#it’s taking place in that in-between space when you’re watching a performance or play

[sugxto]

power play - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: Eddie only has one rule: no fucking in the bar. And of course, he finds you and Volt breaking it. He can't have that.

⋆wc: 3.3k

⋆cw: m/m/afab threesome, light dom/sub undertones, erotic electrostimulation, mentions of alcohol consumption, blowjobs, finger fucking.

⋆notes: reader insert uses g/n pronouns and is not described with feminine attributes. AFAB genitalia, mention of breasts, terms used include hole, entrance, cunt and clit. no spoilers for any of the routes, I suppose, but it is a more established relationship. the first 65% of this is volt/reader, with eddie/volt/reader in the later half. other e/v one shots.

⋆snippet:

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Eddie’s voice is harsh, methodical, but level. He usually only sounds like this when he’s kicking out Kristof for starting a fight, or when he notices you doing something even mildly off-kilter when fixing up the club. It’s a dangerous tone.

Neither of you speak immediately. You can't even bring yourself to meet Volt’s eyes; you’re focused solely on Eddie, and how still, how charged he is.

“Are either of you going to fucking say anything?” His grip tightens on Volt’s hair, and Volt nearly stumbles back.

power play

“Does he have to perform every night, though?”

You’re wiping down the bar, Volt expertly throwing a shaker around before grabbing two glasses for the concoction he’s crafting. The liquid fills the tumblers, and he starts to pluck out some cherries from a bowl.

“We have an open-mic policy, darling,” Volt says as he pushes a glass in your direction. Nevermind that it pulls a few drops of spilled whiskey over where you’d just run your rag over.

You sigh, eyeing Volt with annoyance, but he ignores you in favor of having a long sip from his glass. “But it’s almost like you need a sign for him,” you say as you round the bar to sit. You punctuate your words with a wave of the hand, like you’re envisioning a marquee. “Johnny Splash: The Breaker Box Residency.”

Volt downs the whiskey sour, and you can’t help but catch a glance at how his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “After that disaster of his American Maestro audition,” he says, popping another cherry in his mouth, “I think he ought to still have somewhere he can feel comfortable performing, don’t you think?”

You nod, stealing a taste of your drink. “I just hope he’s not taking space from anyone else wanting to perform, is all.”

“Aww, spark,” Volt hums, shrugging off his overcoat and pushing his sleeves up like Eddie does for work. “What a darling thing you are.” He props his arms up against the bar, leaning towards you, mischief crackling in his white eyes.

You shrug as you swallow the cherry from your drink. “Don’t worry, I’m not going soft on you two.”

“I perish the thought.” He grins like a cat who’s finally cornered the canary. “I adore when you crackle around the edges like we do.”

You bite back a grin, and reach out to the bowl of cherries for another, when your hand is smacked away.

“Hey! I was -”

“I know, darling,” he breathes, impatience on his lips. You watch his long, silver fingers procure a cherry, and red juice drips down his thumb. “Allow me.”

His lightning brows quirk expectantly, and you fight back an eye roll as you open your mouth, protrude your tongue only a hint. When he places the cherry on your tongue, your lips wrap around his fingers, tingling your mouth. Daring a glance at his eyes, you run the tip of your tongue over his thumb, ensuring no juice is wasted, before pulling away with a lick of your lips.

The ends of Volt’s hair buzz and spark, and his eyes glisten.

(You’ve noticed, between your partners, their similarities and differences - where Eddie’s steel eyes will darken with want, Volt’s dial up their shine, like a lamp when you remove its shade. It’s noticeable enough even to an untrained, unknowing eye.)

“Enjoy that, live wire?” He rubs the pads of his thumb and finger together, making the smallest of sparks.

You say nothing, just take another sip without breaking his gaze.

“Hm,” he muses, standing upright again. “Shall I make you another cocktail?”

You blink in confusion, glancing down at the half-finished tumbler. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“No matter.”

His voice tells it is most certainly some sort of matter. “Volt -”

He turns, rummaging at a few bottles before deciding on a few, putting them to the side. When you finally catch a glimpse of his profile behind his shock of hair, his smile is saccharine.

“Yes, here we go,” he mutters to himself as bottles of simple syrup, bourbon, and lemon juice appear in front of you. No shakers, no strainers, just a grin that sends a shiver down your spine.

You gulp. You know that grin. You say again, a little harsher, “Volt -”

“Now now, live wire, no need for that. I’m just going to make you a cocktail, hm?” Volt cocks his head like he’s explaining a trick to a dog, trying as he might to play innocent.

“Yes but what do -”

Your voice stops with a gasp as, quick as lightning, Volt’s fingers find your jaw and press down on your cheeks to force your mouth open. The pressure is harsh, almost bordering on painful, and Volt’s palm rests fittingly under your chin. You find, almost instantly, your breath comes easier through your nose, and it’s unsteady when it comes out.

His hair is alive, bursts of light sparking close to your skin, and his eyes are wild. “Fear not, spark.” You see him reach for a bottle, his eyes not leaving your face. “I’m just making a cocktail.”

The tip of a bottle is cool on your lips, and sweetness flows into your mouth - but not too much, no no, just enough to cover your tongue.

“Very good, darling.” Volt coos, placing the bottle back on the bar and deftly grabbing the next. This one’s bourbon, you think, and the unmistakable scent wafts to your nostrils. It mixes with the syrup on your tongue, and this time, a few drops escape from the corners of your lips. You feel them, slowly, casually, journey down your chin, your neck, down the center of your chest and between your breasts, leaving a cool streak in their wake.

Volt chuckles approvingly as he allows a few drops of lemon juice to enter your mouth, resulting in even more spillover, and you moan, pleadingly, as your jaw starts to ache.

“Impatient, are we?” He licks his lips, leans forward across the bar so there’s only a hair of space between your lips and his. “You, live wire, look delectable.”

He cuts off your moan with his tongue, intruding on your rigidly held mouth, swiping long, hungry licks over the roof of your mouth, your tongue, lapping at the mixture of liquids he poured like a man parched. You whine, you moan, you plead with the only small sounds you can make. The taste is overwhelming, the liquid dribbles out of you rapidly now, and the combination of the droplets’ wet streaks and nearby electricity elicit goosebumps along your skin.

Volt’s fingers relax as he pulls away, releasing your jaw from his grip but keeping his hand on you (always on you). He sucks at your bottom lip, and you finally have enough control to swallow the remnants of the drink Volt missed. You whine again, still physically prevented from forming words.

He stops, and you swear you can hear the buzz of his charged eyes when they meet yours, white hot with lust. His thumb pets your chin, the tips of your noses kissing. “Did you want something, darling?”

Fuck this man.

Fuck this man.

Hm. That sounds like a good idea, actually.

You lunge forward, your whiskey-laced lips starving for Volt’s, and you grab at his vest with white-knuckled fists. He lets out a growl, a sound of pure want, and you feel his arms snake around you, encircle your waist, and you’re being hoisted forwards across the bar. The stool you sat in clatters to the ground, and you allow Volt to settle your ass on the bar, you lips never separating more than a breath.

Volt’s large hands singe at your waist, a delicious burn as he grips you tightly. You loosen your grip on his vest and wrap your arms around his neck at the same moment your legs lock around his hips, pressing his warm body to you. He rocks his hips between your thighs, and you gasp at how hard he already is, straining against his slacks.

“Fuck, Volt,” you sigh when his tongue journeys down your chin, your neck, licking up the trail of his “cocktail.” Your nails claw at the back of his neck, needing purchase wherever possible. He sucks at a spot at the base of your neck, and a shock surges from your spine straight to your clit. “Oh, oh, fuck…”

His voice reverberates in your neck when he hums in satisfaction. “Live wire,” he says, strained with lust, “I have to have you. Now.” As he says it, his hands deftly find the button of your pants and tug, and they’re gone in a lightning flash, your bare skin hitting the cold wood.

Yes, yes of course, who were you to say no to such need? You need him, needed this, right now, right here on the -

Bar.

Oh no.

You two were breaking Eddie’s one rule.

Your eyes fly open, and you try, feebly, to push Volt away. “Volt. Volt, the bar, Eddie -”

“Fuck Eddie.”

You groan, and you both love and hate that his voice makes you wetter. “He says no sex at the bar -”

“Last time I checked,” Volt’s hands palm the flesh of your thighs around his waist, sparks igniting at every inch they move, “this is our bar. And you, little spark, are ours as well. So, why shouldn’t I enjoy my share, hm?”

You weren’t going to win, you knew that, you rarely ever did with Volt, and the rational part of your brain had clocked out when you locked up after Johnny left. Because yeah, the boys were yours, and they always said the bar was just as much yours now too, so…

You’d just have to be extra attentive when you cleaned up, was all.

You swallow, trying to find whatever liquid courage might remain in your mouth, and start to grab at Volt’s belt. “Fuck it.”

Volt’s grin is tiger-like as he helps you free himself, and you unconsciously lick your lips at the sight of his cock, long and curved with the faintest tinge of blue. Amps sake, how lucky were you that both of your boyfriends had such pretty, pretty cocks?

You trail your fingers along his length, watching as a droplet of pre forms at the tip. Volt hisses, and he grabs your wrist suddenly, and you look up at his white eyes, scared you’ve done something wrong.

But no anger or hurt is evident on his face, just that familiar mischief. He pulls your wrist and hand close to your face, and looks expectantly at your open palm. “Spit.”

Your hole clenches at the word, and you fight back a whimper. You gather the spit in your mouth, letting the glob drop onto your hand.

“Again.”

You don’t think twice.

Satisfied, Volt leads your hand back to his cock, and you wrap your grip around him, glazing your spit over the hot skin, coating him as best you’re able as he maneuvers your wrist. He makes a hum of content after a moment, and you rest your hand on your waist when he releases you.

There’s hardly anymore preamble before the head of his cock is pressing at your entrance, but you know Volt, and you know -

Your jaw falls open in a silent cry as Volt enters you, white hot and slick and everything you need. He gives you a moment, just a moment, to relax into the fullness, before his hips snap, and he thrusts.

So. Fucking. Lucky.

Strings of moans, strings of “yes, yes, yes, fuck yes” fall from your lips each time Volt bottoms out, and you bury your face into his shoulder, the burning heat of his skin and the cool wood a beautiful contrast.

You can hear the sparks of Volt’s hair, feel the puffs of his breath, and you hang on to every curse, every “my spark, fuck, good little spark,” that he groans.

It’s maddening, almost, just how good he makes you feel, how they make you feel. You moan something incomprehensible when he bites your neck and lick the marks. “Volt, volt, yes -“

There’s a surge, a flicker, and you’re empty, and Volt’s weight is missing.

You open your eyes, suddenly terrified from the loss, and you think to scream -

But the sight that greets you isn’t one that’s… entirely unwelcome.

Eddie’s hand has a death grip on the currents of Volt’s hair, tugging hard enough to keep Volt’s chin tilted back, unmoving.

(You think, in the recesses of your fucked our mind, that you wish you could do that, but it seemed to be a skill reserved for literal electrical conduits personified.)

You blink, aligning yourself to this new situation, to this unexpected twist, because when did Eddie -

Eddie.

Eddie.

Uh oh.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Eddie’s voice is harsh, methodical, but level. He usually only sounds like this when he’s kicking out Kristof for starting a fight, or when he notices you doing something even mildly off-kilter when fixing up the club. It’s a dangerous tone.

Neither of you speak immediately. You can't even bring yourself to meet Volt’s eyes; you’re focused solely on Eddie, and how still, how charged he is.

“Are either of you going to fucking say anything?” His grip tightens on Volt’s hair, and Volt nearly stumbles back.

“Eddie, my darling,” Volt finally offers, trying the voice he uses to introduce the next act. The listen-to-what-I’m-about-to-say voice. “My, did we miss you -”

“Volt,” his voice is clipped, and Volt doesn’t try again. “I have one fucking rule. And you know that.”

You haven’t seen the ice that’s in Eddie’s eyes in weeks, and now it’s your turn to try. “Eddie, it was my -”

“Absolutely not.” Titanium eyes stop your words in your throat, and Eddie points a finger at you. “You are not in a position where you wanna lie to me.”

He’s right, and you know it, and you close your legs in an effort to take up less space on the bar.

Eddie turns his attention back to Volt, flexing his grip and pulling his partner’s head closer to him, turning him so their eyes meet. You feel the hum, the charge in the air that flows between them. “No. Sex. In the bar, Volt.” Eddie cocks his head, studying Volt’s strained white gaze. “Or did you not learn the last time when I caught you with Amir?”

Volt’s laugh is shakey, raising his hands in surrender. “It was only a broken mirror, Eddie, and look at me now! We’re being very careful to -”

Eddie cuts him off with a kiss you can only describe as forceful, teeth tugging at Volt’s lips, and keeping him in place as he twists his hand in Volt’s hair. You swear you hear a growl from Eddie’s throat when he harshly tugs Volt away again, and there’s a flash of something in his steely gaze as you watch his free hand start to fumble with his pants zipper.

Sometimes, you’re almost certain there are times that Volt and Eddie don’t communicate with words, that there’s something deeper between them that lets them move in a singular, tandem pace, synchronized. As Eddie unzips, and Volt placidly drops to his knees before him, you think this is one of those times.

“You,” Eddie groans, when Volt, unprompted, places a chaste, quick kiss to Eddie’s thick, angry cock, “need to shut. up.”

He says nothing more, but on instinct, Volt’s jaw goes slack, and nearly his entire cock slips into Volt’s mouth with practiced ease.

Your body tremors as you watch them, notice with interest how a small fuck falls from Eddie’s lip, and he throws his head back, steeling his jaw with bared teeth. He’s so still, letting Volt do the work on his cock, and - and you can’t help it, your thighs press together, and your nails scrap along the wood as your hands turn to firsts.

Eddie notices.

Eddie always notices.

Eddie’s eyes are nearly black with lust, hunger, and barely controlled rage. “You,” he says, voice rough in his throat. “Open your legs.”

You do, and the air is cold where your slick hasn’t dried.

Eddie reaches out his hand, extends his ring and middle finger, and lays them at the very edge of the bar. Still. Waiting.

You blink, unsure, but you’re not sure if you’re allowed to speak.

“Fuck yourself or don’t, live wire, I don’t care,” he says. “He’s - fuck - in more trouble than you. He’s not getting off tonight.”

Lucky, lucky, lucky, your mind chants, and your heart might just explode from electrocution if you’re not careful.

You scoot yourself to the edge of the bar, position your legs under you, line your entrance over where his fingers are raised and waiting. You grip the curve of the wood to steady yourself, and lower yourself down onto Eddie’s fingers, as far as you can, and your mouth falls open in a curse at the feeling of fullness finally returned to you.

Eddie only watches, his fingers knotting in Volt’s hair, trying with his entire willpower not to fuck all his fingers into your cunt. You feel so hot, so slick, and the currents racing through his cock are already dangerously close to shorting if Volt keeps his pace. He knows if he so much as catches a glimpse of those white eyes that he’ll blow like a fuse. So, he watches you, bouncing up and down as best you can, trying to grind your clit on his thumb. Angry as he is at catching you two in the one place you shouldn’t be, he has to admit, he thrives off the power you and Volt are feeding him.

You’re close, so close, and you moan Eddie’s name in want and frustration. He makes no sound, but Volt hums around Eddie’s cock, and you can’t tell whose slick, depraved sounds are whose.

Volt moans again, his grip tighter on Eddie’s hips, and you somehow know he’s warning you that Eddie won’t last long. You quicken your place, angling to find how Eddie’s thumb hits your clit. It’s just right, and you close your eyes, white bolts of lightning behind your eyelids as you climb, higher, higher -

“Yes, yes, Eddie Eddie, fuck, Eddie!” You cry as your orgasm hits like a surge, tingling and coursing through all your limbs, and your legs quiver as you force yourself to slow.

Eddie hisses through his teeth, knowing he has only seconds, and Volt only speeds up. “Fuck,” he grunts, and finally flicks his eyes down to watch Volt work, if only for a moment, but the second those knowing, loving, burning eyes meet his -

He short circuits.

Volt sucks him dry as Eddie groans, curses through his climax, even swallows him down with his nose pressed to the coils above Eddie’s shaft. Doesn’t let a single drop spill, Volt, and Eddie loves him for it.

You all are finally, somehow, able to relax, as you extricate yourselves from your slightly incoherent, slightly precarious positions. Volt, back on his feet, pulls you into his arms, hoists you up as you wrap you legs around them - none of you trust them to hold you up.

Eddie rubs his hand over your back, presses adoring kisses to your shoulder. “You alright, little wire?” He asks, in the softest voice you’ve heard him use all night.

You nod, turning your head to find his face. “Of course, Eddie. Always.”

A corner of his lip tugs up into a smile. “Good.” He plants a warm kiss on your cheek and tucks a hair behind your ear. “Like I said, you’re not in trouble. I know how dangerous Volt’s tongue can be.”

“Hey,” Volt quips, his fingers pressing into your thighs. “A moment ago you liked my dangerous tongue.”

Eddie pays the jest no mind, but still looks up at him. “You’re on close for a week. Alone. And - nope - don’t you ‘Eddie’ me. Alone. One week.”

Volt groans, and you don’t have to see his face to know he rolled his eyes too. “You already didn't let me cum, so I get the message." He, too, presses a small kiss to the top of your head. "But who’s going to keep our spark busy then, hm?”

Eddie smiles, seeing the mischievous glint that just appeared in your gaze. “Well, luckily, they have more than one option, don’t they?”

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

[starlightwayfinder]

If your swan lake au is an actual ballet/performance, do the wayfinders get up to anything silly backstage or during practice? Maybe Terra and Aqua compete to see who can hold Ven up the longest lol

I hadn’t even thought about it, but they would definitely train- I mean, practice, together, so I’m sure there are some silly ‘behind the scenes’ things going on too. 

[hysteria-things]

MATT'S STREAM

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!chris x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and chris’ relationship isn’t out to the public just yet. when he’s on stream with matt, you tease him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, swearing, teasing, dry humping, cock warming, degradation if you squint, p in v, semi-public (?)

ASSUME YOU'RE ON THE PILL!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,521

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hiii i’m excited for this. let’s see how this goes :)

chris sits at his desk, spam clicking and smashing buttons on his keyboard. he talks to his brothers in his headset.

matt’s streaming on twitch right now, meaning that thousands of fans are watching the three of them play fortnite. you’ve been with chris for a few months, yet the fans have no idea. you both collectively agreed to keep your relationship out of the public eye.

hence why you are seated next to him out of frame, watching the stream go down. your eyes scan to his side profile. his brows furrow in concentration, his tongue sticking out as he focuses on the computer screen. you hear the boys scream in his headset, and he slams his hands onto his lap.

“damn.” he grunts out, glancing over at you for a moment and smiling.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom.” he says into the mic before muting it and taking off his headset. he turns his face cam off and goes into the bathroom to do his business.

he comes out beats later, sitting back in the gaming chair, wiggling to get comfortable. you get up, which gains his attention. “you doing okay?” he asks.

“yeah. just need to stretch.”

before he could unmute his mic and turn the cam back on, you push the chair back slightly to have enough space to straddle his lap. he wraps his arms around your waist and welcomes you closer, kissing your collarbone. “they’re going to think i’m shitting.” he says jokingly.

your arms snake around his neck and you lean back to look at him. “say your camera broke.”

he smirks and puts back on his headset. “i’m back.” he starts. “for some reason, my camera is acting weird.”

“it’s all good. as long as we can still hear you.” matt’s voice replies.

the thin fabric you call panties rubs against his bulge through his red plaid pajama pants. you have a shirt on, one of chris’s FRESH LOVE t-shirts that covers you enough to look like a nightgown. a sensation tingles between your legs, and you start to move your hips slowly.

you hear chris groan, pressing a button on his keyboard. “what are you doing?” he asks sternly.

“i need to get comfortable.” you tease, rocking your hips harder. he opens his mouth to say something, but closes it and clicks unmute again.

you rest your head in the crook of his neck and continue to rock your hips, feeling him grow beneath you. he still talks to his brothers normally, but his performance on the game doesn’t look good.

“what the fuck is up with you, chris?” nick questions into the headphones.

“sorry,” he mumbles.

your hands find their way to the back of his neck and tug at his hair lightly. you breathe heavily to not make any noise since his mic is right next to your head. you don’t even notice your hips rutting and body tensing when you feel your release soak your underwear.

you exhale shakily, lifting your body and looking at the mess you made. there’s a wet stain on his pants on top of his hard-on. you don’t even have to look to know your underwear is ruined.

chris looks at you confused, before following your gaze. you go to get up but he grabs your hips and places you back to where you’re hovering over him. he unties his pants and pulls them down along with his boxers. he moves the mic away from his mouth, leaning toward your ear.

“don’t move or make a fucking sound,” he warns in a low tone you could barely hear.

he pushes your panties to the side and guides you down onto his cock, fighting off the hissing noise trying to escape your lips as he stretches you out tenderly and slowly. you and chris started having sex not long ago, but even after a few days without it, you had to readjust again.

this, however, is a first.

you guys never tried cock warming before. you felt so nervous. so excited. so full.

after multiple rounds of fortnite that felt like it lasted hours, your brain felt fuzzy despite not even doing anything. every time he talked, laughed, or celebrated a victory or loss, he’d thrust deep inside of you. and it drove you nuts.

you hear commotion on the other end of the headset. “fuck!” chris screams, jolting his hips further into you than at any other time. your eyes roll ever so slightly, mouth agape as your bottom lip grazes over his bare shoulder. it’s too late to take back the moan that came out of you.

chris’ hands make their way to your ass and squeeze hard, setting a reminder.

be quiet. right.

your patience becomes thinner and thinner, since it’s already been about thirty minutes. too desperate, you start to grind against him.

before he can do or say anything, you grab his mic and fist your hand over it so nobody can hear.

“please let me ride you. i promise i’ll be quiet.” you beg.

“so needy.” he sighs, taking your hand off of the mic and returning to the game.

rutting your hips forward, you start bouncing, your clit swollen from sitting still for so long without doing anything about it. you don’t know, but you could’ve sworn you heard chris groan.

too busy focusing to try to not make a sound by biting your lip, you hear sentences being scattered around from the boys.

“i don’t know, man.”

“this game sucks!”

“is your camera working yet?”

“no, sorry!”

little do they know, here you are, fucking yourself on your boyfriend’s dick like a bitch in heat.

you nuzzle your head in his neck and kiss a spot before biting down to stifle your pathetic sounds. chris hisses at the sudden contact and misses a kill, the other person killing him instead, costing them to lose.

“for fuck sake. chris, are you sure you’re okay?” matt asks in annoyance.

the tip of his cock brushes against your g-spot unexpectedly, forcing a whine out of you. “actually.” chris starts. “i don’t feel good, to be honest. i might log off for tonight.”

he quickly ends the discord call and shuts down his computer, stopping your movements. you look at him with glassy eyes, a frown portraying your face. he runs a finger up your spine before gripping onto your hair and yanking it, making you whimper. “first, you ruin my pants.”

he thrusts himself up into you, taking you by surprise with a gasp.

“then, you tease me.”

another thrust.

“now, you can’t follow simple fucking instructions.”

again.

a broken moan comes out of you, chris slapping your ass. “need me to fuck you so bad you can’t even wait two hours. instead, you get off by fucking yourself on my dick like your life depends on it. so pathetic.”

you whine of embarrassment, yet you don’t want this to stop.

“please.” you breathe out. “i’m sorry. please fuck me.”

with that, chris grabs your thigh with his free hand and starts plunging into you from below. his grip is still tight on your hair. you let out breathy moans left and right since each thrust takes the air out of your lungs. your eyes start prickling with tears from all of the built-up pleasure. “oh my— fucking— jesus— god.”

chris chuckles at your failed attempt to form a sentence. your moans transition into high-pitched squeals when he hits the angle that makes a knot form in your stomach. he releases his grip from your hair and moves it to your jaw, his hand that was on your thigh coming up to your mouth. he shoves in his middle and ring finger for you to suck on.

god, this felt good, and boy was it hot.

drool starts dribbling down your chin as you moan around his fingers and your eyes roll back. chris twitches inside you causing him to groan and take out his fingers, but your mouth still hangs open as unholy sounds come out of it. he releases your jaw and cups your ass with both hands.

“holy shit.” you whine. “i’m gonna cum.”

“let go, y/n. fuck you’re doing so good for me.”

because you certainly don’t have to be told twice, your whole body trembles and you fall forward. your hands cup the sides of his neck.

“i love you.” you moan into his neck as he continues thrusting to get to his release. “i love you so fucking much— jesus god.” you cry out when you feel chris filling you up.

he thrusts a few more times into your trembling body to get down from his high.

“look at me.” he says softly, bringing your head up to make eye contact. he smiles and kisses your lips. “i love you too, ma.”

when you come back to your senses you lift yourself off of him and stumble to his bed to sit down. chris pulls up his boxers and checks his phone that’s been blowing up on the desk in front of him.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

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

CONTENT prologue, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, blood, violence, murder, manipulation, grief, hallucinations, intense survival situations. HUNGER GAMES EEKEKEKEKEEK

main masterlist | tag list | next

you practically volunteer for death with a smile on your face.

the sky is too blue for bloodshed. but the flags flap like they know what’s coming. red, black, and concrete gray, colors that mean order. control. victory.

your boots hit the stone square in time with a hundred others. it smells like sweat, steel, and the stale echo of war. no one cries here. they only clench their jaws tighter.

the stage looms. peacekeepers gleam like statues. the man with the mic is already smiling with his perfect teeth, slick voice. the reaping bowl is silver and deep, shimmering like a trap.

they call a name. not yours. but you step forward anyway. you say it loud, “i volunteer as tribute.”

your voice cuts through the silence like a blade. cheers erupt, not for you, but for the performance. and you grin.

you take the girl’s place, step onto the stage. raise your chin like your mother told you to. and then they call the boy’s name. and that’s when the blood begins.

another boy shoves forward. bigger. older. louder. he doesn’t want to wait to die. he wants the glory, the blood, the roar of the crowd.

but the name already belongs to him. the quiet one, the one with the sharp collar and colder eyes, the one whose father whispered into the right ears.

he doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask permission, just moves. and when it’s over, the bigger boy is choking on the stage, teeth cracked like glass, blood puddling under his skull.

the real tribute stands above him, bruised, breathing like a machine, lip split open and dripping down his chin.

you watch it all. you don’t blink once. this is what you signed up for.

the man with the mic stammers something patriotic, something rehearsed, and then,

“rafe cameron and y/n y/l/n, this year’s tributes for district two!”

you reach for him. he wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, smearing red across the curve of his hand. then he grips yours with that same hand, tight, unflinching.

you raise your arms together. blood paints the space between your fingers. the cameras catch it all.

the crowd goes fucking feral. you’re smiling like you’ve won already. he’s not smiling at all. and somehow, that’s worse.

you don’t look like heroes. you don’t look like victims. you look like monsters. and somewhere far away, on a train bound for the capitol, other tributes watch this moment play on a screen, and feel the first true pang of fear.

district two is coming. and it’s already soaked in red.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms

THIS SERIES will have literally teasing psycho rafe & silent killer reader probably. i wanna make it brutal, bloody, violent, but also raw and vulnerable eventually! theyre still humans at the end of the day. there are just a few things to know:

ONE theyre obviously from district 2. rafes dad is a peacekeeper, or something related to that. for the reader its undecided tbh but u guys can give me ideas if u want!! rafes family exists but i doubt we’ll hear much from them.

TWO reader is unfortunately one of the careers who are brainwashed into training to volunteer someday and represent their district. rafe has his own similar reason that we’ll get into in this series soon!!

THREE i might put up a poll for u guys to decide whether we pull the “lovers who die together”, “lovers where one dies and the other wins”, “lovers who win together because fuck katniss & peeta i guess” cards, so the ending is entirely up to u guys!!

LET ME KNOW if u would like to be part of this tag list, i’ll take a break from shameless to rewatch or reread thg idc. im having sm ideas now that SOTR came out LOL

[neocitylights]

SUMMARY: As you move into the building, your mysterious neighbor’s music becomes a quiet—and secret—comfort to your heart, enough for you to send them an anonymous letter. When you unexpectedly meet Mark, your connection soon growing between late-night conversations and shared meals, you find yourself falling in ways you hadn’t expected. Curiously enough, as your worlds start to overlap, you realize that there’s more to Mark and your mysterious neighbor than you’ve ever imagined. GENRE: Romance, fluff, non-idol au, strangers to lovers, songwriter!Mark WORD COUNT: 9k WARNINGS: Cursing, suggestive themes

Moonlight welcomes you home as you finish yet another long day of seemingly endless lectures, the gleam slipping through the curtains of your living room as you slip off your shoes, dropping the heavy book bag by the door. 

The apartment is quiet, as you’re coming home a little later than usual, and with a chaotic day behind you, all you need is a hot shower, a warm meal and the softness of your bed.

As you’re stripping your top off, halfway through the bathroom, you hear it—the soft, slow notes from a piano drifting through the walls of your neighbor’s apartment and into yours. The mysterious, upstairs neighbor, as you like to call them now. 

It’s not the first time that the music makes its way into your place. Even though you’re yet to meet whoever resides right above you, with an impressive array of instruments at that, you’re always delighted to hear them play, especially during days like today where you’re exhausted both mentally and physically.

Today, you can recognize the melody, but can’t quite put your finger on which song it is. 

Making a beeline for your bedroom instead, you sink into your bed, half-dressed as you let the sound take over your mind. A small smile tugs at the corner of your lips, your brain subconsciously filling the gaps as you start to hum the melody along. 

Your mysterious neighbor and their music had slowly become a source of unexpected comfort to you. 

Some days, you hear the delicate strumming of a guitar. Other days, the lightness of wandering piano notes. On special days though, you listen to the bold, intense riffs of an electric guitar instead. Every day, you welcome it, each time feeling a lullaby meant only for one night.

With the music still playing in the background, you follow through your routine in an almost dreamlike state. The mysterious neighbor plays long enough to last through your shower, unknowingly kind enough to give you the joy of having dinner with your own private live performance too. 

As it stops, the silence almost feels awkward. 

You can’t help but innocently imagine your neighbor, just a few steps away as they tuck in the instrument for the night, completely unaware of their unknown faithful audience. 

The day is already drawing out to be a chaotic one.

As you dash out of your apartment in a rush, just barely hanging onto your bag and the coffee thermos in your hands, you mentally kick yourself for ignoring the alarm an extra time, fooling yourself that it was safe enough just for today.

You’re already unusually late, and to make matters worse, you’d dropped half of your notes as you were fumbling to lock your apartment and the elevator’s seemingly taking a lifetime to arrive at your floor. 

A sigh escapes from your lips at the familiar chime of its opening doors.

You can’t help the clumsy commotion as you finally step into the cubicle, head down as you try to organize the mess of crumpled papers inside your bag, completely oblivious to the current company watching you with curious eyes. 

It’s only when you literally bump into them that you finally look up, eyes wide in surprise. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” you start, stepping back with an apologetic glance. “I swear I didn’t see you here.”

The guy offers you a quick, friendly smile, shoving his hands into his jacket’s pockets as he backs away, giving you more space. 

With a hint of a chuckle laced to his voice, he shakes his head. “No worries.”

Attentively, you glance at him with a discrete side-eye—quickly recognizing him as a fellow neighbor from a few late night lobby encounters, usually when you’re coming back from school after TA days. He looks a little different today, hair shorter and a few shades darker, though the laidback, somewhat shy vibe around him stays the same.

Since you’re still rather new to the building and haven’t met a lot of people your age yet, you can’t beat your curiosity whenever he’s around. It doesn’t help that he’s also undeniably cute, with a quiet sort of charm that only adds to his character.

As the elevator’s doors finally close, you clumsily attempt to adjust your bag again, just for your thermos to clatter against the floor as you fumble around the attached keyrings. 

It rolls around for a second before your neighbor swiftly reaches down to grab it, soon handing it over to you with a small smile. “I’m guessing this is an essential for busy mornings, right?”

You laugh, feeling a little flustered as your cheeks warm up. “You’ve got no idea. Sorry again, I swear I’m more composed than this.”

“I know,” he says, offering a nod as his smile grows bashfully. “I’ve never seen you around this hour, so I’m assuming you’re probably late.”

You pause, caught off guard by his words. 

Given that you’ve only exchanged brief glances and polite smiles here and there whenever you met, it’s a surprise to know he’s observant enough to have noticed your routine at all. It makes you wonder if he’s noticed other things too, as you have with him.

“Very late,” you finally respond, offering a rather chagrined smile. “Not a very smart decision to ignore your alarms for a few more minutes of sleep, I guess.”

Visibly very entertained with your chaos, your neighbor shrugs as a chuckle escapes from his lips. “We’ve all been there, don’t stress too much about it.”

The elevator stops before you can reply, both of you stepping out into the lobby once the doors open. There’s a brief pause between you before he clears his throat, looking somehow both hesitant and effortlessly poised as he opens the building’s door for you to walk through first. 

“Hey, good luck today,” he says, shooting you a sheepish wink as he nods. “It’s gonna be a better day from now on, trust me.”

Taken aback by the rather endearing attitude, you laugh, nodding back at him in delight. “I trust you.”

As you start the walk toward the station, you find yourself briefly glancing back over your shoulder, just in time to catch him watching you for a second before he turns around and heads off. 

With the aroma of your burning candles spreading through the living room, your Friday evening falls to a quiet, hardly earned, peaceful break from work and school. 

After a week of quizzes, readings, papers and presentations, it’s the first time in a while that you don’t have to think about the next assignment on your to-do list or papers waiting to be graded. 

Under the dim lights of your apartment, you’re comfortably curled up on the couch with a cozy blanket, savoring the brief weekend pause. 

Almost as if they knew exactly what you needed to add to your little atmosphere, sensing just the perfect time, you hear the faint harmony of the mysterious neighbor’s piano keys through the walls. Tonight, the notes are slower, gentle, almost as warm as the candles’ flames. 

Completely taken by the music once again, you only break out of your reverie as you spot your journal on the dining table. Suddenly inspired, you decide that it’s only fair that your neighbor knows how much you appreciated their music—even if you have no idea who they actually are, apart from the fact that they’re right over you. 

Without a second thought, with a pen and paper in hands, you let your heart write. 

Dear neighbor,

Even though I’m not sure who you are or if we’ve met, I wanted to thank you through this letter. I’ve heard you play for a while now, and I can’t tell you how much comfort and happiness your music brings me. It truly brightens my day, takes a weight off my shoulders at night, pulls me away from my hectic days and gives me a moment to just breathe and appreciate the beautiful things in life.

I don’t know if you’re playing for anyone, or if it’s just for yourself, but I hope you know that I’m always amazed by it and how much it matters. You make the building feel a little warmer, my apartment feel a little more like home. Please, keep playing to your heart’s desires. 

Gratefully,

Your neighbor

It’s already past midnight as Mark settles at the quiet studio, only a handful of people left in the building after a long day of brainstorming meetings for the next label releases. 

Staring at the blank pages of his beat-up notebook, Mark starts to feel the fatigue catch up to his body, brain most definitely clocked out for the day as he can’t seem to think of anything but the annoying ache on his neck. 

As he taps his pen against the crumpled paper, a small, folded letter rests neatly tucked between its worn pages—one that he might or might not have read at least a dozen times since finding it under his door a few weeks ago. Needlessly to say, Mark was nothing but surprised by the letter, moved by the thoughtful, kind words written by his neighbor.

Every time he reads it, a rather satisfying warmth takes over his chest, as if the person who’d written it knew something deeply personal about him without even knowing who he was, or even his name.

Too absorbed in his thoughts, Mark startles as Haechan and Johnny burst into the studio, both laughing until the youngest notes his friend’s guarded face. 

“You look suspicious,” Haechan starts, eyes playfully scanning the studio in distrust. “I hope you aren’t doing anything nasty around here. We use this studio too, you know.”

Mark rolls his eyes, closing the notebook with a sigh. “You really need to learn how to shut up sometimes, Haechan.”

Quietly taking in the scene, Johnny leans over Mark, curiously eyeing the piece of paper sticking out of his notebook, distinctly decorated with a red star sticker at the top. “What’s that?”

The two youngest follow Johnny’s finger, pointing at the notebook on Mark’s lap.

As Mark’s stomach drops, he quickly attempts to tuck the letter back inside, distracting his friends from catching a glimpse of it. “It’s nothing, just something I was scribbling on.”

“No way,” Haechan starts, turning to Johnny with the widest grin on his face. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Is that a love letter?”

“No,” Mark awkwardly cuts off, feeling his cheeks heat up under his best-friends’ scrutiny. “Who even sends love letters nowadays?”

Johnny scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You would.”

“He fucking would,” Haechan repeats, eyes wide as if he’s having an epiphany. “Holy shit, you’re so corny, Mark.”

“I mean, Mark wasn’t the one making up excuses to stalk his mom’s employee every day, you know,” Johnny taunts, laughing when Haechan mocks an offended glance at his older friend. 

Not able to resist their curiosity, knowing that he was eventually going to bend anyway, Mark sighs. “It’s a letter from my neighbor. Sometimes I play some music at home, whenever I’m stuck with something from here,” he explains quietly. “I guess they’ve been listening to it? I don’t know who they are but they left a letter to me a few days ago.”

Johnny and Haechan exchange a look, the latter letting out an incredulous laugh. “Your life is ridiculous. You got a love letter from your neighbor?”

“It’s not a love letter,” Mark argues, rolling his eyes. “It’s more of an… appreciation letter.”

Johnny nods, a knowing look taking over his face. “Can we read it? It’s fine if you don’t want us to, though.”

“It’s not fine.” Haechan frowns, a dramatic note to his voice. “What do you mean Mark got a love letter from his neighbor and we can’t read it?”

Mark does hesitate for a moment but ultimately hands the letter over to Johnny, watching his friend open the paper with careful fingers. 

It’s funny to hear someone else read it. There’s a mix of embarrassment and a strange sense of satisfaction in his chest as Mark listens to Johnny’s voice say the words he’s read so many times by now, enough to have memorized it. 

The letter sounds different—now that’s disconnected from him and no longer kept a secret, it definitely feels more real, more genuine. 

“You make the building feel a little warmer, my apartment feel a little more like home,” Johnny finally reads, noticeably taken aback by it. “Please, keep playing to your heart’s desires.”

Haechan breaks the silence as Johnny finishes, looking as impressed as his older friend. “Damn. That was…” 

“Actually really nice,” Johnny completes, a little more serious than Mark expects. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

Mark shakes his head, taking the letter back from Johnny’s hand and tucking it back inside his notebook. “No idea. I’m not sure if I want to know either.”

Haechan raises an eyebrow, grinning knowingly. “Are you really fine with never finding out who they are?”

For now, there’s something about the mystery that keeps it just for him. For now, Mark thinks that knowing might change the feeling, make it somehow less special. Besides, if the future wants him to know, then he’ll probably know.

As his fingers tap the notebook, almost as if sealing the secret inside of it, Mark nods. 

“Maybe it’s better that way.” 

A few hours into the evening, the small venue is already buzzing with energy, voices blending with the smooth, laidback background music of the cozy bar. 

Mark’s not a stranger to the place, having attended a few open mics before with Johnny as a sidequest from his actual job. Today is a special day though—given Jaehyun’s giving a surprise secret performance of his new EP, it’s only fair of Mark to show his friend some support, especially after having worked on some of his songs together.

Besides, as a genuine music lover he does enjoy the atmosphere, the rawness of live music never failing to lift his mood even when he’s tired and overworked. 

At the back of the bar, Mark waits for Johnny with a pint of beer in hand, his eyes trailing through the place as he watches a few artists cycling through with their instruments here and there. 

Out of all things that could possibly happen tonight, Mark most definitely isn’t expecting to spot you there of all places.

Just a few feet away, you step by the bar with your friends, chatting and laughing as you approach the counter to place an order. He holds his breath for a moment, waiting for you to notice him as you briefly glance around. Convincing himself to play it cool, Mark swiftly turns his attention back to the bartender.

Just as his hand closes around his drink, he feels a presence stepping up beside him, a hand tentatively touching his arm.

“Hey neighbor,” you greet him, eyes bright in recognition as a smile tugs on your lips. “Seems like we’re running into each other everywhere lately, huh?”

Mark smiles back, feeling both glad and a bit nervous that you ultimately decided to approach him. “Seems like it, yeah. Though I’m a little surprised to see you here, to be honest.”

“Why?” You laugh, surprised. “I know it didn’t seem like it that day, but I am a normal person, you know.”

“Shit, no, I don’t mean it that way,” Mark objects right away, wide-eyed as he fumbles with the glass of beer in his hands. “It’s just that I’ve been here a lot so I kinda know the crowd, I guess?”

You hum, moving to lean over the counter right beside him with a frown between your eyebrows. “I don’t think we’ve ever introduced ourselves properly, have we?”

As you give him your name, reaching out a hand to him with an amused smile on your lips, he can’t help awkwardly taking the handshake. When the hold lingers for a second longer than expected, Mark realizes he’s holding your gaze for just as much.

Playing it off with a cough, he pulls back to clumsily gesture toward the stage. “So, do you know anyone… you know, performing tonight?”

“Not really. My friends found this place, I just thought it’d be cool to check it out,” you explain, curious eyes glancing around. “What about you? If you’ve been here before, I bet you know someone.”

“Yeah, my friend Jaehyun is actually doing a few songs tonight.” Mark rubs the back of his neck with a timid smile. “Just thought it would be cool to support him.”

“That’s nice of you,” you say, face softening with a small smile. “I’ll check out him too, then.”

He almost wishes you don’t. 

Though Jaehyun’s got this long distance on-and-off thing with a girl he met during one of his concerts, the man is not only mad talented but also has insane looks, a combo that Mark’s seen girls fall for countless times by now.

Either way, he just smiles back with an appreciative nod. “He’s crazy good, you’ll definitely love his music.”

A call from your friends cuts the conversation short and as you glance over your shoulder, they’re waving you over with a handful of drinks. 

You seem to hesitate a little, looking back at him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I probably should get back to my friends.”

Hoping he doesn’t look too disappointed, Mark shakes his head. “It’s all good, it was nice seeing you around anyway,” he starts, pausing for a second before casually reaching out for his phone. “I was thinking if I could get your number? It’s fine if you don’t—”

You gently take the phone off his hands, visibly holding back a smile as you start typing. As he catches a glimpse of the screen, Mark chuckles at the door emoji added next to your name. 

Before you disappear into the crowd with your friends, you give him one last glance over your shoulder, eyes locking onto his own as your smile widens. 

“I’ll see you, Mark.”

The following days, Mark spends way too much time debating himself whether to text you. As a well-kept secret in his mind, he’s also been obsessively replaying your interaction ever since that night, a little taken aback by his own sudden interest in you. 

It’s not like he hasn’t ever let his eyes wander whenever you coincidentally met around the building, but up until that night you were only that—just one of his neighbors, a pretty girl he happened to run into every once in a while. 

Now, curiosity is getting the best of him and Mark can’t help reading too much into the situation.

Home earlier than usual, he sits at the couch with his guitar on his lap, though now long forgotten in his reverie. As he stares at your name in the contact list, Mark reminds himself that you gave him your number after all.

So he hopes that means something, especially when finally hitting send on the message he’d backspaced one too many times. 

5:11PM Hey neighbor Just found this new place with crazy good food and music in the neighborhood Any chance you’re free tonight?

5:15PM Hi Mark! I’m so sorry I’d love to but I’m stuck at uni until late today Rain check?

Though the anticipation in his chest crumbles to disappointment, Mark plays it off. You hadn’t exactly said no, so he settles to make the interaction as casual as possible, just about to type a quick reassurance when another text pops up. 

5:17PM Actually If you’re free, I could use some company here I’ll buy you dinner if you save me from work for a few minutes

No more than an hour later, Mark’s walking through the campus with two brown paper bags in hand, hoping that a classic combo is a safe enough bet for you to like it. Nearing the library, he spots you waving at him by the building’s steps with a growing smile on your face. 

“Hey Mark,” you greet, walking over with curious eyes at the bags in his hands. “I thought dinner was on me?”

“It seemed like you needed a break,” Mark points, giving an awkward chuckle. “It’s not fancy or anything so don’t worry about it.”

The sun’s just about to set as you walk him to a nearby bench, in a spot secluded enough that there’s only a couple of students around, mostly rushing past without a single glance. 

Accepting the bag from his hands as you sit down, your eyes light up at the sight of the huge burger and fries. “Mark, I could kiss you right now,” you start, taking a single fry as you grin at him. “This is exactly what I needed.”

He chuckles, trying to mask the impact of your words despite the warmth spreading through his neck. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I hoped the basics were a safe choice.”

“This looks way better than I was planning,” you confess in between your bites. “You seriously saved me from going insane.”

“Hey, I don’t think I’ve asked what you study.” Mark frowns, trying to remember if he’s ever noticed something that could’ve hinted at it.

“I’m doing a masters in political science,” you answer, chuckling timidly as his face shifts to an impressed look. “I’m also doubling as a teaching assistant for undergrad, hence why I’m still here grading assignments and going crazy.”

“That’s amazing,” he replies, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “How do you like it? It sounds like hard work.”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back on the bench with a groan, momentarily forgetting about the food. “It definitely seemed easier when I was applying but I do love it. I’m also really good at it, even if my thesis runs me to the ground sometimes.”

“I bet you are.” Mark nods, voice laced with a playful touch. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you seem like the type who’s got it all under control.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m glad you already forgot about the last time we met back home,” you say, glancing over at him with curious eyes. “What about you? What do you do, Mark?”

Suddenly feeling a flicker of self-consciousness in the back of his brain, Mark hesitates for a second. Even though his job sounds fancy to most ears, people usually recognizing him as a writer of sorts, it almost sounds comical when compared to what you do. Strangely enough, despite his genuine love for music, it’s not the first time Mark feels small over it. 

As he rubs the back of his neck, the answer sounds as ordinary as possible. “It’s kinda all over the place, actually. Mostly creative stuff, I guess.”

You raise an eyebrow, visibly intrigued by the vague response. “It sounds like you’re a secret agent but can’t actually tell me the truth. Am I right?”

Mark smiles sheepishly, relieved at your easy acceptance. “To be honest, I feel like I’d be terrible at that,” he says with a grimace. “I think I’m decent at my actual job, though.”

You hum softly, seemingly still interested despite his awkwardness. “Well, you can tell me all about it later.”

As you effortlessly move the conversation by mentioning the open mic, not leaving your love for Jaehyun’s songs out, the evening soon settles upon you. There’s a whole lot Mark knows about you now—from your favorite songs to your favorite students, the places you dream traveling to, even childhood stories.

When you finally walk back to the library, it’s late enough that the campus is completely quiet. As Mark stands a few steps down from you at the same stairs again, a strange sense of comfort warms his chest.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to wait for you?” he asks for a second time, watching you with a hint of concern. 

You sigh, shaking your head with an amused glance towards him. “I told you it’s fine. My friend’s already waiting for me at her place, anyway.”

Mark nods, reluctantly agreeing. “Text me so I know you’re safe?”

You smile softly, nodding back. “I promise.”

Moving closer, you lean over him from the few steps up and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering for a second too short. Mark swears that his skin is on fire, the spot tingling even after you pull back. There’s a quiet pause before you turn around, giving him a final wave before disappearing into the building.

Pleasantly surprised with how comforting and fun the last-minute meeting with Mark was, the details of the night silently stuck with you for the next few days. 

Though it seemed like a simple gesture then, you’d completely turned your brain off from the stress of your routine for a few hours, instead staying immersed in your own growing intrigue about him. There was something undeniably sweet and endearing about your neighbor, leaving you craving for more time to know him better.

Admitting to yourself that maybe you do want to see Mark again, you also want to repay his gentle favor. 

When you text him an impromptu dinner invite at your place, secretly anticipating his answer with nervous eyes glued to the screen, you’re most definitely not expecting a knock at your door just a few minutes later.

Despite the casual stance, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, Mark looks slightly out of breath as he stands outside your place. “Uh—hey, neighbor.”

“Do you live next door?” you joke, stepping aside to let him into your apartment. “You surprised me. I was waiting for you to reply to my text first.”

“You caught me.” Mark shrugs, slipping his shoes off with a bashful smile. “Did I come too early? I can come back later if you want.” 

Leading him inside, you gesture towards your small table, already set with the ridiculous amount of pizza you accidentally ended up baking to stress relief. “You’re actually just in time. Think you can handle the consequences of my poor measuring skills?”

He bursts into a laugh, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “Wow, this is… it feels like an italian restaurant in here.” 

“I feel like you’re making fun of me but I’ll let it slide because you’re a first timer around here,” you tease, pushing him towards a seat at the table. “Sit down, I’ll help you.” 

Both settled in, as the food’s plated by you under Mark’s protests, the conversation naturally flows.

“So, I was thinking,” you start carefully, watching out for his reaction. “You said you’re into creative stuff, right? Does that include writing?”

Mark looks slightly surprised for a second, then opens a smile. “Kind of. I have this habit of writing down random thoughts, stuff that I see outside whenever I go out, you know?”

“Like journaling?” you ask, pausing between a few bites with your interest piqued. 

“You could call it that.” He nods, thoughtfully running a hand through his hair. “Most of the time it turns to a few loose bits of stories. Like, scenes that play in my head.” 

“I think I’ve figured out your job,” you say, giving him a playful side-eye at the visible tension on his face. “I’m pretty sure that you’re some best-seller ghost writer. Maybe a pen name writer or something.” 

“I guess I can’t tell you then,” he teases, a contrast to his shy smile. “What about you? Aren’t you writing a thesis? That’s some serious writing if you ask me.” 

Despite the excitement, you can’t help an exhausted groan at the thought of your own writing. “It seems easier than looks that’s for sure,” you reply with a nod. “Like I said, I love it and I’m actually nailing it… but I do have a breakdown over it every two weeks or something.” 

Taking your answer as a cue, Mark unexpectedly tosses a few questions here and there, leaving you a little stunned at how effortlessly he seemed to ponder over your study. With him attentively hanging onto your every word, you almost catch yourself giving him a long-winded lecture about the subject. 

“Let’s stop talking about this or I’ll never shut up,” you whine, noticing the food’s nearly done. “We’re talking about me too much.”

Mark chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You know I don’t mind,” he says, eyes wandering around your small place for a moment until stopping at your bookshelf. “I’m a little curious about what you’ve got there. Would you mind if I check it out?” 

“Not at all,” you answer, gesturing for him to step closer for a better look. “It’s a chaotic collection, though. There’s pretty much a bit of everything in there.”

As he stands in front of your mess of a bookshelf, Mark runs his fingers through a few spines, attentively eyeing the titles. “I don’t really know a whole lot about books but I can spot some classics here.”

You nod, moving closer to stand beside him. “I haven’t read a few of these in a long time.” 

Glancing over with a knowing smile, he gives you a playful nudge. “Any recommendations?”

Pausing for a second, you briefly mull over a few options before settling on a shorter one, the book's cover instantly earning a laugh out of Mark as you hand it over to him. Though as he reads the title, his gaze turns pensive and you can’t help a fond smile from growing on your lips.

“You can have this one,” you say quietly, Mark breaking out of a trance as he turns to look at you again. “Tell me what you think of it later.”

Mark offers a soft smile, tapping the cover with his fingers. “I'll trust your judgment,” he murmurs, eyes alight with a playful glint. “Maybe I should let you read some of my stuff, then.”

“Maybe I have already,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest as you stare him right back. “If you’re a writer under a pen name, you could be the author of any of these books as far as I know.”

“I’m not that secretive about my writing, I promise.” He smiles, though a bit guarded. “I just don’t really like sharing all of it.”

The conversation lingers between you for a moment, your mind completely taken by Mark’s duality. As you try to figure him out, the lines that seem to draw his persona get more and more blurry. 

Though there’s something effortlessly cool and laidback about him, Mark’s still shy and a little reserved. He’s guarded, but also somehow open to talk about anything and everything. In a way, it feels like a nice balance, but you can’t help but wonder if there’s any missing pieces to him that you can’t see now.

The sudden ring of his phone stops you from taking up on the offer of reading whatever he wanted you to. 

Mark keeps looking at you apologetically as a Johnny talks to him, visibly frustrated with the conversation despite the usual easygoing tone lacing his voice. 

When the call wraps up, he tucks the phone into his hoodie again with a sigh. “I'm really sorry,” he starts, sounding nothing but sincere. “Apparently something happened at work and I’m the only one who can fix it.”

Rolling your eyes, you smile dismissively. “It’s fine, Mark. I hope everything’s okay, though.”

Once at your doorway, Mark hesitates for a second, gaze softening as he turns around to step closer to you. “I’ll make it up to you, alright?” He smiles, offering a firm nod. “We’ll talk later.”

With your face suddenly on fire, you dazedly return the smile, unsure of what to reply. “Alright.” 

In the silence of your apartment later that night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, something had shifted between you.

The aftermath of your last encounter is anything but ideal. 

With both of you caught up in your own deadlines and work-fueled late nights, even the chances of casually running into each other around the building seemed to be far-fetched over the coming days. 

While you were wrapped up in a blur of revised drafts and emails from your advisor, unbeknownst to you, Mark himself was occupied with the very same matter that interrupted your shared dinner, struggling with last-minute changes for an artist’s upcoming project. 

Though there was little time between you, the tenderness of Mark’s promise still lingered with you, expectation building in your heart at the thought of seeing him again.

It’s still early in the morning as you wait for the elevator at your floor, relieved that another hectic week is finally over. As you silently plan to ignore your to-do list for the weekend to catch up with the last episodes of a show you’ve been procrastinating on, the doors open to reveal Mark already inside.

Leaning against the wall with wired earphones around his neck, he instantly straightens up upon seeing you, a sheepish smile curling on his lips. “Hey, neighbor.”

Offering a smile back, you step by his side with a gentle glance. “Hi, Mark.”

As you stand there for a moment, there’s an edge of hesitation that both seem to notice, then choosing to speak at the same time. 

“Sorry I haven’t—”

“I’m sorry for not—”

Both of you pause again, sharing a surprised laugh for a second before Mark motions for you to go first. 

“I just want to say sorry for not keeping in touch these days,” you confess, sighing apologetically. “I think you know already, but things got crazy with my deadlines and I completely lost the timing to reach you back after dinner.”

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head, offering a warm-hearted chuckle. “I’m really sorry too, I know I promised to make it up to you but things just… kind of piled up. I kept meaning to text you, but something always came up.”

You nod in understanding, giving a meek shrug as your hands tighten around the strap of your bag. “It’s okay with me too.”

“So… what time are your classes ending these days?” Mark asks offhandedly, clearing his throat as he looks ahead. “Like, today?”

“Today?” you ask, confused despite your amusement. “Around six, I think?”

With a nod, his answer sounds so quiet that you almost miss it. “That’s good,” he mumbles, almost as if to himself before he glances at you again, smiling lightly. “Good luck with your classes today, then.”

The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the lobby, again drawing the conversation to an end before you can answer. As you step out, Mark keeps a small distance behind you, a subtle hesitation in his step once you’re both outside ready to part ways. 

You exchange quick goodbyes, each turning toward your own direction. 

As he’s a few steps down the street, you call out for his name, voice carrying a teasing edge. “I’ll see you later, neighbor.”

Much to your delight, you do see Mark later—at your university, no less, waiting for you outside the humanities building. Though it’s easy to spot him, the button-up and tank-top combo somehow making him stand out, you can’t hide the shock upon recognizing his familiar figure casually standing around, offering a wave as he spots you.  

You quickly close the few steps towards him, a confused smile playing on your lips. “Oh my God, it’s really you. I thought I was crazy for a second.”

Mark laughs, cheeks hinting a blush despite his nonchalant nod. “I was just around the area and thought I’d swing by to check if you needed company home.”

“I do,” you say, still surprised. “I hope you didn’t wait for too long.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” He smiles, glancing at you with warm eyes. “Ready to go?”

You hum softly. “Yeah.”

Still caught off-guard by his thoughtfulness, you’re most definitely not expecting Mark to quietly offer his hand out towards you. It’s a gentle, open gesture and though he does it very naturally, there’s a hint of apprehension on his face, as if he’s unsure of your reaction. 

Without a word, you immediately slip your hand into his, heart thumping in your ears.

As both of you set off to the station, a strangely familiar sense of intimacy sets between you during the walk. 

The subway is typically packed, chaos all around you with a mob of wide-eyed tourists and aggravated locals fighting for space, loud voices and chit-chat carrying out all the way through the tight space. At the end of a car, you squeeze into a quieter spot as Mark stands right in front of you, close enough to subtly tower over your figure.

Your eyes discreetly take in his frame, pausing at the glasses hanging on the collar of his tank-top. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in glasses yet,” you say, raising an amused eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me this is just for aesthetics, Mark.” 

“I kinda wish it was, actually,” he argues, grimacing. “I mostly wear contacts, though. I keep breaking or losing all my glasses.” 

Carefully pulling them out, you reach over and gently place the glasses on his face, regarding him for a second with a grin. “It looks cute, you should wear them more.”

As if he needs something to do with his hands, Mark adjusts the frames on his face, his cheeks heating up in a faint blush. “Oh—yeah, I guess. Thank you?”

The playful glint in your eyes goes unnoticed by him, grin widening at how endearing his flustered reaction is. “You’re welcome,” you say, leaning in just enough to make him look down at you again. “The blush looks cute on you, too.”

“Come on,” Mark chides, huffing a surprised, timid laugh. “Don’t do that to me.”

As your curiosity moves on to the wired earphones still wrapped around his neck, your fingers graze the cord before you take an earbud, slipping into your ear with a pointed look at him. Mark instantly takes the hint, picking the spare one before reaching over for his phone, scrolling through until a smooth beat starts playing. 

Absorbed into the music, you don’t even notice Mark taking a step closer to avoid the flow of people around you, one of your hands subconsciously moving to steady him by holding onto his waist. 

The songs blend into each other for a few stations as both of you focus on the playlist instead, sneaking playful glances at each other every so often. 

“So you’re a bit of a rockstar, huh?” he asks after a while, smiling warmly at the confusion on your face over his sudden remark. “It’s just that you seemed to vibe with the rock stuff more than I expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling back with a hint of challenge in your eyes. “Maybe I just like your taste in music.” 

Mark chuckles, running a hand through the back of his neck. “Not gonna lie, that kinda makes me feel good about myself,” he says, earning a genuine laugh from you. “I’ll link you up to my playlist, then.”

“Don’t pay too much attention to me next time,” you chide, feigning a frown despite the playfulness in your eyes. 

He shakes his head, voice sounding nothing but sincere as his fingers brush lightly against your cheek, raising your chin up just a tiny bit. “I’ll always pay attention to you.”

Just as his words sink in, the conductor’s cracked voice finally announces your station, leaving you silently grateful for the chance to collect yourself, your burning cheeks thankfully going unnoticed by Mark.

As he takes your hand again, you both move through the small crowd at the platform, the cool night air soon welcoming you outside over the short walk to the building. Though it feels shorter than usual, you still hang onto Mark’s stories with his friends, Johnny and Donghyuck, invested in the mischievous tidbits of their friendship shared on the way. 

At the elevator, you stand beside him for a second time in the day. 

Except that this time, leaving with a quick kiss to his cheek, you know exactly what Mark means to you.

Mark can’t help but read the letter a little differently now.

As an awkward mix of comfort and uncertainty grows in his heart at every word, not even the refuge of his studio feels enough to ease the tension of his thoughts. 

The feeling that you’re the author of the message that he’s been obsessed with for the past couple of months comes with a weight that Mark hasn’t been quite sure how to deal with yet. The kindness laced to the letter already felt way too personal then, but now, it carries a sense of intimacy that feels directly connected to you.

It makes him feel a little silly too, realizing that you’ve entirely known him all along, nonetheless unknowingly witnessing the exact pieces that Mark held close to himself. Still, despite his ongoing conflict, he does marvel at the serendipity of the situation.

Lost in thought, Mark barely notices Johnny sidling over until the oldest takes a seat beside him at the mixing table, raising an eyebrow at the paper in his hands. “Reading the mystery letter again?”

“Sorry,” he chuckles humorlessly, avoiding his friend’s gaze. “I know I’ve been too hung up on this thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” Johnny huffs, offering an odd look to his friend despite the playfulness of his words. “You got a letter from a mysterious neighbor. So what?”

Mark pauses, clicking his tongue as he finally looks up at Johnny. “Actually… it might not be that mysterious anymore, I guess.”

Johnny’s eyes widen in genuine surprise, interest suddenly piqued. “Are you telling me you found out who wrote your love letter?”

“Remember the girl you saw me talking to at Jaehyun’s open mic?” Mark asks, fingers nervously fiddling with the letter as Johnny nods. “We’ve been kinda hanging out lately and she’s… you know, also my neighbor.”

His friend blinks, visibly impressed by the unexpected twist. “Damn, Haechan is right.” Johnny snorts, a knowing grin soon taking over. “Your life is fucking ridiculous, Mark.”

“I’m not really sure it’s her, though,” he counters, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I mean, I think it could be. The way she talks to me sort of reminds me of how the letter is written. It’s just… I don’t know.”

“Then ask her,” Johnny offers, as if he’s stating the obvious. “What’s the worst that could happen? You’re already talking to each other anyway.”

“Yeah, but what if it’s just me wishful thinking?” Mark shrugs, a sigh escaping his mouth. “I don’t want to confuse her with my shit. I actually like her a lot, Johnny.”

As brotherly as ever, the oldest lets out a quiet chuckle, regarding his friend with attentive eyes. “You’re overthinking it, Mark,” Johnny chides softly. “If it’s her, great for you, but if it’s not, then it’s just a story you can tell.”

At the reassuring words, Mark turns the idea around in his head. Deep down, he knows that his hesitation says more about him than you—after all, finding out the truth means that he’s vulnerable, parts of him that even he can’t understand yet exposed. Mark also knows that you haven’t given him anything worth doubting your sincerity. 

It’s actually quite the opposite, given he hasn’t felt so oddly understood and seen in a long time, despite how good he is at his job and how well he’s perceived by the people around him.

Considering Johnny’s input in the brief moment, Mark eventually nods. “I’ll think about it, promise.”

“If she got to know you as well as we do, I know she likes you just as much,” Johnny finishes, giving an encouraging pat to his shoulder. “Just make sure to get out of your head a little, alright?”

Taking one last look at the letter before tucking it away, nerves pleasantly buzzing in his chest, Mark decidedly acquiesces. 

What’s the worst that could happen anyway?

The music starts almost shyly at first, chords soon carrying through the walls softly and unassuming. 

You pause mid-motion, fingers hovering over the keyboard of your laptop as your brain instantly loses the next few lines of your assignment. It finally dawns on you that your mysterious neighbor has returned—at the same time as you realize that you hadn’t noticed their absence at all, for a while now. 

As always, you can’t help but love the unknown melody though it strangely stirs something bittersweet in your heart, somewhat apologetic over not feeling their disappearance enough.

It makes you think of the letter. 

Did your neighbor read it? What did they think of it? Did it mean anything to them?

It’s a given that your thoughts also wander to Mark, the significance of your growing relationship definitely not lost as you slowly recognize how his presence has filled so much of your mind lately, so much of your days. 

It almost feels like the song’s tenderness is engraved onto your brain once it fades away, over as suddenly as it started. As the weight of the silence settles in, you feel stupidly torn between the comfort you’d found and the one you’d forgotten. 

Mark 7:23PM Hey rockstar I’m home Kinda want to hear your thoughts on this Care to have a listen?

It’s an unusually quiet Saturday evening for you. 

At the buzz of your phone, Mark’s name lighting up the screen for a brief second, you take a pause from your book. Though seeing his name doesn’t surprise you, given you’ve been texting back and forth all day, your curiosity immediately takes over as you read through the cryptic messages followed by a download link. 

7:24PM You’re home? I hope you aren’t scamming me 😛

Since Mark had to suddenly cancel the plans you’d made earlier in the week due to work, you’re eager to see him, especially now as the university’s break nears by a couple of days. Before you can text him to come over though, another message comes through.

Mark 7:25PM Please listen to it baby

As your heart leaps at the reply, you’re quick to follow his request.

Then, Mark’s suddenly singing to you.

The guitar chords are unmistakable to your ears. It’s the very same melody played by your mysterious neighbor a few nights ago, except the sound’s definitely richer now, crystal clear with no walls in the way to hold back its softness. His voice feels incredibly tender, warm and light like a hug, almost as if he’s poured his soul into it. 

A shiver runs through your body as realization finally hits you—all this time, Mark has been your mysterious neighbor, the very one you’d sent a secret letter to, your unknown comfort presence. 

You’re not even properly thinking when rushing upstairs, urgently knocking on the door of the apartment right above yours. 

As it swings open, one look at him is enough for you to throw your arms around Mark’s neck, catching him by surprise by pressing your lips against his. It takes a second for him to react, his own arms soon wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. As he blindly steps back inside, Mark kicks the door closed before deepening the kiss, both hands at the back of your head.

You’re not sure how long it lasts but when you pull away, both of you light-headed and breathless, it still doesn’t feel long enough. 

With flushed cheeks, Mark sighs in a mix of wonder and disbelief. “Wow, this is… wow,” he manages, chest still heaving. “What’s going on?”

The dazed look on his face earns a laugh from you, especially as it pairs with his messy hair and disheveled clothes. Completely endeared by his reaction, you lean closer again, brushing a quick, feather-light kiss against Mark’s lips before he can even react.

“You’re my mysterious neighbor,” you start, voice soft with admiration as your hands cup his cheeks. “You’re the one who’s been playing music all this time.”

He gives you a small smile, subtly leaning into your hold. “You’re the one who wrote the letter.”

“This is crazy, Mark,” you say, huffing at the absurdity of the situation in both disbelief and amazement. “I can’t believe you’re the person I’ve been obsessed with since I moved in.”

His brows raise slightly, a teasing glint replacing the warmth in his eyes. “You’ve been obsessed with me?”

“You have no idea how much I loved listening to you.” You smile unabashedly, fingertips gently brushing at his cheeks. “I was always so happy whenever I came home and you’d just start playing out of nowhere. It felt like you knew exactly when I needed your music, you know.”

As his face softens, Mark watches you for a second. “Did you really mean it?” he asks, voice quieter. “The letter you sent me… did you mean all of that?”

Meeting his gaze, you nod without hesitation. “I wouldn’t have written it if I didn’t.”

As he wraps his arms around you in the warmest, heartfelt hug, Mark pulls back just enough so his lips are meeting yours again, the slow kiss melting your body against his own. 

Though pulling yourself away from Mark feels like a challenge, as you breathlessly step back from his hold, your eyes are immediately taking in every detail around. 

Sometimes, you’d foolishly envision your mysterious neighbor’s apartment, wondering how different it could be from your own. So it feels surreal standing there now and realizing that everything feels very, very Mark. It’s almost like the place pieces together parts of him that you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

An entire wall of vinyls and CDs, a few collectible toys here and there on the shelves, instruments all around his living room—all of it explains so much about him.

Walking over to check his collection much like he did with your books, you shoot him a curious glance. “So you’re a musician?”

“You could say that.” Mark frowns, pausing for a second before he sighs. “I mean, I work with music but I’m actually just a songwriter for a record label.”

Your eyes light up, a gasp escaping from your lips. “So I was right when I said you were a writer,” you reply, satisfaction taking over your face. “Did you write the song you sent me?”

He nods, feeling surprisingly at ease despite having spent half of the day restless over the recording. “Yeah, it was me,” Mark answers, chuckling at your enthusiasm. “You didn’t tell me what you’d think of it yet.”

“Are you kidding? The fact you’re my mysterious neighbor wasn’t the only thing that made me attack you just now,” you joke as he bursts into a laugh. “I do wonder who it was about, though.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching in amusement. “You think I’m going to tell you that easily?”

With a knowing grin, you silently turn back to scanning the rows of albums in his shelves again. As he steps behind you, Mark specifically reaches out for a CD, your eyes curiously scanning the cover.

“It’s only fair giving you a recommendation too, right?” he muses, smiling gently. “A rock classic for a rockstar seems fitting enough.”

The subtle implication laced to his words make your smile widen, album still in your hands as you glance at him over your shoulder. “Would you sing it for me if I asked?”

Mark hesitates, though seemingly more out of confusion than anything else. “Like… right now?” 

As you turn around to face him, there’s a hint of reassurance on your face. “You don’t really have to, but I’d love to hear it with no walls between us this time.”

There’s a touch of confidence to the way Mark leads you to his couch, a hand on the small of your back until he settles beside you with a guitar on his lap. It’s probably the prettiest you’ve ever seen him, dark hair sitting above his eyes and glasses perched on his nose, the little moles on his face calling you for a kiss.

The silence between you is soon filled by the guitar, Mark strumming the familiar melody with an ease that you can’t help amaze at. The softness of his voice embraces you again, anticipation growing with every word between your shared glances.

With the last chord drawing the song to a close, you’re the one pulling the guitar away before leaning over, kissing Mark again as he welcomes you closer. 

“So, you and me,” he starts, nose brushing against yours as you hum, smiling against his mouth. “Are we really doing this? For real now?” 

Your heart has never felt so full and assured, no hesitation to your answer.

“We’re doing this.”

The crowd’s applause slowly settles as Mark leaves the stage.

There’s a mix of adrenaline and contentment simmering in his chest, heart still racing as he clutches his guitar closer, taking one last look at the familiar atmosphere—for the first time, not as a mere spectator, but as a performer. 

As your voice breaks through his high, Mark turns around just in time to put the guitar away before you leap into his arms, kissing him so deeply as if you haven’t seen him for weeks. 

A wide smile takes over your face once pulling away, excitement practically spilling over from your eyes. “Oh my God, you were so good!” 

He grins, instinctively reaching for your waist to hold you close. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you gush, expression softening for a second. “I’m so proud of you, baby. It was really incredible, you killed it.”

“I don’t think I could’ve done it without you,” he confesses gently, a contrast to his firm gaze. “If you hadn’t insisted so much… I think I’d still be stuck in my head about it, you know.”

“You were the one up there performing, not me,” you argue, leaning closer to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It was all you, your music and your talent.”

Mark shakes his head, a chuckle escaping from his mouth as he closes his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm embrace. “You’re crazy,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you for not letting me give up on this.”

As you pull back from his hold to meet his eyes, a playful smile curls on your lips. “I take my thanks in the form of take-out.”

He just laughs, nodding softly. “Let’s go home, then.”

Just like that, under a galaxy of stars in the sky and the warmth of a summer evening, Mark lets you guide him back home.

✦ EXTRA: LOVERS ROCK

. ˚｡ MASTERLIST . ˚｡

[odileeclipse]

I'm gonna freaking eat your works.....

(this is mildly wordy It's like 2am and I have a lot to say)

I'm a big big BIGGGGG sucker for a good Shmilk or Pure ganilla fic....and wow you delivered.....🤤🤤

Big thank you for keeping me entertained for a good hour, that's a struggle for me LMAO I loved your writing, and the way you wuold describe his voice being all wispy and spooky; really added to the overall vibe of the fic and I really did like it :3

If you don't mindsies, I'd love to request something from you as well (o゜▽゜)o☆ As previously stated in a comment somewhere, angst makes me SO happy to write/read....the in-depth details people can do with emotions makes me so HEAHEHHAEHAEHEHAHEAHEH in a /pos way....

So! I would like to hhhhhhumbly request some good old fashioned Shmilky angst! Or, if you'd prefer to write Pure vanilla that's cool tooo!!!! I don't really mind what *type* of angst, just angst 🤤 I try to give writers creative freedom, but I'd adore some loss/unable to cope with loss of a loved one.....whatever works ;b ANYWAYS! LOVE YOUR WORK AND YOU'RE VERY COOL!!!!! 💥💥💥💥

The Puppet and the Fool

A tragedy in One Last Breath

A/N You're right there's been too much happiness on this blog time to fix that.

You were never supposed to last. From the moment you met Shadow Milk Cookie, you had been a mere curiosity, a spectator drawn into his ever-moving spire, his ever-deceiving carnival of illusions. And yet, somehow, you had done the impossible you had slipped between the cracks of his carefully constructed reality, nestled yourself in the spaces he hadn’t meant for anyone to occupy. It had started as a game, like all things with him did. "Oh? What’s this? A little spectator who doesn’t flee at the first trick? How rare!" His voice had slithered around you, a serpent’s coil laced with amusement and something sharper, something dangerous. Others feared him, reviled him, whispered of his cruelty in hushed tones. But you, oh, you were foolish. Foolish enough to laugh, to poke at his ego, to challenge him in ways no one else dared.

He had never asked you to stay. Never invited you into his world of trickery and taunts. And yet, there you were, day after day, watching his performances with something that was not admiration, not fear just an amused understanding. "And what, pray tell, keeps you lurking about, dear audience?" he would purr, flourishing his staff. "Surely, you have places far safer than my den of illusions." You had only shrugged, smiling faintly. "Your shows are entertaining." "A high compliment, indeed!" He placed a hand over his chest in mock gratitude. "But beware! The greatest trick of all is never knowing whether you’ve already become part of the act!" "I think I’ll take my chances." Foolish. But he liked that about you. And so, your presence became a fixture, something woven into the very script of his performances. He would create grand illusions, dazzling lights and twisting realities, and you would be there, arms crossed, shaking your head with a knowing smile. "Too much?" he would ask, grinning. "You always overdo it," you would reply. It became a game one he never admitted he enjoyed far too much. And, without realizing it, he began making his performances for you.

"I see through your tricks, Shadow Milk. You’re not as unpredictable as you think." That had caught his attention. You played along, indulged his theatrics, yet somehow remained separate from them. You saw through him in ways that unnerved him, as if you knew where the real strings were pulled. But instead of cutting them, you simply held them, quietly watching as he tangled himself in his own illusions. You became a regular in his performances, not as an unwilling participant, not as a victim, but as something else entirely. A quiet presence beside him, a soft counter to his grandiosity. A knowing smile when his lies got too elaborate, a gentle nudge when his mind grew too tangled in its own web. And somehow, he let you stay. Because for all his lies, you never demanded the truth from him. And for all his illusions, you never asked him to be anything but himself. Looking back, the signs had been small, quiet things, easy to dismiss, easier to ignore. The way your hand would tremble when reaching for his. The way your breath sometimes came too short, too shallow, even when you stood still. The way your laughter, once bright and full, became something softer, something restrained. "Tired already, my dear? We’ve barely begun the show!" he would tease, twirling his staff, watching as you paused to catch your breath. And you, ever the fool, would grin and wave him off. "Maybe you should carry me, then." "Oh-ho! A tempting proposition! But I’d hate to spoil you."

He had never thought much of it. Cookies grew weary. They faltered. It was natural. It wasn’t until he noticed the way you hid it the way you swallowed the winces, the way you steadied yourself against walls when you thought he wasn’t looking that something cold and unfamiliar began to fester in the back of his mind. Doubt. A word he despised when it came to you. But it remained. And yet, he never asked. Because asking would mean acknowledging. And acknowledging would mean accepting. So he let the show go on, even as the cracks in the stage deepened beneath your feet. Now, as you lay in his arms, the truth he had refused to see wrapped around him like chains, dragging him into a reality he would not accept. You had always been dying. And he had never noticed. Or rather he had never allowed himself to notice. "You lied to me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. You managed the smallest of smiles, though it barely reached your eyes. "I didn't lie." "But you didn't tell me." His grip tightened, his mismatched eyes wild, frantic, unblinking. "You let me play my part, let me prance about like a fool while you-" He choked on his words. "Why?"

You exhaled, slow, tired. "Because I knew you’d react like this." The laugh that tore from his throat was anything but amusement. "You-!" His voice cracked, and he had to swallow down the wreckage threatening to spill. "You knew and you still…" His breath shuddered. "Why didn’t you tell me?!" You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because you did. And he wasn’t ready for it. "Because I didn’t want my last moments to be a performance," you murmured. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, weak, barely there. "I wanted to just… be with you." Something shattered inside him.

All those stolen moments, every laugh, every conversation, every quiet night beneath an illusory sky of his own making they had been real. You had given him something real. And now you were taking it away. His breath came quick, shallow. His grip on you was desperate, as if holding you tighter could keep you anchored to him, to this world. "No, no, no, I won’t let you—" "Shadow Milk." His name had never sounded so soft. So final. You smiled. "I love you." And then, stillness. The silence was deafening. Shadow Milk Cookie did not move. Did not breathe. Did not accept. His jester’s hat had long since fallen, forgotten on the cold ground. The ghostly eyes in his hair flickered wildly, their gazes darting in all directions, uncertain, uncomprehending. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. The story wasn’t supposed to end this way. He clutched your body tighter, rocking slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re still here." A statement. A fact. A truth. Or perhaps, the most desperate lie he had ever told. "You’re just waiting for your cue. That’s all this is." His tone was light, theatrical, forced. "A clever little act oh, how you’ve fooled me this time, my dear!" His mismatched eyes gleamed, too wide, too bright. "But the show must go on." There was no response. Yet he continued, undeterred. "I’ll give the next line, then! What a generous performer I am!" A sharp, broken laugh left him. "You’ll wake up soon. You always do." The world did not answer. But he did not listen. Because Shadow Milk Cookie was a liar, a master of illusion, a weaver of truths and falsehoods alike. And so he told himself the greatest lie of all. That you were still there. That you had never left. That the final act had not yet begun. And as the silence stretched on, swallowing the stage whole, he did what he had always done. He played his part. And waited for you to play yours.

[outsideratheart]

By Your Side, Always (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: We’re supercampeones!!! I’m not sure what this is but I hope you like it.

The first 45 minutes of the game you were having fun, the whole team was. Levante knew that Barcelona would make them work but tonight you and the team were putting on a world class performance. They were never a team to give up but with 7 goals scored and them not being able to find the net, they struggled to find hope and accepted their defeat. They were now fighting to keep the score at 7 and it started to get messy. 

It was clear that you had been made a target by Levante’s entire back line. You didn’t care though, you could take it. If anything you welcomed the physically because it meant you were allowed to give them a taste of their own medicine every so often. 

Alexia wished she could be on the pitch with you but she must admit it was fun being in the stand watching you play the way you were. 

“She’s showing off” Mapi said to no one in particular as she watched you dance around their left back even looking back and smirking to her once you sent the ball into the box. 

“She’s unstoppable when she’s like this” your girlfriend says. 

She regretted her choice of words not even a minute later. There were two defenders between you and the goal. You were determined to make it 8. That is until you get taken out by not one but two players. You felt one set of studs go into the outside of the ankle and another set on the inside. You truly had never felt pain like it. 

Alexia heard your outcry of pain and could do nothing but watch as you laid on the floor clutching your ankle. 

“I need you to get up. I need to go to her” Alexia stood to her feet, desperate to be by your side. 

“You can’t go onto the pitch” Mapi slowly got up, careful not to knock her knee. 

Her warning fell on deaf ears and Alexia was already rushing towards the pitch. As expected she was stopped by Jona but she stayed near the sidelines waiting for you. 

“Please get up” Alexia whispers to herself. She began to fear the worst when she sees the physio signal for a stretcher. 

“We both know she’s too stubborn to use it Alexia. Give her a few minutes and she’ll be up” Jona pats his captain’s shoulder in support. 

The coach was right. It took a little longer than Alexia would have like but you are up on your feet. It’s obvious that the injury is bad because you are using the teams physios as crutches so you don’t put any weight on your ankle. 

What is the ultimate telling sign is the way you refuse to meet Alexia’s gaze when you get to the sidelines. Nevertheless she follows you into the tunnel and waits by the door of the medical room. 

“Come with me, please” you have your back towards Alexia but she can hear the pain in your tone. 

“I’m here” 

Alexia sits on a chair beside you as the physio begins examining your ankle. At the first touch you wince and move your foot away which only makes it hurt more. He gives you a couple of minutes to compose yourself but asks to try again. Your arms hide your face as the pain becomes excruciating. The only thing stopping you from breaking completely is the soothing way Alexia is stroking her hand over your thigh. 

“They’re almost done. Try and breathe for me ok?” 

And try you did but you also failed. It was a form of panic and you knew it. 

The physios explain that they think it’s major ligament damage and that they will take you for scans once you’re back in Barcelona.  

“I’m going to give you some space. Alexia, make sure she ices it and try to get her to stay still. Give it ten minutes then she can put the boot on and use the crutches. No weight on it, understand?” 

“They studded my ankle, not my ears. Don’t speak about me as if I’m not here” you sit up quickly. At least now you understood why you needed to keep still. 

Alexia got up as the physio left. She places ice on your ankle as gently as she could before she turned out the lights. She knew that when you were overwhelmed the darkness help calm whatever you were feeling inside. 

“Whatever it is, i’ve got you. I know how you think and how you’re going to want to do this alone but that won’t happen. I won’t let it”

Alexia moves the chair so that it was closer to your head. She places a gentle kiss on the crown on your head. 

“I don’t want to talk about it” 

You turn your head away from her. That hurt Alexia but she knew it was your coping mechanism and once you’ve processed what’s happened you will be more open to talk.

Alexia had just opened her mouth when she heard a door slam and a lot of foul language. 

“That’s Lucy and if she’s in here for the reason I think then I’m going to kill her” 

Your girlfriend rolled her eyes. You weren’t in the mood for this and deep down she knew the reason why the English defender was now in lockeroom even though there is 10 minutes left, maybe less. 

“Y/N I’m coming in” technically it wasn’t a question but still she could have waited for a response. 

“Get out” you growl. 

“Oh did I interrupt something” Lucy gives you both a playful look. 

“You’re a fucking idiot Luce. I know for a fact you didn’t get subbed off because that wasn’t part of the plan so that only leaves one reason” 

“Y/N calm down” alexia begs.  

“I was defending you. They took you out. I wasn’t going to let them get away with it” Lucy met your anger and walked towards you. That was a mistake. 

“Get out!” You stand up and your own weight collapses underneath you. 

“Lucy, please” Alexia begs your England team mate who raises her hands in defeat and leaves you be. 

She then helps you back on the bed. A couple of minutes pass and you hear the final whistle following by the cheers of your team. 

“I’m not going back out. Torre can lift the trophy” 

“Y/N. You’re their captain and you scored a hattrick. It should be you up there” 

“Well I’m not going to be and you can go tell them. Go Alexia” 

She saw the look in your eyes. The look, which in the past, told her that your mind was made up and there was nothing she could do to change it. 

“Just come out when you’re ready. We don’t let moments pass by without celebrating them. You told me that” before leaving Alexia made sure she turned on the TV so that you could at least watch the trophy ceremony. 

You didn’t like what you just did but you did it anyway. Alexia has had a tough few weeks and she need this, she needed it more than you needed her. 

As instructed Marta lifts the trophy and you feel fine about it. Barcelona has a group of leaders but it just so happens that only one can wear the armband. 

The silence wasn’t comfortable and it started to put you on edge. You saw the boots and crutches by the examination table taunting you.  

Don’t let the moment pass by. 

Alexia watches Marta lift the trophy and then celebrated with the team like they do after every trophy win. She hoped you might have come out by now. 

She is near the centre circle when she hears the crowd errupt. She may have her back to the tunnel but she knows it’s you. 

“I thought you said she wasn’t coming out” Jana asks. 

“No. I said she wasn’t lifting the trophy” Alexia knew you would come out. Due to your slow pace, no thanks to the crutches, Alexia met you half way. 

You let the crutches drop to the floor as you wrap your arms around her neck. 

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. I just —“

“Needed a minute. I know. You’re here now and that’s all that matters” she lets you rest against her as your hands you the crutches. 

“Have you been crying mi amor?” She noticed the tear staines on your cheeks. 

You nod slightly and she can see that something is going on in your head because your eyes begin to well up. Alexia cups your cheek and gently wipes away the stray tear that has fallen. 

“You don’t have to wait until I’m not there to cry Y/N”

“I know” 

Side by side you walk towards your team mates who are all ready to greet you. Bruna is the first one too you, of course she is. 

“Here” she hands you the game ball “I got everyone to sign it for you” 

“Thanks B. You know I’ve got so many of these I’ve lost count. Why don’t you go give it to a fan?” The young forward takes the ball back happily and runs towards a little girl. She makes her turn around so that you can see the fan is wearing you shirt. You send her a little wave and it makes her day. 

“I don’t want to be injured” you stick your bottom lip out causing you girlfriend to chuckle slightly. 

“We’re professional football players, we never want to be injured but sometimes it happens. There’s nothing we can do about it” Alexia was full of wisdom. 

She definetly didn’t feel this way when she got hurt but you decide not reopen old wounds. 

“And these things are stupid” you wave one of your crutches around. 

“Are you going to be complaining everyday until you’re back on the pitch?” 

“Yes Alexia, I am. If you don’t like it then tough because you’re stuck with me” 

“I’m ok with that and I’m ready to return the favour because we both know I wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine when I got injured” 

“You can say that again. I almost sent you back home to your mothers” you were teasing her and she knew it. You didn’t like being more that 5 feet away from Alexia when she was hurt. 

“We both know if I went back to my mama’s that you would be right behind me” 

You could only nod in agreement. Alexia suggests you do what will be half a lap of the pitch so you can thank you fans. It’s a slow amble but she doesn’t seem to mind. The rest of the team had walked ahead so now it was just you, Alexia, Mapi and Ingrid. 

“Does this mean we can do our physio together?” Mapi asks you. 

“No” Alexia and Ingrid say in unison. 

“Why not? We will push each other to get better” 

“And that’s the reason why. You’re too competive, you will make it into a game and we” she points to herself and Alexia “know that it’ll end badly”. 

When you are back at the hotel you are dragged into the celebrations and for the most part you don’t mind it. After a little while you realise that Alexia isn’t around and that is something you do mind. You feel yourself getting more anxious without having her calming presence beside you. 

Then you hear your phone go off. 

Come to you room. Your rehab starts now. 

When you enter your room, Alexia is standing outside the bathroom. 

“I’m going to need you to remove your clothes” Alexia says and your eyes widen. 

“Ok” you pull your shirt off in record time, the shorts however were more of a task. 

“Let me” once the injured leg was free alexia places your crutches aside “rest on me” she tells you. 

She looks up grinning like a devil which makes you shake your head. She always did have half a mind in the gutter when it came to you. 

“Maybe later” she pecks your lips and doesn’t expect for you to pull her back in for something more passionate. 

“Sure, Putellas”

She pretends to act offended at the use of her surname. Alexia then uses her strength to lift you backwards and onto the bed, something she could have done earlier. 

“I’m going to take your boot off. It might hurt” she was so gentle in the way you undid the Velcro straps. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry” she says when she hears you wince. 

“I’m ok” you reassure her even though you were far from it. 

What happens next came as a shock but a good one. Alexia lifts you up and carries you bridal style towards the bathroom where you are met with a bubble filled bath. 

“You did this for me?” 

“Yes. Although I’m going to be joining you so I guess it’s also for me” 

“Are you now?” You tease. 

Alexia nods her head in excitement with a huge smile plastered on her face. 

Your girlfriend helps you in and then lowers herself behind you. With one hand on your thigh and the other one on your abdomen, you allow yourself to relax. As you tilt your head back to rest against Alexia it gives her full access to your exposed neck and she takes advantage of the opportunity. She knows things can’t get too heated so she settles with peppering kisses on your sensitive spots. 

The two of you stay in the bath until the water becomes cold and your hands like like prunes. 

“You’re strong Y/N, you’ll be ok” Alexia says as she lays in bed with you. You have a movie on and somehow Alexia has gotten some popcorn. 

“I’ll be alright” 

It wasn’t how you expected the night to end. You thought you would be celebrating with your team, jumping for joy and taking advantage of the free champagne. Instead you are in bed, with you leg elevated and ice compressing the injured area. The this one commonality in the current and what come have been; you have Alexia by your side. 

[mosseroleplay]

The Underground Cat Cafe (DoL Original Location) & Ferdinand the Fisher's Trauma (DoL OC)

CW: sex trafficking, claustrophobia, fear

This is a bad ending. The Underground Cat Cafe functions similarly to the Underground Brothel, but with a theme: all the workers have to behave like cats. They essentially have to live just as pets do, while also being expected to perform sex work. They live in a guarded common area and can be taken to private rooms by customers. The workers are expected to obey management and customer requests.

If you pass out in the city and your beauty stat is 3 or above, there is a chance you will wake up naked and collared in the Undergound Cat Cafe. Players with partial or complete cat transformation have a much higher likelihood of being abducted to the Cafe.

There are many management-encouraged activities at the Cafe, some of which include: Playing, napping, being pet, begging for treats, or serving customers privately.

Engaging in cat-like activities earns customer attention and both increases the chances of being expected to perform sex work as well as being adopted by a customer.

Players who refuse requests or misbehave will be sent to the punishment room:

The Punishment Room The room is dark and cold. You see a wall of kennels in front of you. The kennels have solid metal doors in favor of barred doors. You're shoved into one of the kennels where you’re forced to sit in a small space. There is a fan blowing above your head.

Punishment lasts until the next morning. You can pass the time by sleeping, scratching graffiti on the walls, trying to kick the door open, or inspecting the fan above you. If you inspect the fan above you, you realize that rattling it loosens the screws. Enough time or visits permitted, you can unscrew the fan and climb up into the ducting.

Traverse the ducting to escape: Some directions you take in the ducting may be unstable and you could fall through a vent, get caught, and be brought back to the Cafe. If you’ve memorized the route, you can escape every time. The Tall Customer One of the customers who comes to the Cafe is a very tall man dressed head to toe in black. He wears a face mask and a black drifter hat. You can’t see his skin or face well. He seems to be watching you, but it's hard to tell. He only stays for an hour.

You can try to appeal to him and get his attention. He appears to be staring at you, but never touches you. Perhaps there is something more you need to do to gain his attention. Ferdinand’s Trauma Ferdinand may also be abducted and brought to the Underground Cat Cafe. It is not the first time- he had been brought there multiple times. He hates this place the most, and wants his freedom back.

He deadens his emotions while at the Cafe and goes through the motions. He is looking for his chance to escape.

EVENT: Ferdinand Abducted If your love stat is over 30%, you may spot Ferdinand in the city between 3pm-5pm on weekdays. A van labeled ‘animal control’ screeches to a stop alongside him and people hurriedly climb out. Ferdinand tries to flee, but they tase him and drag him into the van.

The player may choose to save him, but the success rate is challenging even with maxed athletics. If you manage to save Ferdinand, he is very grateful. +++Love

If you cannot save him, you watch the van drive away. Ferdinand disappears between one to four weeks and cannot be found at any of his usual haunts. When you see him again, he is thin and haggard. He meekly tells you that he’s happy to see you and that he missed you while he was gone. He does not elaborate on his experience.

EVENT: Flee with Ferdinand There is a possibility that the player will be abducted to the Underground Cat Cafe while Ferdinand is present. He is mortified to see you there. He will share with you that escaping security is very difficult, and that getting adopted by a customer and then escaping your adopter is much easier. He warns you NOT to get adopted from a customer who looks like a very tall man in a black hat.

If you tell Ferdinand you want to escape security with him (low success rate) and succeed, Ferdinand will be extremely grateful. ++Love.

If you fail, Ferdinand will be judged as the mastermind of your plan and will be sent to the punishment room. He will not be in allowed to return to the common area for a day.

If you get sent to the punishment room while he is also there, you can hear him panicking and weeping from an adjacent kennel. If you escape via the ducting, you can find the fan above Ferdinand’s kennel and together you can free him and escape. Ferdinand is extremely grateful to you. +++Love

Note: If you ignore Ferdinand during your stay at The Underground Cat Cafe, he disappears. You find out he was adopted by a customer called The Collector.

[fushizhuo]

Synopsis: You're the youngest member of SKZ and the younger brother of Bang Chan. However, you're sick. And your parents sent you to the US to get treatment. But, they couldn't treat your disease. No matter how hard they tried. So as a final goodbye, you sang a song for your hyungs and your fans.

Genre — Angst.

Warnings — Death

Pairing — M! Reader x SKZ (platonic)

AN note — Transferring my wattpad works over to Tumblr, I made this when I was 12 don't judge 🤞🏻

WC — 4.8k

The arena hums with quiet anticipation, the energy heavy with sadness. Stray Kids are on stage, but the usual vibrant atmosphere is missing. Eight members stand in a row, their faces somber. The space next to them is empty—the place where you always stood.

Chan steps forward, his hands gripping the microphone tightly, his voice trembling as he addresses the crowd. “STAYs, tonight is… different,” he starts, his eyes flicking back to the members, all barely holding back their emotions. “Our member, y/n, couldn’t be with us tonight. But he left us something. A message for all of you.”

The crowd stirs, sensing the gravity of the moment. Then, the massive screen behind the group flickers on, and there you are, sitting in a chair, pale but smiling gently at the camera. You look weaker than ever, but you’re trying to be strong, for them, for the fans.

“Hello, STAYs,” you begin, your voice soft, yet steady. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight with my brothers. The truth is… I’m sick. Really sick.”

The arena falls into a deafening silence. Even though rumors had been swirling for weeks, hearing you confirm it feels like a punch to the gut for everyone present.

“I’ve been fighting this for a while,” you continue, a sad smile tugging at your lips, “but it’s gotten worse. And… I don’t think I’m going to survive this.”

The weight of your words sinks deep into the hearts of the fans, many of whom have already started to cry. The members on stage are barely holding it together. Felix wipes at his eyes, his face twisted in sorrow, tears falling down uncontrollably with I.N comforting him, while Hyunjin clenches his fists, his shoulders trembling.

You pause for a moment, as if gathering the strength to go on. “I’m sorry I couldn’t sing live with you tonight. But I wanted to say goodbye properly, the only way I know how—through a song. This is my final song, and I want to dedicate it to all of you.”

The camera zooms in slightly as you take a deep breath. “STAYs, thank you. You made me braver than I’ve ever been. Every moment on stage, every song, every smile—I did it because of you.”

You look down for a second, composing yourself, before looking back up at the camera, your eyes brimming with tears. “To my hyungs, thank you for taking care of me. You’re my family, and you’ll always be my home.”

With that, you reach for your guitar and start strumming the familiar opening chords of Castle on the Hill. The stadium quiets, listening intently, as your voice fills the arena.

"When I was six years old, I broke my leg,

I was running from my brother and his friends."

The soft, nostalgic melody washes over the crowd, each note filled with bittersweet memories. The camera flashes between you, playing your final song, and old clips of Stray Kids—the early days when you were all just starting out, moments in the dorms, behind-the-scenes laughter.

"And I miss the way

You make me feel,

And it’s real."

Your voice trembles slightly, but you keep going, pouring everything you have left into this performance. The members on stage are frozen in place, their eyes locked on the screen as you sing about the good times, about the innocence of youth, and about home.

"When we watched the sunset

Over the castle on the hill…"

The song continues, each lyric hitting harder than the last, and the fans can barely contain their sobs. You sing not just for them, but for your hyungs too, for the family you’re leaving behind.

"One friend left to sell clothes,

One works down by the coast,

One had two kids but lives alone,

One’s brother overdosed,

One’s already on his second wife,

One’s just barely getting by."

As you sing these lines, the camera flashes again to moments from the members’ lives—Chan struggling as a leader, Lee Know dancing through exhaustion, Han and Changbin composing until the early morning, Seungmin’s late-night vocal practices, Hyunjin’s quiet moments of self-reflection, Felix’s smile breaking even through the toughest days.

"But these people raised me,

And I can't wait to go home."

Your voice catches on the word home, and it’s clear that you’re thinking of the members—your brothers who stood by you through it all. The camera shows clips of all eight of you together, laughing, crying, working, living.

"And I'm on my way,

I still remember these old country lanes,

When we did not know the answers."

The music swells, and the arena is filled with your voice, with memories, with everything you’ve been through together. The fans, the members, everyone is united in the sadness of your goodbye.

"And I miss the way

You make me feel,

And it’s real,

When we watched the sunset over the castle on the hill,

Over the castle on the hill,

Over the castle on the hill."

As the final chorus fades, the screen cuts back to you. Your guitar falls silent, and you look into the camera one last time, tears filling your eyes but a soft smile still on your lips.

“Thank you, STAYs. You made me feel alive. You made me brave. I love you all so much.”

Your final words are barely above a whisper. “I’ll be home soon.”

The screen goes dark. For a few moments, the arena is completely still. No one moves. No one speaks. It’s as though the world itself is holding its breath, not wanting to acknowledge what just happened.

Then, the sobs start—quiet at first, then louder, until the entire stadium is filled with the sound of heartbreak. The members on stage are in tears, clutching onto each other for support. Chan tries to speak, but no words come out. He steps forward, wiping his face, and finally manages to say, “Thank you, y/n. We love you.”

The concert ends not with an encore, not with cheers, but with the weight of your goodbye hanging in the air. STAYs leave the arena with heavy hearts, each one carrying a piece of you with them, your voice still echoing in their minds, the final notes of Castle on the Hill playing over and over.

You never made it back. But in that final moment, you felt at home.

[pazzi5351]

PART 2

Paige x Azzi Highschool au

Basketball Paige x Dance team Azzi

Word count: 667

AN: im on a writing kick rn especially after watching the knicks win!! So here’s a pt 2!! Hope you enjoy and happy reading😽 feedback is totally appreciated!!

————————————————————————————

Wrapping up practice, coach Geno pulled Paige aside.

“I don’t know if you were paying too much attention but, that girl who walked out of here a few minutes ago, her name’s Azzi. She’s on the dance team. Their captain. She asked that if on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, her team could use the half of the gym we don’t use because of something about a renovation, the dance studio, whatever. But, I’m telling you this because as our captain, I want cordial between us and them. No funny business, no complaining, nothing. We’ll be two teams practicing in the same space for a month. I’m counting on you to help keep our team in check. Got it?”

Paige nodded with half a smile. Fully understanding what her coach was asking of her. “Yeah, yeah. Of course coach. I got you”

“I mean it Bueckers. Now, get outta here it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Back home, Paige couldn’t stop thinking about Azzi. About how perfectly out of place she looked waking into the gym. About how pretty her smile was when she was talking to Nika. About how she was about to spend the next month with Azzi, in the same space as her, three days a week.

Paige grabbed her phone, immediately going to Nika’s contact, to press for more about Azzi.

Paige: you said Azzi is ur stat class right? That means she’s super smart

Nika: you barely met the girl and you’re already tryna play stalker… this is down bad behavior twin😪

Paige: man what??? I just wanna know what she’s like before us yk as a team have to spend a whole month with her🙄🙄

Nika: if you wanna know what she’s like romeo, add her on ig. It’s @ azzii35. Find out for yourself!

Paige: okay but if anyone asks, you gave me her insta. I didn’t go looking for it.

Nika: alr P😂😂

Paige, taking Nika’s advice, scrolled to her instagram and searched for Azzi’s profile. When she found it, it took everything in her not to follow and like every picture and video that was posted. Azzi’s account consisted mostly of pictures of her at dance competitions, with whom Paige assumed was her outside of school dance studio, pictures with friends, family, and her dog, who Paige found out was named after Breanna Stewart, and videos of her performing or trying new dance moves.

Paige was mid scroll in her Azzi instagram deep dive, when a sharp knock at her door caused her to jump and close her phone at the speed of light. Her younger brother, Drew, walked in and stopped to look at her.

“Why do you look like you were caught in a crime?”

Paige blinked at him. “What bro- I literally wasn’t even doing anything.”

Drew side eyed her. “Right… anyways. Dad wanted to know what you wanted for dinner. He said to pick between burgers and pizza.”

Annoyed that her Azzi deep dive was interrupted, Paige rolled her eyes. “Pizza. Now can you leave?”

Drew gasped, then dramatically turned to leave. “Gosh. God forbid a child asks what a sassy teenager wants for dinner.”

Paige, now at ease with her door closed, opened back up her phone, fingers hovering over Azzi’s DM’s, she typed out slowly.

Paige: Hey Azzi. Captain to captain, I wanted to say that I hope this month goes by smoothly with our teams practicing almost together 🙂

Hitting send, she threw her phone to the other side of her bed and quickly ran downstairs for dinner. Despite being filled with nerves because of her message, she was hopeful that the next month would be something great.

————————————————————————————

AN: what do we think of pt 2???? I hope y’all enjoy😊😊 Goodnight everyone✌🏽✌🏽

-Lala

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart (Chapter 14) Human Alastor x Married Reader

Chapter Trigger Warnings: None, really- just lowkey shittyness from Laurence.

Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The smile on Alastor’s face pulled wider as he drove, the world passing by as he hummed along with the rumble of the engine. There were few things that felt as good as watching a plan fall into place. It was plain as day that everything was falling into place. 

There was no denying it, though he was sure at this point you still were denying what you were feeling. Everything about the way you acted around him screamed to him he was already winning his little game. It was in your timid looks, glances to him when you thought he couldn’t see. It may as well have been a sign over your head as your protests and flinching away from him gave way to careful eye contact and quiet acceptance. 

His grin twitched wider as he pictured the way you would flush as his hand dipped lower down your back, not indecently low but certainly a bolder move. It surprised him how quickly you were falling into his trap but he supposed it shouldn’t. You were such a meek thing. The way you reacted, he was near sure that you hadn’t experienced kindness or proper courting in your life. 

Alastor turned the wheel, hardly paying attention to the world he was navigating through. He knew the way nearly as well as he knew the way to his own home. There wasn’t much time, and he needed to get himself straightened out. 

Standing on the sidewalk with you earlier that morning, Alastor had suggested a late lunch, more like an early dinner, shared between two friends. It was a bit of a bolder suggestion, far more than stealing you away for a shared cup of coffee.

He had to push, ever so slightly, but after some performative pushback for the sake of propriety, you folded to his will, just as he knew you would. The plan left you enough time to scurry home and make a good start on the cleaning while Alastor made his way nearly halfway across the city. 

Alastor took his time, straightening his jacket in the dirty mirror under Mimzy’s watchful eye. It wouldn’t kill the woman to clean it but he wasn’t in the mood to nettle his long-time friend over the mess, this time at least. Long fingers picked at his hair, pulling strands this way and that as he tried to convince them to lie just a little flatter. 

He didn’t have enough time to really run all the way home and get himself polished up so he drove to Mimzy’s little flat, near to her speakeasy. It was only fair that he invaded her space. Heaven above knew how often she had helped herself to his home. 

“Things goin good then?” She asked as Alastor ran his fingers through his hair, effectively resetting it to start fresh as she handed him a hot comb. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him primp, but it was infrequent, at best. Or at least it had been. “Ya know, your hair was good three passes ago, right?”

“Things are going swimmingly,” Alastor confirmed, leaving his hair alone after passing the comb through the strands, letting the heat pull the slight curl straighter. “She’s proving to be great entertainment.” 

“And you’re just playing with her?” Mimzy asked, eyebrow raised as she perched herself against the dresser. It was improper for her to have a man like Alastor in her home, let alone her bedroom, without someone to ensure he didn’t take advantage of her, but she had no fear of him. Alastor held no interest in her, though she had tried to win his romantic affections once, long ago. 

“Of course,” Alastor rolled his eyes as he turned away from his reflection, “All just good fun. Lure her away from dear Laurence for a bit and show her some life. Poor thing is just wilting away. You want a supplier who can’t even take care of his wife? Yet you trust him to keep your deliveries coming?” 

“Well, I can’t have you as a supplier.” Mimzy watched him, a small smile on her face. For someone as smart as Alastor was, he sure could be daft at times and about the strangest things, Mimzy realized. How was he unaware of how much you seemed to be more than just a passing toy to him? 

Oh well, Mimzy decided. It wasn’t like anything could come of this. Maybe Alastor’s need for love, want for romance would awaken with you and he could go on and find himself someone proper. 

Each step was measured as you fought the urge to rush down the sidewalk. That would draw the wrong attention to yourself. It boggled your mind that this was the second time you’ve done this. It was wrong. You shouldn’t be sneaking around behind your husband’s back to spend time with anyone, let alone with another man. 

You turned the corner into the alley, bowl hat pulled low over your face and ugly orange shawl wrapped around your shoulders as you let yourself relax a little more. Each step took you further down the dirty alley, shoes clicking against the stones as you approached a dark figure leaning against the back of a car.

“Hello,” you said, fearlessly. What a thought that was? Someone you could speak fearlessly with, even if just in greeting. Alastor had yet to give you a reason to fear his moods or wait to see if he brought a storm with him. He was simply always calm, even-tempered. 

“I’ve got you something, if you think you can hide it?” You could just see Alastor’s smile in the dark, light reflecting off his teeth and shining in his eyes, highlighting them against the rest of his dim features, hidden in shadows. 

“Oh?” you ran your teeth over your bottom lip, trying to convince your heart to calm as it humped around in your chest. “You didn’t need-” 

“Nonsense,” Alastor said, not offering any other information, instead turning to the trunk behind him and twisting the key already seated in the lock. It popped open with a soft thump that reverberated through the small alley. 

The darkness prevented you from seeing the tarp, folded neatly around a saw and tied together with twine, just as Alastor had been counting on. Even if you saw it, he was sure you had no reason to question whatever story he gave you. Men were known to keep strange things in their trunks, items to help with a breakdown. He could come up with something for cover. 

In the trunk’s front sat a round hatbox, covered in a floral pattern that gave away the high end shop it had come from. Along with it was a bag, paper sporting the same floral pattern. 

“For you,” he stepped aside and motioned for you to look. It was dim in the alley, but you could just make out the pattern on the items sitting toward the front of the trunk. The deeper recesses of the space may as well have been a black void to you. “You can take a better look later, but I thought, if this is going to become a more regular arrangement, this would help you.” 

“What?” your heart pounded in your chest. He wanted this thing to continue, so much so he wanted to help it be easier? What did that mean? Lifting the lid of the box, you found a red bowl hat, perfectly in style, much unlike the one pulled down over your head currently. The ribbon around the band, shiny silk, accented with little roses embroidered onto the felt of the hat. 

“There’s a cape to match. I know coats are a bit more in style, but it’s knit and I’m told that’s still in style.” Alastor hesitated for a moment, taking in the soft expression on your face. “I thought the cape would suit you better.” 

Blood roared in your ears as your vision wavered. Breaths came broken as you tried to will yourself to calm down. When was the last time someone had gifted you anything? It had been flowers. The ones Laurence had given you to replace the ones Alastor gave you. Then the fear began to truly hit, sending a tear running down your now pale cheek. How would you explain this to Laurence? 

“It’s small enough you could tuck it under the steps, or somewhere else if you think he would find it.” Alastor’s hand rested on your shoulder, arm laying across your upper back as he held you almost to his side, the distance between your bodies too small to be proper but too large for you to call it an embrace. “I thought perhaps you could wear them when coming to meet me, instead of something you could be recognized in.” 

“Mr. Moreau,” you patted his chest with the back of your hand before you thought twice about such a bold move. It was too easy to feel that comfortable with him. “You make it sound like sneaking out with you is going to be a regular occurrence.” 

“Would that be a bad thing?” Alastor asked as he slipped the shawl from your shoulders and tossed it into his trunk. “You could use a friend.” 

Friend. Alastor had called himself your friend. That word bounced around in your head as he wrapped the cloak around your shoulders and tossed the hat you had been wearing in the trunk with little care. 

If you were just friends, why did it not feel like that? Why did it feel like more? Why did the idea of it not being more make your heart pain?

“Shall we?” Alastor’s hand took up its place against your back, just a touch lower than you considered proper but where you were becoming accustomed to it resting. 

“No hat?” You asked as he closed the trunk with one hand. 

“You’re already here,” he chuckled as he smiled down at you. “If you wore a hat, I wouldn’t get to see your lovely face.” 

The trunk slammed shut with a solid thunk, sealing away your items. The sound broke you out of the spell you still lingered in, touched by his kindness and the fear of your husband it inspired. 

“Darling,” Alastor stepped in front of you slightly, turning to face you. His knuckle grazed your cheek tenderly, wiping away the trail left by the tear that had escaped. “If you don’t think you can hide then, you don’t have to take them. I wouldn’t want to cause you to go through another… grievous incident.”

“I-” you took a shaking breath, “I think I can. I just- I’m not used to such kindnesses.” 

With a smile, Alastor led you around to the passenger side. He reached around you, opening the door as he let you sit with your admission. 

Finally, he said, “You deserve to be treated with kindness,” as he tucked you into the seat. 

The door closed, leaving you with your thoughts as Alastor walked around the front of the car. It was the first chance you had to process his words without the sight of his warm eyes in the darkness clouding your mind. Reaching up, you let your fingers caress over the bruise around your eye, faded now, more green and yellow than red and purple. It was easier to cover, hidden now under layers of cream and powder. 

He wanted to see your face. Knowing how you looked and what you were hiding, he wanted to see you.

“How long do we have?” Alastor asked as he settled into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed. The keyring jingled as he slotted the key into the ignition. With a quick turn of his wrist, the engine roared to life. 

“He told me not to wait up,” you answered, only realizing how that could be taken as an invitation to something far more than what you had planned after the words left your lips.

“Good!” Alastor pulled the car forward, out of the other side of the alleyway and onto the street. “Are you hungry? I figured a late lunch and then an early show at the cinema. Hows that sound?” 

“It sounds wonderful,” you told him as he turned onto the city streets. “But I’ll be seen. People will talk.” 

Alastor only looked over at you and winked with a cock of his head. The radio filled the silence, covering for your inability to think of anything to say. As minutes passed, one after another, the city giving way to scenic landscapes. You were torn between watching the land passing by and watching Alastor driving, his long fingers wrapped around the wheel as he navigated with practiced ease. 

“Do you leave the city often?” You finally braved saying. 

He glanced at you, the bright afternoon sun lighting up his eyes as he turned his head. “More often than I probably should.” 

“What’s that mean?” Your voice came softly. It was a struggle to have enough air to breathe when he looked at you that way, let alone talk. 

Alastor shrugged, “I get recognized in the city, more often than I’d like sometimes.”

“That’s a problem Mr. Big Deal Radio Host?” You laughed as he gave you a pointed look that dissolved into the smile he always wore. It felt okay to tease him. It felt safe. 

“It can be,” Alastor was silent for a bit, looking between you and the road. It was clear he wanted to say more. You sat, waiting patiently until he spoke again. Usually you’d wait because it wasn’t a woman’s place to speak over a man, but not this time. As the world passed by outside the window, you waited because you wanted to know what it was he was debating about saying, not wanting to risk scaring away his words. “You know I’m not like you, right? Not from money, but also…” 

“I suspected,” you said simply, “But that’s alright. I don’t mind, you’re kind and a gentleman.” Your voice fell silent for a moment. Alastor debated in that moment clarifying, making it clear it wasn’t just money he referred to but you spoke again before he could. “That’s what matters, not the color of your skin or that of your parents or their parents. What matters is that your mother raised you right.” 

Alastor didn’t speak at first and you feared you had said something wrong. Fingers twisted around each other, taking a bit of your blouse with them. You pushed down the urge to say something, anything, to fill the void seemed to grow within the car. 

“Not everyone thinks that way.” Alastor’s voice broke the silence, shattering the void. “People know me and no one says it because I look close enough to them they can make themselves forget, but it’s the first thing they remember when I make a mistake. Out here,” Alastor tilted his head forward, to the open road and the small town in the distance, “no one knows me. They don’t know or if I mess up, it’s just some unknown guy.” 

“It must be stressful.” You caught yourself as you reached out, wanting to rest your hand on his forearm. Instead, you pulled your hand to your chest and clasped in your other hand. 

Alastor laughed, “It can be. But I manage.” 

“And out here, maybe I can just be some girl, too.” You said, watching his face, “Some girl out with you.” 

“If you want to be.” Alastor’s smile had dimmed with the conversation but now it turned cautiously brighter. 

“And if I do?” The words were hardly more than a whisper as you carefully nudged your toe just a bit further over the line. 

“Guess you’re just some girl out with some guy, then.” 

The diner was small, casual and easy but with Alastor it didn’t feel that way. He pulled your chair out for you as if you were somewhere fancy, scooting you into the table with care. It could have been the highest class restaurant, something Laurence would have taken you on to celebrate your engagement for all the care Alastor was putting into settling you at the table. 

With the red knit cape over your shoulders, you indulged in the fantasy. You smiled warmly at Alastor from across the table as he talked about the radio, what he did in the day and the hours he spent poring over scripts and show plans. 

It made you want to sit and listen to his show. It made you thankful for Laurence’s late nights, allowing you to indulge in upcoming shows. The idea of getting caught and setting Laurence’s rage off was too terrifying to brave listening to Alastor on the radio since meeting the man himself, but now, the way Alastor talked about his work, you wanted to hear the thing he loved to do so much. It would be like hearing it with brand new ears. 

It wasn’t as if you’d never heard his broadcasts in the past. You’d caught them here or there in passing. Though you had enjoyed them, you were always busy tending to your home or your husband, regardless of your desire.

It felt strange to wish to hear the voice of a man, but you were craving Alastor’s voice more and more, the longer you had known him. His love and passion for his chosen profession, you feared it would make your longing all the worse. 

“What do you do when you’re not going about your work?” You asked, setting the napkin aside after dabbing at your face. 

Alastor paused and thought, something you had grown to appreciate about him in the short time you’d known him. “I read,” he finally said, “And hunt, though I fear I seldom have time for either.”

“You’d have more time if you were not sneaking away with a-” you whispered the next words, leaning across the table, “married woman.” 

“But my dear!” Alastor laughed, “I find spending time with,” and his voice lowered to a matching whisper as he leaned across the near empty plates on the table, closing much of the distance between the two of you, “one specific married woman to be rather refreshing.” 

“Oh my,” you covered your mouth in feigned outrage as a smile you wouldn’t have recognized spread across your face, “How scandalous!” 

“The true scandal,” Alastor admitted, wicked grin spreading wider across his face, “Is how she seems to enjoy my company as well.” 

You walked arm in arm with Alastor through the cinema hall as he led you to your theater as a few others milled about. It was a show you’d already seen, but you didn’t mind that at all. You had never seen this show with Alastor and that was what you were eager for. 

Was he the one to whisper through the show? Would he laugh? Would he doze off? 

It was early yet, and the theater was little more than half filled as you took your seats. The darkness felt strangely safe because he was in it with you. No monsters in men’s dress would get you in this darkness. Today, there was nothing to fear. 

No unwanted hands would grip your thigh. No hands would slip under your dress. No one would whisper lewd promises in your ear that would only spark fear. You were safe, respected. 

While you watched the show, some of it at least, mostly you watched Alastor watch the movie. Not at first, but as his arm reached behind you, resting along the back of your seat, you couldn’t help it. Light reflected off his glasses and he chuckled softly at jokes. 

You envied some woman you didn’t know. It was hardly more than the idea of a woman, really. She would come into his life, steal the attention and affection you had no right to lay claim to. She would get to call Alastor hers. 

Was it possible to hate the idea of someone? You thought so, as he turned to look at you, a smile stopping your heart in your chest. 

Friends, you reminded yourself. Just friends. Just a secret and highly improper friendship. You could keep your feelings at that level, right?

Forcing your eyes back to the screen, you tried to ignore the way his thumb would caress your shoulder from where his hand dangled off the backrest of your seat. He was not holding you and yet he came so terribly close to it. You ignored the feeling of his eyes on you as he leaned closer to whisper in your year, his breath washing over your neck and the side of your face as he moved closer. 

“I’m glad you came out with me today,” his voice was soft velvet in your ear, his lips moving against your hair. Your heart was going insane as you chanted in your mind that you were friends. Just friends. Only friends. 

He pressed against the side of your head. Was it a kiss? You weren’t sure. The very idea of it terrified you. There was no way you could brave asking . Your heart pounded in the most delightful way. You could hear him breathe you in for a moment before he pulled away, sitting properly in his seat again with his eyes on the screen. 

Did he know what he did to you? 

Laurence sat in his large office with the blinds drawn closed against the bright spring sunshine. Smoke curled up from the cigar he had no business buying, let alone smoking with the state of things. That didn’t stop him, though. It was alright, he would find a way out of this, he always did. 

There were papers spread in haphazard piles in front of him, red glaring up at him. Canceled, the red screamed. Contracts canceled. Work not yet delivered. Past due notices. Bills unpaid. Threats of legal action. Things were spiraling out of his control, but that was alright. 

He just needed one more good break and he could pull things back together as if he had never broken them. He had always been good at finding opportunities, taking the right risks. He was a master gambler. This was just a string of bad luck, that’s all. Everyone had runs of bad luck but his never lasted long. He would pull out of this, he always did. 

First, he’d finish up work at the office. That was the easy part. Throw together some marketing materials from the crew that was left and have them deliver it with some sob story. If he was lucky, the client would bite it and at least one of these contracts would be settled. 

Then he’d meet up with the guys and play some cards. If he played his game right, he’d come out on top. He had to be careful, not too much on top or they’ll question him. This wasn’t a week where he could rely on lady luck alone to line his pockets. 

Once he had some winnings in his pocket, it would be late enough to run an extra load of goods for his best gal’s brother and collect a little extra money. It wouldn’t be enough to change the trajectory of his finances, but it would be a start. He just needed a fucking start. 

If he had a good night, he’d have enough cash in his pocket to make his first payment to that damned slimy radio fucker. Just the idea of how that man had the fucking nerve to shame him for offering you as collateral, then to turn around and slink around his home as if he owned the place. How fucking dare he get you alone when he was a guest in the home? 

That man was bad news. Laurence felt it in his bones. Nothing good could come from a man who so shamelessly spent time with an unattached spinster like Mimzy but really, why was it surprising? Just look at who his fucking mother was.

A family history of boundary crossing and not knowing one’s goddamn place, that’s all that fucker had going for him. Alastor, the promising radio personality- fuck him. Just another man with dirty blood who didn’t know his fucking place in society. 

What was the world coming to? It was going to hell in a handbasket, that was for fucking sure. First the blurring of racial lines and now women were expected to vote? How would they know what’s best for society? What they know was the best way to get clothes clean, to mop the floors and to bake if they were good at anything at all. 

Laurence took a deep breath, pulling open the desk drawer. Things rattled around from the force. He shoved papers and boxes around, grabbing the vial of tincture he kept hidden in the back of the drawer, safely out of sight. He had purchased his office supply from across the city. Nosey pharmacists couldn’t mind their business and had to question how much his back had to be hurting. 

Fuckers. His back hurt. He needed the drops. That’s all there was to it. Who the fuck were they to question how much pain he was in?

The bitter taste was something he had gotten used to, even come to enjoy, as he emptied half the dropper into his upturned mouth. Swallowing it, he leaned back and waited for the pleasant fog to wrap around his mind and take the pain away. 

He had to figure out a plan, a better plan. Work harder, not smarter. No, that wasn’t right. He had flipped it around as the fog encroached into his mind. Work smarter, not harder. That was it. He had to do that. 

There were empty bottles in the back room, behind the old boxes of scarped marketing materials. Could he use those to somehow make some more green? Yes, that was an idea. How?

He could pick up the load, split it between whatever extra bottles he had and top them all up with water. No one would notice, no one would even dare question Emma’s family about it- that was a great way to get shot. 

He could sell the extra bottles himself and pocket the money. He’d have enough then to make the first payment on that fucking loan. What kind of asshole wants the first payment before the first month had passed, anyway?

Arrogant prick, Laurence thought as he leaned back in his chair, eyes slipping closed. He’d rest his eyes for just a minute, then he’d leave. He had to get on his way to his next meeting or this deal would slip from his fingers, too. 

Rest his eyes for just a few seconds, then the meeting. After the meeting, gambling. Then running the hootch. Then he’d take Emma off somewhere, make her scream his name. Maybe she’d suck his cock. 

That was something he couldn’t get his wife to do for him. Dumb broad had no interest in sex. What man enjoys having to spell out how to please him? Fucking her was like fucking a dead fish. She just laid there and cried. Too sheltered or too dumb to enjoy it- he wasn’t sure which was the case with her. After all these years, he would have thought she’d figure it out, but she was just as bad as the first night. 

Come home. If he was feeling good, maybe he’d fuck his wife, too.

What a night, getting laid twice. 

But first he’d just… 

Rest his eyes…

Just a moment longer…

Then he’d be off to the meeting…

In just a moment… 

Just a moment…

Next

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[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan

Words Natty Kasambala

Beloved for Captain America, I, Tonya, and his recent Emmy-nominated role in Pam & Tommy, Stan reflects on a career shaped by diverse characters. Now, with A Different Man and The Apprentice, he’s exploring deep questions about identity, ambition, and the complexities of portraying one of America’s most influential (and controversial) men, Donald Trump

Sebastian Stan wears Rag & Bone throughout. Photography Jim Goldberg

The first time Sebastian Stan tried acting, he hated it. At 9 or 10 years old, he played a Romanian orphan in an Austrian film called 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance (1994). Between the waiting around, night shoots, and general pressure-cooker energy, the whole experience had been pretty anxiety-inducing. “I think the idea of a set was just really terrifying,” he recalls. The 42-year-old mainstay admits to being a Leo, but a rather reluctant one, he says, not that extroverted or hypersocial. “I know my mom always thought I was creative simply because I would impersonate the people in our family, or birds or whatever I would see around me.” Nowadays, when he does speak, it’s with the compelling ease of someone who’s spent equal time commanding impressive rooms and in their own head trying to crack the great questions of the world – sounding off passionately about the perils of social media (“there’s so much noise in today’s world”) or the last incredible film he watched (Sing Sing and it was “pure heart”).

Born in Romania and raised in Vienna until he was 12, it wasn’t until immigrating to America as a preteen that Stan found his way back to the craft at all. Attending Stagedoor Manor summer camp aged 15, in the Catskill mountains of upstate New York, his spark was reignited. “That place was really magical and made me fall in love with (acting again); I couldn’t think of anything else as exciting to me as performing was,” he says. “Some of it was about not ever being sure of what to be when I grew up. I kept thinking that you could be a lot of things if you did this.”

So far, he’s been a wayward socialite, a cannibal, a space surgeon, a ski patrol villain, a heavy metal drummer, a supernatural student and a World War II veteran turned brainwashed Soviet operative, to n ame but a few. He’s not an actor you’ll find in the same role twice. With that said, his name has reached household status through a decade-long Marvel stint, with the two films Stan finds himself at the helm of this year being his most ambitious forays yet. 33 years on from his awkward beginning, the actor’s commitment to film appears to still be very much in bloom. “I think I’m at a point in my life where I’m trying to understand things on a deeper level,” he explains. “I can’t say I know everything, you’re always growing, always having to explore. I think it’s important to stay curious, to stay in a certain degree of healthy discomfort… I want to be part of important storytelling that’s asking important questions and reflecting our time.”

In A Different Man, an A24 production directed by Aaron Schimberg, Stan takes on the role of an aspiring actor called Edward with neurofibromatosis, a genetic condition that results in the extensive growth of benign tumours. He undergoes a clinical trial that cures him of his physical symptoms, but his new life turns out to be far from what he dreamed for himself. It’s a winding surrealist investigation into the social impacts of disability, alienation, representation and self-image: its gaze is unflinching, its narrative self-referential and its humour pitch-black. Stan has already won the Silver Bear for Best Leading Performance at the Berlin Film Festival for A Different Man.

The second release, The Apprentice, follows a wildly different arc. Directed by Iranian-Danish filmmaker Ali Abbasi, it tracks a young Trump as he falls under the nefarious mentorship of infamous legislator Roy Cohn. Dubbed ‘an American Horror Story’, it’s a sobering yet deeply entertaining snapshot of the making of one of America’s most influential men. Yet even within the dynamic, prescient story, the actor’s take on Trump is subtle and human, and the tone of the film is less moralising and more matter of fact.

Though the narratives of these two projects are starkly different, you can’t help but find the common threads. Both are set in New York and document a transformation, and both centre a feverish pursuit of some ideal imagined self. A Different Man was filmed back in 2022, and The Apprentice only wrapped in February of this year, but Stan agrees it’s a curious double-header. “I’m weirdly finding parallels between them that I never thought I would. Identity, self-truth, self-abandonment. This idea that we’re always chasing in America, whether it’s image or status or an inability to accept failure and to take ownership over mistakes.”

For the Trump film, that real-life denial was almost the ending of their work of fiction. After years of false starts, Trump’s legal team attempted to block the film’s release in the US altogether and they struggled to find a distributor willing to take on the risk of pissing off a potential President. “For to edit it and get it to Cannes in some finished version itself in five months was just insane. There was no idea if the movie was going to come out,” Stan says. On an individual level, the task felt equally murky and intimidating at first. “You’re trying to tell a story about somebody that’s so famous, who everyone has an opinion about: either extreme love and adoration or hate and animosity. And everyone’s got a version of the guy, so you think, well what do I…” he shrugs, “how do I find my way into it?” Ultimately, they landed on this film as a means of peeling back the layers of one of the most polarising figures of our time. It’s less caricature and more character study as it explores his relationship with his father, his ambitions, the man he was before the slogans and affectations.

Executive producer Amy Baer has spoken about the choice to call on a non-American director to provide a new lens on the intricacies of American culture, propaganda and patriotism. With Stan’s own immigrant story, his perspective adds another dimension to that prism too. Memories of walking down Fifth Avenue in awe and wonder as a kid, staring up at all the big buildings – he tapped into a hunger and drive to portray early Trump as a young man desperately trying to be a part of The Club. “I guess with my experience coming to this country, it was communicated to me even from Eastern Europe that this is the place where you can make something of yourself, you can have a good idea… and you could just succeed,” Stan says. The Apprentice asks, “but at what cost? What happens to a person’s humanity?”

Throughout the film, you witness Trump espousing about “bringing back New York”, even remarking on Reagan’s campaign slogan ‘Let’s Make America Great Again’ towards the end, an ideology he would go on to repurpose for his own candidacy. It’s a fascinating yet depressing origin story of a nationalistic rhetoric that echoes today as a Trojan horse for corruption and greed. “It’s complicated. That’s why I think there’s value in exploring it,” Stan urges. “This American Dream idea is a really powerful driving force that also comes with consequences.”

Perhaps the most complex part was the toxic relationship with his sometimes-partner-in-crime played staggeringly by Jeremy Strong. “I think he was the best partner I’ve ever had in anything I’ve worked on,” Stan declares with a smile. “You know when you’re standing in front of a fire and you feel the heat of it and there’s crackling in the air? That’s how it felt.” Amidst quite a gruelling, isolating filming schedule, it’s the aspect Stan speaks about most fondly.

Clothing Fendi, Necklace & Bracelet Cartier, Boots Givenchy

Swinging between dominant and intimate, transactional and paternal, from comical to devastating, both stayed in character throughout the shoot and undertook a colossal amount of research to be prepared for infinite possible improvised routes. “Creatively, makes things interesting is when you’re not in control. You do all this preparation to be prepared to be surprised,” Stan says. Shot documentary-style in moments, Abbasi might give each of them notes in private to shift the tone of a scene, and they’d find themselves responding instinctively within their roles. “The only way you can achieve that is if, to some degree, you find that person in you. And I can certainly tell you,” he pauses briefly to consider his landing. “There is a version of Trump that existed in me. And I’ll make the argument that there’s a version of Trump that exists in all of us. And that part of our job, part of our interest, should be figuring out what that is. I think we have to acknowledge and expose the things in us that are not so easy to admit, in order to further protect the things we need to fight for. You can’t ignore it.”

In that moment, it’s clear that it’s an argument as true of our discourse on Trump as it is of Stan’s other role in A Different Man. His character Edward is driven to obsession and madness when he witnesses the thriving life of a person with the same disfigurement he was quick to shed, the very thing he believed to be the root of all his misfortune. Right before his transformation, Edward has been ignoring a leak in his ceiling for weeks, and the damage is getting worse. When he’s finally forced to call for a repair, the super arrives and is appalled at how bad he’s allowed it to get. He tells Edward frustratedly, “you should have fixed this sooner”. In that moment, it feels as though he’s talking about a hundred things at once. From Edward’s own issues with doubt and self-acceptance that cling to him even when he is no longer ‘different’ to our own society’s discomfort with, and the misunderstanding of disability altogether. We cannot be afraid to look.

“Edward makes a decision that he thinks is going to improve his life, but he’s not making it for himself. He’s making it because he’s watched other people and he’s grown up in a society that’s told him this is what works,” Stan explains. “Essentially, he abandons himself and he spirals down trying to further live with that painful acknowledgement. I think we have to be conscious of when we’re making decisions that go against who we are and what we truly want.”

In true indie style, squeezing in around the schedule of their makeup artist who was on another project at the same time, Stan had some hours to kill most mornings in prosthetics before filming which he’d spend navigating the city he calls home: “one of the gifts that I was given which I’m very grateful for was the experience that I had walking around New York City as Edward.” With reactions to him ranging from invisibility to hypervisibility, it shifted his entire understanding.

“I’ve been there like everybody else thinking, oh, if I had that. Or you see someone on Instagram and you’re like, oh my God, look at that life, they have the best life; you get caught up in these things.” It’s both reassuring and a little disheartening that, unlike his superhuman alter ego, a star like Stan is still not immune to the very human insecurities us civilians face of joy-stealing comparisons. “There’s this idea I’ve been thinking about a lot with my therapist actually,” he laughs. “He was saying ‘I am me and you are you.’ I was like… yeah! But you forget. We have to understand our own experience and then understand someone else’s. But we have to try to understand it not through our own emotional… vomit.”

When I ask Sebastian what he does for fun, to unbecome his characters and shed their existential weight, he cites reading (mostly non-fiction) and travel (to see other cultures). “I always feel like I’m not learning enough,” he laughs. You get the sense that this year is a juncture for Stan, always revered for being grounded and likeable, but perhaps waiting for opportunities like these to enrich and express other sides of himself as an actor and voice within culture. “Both of these films came at an interesting time where I’m thinking about if I’m at mid-life, this second half of my life. What is it that I want to be a part of and one day look back and be proud of?”

And that’s not to say fun is off the table for Stan. He’s passionate about laughter as a release in a difficult world. “I think it’s just as important, we have to protect humour,” he tells me with an urgency. “I love comedies, romantic comedies, action.” In fact, there’s a top-secret action movie passion project that he has in the works and hopes will come together in the right way. “There are also things in Marvel I want to do and explore with ol’ Bucky Barnes,” he smiles, presumably in reference to the new Marvel film Thunderbolts, slated for a 2025 release, in which he stars alongside Florence Pugh, Harrison Ford and David Harbour. “Otherwise I just want to keep learning how to be a human being. I’m telling you,” he laughs, “I feel like it’s pretty hard.”

Photography Jim Goldberg Styling Reuben Esser Production Hyperion LA Hair Jamie Taylor using Augustinus Bader Hair Erica Adams Represented by A-Frame Agency

[hymnsandhauntings]

The Trouble With Power: Sabrina Carpenter

Let me begin with a confession: I was charmed by Espresso. The flirtation, the boldness, the winking lines that toed the edge between self-possession and seduction: Sabrina Carpenter was in her pop star bag, and I was rooting for her.

Espresso was sticky with self-awareness. Fun without being frivolous. A femme-pop high that made space for cheeky sexuality without leaning on the predictable scaffolding of male fantasy.

It was clever.
She was clever.

But now, watching the rollout of her Man’s Best Friend era, I find myself pausing.

The kind of pause that catches in your throat.

The kind that says: "I hope this isn’t what it looks like."

‘Manchild’ and the Fantasy of the Dangerous Road

Let’s talk about the Manchild music video.

It opens with Sabrina hitchhiking in a pair of platform heels and cutoff denim shorts, somewhere in the sun-bleached desert. It’s a familiar pop trope: think Lana, Britney, Madonna, but one with deeply uncomfortable roots.

This isn’t just a fantasy of freedom.
It’s one of exposure. Of danger. Of woman-as-bait.

Hitchhiking is not a neutral image for women. It carries with it decades of danger narratives: from true crime stories to horror films to cautionary tales whispered between girls. The woman on the side of the road isn’t empowered, she’s vulnerable.

Yes, Sabrina flips the script in the final act of the video, turning the camera around on the men who pick her up. But does a bloody reversal erase what’s been stylised in the first place? Or does it re-perform it?

That’s the trouble: when you borrow the language of trauma to be edgy, and then don’t interrogate it, you risk reinforcing the very harm you say you’re undoing.

Man’s Best Friend and the Aesthetic of Submission

Then there’s the album cover.

Carpenter, on all fours. A man, faceless, anonymous, clutching her hair. The title: Man’s Best Friend.

It’s striking. But not in the way Espresso was. That was empowerment through wit. This feels like submission without satire.

Kink aesthetics have a place in the art world. There’s nothing inherently wrong with invoking power play. But the missing ingredient here is framing. Where’s the context? The metaphor? The invitation to look deeper?

Without it, this isn’t performance: it’s posturing.

And when the line between critique and replication is this thin, we have to ask:

Who is this for?

Pop Stardom, the Gaze, and What We Pass Down

Sabrina Carpenter is no longer an emerging artist. She’s the pop girl of the moment. Millions of young fans watch her every move, not just what she sings, but how she frames womanhood, agency, and sexuality.

That kind of visibility is power. And with power comes responsibility: not to sanitise or censor, but to consider the impact of the art we present on a global stage.

Because when you’re being watched by the next generation, your visuals don’t live in a vacuum. They echo. They teach. They land.

So What Are We Reclaiming, Exactly?

We talk a lot about “reclaiming” imagery: owning the gaze, choosing objectification as power. But if the image we’re reclaiming is still a woman on all fours with a man above her… what are we actually taking back?

Because if the answer is “everyone gets it,” but the execution is indistinguishable from patriarchy’s greatest hits: then we’re not reclaiming.
We’re reselling.

And at that point, are we even subverting?
Or are we just packaging old power in new glitter?

A Raised Eyebrow

Let me be clear: this is not a cancellation. This is a raised eyebrow.

A quiet “Are we sure?”

I’m not here to label Sabrina Carpenter as anti-feminist, nor demand that every pop star become an activist. What I’m asking is: if we’re going to play with fire, can we at least explain what we’re burning down?

Because if this is satire…let us in.


If it’s critique… frame it.


If it’s empowerment… tell us who is empowered.

Right now, it’s not clear. And in the silence, it’s easy for the male gaze to take over again.

This is not about outrage.
It’s about care.

If I didn’t respect Sabrina as a writer and performer, I wouldn’t be asking these questions. But I do. Which is why I am.

If this era is an experiment, then let’s ask: what are we testing?And who are we making space for in the results?

Hymns And Hauntings

[skyof-atlas]

Oh, to be blessed

Minors dni

[Summary] To be in a God’s presence is something that can never be forgettable, that’s something to boast about, but to personally be in a room with an Archon? What a rare moment to cherish. You really did cherish that moment.

Content Warnings: Fingering, oral, "pet names", nsfw :D, whining, Overstim, pussydrunk!Furina.

a/n: I love Furina and the thought of her being pussydrunk. not proofread

Paring(s) : Furina x gn!reader (afab)

You've been sitting here for about an hour, talking about an upcoming opera with Lady Furina and what ideas she thinks would be good to add in. “Le Comte de Monte-Cristo” they called it. Anyway, this isn't your first time speaking to Furina.

You work as a director for plays and operas and often times you help smaller troupes with their scripts. You gain quite a popular reputation among the opera community. 

Furina, who loves watching operas and plays, has taken an interest. It started off as short meetings with her about upcoming plays, then it gradually started becoming hour-long sessions sometimes even more, where you both talked about plays you both enjoyed and common interest. It’s become this routine that you and her developed.

Even Neuvillette sometimes joins in for a bit and shares his thoughts. Usually you’re so busy with plays but Furina has taken your interest.  

You've taken notice of how Furina would act around others like she herself is performing a play. Only other actors are capable of distinguishing acting and real life, but with Furina, the lines blurred. You never minded it, but it was a thought in your head. She always acted high and mighty but you wondered how she'll look like when--

"Are you even listening to me? How rude to be ignoring your archon! Especially if she's trying to bless you with her magnificent ideas!" She said, pretending to be insulted and pouted. How cute…

"Apologizes Lady Furina. I was just thinking." You ran your hands through your hair and picked up the script off the table and tried to focus, but the thoughts of Furina were clouding your head-space. Furina took the paper and placed it down. You looked up confused.

"ngh! w-wait!" when Furina said that we should take a break, you didn't think this is what she meant. She bit your thigh close to your wet pussy, making it a nice purple. She left a couple more. 

Papers scattered across the table, all forgotten. Your beloved archon in between your thighs, eating you out like it's her last meal. 

"L-lady Furina..." Your hands snaked into her hair, pushing her closer, trying to reach that high you wanted.

Her small hm, sent vibrations through your body and made you moan loudly. You whined when she detached from your puffy clit.

"My my, truly you're severing your archon to the fullest." Your eyes were glossed and breathing was uneven. Your slick dripping down from her chin. You blushed and looked away. How embarrassing.

"Pretty girl, look at me" Furina grabs your face to make you look at her. You would’ve cummed at that. 

"Good girl" You bucked your hips trying to find some friction. You loved how she called you her good girl. 

"Patience pretty girl, I'm not done with you." She kissed your neck and bit it. You whined.

She brought her fingers back down to your puffy clit and stroked it. She played around with your entrance, her fingers barely entering. You were getting desperate and decided to take matters into your own hands. You grabbed her wrist and plunged her fingers in. You quickly straddled her and began riding on her fingers.

"A-ah?" From her perspective you looked gorgeous. Eyes half lidded, your sweet moans and whines from trying to reach your high.

"mm-ha...ha"

Furina moved with the rhythm of your hips. Her fingers hitting that one spot that you love so much. At this point, you're seeing stars and drooling. You began moving at a faster speed. Her fingers deep and hitting that spot repeatedly.

“ You’re so tight darling~ You sure do love my fingers hm?” She said teasing you as she pumped her fingers in and out, cum sliding down her fingers. 

"fuu--mm...cummin'--" Incoherent sentences were coming out of your mouth as you felt the knot tighten up and close to bursting.

A loud moan escaped your throat and cum covered your beloved archon's fingers. Furina slipped out her fingers and licked off your cum. She laid you down and stared at you, admiring her work. You were breathing heavily from your recent high.

Your eyes stared back at her. Legs spread apart with cum spilling and staining the couch and bite marks on your neck and on your thighs. Her eyes were trained on your puffy clit. She gave a quick kiss on your clit and began sucking on it.

"W-wait! I just cam--AHhh" you protested but she kept going. She wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

"Darling~ give me another one. I wanna taste you again. Please? Please cum again. Be a good girl for your archon.” who are you to deny her request? By all means, she can chain you up and fuck you dumb…that’s not a bad idea. 

You were nearing another high. Fuck she's good with her mouth. She sucked on your clit as she plunged her fingers back in you again. She was moving fast and hitting hard. Your legs had her head in a lock and you whined as you came all over her mouth for a second time. Your legs were shaking and your clit overstimulated from cumming back to back.  

"Fu-Furina~" Her name came out as a small whine. She could only give you a sweet smile but her eyes told a different story. 

"I love the way you taste. One more time?~" oh sweet archon. you certainly are blessed by her wonderful ideas...

[leejenowrld]

I think you’ve mentioned before that Jeno and Jaemin have had threesomes (correct me if I’m wrong)

How does that play into their dynamic? What do they get out of it on an emotional level?

absolutely, so while it’s not canon in back to you that jeno and jaemin have had threesomes, here’s how it would play out if they had — how it affects their relationship, what they get from it emotionally, and why it both reinforces and complicates the way they relate to each other.

jeno and jaemin in a threesome context: how would it happen?

it starts at a rooftop bar — post-season, post-finals, the team is drunk and scattered, and jeno and jaemin have peeled off into their own orbit, sitting on a low couch with a bottle between them. they’re loose, golden-lit, shirts open at the collar, still high off the rush of the season and half-daring the world to keep up. and then she walks in — a girl neither of them know, tall, magnetic, mouth like a dare, and both of them clock her instantly.

“she’s mine,” jaemin says, already smug.

jeno laughs, dry. “you don’t even know her name.”

“don’t need it. i know the look.”

“she looked at me.”

“because you’re loud and keep staring at her.”

“and you’re reckless.”

they go back and forth for ten minutes, arguing in half-whispers, eyes never leaving her. eventually, she walks past. stops. looks between them. raises an eyebrow. and jeno — cool, unreadable — says, “we were just trying to decide who gets to take you home.”

she laughs. slow. curious. and says, “why not both?”

they take her back to jeno’s apartment. it’s never discussed, but there’s a silent order: jeno starts. he presses her into the mattress, hands firm on her waist, while jaemin watches from the corner chair, all sharp eyes and slow exhale. when she moans, jaemin’s already undoing his belt. jeno shifts, gives space, mouth curling into something close to indulgent. and jaemin steps in — grinning, careful, controlled chaos. they don’t touch each other. they don’t speak much. but their coordination is eerie — two halves of a rhythm built over years. one pulling her hair, the other between her legs. one in her mouth, one at her throat. every move in sync, a silent dare: keep up. it never happens again — not with her. not with anyone for a long time. but something in them changes. not desire. not jealousy. just a shared memory neither of them can unsee.

if it were to happen with back to you y/n

jeno always folds first. it’s not hesitation — it’s instinct. he falls into your rhythm before you’ve even set it, knees hitting the floor like it’s the only place that makes sense. when your fingers trace his jaw, he leans into it. when you tell him “stay still”, his breath catches and he holds it like obedience is its own kind of pleasure. you don’t need to raise your voice, don’t need to spell out what you want, jeno reads it in your body, your silence, your hands. he kisses your thigh before he kisses your mouth. he looks at you when he begs, not to manipulate, to be seen. when you slide your hand down his chest and whisper, “don’t come until I say,” he nods once and trembles under the weight of it. there’s nothing performative about how he gives himself over. he doesn’t want to impress you — he wants to please you. wants to be used and held and undone at your pace. everything about him tightens for you — jaw, fists, thighs — and when you finally let him have what he wants, it’s like reward. like your praise could split him open sweeter than any orgasm.

and jaemin watches all of it like he’s waiting for you to look back and earn his attention. he doesn’t kneel. doesn’t beg. doesn’t break until you make him. he watches how soft jeno goes for you and licks his teeth like he’s daring you to try it with him. when you turn to him, when your hand reaches out like you expect him to follow, he tilts his head and asks, “or what?” he’ll touch without being told to. kiss you deeper than you asked. fuck you slow on purpose, just to hear the catch in your voice when you stop pretending he’s not in control. he’s bratty, deliberate, impossible. but he gives you everything when you rise to meet him. when you take his dominance and twist it back, ride him with your hand on his throat and your voice in his ear saying, “watch your tone.” he laughs into your mouth, all teeth, until you grind him silent. jaemin doesn’t follow because he’s told — he follows when you prove you’re worth chasing. and when you take both of them in hand — one melting, one resisting — that’s when it hits: jeno makes you feel worshipped. jaemin makes you feel challenged. and having both of them? at once? means you never have to choose.

you’re the one on top — physically, mentally, completely — not just riding one of them, but controlling both, guiding their pace like you built them for it. jeno’s beneath you, legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets as you sink down on him with his lips parted and eyes glassy, his whole body tuned to the sound of your voice. he doesn’t move unless you do, every thrust met with that aching, breathless “please” that’s more about staying connected than getting off. jaemin’s behind you, mouth hot at your neck, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides between your legs without asking — not because he doesn’t know the rules, but because he wants to be punished for breaking them. he fucks you with teeth bared, not to steal control, but to pull it from you just enough to make you take it back harder. he’s loud where jeno is silent, fast where jeno is patient, and every second they’re inside you at once, you feel it — their difference, their edge, their devotion. one serves. the other resists. you keep both of them exactly where they belong.

you take the dominant role because they need you to. because control isn’t just something you wear well — it’s something they fall into the second you touch them. jeno craves your authority like a tether, like it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded when his body’s spiraling with need. he’s built to follow: all discipline, breathy submission, wide eyes and shaky whimpers when you tell him to hold still. his pleasure relies on your pace, your permission, your praise — being good for you is what makes him come. that’s his role: the one who obeys. the one who waits. the one who breaks prettily at your feet and thanks you for it. jaemin, though — jaemin’s not soft. he doesn’t fold. he challenges. he plays dominant by default, lives to provoke, to test limits, to touch without asking and smirk when you tell him no. his role isn’t to be controlled easily — it’s to make you prove you can. he pushes back with bite, with pace, with fingers that grab too hard and thrusts that drag filthy curses out of you, because he wants to see if you can take him apart without losing yourself. that’s the thrill for him: when you pin him anyway. when you tighten your grip on both of them and make them serve you together. jeno gives you submission as a gift. jaemin makes you earn it. and you? you take the lead because you can handle both. because neither of them can touch what you control — unless you let them.

what do they get from it emotionally?

jeno — emotional clarity, permission to soften, and quiet security jeno doesn’t enter threesomes for novelty or chaos — he enters when he trusts the dynamic. emotionally, what he gets from it is permission. he’s someone who lives under pressure — athletic discipline, family expectation, team responsibility — so sex is one of the few spaces where he can surrender, where nothing is expected of him except presence and pleasure. in a threesome, that need multiplies. it gives him the chance to feel chosen in a crowd, to be desired not just in a one-on-one vacuum, but with and against someone else. being shared, watched, instructed — it unburdens him from control. he doesn’t need to perform dominance. he just gets to feel.

he thrives in roles where someone else is taking the lead — especially in situations where emotional intimacy is paired with physical intensity. jeno’s the type to kiss softly during someone else’s orgasm, to hold hands while someone else fucks you, to need to be needed, even if the attention isn’t solely his. emotionally, he finds reassurance in threesomes when the connection is balanced — when he knows he’s not just extra. when he sees you watching him while you’re with someone else, or when someone mouths “good boy” in his ear while he holds back for you. it’s not about competition for him. it’s about being trusted enough to be invited into something shared.

jaemin — stimulation, control through chaos, and affirmation through intensity jaemin, on the other hand, doesn’t seek softness in threesomes — he seeks proof. proof that he can captivate in a room full of want. that his presence doesn’t get diluted when there’s more than one body in the bed. emotionally, he uses threesomes as a way to maintain edge — not to lose himself, but to heighten his own sense of dominance and cleverness. when someone’s moaning under someone else’s touch, jaemin wants to be the one dragging their eyes back to him. when things get messy and unbalanced, he thrives on recalibrating the dynamic — making himself unforgettable in the middle of heat and distraction.

for jaemin, a threesome offers something specific: attention split that he still manages to win. he likes the challenge of being watched, likes fucking someone while whispering about the third person in the room, likes being part of something sensory and indulgent, while still controlling the tempo. emotionally, it feeds his confidence and his deflection at the same time. he’s not there to open up, he’s there to create the scene, direct the tempo, say things that make people blush and squirm. and when he is affected? when someone turns the game on him, makes him wait, makes him beg, it disarms him in a way that thrills him.

in summary: • jeno gets to feel safe, wanted, and led — threesomes offer him release from expectation and a chance to participate in something emotionally generous, even tender. • jaemin gets to feel seen, desired, and in control — threesomes give him space to express dominance, toy with tension, and feel emotionally powerful in a curated chaos.

how does it affect their larger dynamic?

in the larger context of their relationship, their years-long, platonic, emotionally loaded brotherhood — threesomes don’t fracture jeno and jaemin’s dynamic, but they complicate it in ways neither of them ever speaks aloud. because threesomes expose something that their friendship is built to avoid: vulnerability. not between them directly — they never touch, never flirt, never cross the line into romantic tension but the intimacy of watching each other give and take that close up does something. it marks them.

jeno sees the way jaemin fucks — how reckless he gets, how sharp his focus turns when he wants to prove something and it reminds him that jaemin is performing even in pleasure. it makes him protective, and a little resentful, especially if jaemin starts pushing a partner too hard just to get a reaction. jeno’s quiet about it, but it sits under his skin — the discomfort of watching someone he loves act out in a way that feels like a cry for attention no one else hears.

jaemin, on the flip side, watches how soft jeno becomes in group sex — how fully he hands over control, how deeply he connects, how emotional his responses are — and it rattles him. because it’s not just submission; it’s sincerity. and jaemin isn’t used to sincerity surviving in shared spaces. it makes him feel like jeno’s playing a game jaemin doesn’t know the rules to. he’ll tease him afterward, keep it light — “you looked like you were gonna cry when she pulled your hair,” — but deep down, it reminds him that jeno feels everything more than he lets on. and that stings.

over time, threesomes become a mirror. not for their friendship, which stays stable on the surface, but for all the ways they respond to intimacy. jeno doesn’t seek it anymore unless he knows there’s emotional safety. jaemin leans into it harder, treats it like performance art. but every time it happens, and they’re both in the room — fucking someone else, never touching, never crossing that line. they’re both aware of the contrast. jeno makes people feel protected. jaemin makes them feel overwhelmed. jeno slows things down. jaemin speeds them up. and being reminded of that again and again, in sweat, in sound, in glances across a body, makes their friendship more layered. heavier. not broken. just full of unspoken truths.

they’ll never talk about it. but it changes the way they look at each other, after. not with regret. just with recognition. i know how you love. i know how you hide. and maybe that’s what binds them tighter, not the sex itself, but the fact that they survived it without losing the thread between them. they’re still boys who would show up, no matter the hour. they’re still brothers who won’t say “i love you” but would bleed for each other. but now they’ve seen each other mid-need. mid-performance. mid-collapse. and that makes the silence between them louder.

[isacksteban]

Silver Leash — Strollonso

When Fernando Alonso signed with Aston Martin for the 2023 season, he expected the usual contractual obligations — press commitments, sponsorship appearances, performance incentives. What he didn’t expect was the clause.

It wasn’t buried deep in legal jargon or hidden in fine print. It had never been something Aston had tried to hide in small print or burried in pages of filler. No, it was right there in bold, staring back at him:

"Under no circumstances shall Fernando Alonso publicly criticize, insult, or engage in any behavior that may be perceived as detrimental or disrespectful to his teammate, Lance Stroll, whether in the media, over team radio, or during on-track competition. Any concerns or critiques must be addressed directly to Lance Stroll in private or communicated discreetly to the team owner in a confidential setting. Failure to comply with this clause will result in not only a fine of up to 7 million Euro's (depending on time of offense in relation to the time remaining on Alonso's contract) but also the immediate termination of all contractual ties between Fernando Alonso Díaz and the Aston Martin Aramco Formula 1 Team."

Fernando let out a short laugh when he first read it, glancing up at Mike Krack, who sat across from him. “You’re serious?”

Mike gave him a tight smile, eyes crinkling as he spoke. “Very.”

Fernando turned to his agent, eyebrow raised. “They’re making me promise to be nice to the boss’ son?”

His agent, who had already gone through enough contractual battles over Fernando’s career, sighed. “It’s non-negotiable.”

It wasn’t that Fernando had planned to be cruel to Lance, but the idea of being legally obligated to hold his tongue was almost amusing. He had built a career on speaking his mind, calling out teammates when necessary, and pushing team dynamics to his advantage. This? This was new.

“And what if I break it?” Fernando asked, still humored.

Mike cleared his throat. “You read it, did you not? Fines. Definite contract termination. And, well… I assure you Lawrence would not be nearly as happy with you as he was the last time we spoke.”

So Fernando signed, pen scratching against paper, agreeing to one of the strangest conditions of his career. He’d seen plenty of team politics in F1, but this? This was next-level.

Later, during the very first race of his career sporting Tiffany green, Fernando found himself in a familiar situation — side-by-side with his teammate, wheel-to-wheel, the kind of battle that had defined the legacy he was leaving behind once he decided he was done. Every instinct screamed at him to assert dominance, to remind the younger driver who the true leader of the team was. The champion.

Lance was leaving just enough of a gap, practically an invitation for Fernando to squeeze him onto the kerb, force a correction, take the place. Any other teammate, any other year, and he wouldn’t have thought twice. He had done it before, countless times. This was racing. His kind of racing.

But then — the clause.

The words flashed through his mind like a red warning light on his dash. Public criticism, harmful behavior, consequences. Lawrence would be watching. The entire Aston Martin garage would be watching.

He hesitated.

And in that fraction of a second, instead of shutting the door, he gave Lance space. Just enough to let him breathe, to keep the peace, to avoid anything that could be spun as "aggressive" or "damaging" in a post-race debrief. It was unnatural, like forcing himself to drive with one hand tied behind his back.

Lance held his line, unaware of the battle Fernando had just fought — not against the Canadian, but against himself.

For the first time in his career, Fernando Alonso wasn’t just playing the game.

He was legally required to.

Fernando had barely climbed out of his car at the end of the 57 laps when he spotted Lance approaching. The Canadian walked with the kind of reluctance that was impossible to miss, his usual nonchalance strained under the weight of obligation. Fernando knew the look well — this wasn’t Lance’s idea. Someone, the most obvious choice being his father, had sent him over.

Fernando wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel, still buzzing from the podium finish. Third place wasn’t a win, but it was a statement. A reminder that even at 41, he was still sharper than most of the grid. And most definitely still sharper than Lance.

The younger driver stopped in front of him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, congrats, man. P3. That was… good.”

Fernando forced a smile, all teeth. “Gracias, Lance.” He clapped a hand on Lance’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make it feel patronizing. “P6 — not bad.”

Lance’s lips pressed together, his gaze flickering elsewhere, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Fernando wondered if he even knew what had happened in the race — during his shitty pit stop — or if he’d spent the last 57 laps just existing in his own bubble.

“You looked strong out there,” Lance added, voice flat, rehearsed.

Fernando chuckled, more to himself than anything. Looked strong? He was strong. He had danced with the front runners, defended, attacked, outplayed the strategy. Meanwhile, Lance had spent the race being comfortably midfield at best, a solid sixth, the kind of result that didn’t earn you anything but a polite nod.

Still, Fernando played his role. He couldn’t afford to slip, not yet. “We both did well for the team,” he said smoothly, as if it were the truth. “Good points for Aston Martin.”

Lance nodded, as if he too was pretending they were on the same playing field.

Fernando resisted the urge to smirk. He already loathed the boy, but the clause — the fucking clause — meant he had to be careful. So he pulled his hand away, gave Lance a final, meaningless nod, and let the younger driver walk off, no doubt eager to report back that he’d done his duty.

As soon as Lance was out of earshot, Fernando exhaled sharply.

He wasn't sure how he was liking his new teammate.

Fernando didn’t bother changing out of his race suit before making his way to his driver’s room. The adrenaline of the podium — and the champagne lingering on his clothes — was still buzzing under his skin, but the moment he shut the door behind him, frustration took over. He barely had time to throw his gloves onto the couch before Lawrence Stroll walked in, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You needed something, Fernando?” Lawrence asked, tone as cool as ever. Yes, Fernando did need something.

Fernando didn’t waste time. “You really expect me to keep backing off for someone who isn’t even on my level?”

"I do." Lawrence didn’t blink. “You agreed to the contract, Fernando.”

“That can't seriously be your answer.” Fernando ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “I could’ve overtaken him earlier, but I didn’t. You think that’s normal? That I should hold back in a race, in my own career, for—” He stopped himself, rolling his eyes. “For him?”

Lawrence’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Fernando let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Incredible.”

“Fernando,” Lawrence said, stepping further into the room, voice lowering just slightly, “you don’t have to like it, but you do have to respect it.”

“Respect what?” Fernando snapped. “That I have to treat him like a fragile little— little fucking princess? That I have to pretend he belongs here when we both know he doesn’t?”

"Alonso, I don't want to speak to you about this again." Lawrence’s expression darkened, his stance shifting just slightly as he towered over the Spaniard. “Watch yourself.”

Fernando huffed, turning away for a second before facing him again. “I have played a lot of political games in my career, Lawrence, but this?” He gestured vaguely, exasperated. “This is ridiculous. I had to give him space. I had to let him be comfortable on track when I should be racing. What do you want next? You want me to let him through?”

Lawrence narrowed his eyes. “If it benefits my team, yes.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. He could push back more, keep arguing, but there was no point. Lawrence wasn’t a man who changed his mind. And Fernando, no matter how much he hated it, had already signed the deal.

So instead, he forced a breath through his nose, grabbed a water bottle off the table, and took a slow sip. “Fine,” he finally said, voice calmer but laced with disdain. “Just don’t expect me to be happy about it.”

Lawrence studied him for a long moment, then gave the smallest of nods. “I've never once expected you to be.”

And with that, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality.

Fernando exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. He was about to finally sit down when there was a knock at the door. His fingers curled around the water bottle a little tighter. He already knew who it was.

For a split second, he considered ignoring it. But the knock came again — lighter this time, obvioisly hesitant.

With a sigh, he set the bottle down and walked over, pulling the door open to reveal exactly who he'd expected.

Lance.

The younger driver looked anxiously at him, shifting on his feet, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy trying to be on his best behavior. Fernando didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Uh… hey,” Lance started, a little awkwardly. “I just, um… I wanted to say congrats.”

Fernando kept his expression neutral. “You already did, Lance.”

Lance gave a small, sheepish nod. “Yeah, I know. But I was kind of weird about it earlier, and I—” He hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor before meeting Fernando’s again. “I just wanted to say I’m really glad you’re here. And I hope, you know… we can get along.”

There was something so earnest about the way he said it, like he truly believed there was a chance for them to be friends. Like he thought Fernando’s patience wasn’t already running on fumes.

Fernando could’ve laughed.

Instead, he forced a small, polite smile. “Of course.”

Lance brightened just a little, nodding. “Cool. Um… okay, yeah. See you later.”

He turned and walked away, posture just a little lighter, as if he thought that had gone well.

Fernando watched him go, then slowly shut the door, rolling his eyes as he leaned against it.

It was going to be a very long season.

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit was a different beast. Fast, unforgiving, a street track disguised as a high-speed rollercoaster. It was the kind of place where instincts ruled, where hesitation was punished, and where Fernando Alonso, even at 41, still thrived.

He liked tracks like this. No margin for error, no time to second-guess. Just pure, relentless speed.

The problem, as always, was Lance Stroll.

After Bahrain, Fernando had done his best to play the game — smiling when required, saying the right things, keeping any biting comments locked behind clenched teeth. The clause had forced a leash onto him, but even a caged animal knew how to maneuver within its boundaries.

Now, under the glowing Saudi Arabian floodlights, Fernando sat in the team briefing, arms crossed, watching as Lance spoke with the engineers. The younger driver was nodding along, but Fernando wasn’t convinced he actually understood even half of what was being discussed.

Mike Krack finished outlining the race strategy — two-stop, tire management crucial, potential undercut scenarios. All fairly standard. But then came the part Fernando had been waiting for.

“Team orders,” Krack said, glancing between them. “If you two find yourselves fighting on track, we expect clean racing. No unnecessary risks.”

Fernando almost smirked. He knew exactly what that meant.

Lawrence was sitting at the back of the room, silent but ever-present. His mere existence was enough to remind Fernando that whatever was about to be said next was not up for debate.

“If Fernando is ahead,” Krack continued carefully, “we hold position unless strategy dictates otherwise.”

A brief pause. Then—

“If Lance is ahead, we expect Fernando to exercise caution.”

There it was.

Fernando’s jaw flexed. “Exercise caution,” he echoed, voice neutral.

Krack nodded. “We need both cars in the points.”

Fernando didn’t look at Lawrence. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly who had made sure those words were in the briefing.

Lance, oblivious as ever, just nodded along. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

Of course it did.

Fernando leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table. He had played enough political games in his career to recognize when he was being pushed into a supporting role. But he also knew something Lawrence would never admit: Formula 1 was not a charity. It was not a place where favoritism could create champions.

And no contract, no ridiculous clause, could change the fact that Fernando was the better driver.

Jeddah would prove it.

Fernando had survived a lot in his career — backstabbing teammates, disastrous team moves, engine failures at the worst possible moments — but this?

This might just be his greatest test yet.

“Alright, guys! Let’s get set up,” the cheerful media coordinator chirped, completely oblivious to the silent standoff happening in the corner of the Aston Martin garage.

Fernando crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “You’re joking.”

Lance, standing beside him, looked equally unenthused. He ran a hand through his hair, already looking like he wanted to bolt. “I thought we were done with this stuff after Bahrain.”

The media coordinator clapped her hands together. “Nope! We’ve got some fun content planned for you two today. A little ‘Get to Know Your Teammate’ challenge, some reaction videos, and a fun helmet swap segment!”

Fernando arched an eyebrow. “Helmet swap?”

“Yeah! But for this you’ll each put on the other’s helmet and try to impersonate each other.”

Lance let out an audible groan. “This is gonna suck.”

Fernando smirked. “At least you admit it.”

Lance shot him a look, but before he could respond, they were ushered into position in front of a bright green Aston Martin backdrop.

A producer handed them each a whiteboard and marker.

“Okay! First question,” the coordinator announced. “Fernando, what is Lance’s favorite pre-race meal?”

Fernando barely hesitated before writing down something boring.

Lance glanced at his board and rolled his eyes before flipping his answer around: Pasta or chicken.

“Not specific enough,” Lance muttered.

Fernando shrugged. “It was close enough.”

The media coordinator smiled, unfazed. “Alright, Lance! Your turn. What’s Fernando’s favorite post-race celebration?”

Lance didn’t even hesitate before writing: Complaining about strategy.

Fernando turned his board around at the same time: Telling the team they should’ve listened to me.

The crew burst into laughter.

“At least we agree on something,” Fernando said dryly.

Lance shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Lance sighed as he pulled Fernando’s helmet over his head. “God, this thing smells like sweat and ego.”

Fernando, now wearing Lance’s helmet, grinned. “And this one smells like daddy’s money.”

The crew stifled their laughter. Lance was far less amused.

Lance shot him a look. “Alright, let’s hear it. Give me your best Lance impression.”

Fernando adjusted the helmet, squared his shoulders, and then, in the most monotone voice possible, said, "Uh, yeah, I think we had, like, decent pace today. The car felt okay. We’ll, uh, look at the data and see what we can do better next time.”

The room erupted in laughter.

Lance crossed his arms. “Wow. So original.”

Fernando smirked. “Your turn, champ.”

Lance took a deep breath, dramatically straightened his posture, then, in an over-the-top Spanish accent, declared, "I am Fernando Alonso. I am always right. The team should listen to me. I do not age. I am inevitable.”

Fernando stared at him for a long moment before finally cracking a grin. “Okay. Not bad.”

Lance tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Fernando patted his shoulder. “You’re still an idiot, though.”

The cameras kept rolling as Lance huffed and shoved his helmet into Fernando’s chest.

Lap 17.

Fernando had been patient. Too patient. He had managed his tires, executed the strategy, stayed clean while the midfield chaos unfolded around him. But now, Lance was ahead, and patience was no longer an option.

The younger driver had been struggling with tire wear for the past few laps, his pace fading just enough for Fernando to reel him in. The gap was within DRS range now, and with the long straights of Jeddah, it was only a matter of time.

The team radio crackled to life.

“Fernando, Fernando we need you to hold position. Lance is managing his tyres and we can't afford risking either car.”

Fernando didn’t respond. He simply kept driving.

Turn 27 approached — the final corner, the perfect slingshot onto the main straight. Lance braked slightly earlier than expected, tentative on entry. Fernando, a two-time world champion, did not hesitate.

He took the corner with precision, carrying more speed onto the straight. DRS activated.

He was alongside.

“Fernando, hold position.”

The words meant nothing.

By the time they reached Turn 1, Fernando was ahead.

It was a clean overtake. No contact, no aggressive chop, nothing that could be deemed “detrimental” in a court of law. Just pure, calculated racing.

And yet, he could already imagine the reaction in the garage.

Sure enough, a few corners later—

“Fernando, that was not what we discussed.”

He allowed himself the smallest of smirks.

“I was faster,” he replied simply.

There was a long pause.

Then, begrudgingly—

“Understood. Carry on.”

Fernando finished P4. Just outside the podium, but another strong result. Lance? P7. Respectable, but nothing remarkable.

The Canadian hadn't been anything close to remarkable in years.

He barely had time to remove his helmet before Lawrence Stroll appeared in the motorhome, expression unreadable.

Fernando knew what was coming.

“You ignored team orders,” Lawrence said, voice cool.

Fernando took a slow sip of his water, unbothered. “I passed him cleanly.”

Lawrence stepped closer. “That’s not the point.”

Fernando tilted his head. “No? Then what is?”

Lawrence exhaled sharply, jaw tight. He didn’t like being questioned. “I told you to respect the agreement.”

“I did,” Fernando said evenly. “I did not insult him. I did not endanger him. I did not harm the team. I simply raced.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Lawrence spoke.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Fernando Alonso.”

Fernando met his gaze, unflinching.

“I always do.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, already thinking about the next race.

This season was already feeling long. But one thing was certain—

He wasn’t going to just roll over and let Lance win.

Fernando barely had time to settle into his chair before Lance strolled into the drivers’ room, still in his race suit, looking far more relaxed than he should have.

“Hey,” Lance said, pulling off his balaclava and shaking out his damp hair — he didn't look half bad like this. “That was a nice move back there.”

Fernando glanced up, mildly surprised. “You think so?”

Lance nodded, grabbing a bottle of Fernando's water and plopping down across from him, raising it as if requesting permission. Fernando nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I was sliding around like crazy, so I figured you’d get past eventually. You did good.”

Fernando studied him for a moment, waiting for some hint of frustration, some bite in his tone — but there was none. He was being genuine.

“You’re not upset?” Fernando asked carefully.

Lance shrugged. “Why would I be? You were faster. I get it.” He took a sip of water. “I mean, yeah, it sucks to lose a position, but it’s not like you shoved me off the track or anything.”

Fernando almost laughed. It was almost admirable — Lance’s ability to take things in stride, to assume that everything was just clean, fair racing and nothing more.

He had no idea how much trouble Fernando had just caused behind the scenes.

“You’re handling this better than your father,” Fernando said, just to see how Lance would react.

Lance snorted. “Yeah, well, he’s always like that.” He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head. “I don’t really care about the whole ‘team orders’ thing as long as we both finish strong. You deserved that position today.”

Fernando hummed, letting the words sink in. It was so simple for Lance — too simple. But that was the difference between them. Fernando had spent decades in this sport, playing politics, navigating power struggles. Lance, for all his experience, still existed in a bubble, shielded by his father’s influence.

Maybe that was why he could afford to be so relaxed.

Maybe that was why Fernando could never take him seriously.

Still, he offered a small nod. “Good. I’d hate for you to lose sleep over it.”

Lance grinned as he stood, completely unaware of the storm brewing outside that room. “Nah. I sleep just fine.”

Fernando smirked. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Lance laughed, shaking off Fernando's words with a smile as he left for his room.

The paddock at Albert Park buzzed with energy. The sun glared down, reflecting off the sea of green Aston Martin branding as Fernando strode through the garage, helmet in hand. He had barely settled into his routine before he was pulled aside — media obligations, team briefings, the usual nonsense.

Lance, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, leaning against a stack of Pirelli tires, chatting with his engineers like they were discussing weekend plans rather than race strategy.

Fernando envied that kind of naivety.

He didn't have time for distractions. Not here, not now.

Australia had always been a wildcard. Street circuits were unforgiving, and chaos was a guarantee. The kind of race where experience won out over raw pace.

And Fernando Alonso had experience in abundance.

Fernando had been expecting something.

After Jeddah, after ignoring team orders — after proving, once again, that he had no interest in playing second to Lance — he knew Lawrence wouldn’t stay quiet. But even so, when the team owner pulled him aside in the motorhome before the Australian Grand Prix, Fernando barely spared him a glance.

“Fernando.” Lawrence’s voice was steady, calm, but there was an edge beneath it. “We need to talk.”

Fernando took a slow sip of water, feigning disinterest. “About?”

Lawrence stepped closer, lowering his voice. “About your place on this team.”

That was enough to make Fernando finally meet his gaze. “My place?” He smirked. “I thought it was simple. I drive, I deliver results.”

“You’re too smart to pretend that’s the full picture.” Lawrence’s expression remained unreadable. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t know exactly how this plays out if I let you keep doing whatever you want?”

Fernando leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Enlighten me.”

Lawrence’s eyes narrowed. “If Lance finishes below you today, I will make sure you never race in another sport again, let alone Formula One.”

For the first time, Fernando’s smirk faltered — just slightly.

Lawrence continued, voice calm, deliberate. “I’ll start limiting your practice time. I’ll restrict your access to team data. I’ll make sure every resource this team has is directed toward Lance. And when the season ends? You won’t find another seat. Not here, not anywhere.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, Fernando let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You must really be afraid.”

Lawrence didn’t blink. “No. I just know no one on the grid has the funds to buy what's mine.”

Fernando held his gaze. He had spent years playing this game, maneuvering through politics, outlasting enemies. But this — this was something else.

This wasn’t just about racing.

This was about control.

Ownership.

And for the first time in a long time, Fernando wondered if he had finally met someone willing to go further than even he was.

Lawrence didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The weight of his words settled between them like a noose tightening around Fernando’s neck.

Then, with a final, knowing look, Lawrence turned on his heel and left.

Fernando exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers. He had fought his way through every level of this sport, survived cutthroat politics, backroom deals, and teams that had tried to break him. But Lawrence — Lawrence had just made it clear that this wasn’t a game of survival.

This was war.

And Fernando? Fernando was trapped in enemy territory.

Fernando learned about the so-called “bonding” exercise two hours later, delivered in the same smug, calculated way Lawrence always operated.

“We’re making some changes to your schedule,” Lawrence informed him, standing in his office with his arms crossed. “You’ll be spending more time with Lance outside of race weekends. I want you to mentor him — help him develop as a driver, as a leader.”

Fernando didn’t even try to hide his disdain. “You mean babysit.”

Lawrence’s expression didn’t change. “You’ll spend time with him. Get to know him properly. Do whatever it takes to make this partnership work.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

And so, against every instinct, Fernando played along.

The first bonding session was simple: dinner at a private, high-end restaurant on Thursday — just the two of them, no media, no team personnel. A forced interaction under the guise of “strengthening their relationship,” when in reality, it was just another way for Lawrence to control the narrative.

Lance, of course, was oblivious.

“This is nice,” he said, swirling his drink — some ancient red wine — as he leaned back in his chair. “We never really do stuff like this, huh?”

Fernando smiled — practiced, effortless. “No, we don’t.”

Lance took it as genuine. “I get why people think we don’t get along, but I think we work well together. You push me, you know?”

Fernando tilted his head. “Is that so?”

Lance nodded earnestly. “Yeah. I know I have a lot to prove, but you treating me like competition — it helps. Makes me better.”

God, he’s naïve.

Fernando nodded, swirling his own drink lazily. “Good. That’s what teammates do.”

Lance smiled, genuinely pleased. “Yeah, exactly.”

Later that night, after the shit show of a dinner that Lance seemed to enjoy much more than Fernando ever could, he found Chris Cronin in the garage, away from prying eyes.

Fernando sighed, rubbing his temple. “I swear to god, if I have to keep entertaining these ridiculous ‘bonding’ exercises, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Chris smirked. “I take it dinner was fun?”

Fernando scoffed. “He’s unbearable. He sits there, smiling, talking about how much he’s learning — he has no idea what’s actually happening. No idea what his father is doing, what kind of game is being played.”

Chris leaned against the workbench. “And you’re playing along.”

Fernando exhaled sharply. “Of course, I am. I have no choice.” His fingers tapped against his crossed arms. “He thinks we’re friends.”

Chris raised a brow. “And?”

Fernando shrugged. “Let him.”