnamon and that hides the rottenness of the outside and the world in general, the silence keeps you company as you turn the page of the book about exotic animals on the table of what used to be the prison dining room. You had already read that book a couple of times, but the words silence the thoughts in your head, loud words capable of driving the sanest person crazy, those voices that were only your own fear of dying in the most grotesque way possible. You had already seen how the walkers destroyed the skin, making their way through as if it were chewing gum, images that played in your head when it was time to sleep, and for that very reason, you no longer slept much.

But just when a sharp pain in your lower back begins to throb and your hand finds that region, you hear someone's footsteps before seeing Daryl at the entrance.

“Hey. I thought ya were sleepin'.” He says, approaching, always in that low, hoarse voice. “Ya okay?”

“Yeah, my back hurts a little.”

Daryl sits down on the long iron chair, his legs on either side.

“Why? And don’ tell me s' cause yer gettin' old.”

You chuckle.

“It’s nothing…” Your hand leaves that area, only to pretend it doesn’t hurt like it does now. “During the time this started I went through a tin roof while Sam and I were escaping a horde of walkers. After the pain and the shock, it was pretty funny actually. I just... disappeared like a damn magic trick!” You laugh, earning a scoff from Daryl because he didn’t find that memory funny while hating himself knowing that you were hurt along the way. “Luckily I landed on my back and not on my knees.”

As if someone is squeezing his heart, Daryl tries to pretend not to notice the pain of having left you alone when the two of you could have escaped the city, together.

“Turn around.” He says, seriously.

You frown, looking at him in confusion.

“Why?”

“Woman, jus' turn around.” You do it, in the chair, placing one leg on the other side so your back is facing him. You can guess what he’s about to do, but knowing doesn’t slow down your heart rate when you feel the contact of his fingers on your shirt, right in the area where Sam said he always put his hand. “Here?”

“Yeah.” Your back arches slightly under the pain, but at the same time, the pressure he exerts is pleasurable. For a moment, silence reigns in the room, and while it’s not awkward, because you enjoyed his silence as much as hearing his voice, you have to clear your throat to make any noise other than your heartbeat. “You’re not doing this to get into my pants, are you?”

Daryl chuckles.

“I don’ think ya’ll lemme get in yer pant ever again.”

You chuckle, too.

“Nope. You’re banned from that place forever.”

When his hands leave your body after a while, you turn back around, but the thanks you’re about to give him gets stuck in your throat when he speaks again.

“Where’s yer flyin’ rat?”

The sarcasm in his voice makes you roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, I guess she went out to eat, but if you’re good maybe Aeris will bring you a squirrel for you to eat in a stew.”

Daryl scoffs, but you know him too well to know that he wants to laugh.

“I’ve never eaten falcon.”

The corner of his lip curls into a smile and you laugh sarcastically, because even though you know he’s joking, Aeris is a daughter to you.

“Do something to her, and this time it’ll be a bullet that hits your forehead and not a peach.”

You stand up, closing the book and ending the conversation, but before you can take a step, Daryl's hand closes around yours, stopping you.

“Peach, hey, I was jus’ messin’ with ya.”

You can see the worry on his face, and hear the apologies in the way his deep voice turns soft, but the more he looks at you, the more it feels like you might sink into a new kind of ocean.

“I know.” You say, smiling slightly to reassure him. “I was just going to wait for her outside. Do you want to go or do you have something more important to do?”

The relief in his eyes is clear, transparent in the way his gaze softens as Daryl stands up. You two walk in silence for a moment, but it feels like the night breeze can bring back old memories, old feelings, an echo that you can only hear in your ears.

And for some reason, it feels like going back to the beginning where you two were only strangers, because when you read a story from its first page, the characters are presented as two different worlds, travelers who venture to explore unknown territory, and when they meet, for the first time, it’s like witnessing the collision of two universes. But no one teaches you the risks of falling in love.

“I, uh…” You think deeply about your next words, and if it’s okay to say them out loud, but when he looks at you intently, it’s like the night brings back memories of when your mom died and he was there for you, all the time. “I’m so sorry about Merle, Daryl. I saw the cross outside with his name on it.”

Daryl mourns his brother’s death, but he can’t help but remember the best, colorful memories of the times he shared with you, which are turning blue inside him, because in that moment of loneliness when Merle left, Daryl wanted nothing more than to be with you.

“Thanks, peach.”

But as time mercilessly pursues you and prevents you from falling into a deeper conversation like the night outside the prison, your gazes turn towards the terrifying scene in front of the two of you the moment the door connecting to the outside opens. On the left side of the place, the outer gate falls under the weight of the horde of walkers, and although the second inner gate stops them for a few minutes, it won’t be enough.

“Hey! Rick!” Daryl is only a few steps away from him and a young boy with a sheriff hat, and Rick turns around showing his own fear as time runs out. “We need to use the guns, s’ the only way.”

Rick nods, quickly.

“Okay, Daryl says you know how to shoot, right, (Y/N)?” You nod too, and he runs a few steps back to the pile of guns in a large canvas box. His breathing is ragged, just like the others as Rick hands a long gun to the young boy, doing the same with you as Daryl takes one on his own, each of you filling your pockets with ammunition. “Carl, (Y/N), magazine goes in here. Release is here. Make sure it latches. Pull back the operating rod and rounds feed up. Keep squeezing the trigger for rapid fire, okay?” As Rick takes the lead while he explains the workings of the weapon, he takes a second to lean over the boy. “You fire or you run. Don’t let them get close. Okay?”

The moment the gate finally falls and the first walkers take the first step towards you all, time gives Daryl a second to look at you.

“I’ll be fine.” You say quietly before looking ahead.

In the no longer so silent night, the sound of incessant gunfire resonates, taking down the first row of walkers who fall forever this time, silencing their grunts as you all do the same with the next group and the one behind. The tail of the gun hits you in the shoulder, a bump each time you fire a bullet that hits the heads of those who used to be normal people, with normal jobs, being someone else’s family. But it’s funny how the suffocating situation still allows you to remember how your dad exercised that paternal authority over you, always doing what he wanted you to do, but as the last walkers finally return to the land where they belong, you can’t help but give a silent thanks to the man who, unknowingly, saved your life in that new world.

When the last walker is shot down and the last bullet is fired, silence falls over everyone like a foggy night.

“Ya okay, peach?” You feel Daryl’s hand on your shoulder, and it’s like waking up from a trance under the warmth of his fingers.

“Uh? Yeah.” You nod at him while, above your head, you hear the sounds Aeris makes before landing on your shoulder.

“Shit. Is that a falcon?”

The moment the young boy turns to check that everyone is okay, his eyes stop on Aeris, admiring her in fascination.

Rick chuckles.

“(Y/N), this is my son Carl. Carl, this is (Y/N), Daryl's…”

It’s confusing for everyone.

“I’m not related to this man, not at all…” You shake your head, pointing at him, so seriously that you hear Daryl scoffs. “It’s a pleasure, Carl. This is Aeris.”

“That's cool. And she’s beautiful.” He smiles.

And between that thick feeling of terror and confusion, it’s almost funny and sad to see the innocence in a young man who surely learned to shoot to protect his life and others.

A few hours later and in the farthest part of the prison where the sick were quarantined, everyone finally got a break from danger as the dead came back to life in that place too. Now, in the solitude of your own cell, sitting on the edge of the small bed, it’s endearingly awkward the way Daryl silently enters, trying to get closer to you as he sits down next to you. But for a moment, it’s as if you both need a minute to contemplate with different eyes what just happened, the constant game of tug–of–war with death, surviving one more day.

“Ya okay?” He asks, his voice low. “Ya look a lil’ shocked.”

You take a deep breath, trying to let go of the bad feelings.

“Yeah, it’s just… I never believed, not for a second, that the way my dad forced me to learn how to shoot was going to save my life one day. And at this point in my life, I know well how to do it, but I never imagined I’d actually have to.”

Daryl nods, but when the ocean depths in his eyes stare at you, you fear what he might say.

“Can ya stay?” It’s a question, but it sounds like a plea that makes you hold your breath. “Ya an’ Sam can stay here. We can… find a way to bring yer new parents over.”

His words are tender, but something stops you from saying yes.

“Mark’s not going to leave his home. I know him, and asking him will only make him feel like a burden, and I don’t want to put him through that. Thank you, really… I really appreciate what you did for Sam. You and everyone here.” When you look back at him, you think of the times you told yourself that if you fell too deep into his gaze, you’d just have to swim back to the surface. “I’m glad to know you found a family, really, but this isn’t my place, Daryl.”

Daryl has to look away when his fears threaten to overwhelm him, but they are enough to fill the emptiness of the world.

“Try to sleep, peach.”

And coldly, he leaves.

But when morning comes, it all happens in the blink of an eye.

The man with the eye patch kills Hershel without any remorse in front of his daughter and the group, his new family, and then, there are gunshots and injuries when a battle breaks out, fire and explosions, and a tank knocking down the fences while letting the walkers in. Out of focus, like being outside your own head and body: one by one, behind a wall, you shoot those who try to shoot you and the people around. But the big group disperses into small ones, the injured and some children, and there are screams everywhere, words you can't make out over the repetitive sound of the bullets. From somewhere in the distance, you hear Sam's voice, but it's like the wind is pushing it through you and into the smoke, getting lost forever.

But there are too many walkers for you alone, and in your own escape plan, while taking down the man who got out of the tank and others trying to get away, you find Daryl just as he shoots another guy in the head with an arrow.

“Daryl…”

He's out of breath when he turns around, but the surrender in his gaze is overwhelming.

“Peach, we need to go.”

You take one last look at the fallen prison, nodding as you look back at him.

But once far away and with a full view of the place, the sight is heartbreaking, lonely despite all the walkers that begin to enter the prison. Fire and smoke are the only things you hope are left in the ruined place, an image that sticks in your memory as you begin to turn your back to enter the woods.

The ammunition in your pockets weighs like you’re carrying lead, but with a shaking hand against your lips and a whistle traveling through the place, the pressure in your chest is released slightly as Aeris’s voice echoes, until the moment she lands on your shoulder.

“Peach, hey, we need a plan, okay?” Daryl’s hand stops you.

“I have a plan…” You turn to him, the gun still in your hand and your breathing ragged, hot in your chest like you have a fever, but you want to believe it’s because of the strength you used to run there, and not because of the fear of losing your family. “Ellie didn’t answer last night when I tried to talk to her on the walkie–talkie, and she always answers. I want to believe that Sam is okay, that she will be able to protect herself with the little I was able to teach her all this time, but Ellie doesn’t know how.”

However, when you try to turn around again, Daryl stops you when he steps in front of you.

“Can ya wait a damn minute?” He breathes through slightly parted lips, his chest rising and falling at an abnormal pace. “It took us a whole day to get here from the city, and ya wanna walk back there? ya crazy, woman?”

In a second, you feel like circumstances have put back that concrete wall life once put between the two of you when you parted, and it’s then that the world regains sound when you realize that this could be the end. So, gathering courage, you dare to look deeply into his eyes because you no longer have time to be afraid, because heartless time has finally caught up with you.

“Maybe I am a little crazy…” You try to laugh, but your smile falters. “You know something? I once told you that I was trying to find my place in the old world we lived in, to do something useful with my life so that it would have meaning the day I die, and I think now is the time. I don’t care if it takes me a week or a month, I’m going to get to them. You can do whatever you want, anyway, that’s what you always do…”

The moment you start walking, Daryl knows again that falling for you years ago was forbidden, like biting the apple of discord every night in which, secretly, you two enjoyed clandestine encounters, because the desire to be together was like fire inside him, and you, you were going to be the only person for whom he was going to fall in love deeply, he knew it and he would know it forever.

“Ya don’ know why I broke up with ya.”

With a broken smile, you try to push the memories of that night to the back of your mind, because, in a constant struggle between your mind and your heart, that last one wanted to believe that you two could have worked out despite the fears and insecurities.

“So what? Do you want to tell me now?”

The air of the world doesn’t seem enough to reach the emptiness that your departure left in his chest, but now, Daryl knows that he will follow you to the end of the world, or to hell itself if necessary. So, with a grunt that masks his feelings, Daryl starts walking in your direction, muttering under his breath before continuing on.

“Yer insufferable sometimes.” As he passes you, you chuckle as you start walking in the same direction. “If anythin' happens to us, we’re eatin’ yer rat.”

And among that world that tries to continually tear you down, slowly kill you, you find a small spark of hope among the ruins.

Or so you thought.

@fluffy-dixon @stunkbiggu @kurogxrix @carbonnite-copy

[the-fictional-wife]

Finding Happiness (Itachi Uchiha x reader)- 1

This is the start of a series of scenarios for post-war Itachi (yes he lives) finding happiness with you! I miss fluff in Itachi's tag so why not make my own.

I want to mainly focus on the relationship but some chapters down the line will explain more plot also the chapter sequences might not end up in chronological order^^

This will be fem reader heads up so she/her pronouns!

Even though this isn't nsfw, some things in this series won't be exactly appropriate so imma still say MDNI!

////- means pov switch

Word count: 2.0k+

Chapter 1- Grocery Shopping + Cafe Cuties Next Chapter?

“I want to help.”

“You should want to take it easy instead,” you sigh. Itachi was up...yet again to help despite being on mandatory bedrest to help his body regain its strength back. He’s restless; it’s easy to understand; he’s banned from missions, and staying home is rather dull, but...

“Tsunade strictly said you were to rest while on house arrest. That’s the whole point I’m here.” You rest your arm on the cool kitchen countertop to grab a pen and begin writing down a shopping list with a huff.

“....”

At the silence, you turn around with pursed lips to face Itachi only to stifle a laugh when you see his face: eyebrows furrowed, lips just slightly jutted-

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.

“I would argue three weeks of nothing but bed imprisonment is adequate enough rest, don’t you agree.” Itachi huffs. 

After weeks of being detained right alongside Sasuke, Kakashi made the executive decision that Itachi deserved something better than a jail cell: temporary house arrest. 

With a babysitter. 

You glance at Itachi’s mildly annoyed face, momentarily taking in the sight.

You’ll spare him...for today.

“hm...fine, the sun would do you well anyway.” You finish writing the list and hand it to Itachi, whose eyes blankly rake the paper, then folds it into his pocket.

“Well, let’s go,” You stand at the doorway where a large black seal awaits, designed to trigger the alarm around Itachi’s ankle. Weaving the signs, you both squint at the burst of light before ushering him out the door.

As the two of you walk out of the Uchiha compound, you ponder over the last few weeks with Itachi. You can’t count the heart attacks you’ve gotten from seeing an empty bed and surprise; he was admiring the fish. 

He is a quiet, stealthy patient, somewhat akin to an 87-year-old senior citizen. On the more serious end, you think back solemnly; his eyes had often reflected his concession to emptiness. Sunken in and soulless.

‘But now…’ You peer at Itachi from the corner of your eye.

His eyes sharp and attentive; the color is back in his face; sunkissed pink cheeks, his short sleeve shirt giving view to his lean muscles-

‘He’s actually kinda...’ 

////

Itachi can’t tell if it’s the heat of your gaze or the sun flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze washes over him, a captivating light he yearns to forever bask in. Domesticity is a variable of life he is unacquainted with and…undeniably undeserving of. 

And yet, the further you expose him to gentleness, affection, and peace, the more he greedily deludes himself into that he belongs.

Encompassed in a life of peace he’s desperately craved, peace he’s found with you.

Within the shinobi existence, emotions, relationships…living. All become an unforeseeable luxury.  

It’s unsettling to desire. To be human.

Itachi silently shifts his eyes toward you, observing as you conceal your face, abashed from being caught. He finds himself smitten. 

“You were looking a little pale. If you feel weak at any time, don’t be afraid to lean on me.” 

A lie, of course. An utterly endearing one.

‘Perhaps, in this life…’

He capitalizes on the chance anyway. 

‘…I can be selfish.’

////

As you head into the village, you feel something creep around your arm. 

Neither of you acknowledge it.

+++

Your arm is still intertwined with Itachi’s as you both find purchase in a decently sized everything market. Waving to the cat perched in the front, you read the aisle numbers with its affiliated products: ‘Household items- 1, Toys- 2, Jewelry- 4,...Fruits & Dairy- 5’. After detecting where you wanted to begin, you guys head to your destination, avocados. 

Itachi lightly tugs your arm, signaling your attention.

“It’ll be quicker if we split. The potatoes are within eye range; I’ll only be a minute.” Your face scrunches in; reluctantly, you let go with a poorly concealed pout.

“... don’t trust me? I promise I’ll return to you shortly.” With that, Itachi saunters, leaving a lingering graze against your skin. 

You pause, leaving the way your heart palpitates unavowed. ‘A kiss would have sufficed,’ you snicker and return to your dilemma with hunched shoulders.

You’re on your fifth avocado before you give a groan of defeat. “I can’t tell which ones are good or not; they all look the same,” you mumble, distracted enough to miss the figure peering closer.

“May I see?”

His gentle whisper tickles your ear, you force the quiver down your spine to still- even when you feel his careless lips making one too many brushes to your ear, you wordlessly nod yes.

His broad chest and feather touch of his hair against your cheek overwhelm your senses as he reaches his arm around your waist to probe at the fruit you have in hand.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart beats.

“Hmm...this one is ripe. You can tell by the dark color and firmness...good eye.” Within a blink, the weight of Itachi’s presence vanished, and he pulled away.

Ah. That.

“R-right, thank you,” you fumbled over your wording and rushed to the edge of the aisle. “Okay, let’s split from here to make things easier; I do the first half of the list, you do the last. Capeesh?” Fingers bend into a okay sign; you give a shaky grin and rush down to the next aisles, leaving Itachi to fend for himself.

“...” Itachi blinks, idly standing before he lets out a defeated puff of air.

 ‘...It appears I’ve made a mistake.’ With furrowed brows, he peers down at the list with a harsh, focused stare.

Your mind hasn’t left Itachi as your heart physically pains in guilt; it’s his first time out in weeks, and you flat leave him. Putting your final item in your shopping basket, you haul it down Itachi’s direction, only to find him in the exact same position as before.

Tilting your head, you ask befuddled, “Itachi, what are you doing?...” Oh. 

You steer closer, and the pitiful sight in front of you makes your shoulders pull straight; Itachi’s eyes strain, glaring down at the paper an inch away from his face at a poor attempt at reading the words.

He can’t see.

‘How long has he been-’ you quickly shuffle in your bag and call for Itachi’s attention. “You should’ve said something! I had brought your glasses with me, but I completely forgot about it-” Itachi takes it with a grateful upturn of his lips.

“Thank you..” He mutters, drawing his attention back to the list. “We are still missing the tomatoes and bread; I passed them earlier on our way in. Follow me.” Itachi gingerly takes your wrist in hand and leads you down the correct aisle.

Soon after you paid, you’ve collectively decided to grab a bite to eat. “Itachi, you smell that?” You sigh out an exhale; an alluringly sweet smell wafts itself above all the open markets along the sides from a small corner amongst the buildings. A mini cafe.

You brush against the roughness of Itachi’s calloused fingers, only grabbing his pinkie to lead him down.

You’ll pretend like you didn’t see the way he flushed. 

+++

Slouching in the seat across Itachi, you flex out the ache in your fingers from the weight of the bags as you wait for your shared order of dangos.

“I’ll assist you with the baggage on our way out.”

Looking up in disbelief, you scoff,  “Hell no- you’re still in recovery.”

“Don’t overwork yourself for my sake....”

Hypocrite.

You open your mouth to respond, only to suppress yourself at the sight of the waiter approaching.

The waiter smiles while serving your drink and food, then turns over and carelessly drops Itachi’s tea, droplets splashing onto Itachi’s lap.

With a twitching smile, the waiter laughs, “Oh, how clumsy of me, you should get yourself clean. You mutt; should be easy for a traitor, always covering his dirt.” Your mouth is agape, eyes shifting from Itachi to the waiter.

Itachi remains unfazed, his gaze fixed on the waiter with an air of nonchalance. It’s almost patronizing. The waiter scowls, turning away from the stare-down, muttering his pitiful complaints about Itachi’s mere presence.

“Geez, what was their problem?” You scoff side eyeing the waiter. Itachi sits silently, sipping his tea, looking down at his plate with a vacant stare. “...Itachi, you okay? I’ll go backhand a bitch for you, they had no right to treat you like that.” 

Itachi’s eyes shift to you at your aggressive demeanor. “Don’t. I’ve made peace with my past; their hate will only torment themself.” 

A lie. For a brisk moment, you noted how his mug trembled under the tension of his grip. You make a tsk noise, propping your head onto your hand, reluctantly letting the situation go.

Glancing up, Itachi discerns how your lips are still pulled into a snarl, glowering in the general direction of the offender. 

‘Hm, that won’t do.’

Rolling back the ache in his shoulders, he figures he could relieve your tension. If it’d make you smile,

“…besides…”

He’d be a fool. 

You turn back over with an inquiring hum.

“...they just aren’t sigma enough to control themself.” He returns to sipping his tea.

“…”

“....”

“Pfft- WHAT” You break the silence, convulsing with laughter. “I-Itachi, don’t ever say that in your life again- I’m not a good influence on you.” Still unable to break the giggles, you look at Itachi’s soft stare and slowly compose yourself under his unwavering gaze.

You cough in your hand and shift your eyes away.

“Let’s eat.”

You fall into a rhyme of chewing and idle conversation. 

“See, now you’re lying! I never laughed when you put your glasses on-” The table shifts from the weight of your knee. You firmly dangle Itachi’s wrist away from his glasses as he attempted to remove them a few seconds ago.

“...you couldn’t even catch your breath.”

“I was just surprised! I’ve never seen your eyes so…beady.” You tremble, holding back a cackle. His prescription, unfortunately, made his lens the size of a brick, but thankfully, Tsunade aided in making it more suitable.

“So now my eyes are beady,” His voice barely whispers, he looks off to the side. A look of dismay washed over your face; you cusp his face between your hands, pulling his gaze back up to you.

“Hey- don’t get all mopey; you know I think you’re cute with the glasses on.” You softly look to reassure him, guilty over your tease...until you notice the subtle twitch in his lips, a poor attempt at maintaining his stoic facade.

He was joking. 

Itachi shifts his weight into your palms, eyes closed in total serenity. “Do I?...”

‘Absolutely full of himself.’ You express your annoyance with an eye roll and flop back into your seat, leaving Itachi’s head to hang.

‘...did I displease her again.’ Itachi looks down at the final dango stick and holds it to you.

“Here, a truce for forgiveness.”

“But, that’s your favorite…and we bought that with your budget-” you sheepishly add.

“Please, I insist, I...don’t think I can finish this.” Itachi gives a light smile as he hovers the stick to your lips.

The blood rising to your face makes you dazed as you brush aside bits of your hair and savor the first dango ball on your tongue with a hum.

You swear it tastes sweeter from him.

“Thank you, Itachi; consider yourself forgiven.” You say before opening your mouth for the next one.

+++

-------------------------------

“All done,” you brush your hands off proudly after putting away all the supplies and produce. When cleaning up the bags, you notice a mini bag that looks different from the rest. 

‘Could this be Itachi’s?...’ You gently spread open the bag, eyes widening in astonishment; a beautiful crystal necklace sweetly lying in a small box with a small note tagged onto the front.

It reads,

‘I hope it’s to your liking, I noticed you wear this color frequently. Let this be a mark of our friendship ~ Itachi.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Heyyy haven't wrote anything since like 2021 but I might be back probably, probably not- This is pretty self-indulgent but hope yall still enjoyed ^^

Do I think Itachi would say "sigma" if it meant you'd laugh for him after feeling like he depressed the mood? YES. Live with my canon.

Do I think Itachi actually likes physical touch but is just touch starved? YES. I'm projecting.

Any sort of love is appreciated don't be shy to say hi and good luck to everyone during finals week!

*Also-If you have any tips on writing + writing Itachi please let me know!

[mariacallous]

One of the bleakest places on Earth today is the central processing facility for the remains of dead soldiers in the Russian city of Rostov-on-Don, the logistical hub of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Designed to process hundreds of corpses at a time, this sprawling mega-morgue has been hopelessly overwhelmed for many months. Footage from the inside, posted by witnesses on social media, shows hundreds of bodies in various stages of decomposition and limbs strewn across the corridor floors. In wooden boxes lining the walls from floor to ceiling, row after row after row, are the lucky ones: those whose bodies were recovered from the battlefield, identified, sealed in zinc-lined caskets, and prepared for dispatch to their grieving relatives in the farthest corners of Russia. Many more corpses have been abandoned to rot in Ukrainian fields because evacuating them is impractical under the constant barrage of the defenders’ artillery and drones.

To be sure: These soldiers’ deaths are the necessary consequence of Ukraine’s right to defend itself against an illegal war of conquest. What’s more, many of these ordinary Russian soldiers likely committed despicable brutality and war crimes against Ukrainians, including defenseless civilians. But the horrific rate at which Russians are getting killed at the front—much higher than corresponding Ukrainian losses, although exact numbers are kept secret by both sides—points to two disturbing truths about the Russian way of waging war. First, a cruel disregard for human life extends to Russia’s own forces, which the Kremlin systematically deploys in so-called meat grinder and human-wave attacks. Second, mass death among Russian troops has become part of an increasingly explicit eugenics policy, by which the Kremlin seeks to rid Russia of undesirable elements and reconfigure the Russian population. The eugenics aspect of Russia’s war has long been an open secret, widely discussed on Russian talk shows and social media. Now, a high-ranking Russian politician has made it plain for the first time.

The numbers boggle the mind. With an estimated rate of 1,500 casualties per day, October was the bloodiest month of the war for Russia as President Vladimir Putin throws everything he has into battle. Estimates for total Russian war deaths range from 115,000 to 160,000, more than 10 times Soviet combat deaths in Afghanistan. Total Russian casualties—killed and wounded—are estimated at around 800,000. According to Anastasia Kashevarova, a rabidly pro-war Russian journalist, the average Russian infantry soldier lasts less than one month at the front before being killed. With casualties exceeding Russia’s ability to recruit fresh soldiers, few of the troops receive any serious training before they’re sent to assault the Ukrainian lines.

It’s not just lives that Russia is losing in astonishing numbers—equipment, too, is being lost at a rate far beyond what’s possible to replenish from weapons production or dwindling stocks. According to WarSpotting, an open-source intelligence project that uses video confirmation to track Russian equipment losses, Russia lost more than 500 pieces of heavy equipment in October—including tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, and aircraft—twice as many as during the Battle of Grozny from 1994 to 1995, whose catastrophic losses in men and equipment demoralized Russian forces and society at the time. Today, some of the largest Russian military storage bases have almost been stripped clear of equipment, with even old Soviet-era tanks and armored vehicles dragged to the front.

Russian politicians, pundits, and ordinary citizens, who fantasize publicly about mass murdering Ukrainians, make no secret of the view that their own soldiers’ lives are worth hardly more. The shift to World War II-style meat grinder tactics has been widely and passionately discussed on pro-war Telegram channels since the battle for Bakhmut, which began in the summer of 2022 and lasted almost an entire year. The battle marked a doctrinal shift from the failed concept of battalion tactical groups—composed of some of the most elite and efficient Russian units, such as paratrooper and special forces regiments—to Soviet-style mass frontal assaults.

In Bakhmut, Wagner Group commander Yevgeny Prigozhin introduced what is now the standard Russian tactic of sending human wave after human wave of disposable infantry into the assault until the Ukrainian defenders’ guns jam or run out of bullets. In Wagner’s case, these were mainly convicts recruited from prisons with promises of freedom and mercenaries lured by exorbitant pay. Russia finally won the yearlong fight over the city’s smoldering ruins at the cost of at least 20,000 Wagner mercenaries alone. Later, the meat grinder policy was adopted for the entire Russian army, with each major unit setting up assault groups for that purpose.

It has been a terrifyingly effective tactic, but Russian casualties incurred by it are beyond comparison in recent military history. The battle for the Ukrainian town of Avdiivka alone may have cost around 16,000 Russian lives—and that appears to be a very conservative estimate circulated by Russian pro-war bloggers, who generally have an incentive to downplay their own side’s losses.

But Russian disregard for life is not just a question of battlefield tactics. What stands out is the deliberate cruelty. The Russian military has stunned the world with its wanton brutality toward Ukrainian civilians—including widespread rape, torture, killings, and abductions—and prisoners of war. (The latter are now routinely executed, another in a long list of Russian war crimes.) But the cruelty dispensed by officers on their own subordinates is also shocking. Russian Telegram channels are full of accounts of soldiers tortured for refusing or questioning orders, of seriously wounded troops sent to a certain death in an assault, and of Soviet-style barrier troops behind the front line, whose sole job is to shoot shirkers and deserters—also known as nullification. Suicidal human-wave attacks are both a means and an end: Commanders have reportedly assigned soldiers to these expendable units as a punishment for various disagreements or for the failure to pay a bribe.

Under these circumstances, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that many Russian soldiers choose to end their lives. By now, there are hundreds of videos online showing Russian soldiers shooting themselves through the mouth to spare themselves an even grislier death, knowing that there is little hope for medical evacuation on the Russian side.

An even more sinister aspect of Russia’s disregard of the value of life is the increasingly open framing of the war as a national eugenics project. “Spare people” with low “social value” is how Russian parliamentarian Aleksandr Borodai described his compatriots sent as cannon fodder to Ukraine in a leaked tape, the authenticity of which he later confirmed. Expendable manpower, he explained, can be thrown at Ukraine’s “bravest [and] boldest,” and “exhaust the enemy to the maximum.” Borodai isn’t just anybody: He’s a political consultant from Moscow who declared himself prime minister of the so-called Donetsk People’s Republic in Ukraine in 2014, and he’s now a member of the Russian parliament for the ruling United Russia party. Coming from someone this prominent, it is essentially a confirmation of how Russia is running the war.

That the war has changed the composition of the Russian population has long been clear from the incomparably higher rates at which non-Russian ethnic minorities—Buryats, Tatars, Tuvans—are dying in the war. But these are not the only disfavored parts of the Russian population while the Russian leadership shields the politically important populations of Moscow and St. Petersburg, where unrest could endanger the regime and where much of the Russian elite resides. Prisons have been virtually emptied as inmates are sent to the bloodiest sections of the front. And the protection of the major urban populations in European Russia means that the more remote, poorer, and less ethnically Russian regions are bleeding out.

To compensate for the deliberate loss of “expendables” at the front, a crucial part of Moscow’s eugenics program is played by Ukrainians. Several million Ukrainians have been removed from the occupied territories and resettled in Russia, a disproportionate share of them women and children. In their place, Russian settlers are moving in. Tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of these abducted children are now being Russified to strip them of any Ukrainian identity, a clear echo of the Nazi eugenics policy of shipping blond Polish children back to the Reich to be adopted and turned into Germans. Some of the Ukrainian boys are now old enough to be forcibly conscripted into the Russian army—yet another war crime on an already long list.

Russia still has numerical superiority, but its resources are not infinite. The suicidal Russian strategy of waging war, while effective, is not sustainable in the long term, especially with the Russian economy already showing signs of immense strain.

The fate of Russia’s invasion now effectively hinges on Western willingness to commit to Ukraine’s push for independence from Russia’s neo-imperialist aspirations. U.S. President Joe Biden’s final weeks in office may yet prove to be critical: His decision to grant Ukraine permission to strike key military targets inside parts of Russia with U.S.- and British-supplied weapons has already elicited an angry response from Moscow, even if there is nothing new about Ukraine using Western arms to strike vital targets in what Russia considers its lands, including illegally annexed Crimea. It’s up to the West to help Ukraine make sure that Putin loses his gamble as he throws everything he has against Ukraine before his equipment and trained soldiers run out. Catastrophic human losses won’t deter him, as they are deeply ingrained in Russia’s cruel way of waging war.

[inkspiredwriting]

Starlit Promises

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

The sky above was a canvas of deep navy, dotted with countless stars that twinkled like diamonds. Five Hargreeves had chosen this secluded spot on a hill, far from the city's artificial lights, for its unobstructed view of the heavens. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, and the faint hum of nocturnal creatures filled the air. It was the perfect setting for a quiet, intimate night.

Five and his girlfriend, y/n, lay side by side on a soft blanket, their hands intertwined. Y/n's head rested on Five's shoulder, and her eyes were wide with wonder as she gazed up at the stars. Five, who was usually more accustomed to chaos and danger, found a strange but welcome sense of peace in this moment.

"Look, there's Orion," Y/n pointed out, her voice soft and filled with awe. She traced the constellation with her finger in the air.

Five turned his head to follow her gaze. "The hunter," he said, his tone reflective. "Funny, I never really took the time to appreciate things like this. Always too busy trying to save the world or fix the timeline."

Y/n's eyes sparkled as she turned to look at him. "Well, tonight you get to be just Five Hargreeves, star-gazer. No timelines to fix, no apocalypses to prevent."

Five chuckled softly, the sound blending with the night air. "That sounds nice for a change." He tightened his grip on her hand. "You know, I brought you here because there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

Y/n's expression grew curious. She shifted slightly to get a better look at him, propping herself up on one elbow. "What is it?"

Five took a deep breath, the seriousness of the conversation he was about to have weighing on him. He turned his gaze back to the stars, using their distant light as a way to anchor himself.

"I've seen so many things," he began, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "Most of them are grim, filled with loss and pain. When I met you, I found a reason to hope for something better. But I also realized how terrified I am of losing you."

Y/n's expression softened, and she reached out to gently stroke his cheek. "Five, you don't have to worry about losing me. I'm here, and I plan to be here for a long time."

Five smiled, though there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. "I know that now. But my life... it's complicated. I’ve been to places and seen things that are hard to come back from. Sometimes I wonder if it’s fair to ask you to be part of that.”

Y/n leaned in closer, her eyes locking onto his. “Five, everyone has their own battles. Yours just happen to be a bit more... unconventional. But that doesn’t mean you have to face them alone. I want to be there with you, no matter what.”

Five’s heart swelled with emotion. He turned his body slightly to face her, his free hand reaching up to cup her face. “I love you, y/n. More than I ever thought I could love someone. And I promise, no matter what happens, no matter what the future holds, I will always support you and be there for you.”

Tears glistened in y/n’s eyes as she smiled warmly at him. “I love you too, Five. And I promise the same. Whatever comes our way, we’ll face it together.”

They leaned in, their lips meeting in a tender kiss that seemed to seal their promises under the watchful eyes of the stars. When they finally pulled back, they remained close, their foreheads touching, basking in the intimacy of the moment.

As they settled back onto the blanket, their hands still entwined, Five felt a sense of peace he hadn’t known in years. For the first time, the future didn’t seem so daunting. With y/n by his side, he believed they could face whatever came their way. They lay there under the starlit sky, talking about dreams and plans, knowing that no matter where the winds of time took them, they had each other.

The night grew colder, but the warmth of their connection kept them close. And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Five felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

beginning snippet of something i’ve been working on. baby sub ian you compel me so tags: sex club, first time sub! ian, experienced dom! mickey, ian is nervous and cute and doesn’t know what he wants exactly, all he knows is he’s very into mickey

Ian is minorly freaking out.

The room is like something out of Fifty Shades, but slightly more intimidating in real life. Slightly warmer. Slightly overwhelming, with its wall of mounted whips and multiple surfaces to be whipped on.

It’s not that Ian has to worry about those because he definitely steered clear of them on his terms and consent form, it’s just overwhelming to see - to look up from the pillow they told him to kneel on in the center of the room, to a sight of ropes suspended from the ceiling.

It’s a lot.

Ian definitely wants to be here, but he’s minorly freaking out, every second that ticks by as he waits for the dom to come into the room feeling like its own brand of torture.

But he wants this. God, he wants this so fucking bad - practically needs it at this point, even though he’s nervous. So he sits and waits, his back to the door and time ticking…ticking…ticking, until finally…

Behind him, the doorknob twists.

A rush of air, otherwise silent.

And then the click of the door closing again, sealing him back inside.

Only this time, he’s not alone.

Ian balls his hands on his thighs, his heart beginning to beat uncomfortably under his t-shirt. He waits. Because that’s what a sub is supposed to do, right? Wait? That’s what the lady told him to do before she left.

More silence.

Anticipation wracking up his body.

Nerves popping off and okay, maybe just a little peek.

He turns to shoot a glance over his shoulder, but doesn’t get much. Not enough without kneeling off the pillow, and he definitely shouldn’t do that, right?

“Hi…” he tries. A shot in the dark. But it’s better than nothing, and- “I uh-… I know you probably know this, but it’s my first time here...” Unclear whether this is helping or not. If it makes him feel better or more frantic. “I’ve never-… I mean, I don’t really know how to-”

“Tell me why you’re here.”

The voice that cuts him off isn’t unkind, but it’s commanding. Certain.

And fuck, does it have Ian’s mouth snapping closed for a moment as he tries to process the effect that has on him, something plucking teasingly at his nerves.

No. It’s okay.

He can do this.

“I just-…” Breathe in. No need to freak out. It’s a simple question. “I always have to…do everything.” In bed. Which is fine - he’s kinda built for that - but deep in his heart of hearts he knows that’s not him. Not all the time, at least. “I don’t wanna have to do everything…” Hopefully that makes sense.

“So you wanna be lazy.”

Ian frowns, twisting for another look over his shoulder but getting nowhere. Seeing no one. Just a shadow in the corner. “No.” That’s not it at all.

“What, then.”

This is bait, isn’t it?

Or is he actually asking?

Ian tries to go over the options again in his head, just as unsure where to slot himself, now that he’s in this, as he was when he was filling out his terms.

Why is he here? What is he looking for tonight?

A dom to serve…? A dom to challenge him…? A dom that’ll give him structure…?

He shifts on his knees, pulse quickening. “I don’t-… I’m not sure.”

Yet.

He’s tired of making decisions, remember?

“What’s your name?” he finally asks. Because as hot as lurking in the shadows is, his curiosity is getting the best of him. Especially when he hears that voice again.

“To you, it’s sir.” The air shifts behind him in slow steps - rounding…rounding…rounding. “‘Yes, sir’… ‘No, sir’…” And when he finally comes into view, the payoff is as overwhelming as it is gorgeous. “‘Whatever you want, sir’…” he smirks for that one in particular, measured playfulness shining over dark features. “You get it…?”

He knocks the breath right out of Ian’s lungs - the words from his throat - lips parting, but producing nothing more than a nod as he takes in the man in front of him.

Holy fuck…

Ian was expecting something flashy - leather and buckles - a harness, maybe. But there’s something impossibly hotter about the gold chain and black tank that fits across this dom’s chest. How it shows off the tight, defined muscles in his shoulders - his arms - the sturdy cut of his waist that leads to even sturdier thighs under black denim - the kind Ian definitely wouldn’t mind worshipping a little if he told him how.

He posts up right in front of where Ian’s kneeling and all at once, it’s like he’s drawn every ounce of energy from the room right here - right in his stance.

Power.

Ian doesn’t know if he’s supposed to, but he can’t get himself to look away. Can’t drag his curious gaze from those eyes as they peer down at him, heavy-lidded but piercing.

When he speaks, he asks it clearly. Not strict or mean or anything, but still somehow cutting right down to the nerve. “When’s the last time you been touched?”

Ian swallows. Shifts on the pillow, gaze flicking away before coming right back. “Uh… Do I really-…”

“Asked you a question.”

Right. Yeah no, of course he did - of course he did. “Um…” Ian’s brows draw together as he traces back for visions of his last hookup. “Like…a couple months, maybe…?”

“‘Maybe’?”

“A couple months,” he confirms, eager to convince. “Two. Two months.”

Is that a long time?

Too short?

“And you’re here ‘cause you think I’m gonna touch you…”

Ian processes. “I mean…” That’s what this is, right? That’s what all the consent forms were about? “I…was kinda hopin’… Yeah…”

He’s really starting to feel the control slip through his fingers. The dizzying dance of trying to keep up, even when the pace is ultra slow like this. The only thing he can focus on is how the dom steps closer, thick black boots sending his pulse thumping in his chest.

“I only touch good boys,” he explains. Then, tilting his head just a bit as he looks down at him, “You gonna be my good boy, Ian?”

And…

Holy shit. That’s-… That’s something, isn’t it? “Y-… Yeah, I can-”

“Say ‘yes sir’.”

A rush of heat floods Ian’s chest and then seeps downward, pooling low in his belly. “Yes sir…”

And it’s the ink he notices first, dark and swirling over the man’s inner forearm - printed crudely across his knuckles as those fingers reach out, closing the space between them as he hooks below Ian’s chin, plucking his pulse and face briskly upward.

Fuck…

Okay…

Ian breathes back in the gasp before it can escape his stretched throat.

Blinks up at the dom - drawn to how the room’s lights glint off the metal pierced across the dark arch of his eyebrow.

“You’re prettier than most guys that come here.”

And Ian’s heart flutters in the weirdest way. Because oh. “…really?”

“Mm… Got a real sweet face on ya…” He takes his time making his point - using his hold to tilt Ian’s head in all sorts of admiring ways, in control of every angle. “Almost cute enough to letchya slide on not remembering your manners.”

Oh.

Shit.

He just told Ian he’s pretty.

“Oh uh- thank you, sir,” he backpedals, the sudden desire to please setting him off in an unsure ramble. “You’re-…pretty too, sir…?” Is that right?

Judging by the little brow pinch he gets, it’s not.

But the huff of a chuckle that follows sure feels good, doesn’t it? Even if it’s Ian he’s laughing at.

“Fuck,” he grins, giving Ian’s cheek two promising pats before stepping away, “you’re gonna be fun.”