#lightning boy answers

[ajax-lightning-zephyr]

Hey ‘jax..

I’m not sure if you’ll even get this message.. but if you do.. i miss you.. which i know you’d tell me is stupid because it’s hasn’t even been that long.. but.. i do..

Anyways.. helios said that you were alive so.. i just wanted to see for myself.. message me back?.. or don’t..

I love you

- Emmie (@emmie-ocie-golden)

Oh Hey Emmie.

I don't get why you'll miss me, we just finished a season of eod.

Oh you also know that random person? I don't get why, they seem so... pushy? like they wouldn't do well.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 95

Captain Marvel, new Den-Mother (despite the fact he himself is a child even if the league isn’t aware of that fact) for the Young Justice team blinks. Klarion, so-called chaos lord, blinks back in the middle of a spell. 

He tilts his head. The other baby realms-being mirrors him. His own magic-fueled core pulses, and a chaos-core vibrates back. Oh. Ah. So that’s what’s happening. 

“They can’t play right now,” he explains to the barely-younger ancient-in-training, ignoring the team’s incredulous looks at his words with the practice of someone who had to deal with the voices of gods all the time. And Batman’s narrowing eyes. Scary. 

The chaos-core thrums in a distinct pouting-sensation, alongside a whine unique to young ghostlings. A whine that he replied with, even if only they could hear. Come play later, busy now, he insisted again, even if Klarion’s pouting was turning visible before it shifted to a scowl. 

“Fiiine…” And then the chaosling was gone, his familiar with him. Billy really wished he could join in disappearing, seeing the info-hungry look in the others’ eyes.

[myorangekineema]

he's like cold coffee in the morning

[everyryuujisuguro]

[maskednihilism]

(🌿 -leaves that here- for either canon or emergency verse, it tradition after all )

@aluckiicoin || prompt! And related to this! || For Aventurine! || Muses mentioned @ice-and-lightning 's Gua!

For Canon Ven;

"It's tradition." Sampo said as he stood under the doorway. "The neighboring planet I grew up on believed they were a symbol of love and peace." A peace neither of them truly felt with each other. Or rather, they wouldn't or couldn't say. Out of fear of the other pushing away.

Tonight, as the thief gently held the blond's chin, he was willing to push a little. Eyes locking into Aventurine's beautiful tri-colored eyes. Sampo was never a religious man, nor did he worship the Aeons as a religious figure. But if there truly did bless and offer kindness, he wished to believe that SHE, would grand him his wish.

Gaiathra Triclops, make him believe me.

"Let's make peace for one night." And may he believe in this Fool's love. If only for tonight. Carefully he leans in to plant a kiss on his lips. A soft, gentle kiss. One that shared all of his earnest hopes for the other. But would respect him if he didn't wish the same.

Emergency au;;

The Fool laughs, as the blond was walking around the home, glancing at the multitude of mistletoes hung at each doorway and exit. "No, this isn't my doing." The giggles that followed them should clue him in that it was a sly little Foxian who did all this. After all, he wanted kisses from pa too. And see his dear ma and pa get along.

"Just humor him for a bit." Sampo said, pulling him into his arms. There's nothing but adoration and love on his face. "It is the holidays after all. And I want the both of you to be joyful."

Little pecks are given to his beloved's face. Enticing him to play along. But all too soon, Aventurine and Sampo were kissing each other. While they too, giggled at the shared warmth and silliness of it all.

[twoboltsoflightning]

are you one of them bicycles

Tbol: what do you mean?

[magnusmodig]

rough childhood headcanon qs / anonymous / accepting !

╰┈➤ 1 . does your muse blame themselves for their trauma?

||. As is ever the case with Thor Odinson, the short answer is still, in itself, complicated. Ultimately the answer is, in my personal opinion, yes , though Thor is an incredibly introspective person, and so he can be self-aware enough of himself and his family situation to see it plainly for what it was. Thor is not a doormat. But whether or not he fully commits to acting on what he's feeling, and thinking based that awareness is its own issue. One mostly steeped in how Thor views himself and partly how he views his own family (specifically: he views them all with blinding rose-colored glasses ESPECIALLY once they've died, regardless of the damage they've caused him).

For some context on what I mean, by "how Thor views himself", I mean that he is shown to have something of an atlas complex (also known as: superman complex, savior/hero syndrome, codependency). Everything comes down to him. He's the strongest, so he'll do it. He can outlive and outlast, so he'll endure. He's the eldest, so it's his responsibility. So on and so forth very often times coming out as "I will solve this problem for you" statements most notably with Jane Foster. He takes failure personally, especially when other people are at stake, or the collateral. And he will hold himself accountable for tragedies beyond his control at length. In "The Avengers" and a deleted scene in "Thor: Ragnarok" he actively and repeatedly lumps himself in with his family (aka his father and siblings, mostly), and their catastrophic, destructive actions and pasts — both of which are things that thor himself actually hasn't partaken to any large degree (unless we count the failed Jotunheim heist and even that he WAS going to bail on before his temper got the best of his judgement.) He proceeds to call them (his family) "bilge snipe", while using the terms "we" (denotating himself as part of the issue) and proceeds to call the metaphorical bilge snipe "repulsive". He does this again in Ragnarok while telling Banner that "we're cursed to fight amongst ourselves while everyone else suffers for it"), meaning his opinions on the matter have not changed since 2012.

And by "blinding rose colored glasses" I mean that Thor has another tendency to see the good in people, partly in nature and partly deliberately, especially when seeking it out. And he does this especially when it comes to his family, and he will justify their actions by trying to step into their shoes even when it may not always be appropriate. (//gestures at literally all of thor: ragnarok and how he still idolizes his father to an obscene degree thankstaika re: "i'm not as strong as you", and even further back to the way thor speaks to odin in thor 2011 at the end of his banishment re: "there will never be a wiser king than you or a better father". He also idolizes Loki in "The Dark World" with the line "loki, for all of his grave imbalance, understood rule as i know i never will" and to a lesser degree does this with Frigga in the same film "she saved us all, a thousand times.")

From a slightly more psychological perspective:

The long and short of it is that it is much easier to blame yourself for things that hurt you that were beyond yourself. Especially when you can't understand it, or didn't deserve it. Especially when they come from someone you hold in high esteem, and hold a lot of love for. Like caregivers and family. In a twisted way, it grants the guilt-bearer some level of CONTROL over their emotions and their situation that they did not have in the moment the hurt occurred. If you're can blame yourself, then you're at fault. If you're at fault, then you can feel guilty, and if you're guilty, then you can atone. You can actively work to make up for it. ( "By blaming ourselves, we maintain the perception that we’re still in control of the situation and ultimately safe -even when we’re not." - rosscenter.com) This is especially critical in children who go through this sort of parental dysfunction and neglect. And the reason why I think this is not a development saved for his young adult -> adult years is because of exactly what we see on screen.

Thor comes from a family that is just as loving as it is toxic. His father was so good at being a wise king that he completely failed at being a good father. It's something Thor even calls out in "The Dark World" ("I'd rather be a good man than a great king") after speaking on how being king is losing who you are to politics and mind games and war. Odin as a parent, and Odin's overbearing, all-encompassing shadow of a legacy is what Thor's entire character arc was always about overcoming. His mother, Frigga, is by far the most decent of the bunch, but she is far from perfect. To pull from a previous meta on the subject, my opinion on frigga/thor is as follows: " [...] an unfortunate cycle in which [Frigga] spent SO MUCH ENERGY [...] making sure [Loki] felt seen/heard and had “some sun for himself” that she COMPLETELY neglected to see that her other son was in just as much pain as the youngest was [...] And only realized how estranged they had become when it was too late, and she couldn’t reach Thor anymore. (She also died before she could make it right.)"

His brother is arguably the person he was ever closest to (even among his friend group), up until his brother manipulated and betrayed his trust, killed him, attempted suicide in front of him, tried to take over earth as payback, tried to kill him again, rejected him outright, and then got put into jail.

Suffice it to say that while I think that Thor's issues stem from deep childhood trauma (and only ever further reenforced by the fact he ages so slowly), my dude's got some issues, and blaming himself for past trauma is definitely one of them. (When he can't get away with internalizing it and avoiding it any longer, anyways.) I do also think to a lesser degree this behavior does also count towards friends, just to a less extreme degree. With the main difference being: Thor adores his family. He wants to keep them close to him. He's incredibly protective of all of them. Which isn't to say he doesn't love his friends, because that would be the biggest lie. But friends come and go. Thor will always want to be a good friend, but he wants to be a good son even more than that. And so in cases of conflict with a friend and a peer, Thor will gladly and readily call out his friends for their bad behavior just as readily as he would also dismiss and justify their bad behavior towards himself. (you know like not checking in on him for five years in "endgame", apparently...)

[telperinquaar]

Black Noir, all numbers :*

1) What would their social media page/activity be like

Cute animal videos and pictures of Homelander

2) What animal they remind me of

Beaver, obviously? 😭

3) My thoughts on their design/aesthetic alone

While I do like the costume design better in the comics (something about a faceless, featureless shadow), I love how they adapted it for the show. Also just the idea of having 15+ knives on him at all times is hilarious 😭

4) Physical headcanons (sleeping habits, favourite food, all that)

He's like a cat--he either sleeps curled up in a ball or sprawled out all over the bed (generally after a mission). He also has a stuffed bunny from his childhood that he still sleeps with.

5) Social headcanons (what do they think of their friends/allies if they have any, what are they looking for in relationship, what people tend to think about them…)

6) Psychological headcanons (tastes, fears, talents, regrets, how they deal with anger, just anything that comes to mind on the topic)

God please just read my fanfic, I have way too many to list here 😭

7) Ship(s) with them that I like or at least consider

Noirlander

8) Made-up connections with other characters that weren’t in the canon (friends, enemies, whatever)

He's got a complicated relationship with Stormfront as of S3.

9) Headcanons about their past

I've got quite a few of these.

10) Content about them I’d like to see more of

Honestly anything about him. He's so sweet and so underutilized and I just love him so much :C

(Ask meme)

[burnlikeme]

❛ I’m attracted to men with muppet energy and no i will not be explaining. ❜ - Elva @lightning-arias

2d puzzles that over for a moment, not so sure he understands. He's picturing the gay couple (they're a couple, right), specifically the orange and yellow pair with stripes. Wasn't there one that lived in a bin? Then, after an uncomfortably long pause, he adds to the conversation.

"I was a puppet once."

Insightful.

"I like green men, so. Dunno if I have room to talk."

unhinged comedic relief

[yameoto]

butch pussy + femme cock = using you

tw; free-use, somno, cnc, morning sex, butchpussy (vi) femmecock (cait), implied bratty!reader. wc; 1.2k

vi and caitlyn linger at the doorway, to your shared bedroom. patrols are a bitch—and it is not always that they can get home, early. it's never been a problem exactly. except—

“ah..” vi’s mouth waters.

dawn crawls on the horizon. its heralding light seeps in through gossamer curtains, spilling out to bask your sleeping form in an unmitigated glow. your very nude, sleeping form. as if teasing them—you let out the most adorable yawn, in the midst of sleep. your leg curls upwards, covers slipping off.

caitlyn swallows, hard.

the two of them are immediately seized with an irrational jealousy for being so robbed from witnessing you, like this. “since when does she sleep naked?” “suppose it’s hot nowadays.” caitlyn answers airly, as if her nails aren't digging into the heel of her palm and the tent in her trousers' isn't stiffening. urgently. since when did she have the libido of a teenage boy? vi elbows her, voice teasing—if not equally as hoarse. “cupcake. you’re packing.”

"like you're not thinking the same." caitlyn scoffs, and vi can't argue with that. she is thinking the same. if the same, is the idea of hovering over your blissfully relaxed figure, splayed out on the bedspread. tearing off her pants and—

“..perhaps, we could.. indulge.”

“oh, baby. you read my mind.”

you wake, to a burning in your lungs, and your cunt. there's a stuffy headiness enveloping your head, something hot and wet and slippery pressing up against your chin. you open your mouth, only half-consciously, when your tongue meets salt and your eyelids flicker open in sleepy befuddlement. heat, and muscular thighs clamp down on either side of your head. a rough hand twists in your hair.

vi jerks you tongue-first into her cunt. your, whatthefuckisgoingon??? comes out more like; "mmrmgh?”

"poor baby. can't breathe, huh?" vi only shoves you deeper up the wedge of her thighs, your nose burrowed into the curls of her hot-pink bush and mouth at her sopping pussy. "oh, right there, princess."

she hisses, wresting you by the hair and rubbing her slickened folds against your face. your hands are scrambling at the mattress, each and every attempt at speech muffled by the squeezing of vi's legs. she pants in pleasure, as you pant in need, into her pussy—choked out by the sheer force of which vi's thighs are coiled around your head. she eases up, just enough for you to wriggle your mouth to gasp for air, and release a breathy, plaintive whine—eyes sleep-glazed and blinking hard, trying to get your bearings. c'mon, now—get with it; you're being suffocated by your girlfriend's pussy. not four AM on a workday and your chin is coated with slick. vi lets out a petulantly dissatisfied noise when you're gulping air for too long—shoving your head back down with a low growl. "don't—hah—you fuckin' stop."

you're so preoccupied with trying to breathe, head spinning, cogs whirring at a slow, slow pace as it attempts to process the fact you're gasping into your girlfriend's pussy; you almost don't realise the burning in your belly has rescinded to a low simmer. mistake.

"don't tell me you forgot about me, darling." like caitlyn can sense your distraction, there is a blinding jolt of lightning that crackles through your body as she gives you an idle jerk. something twitches, and you realise, belatedly, there is a cock inside of you. you tense up, and your walls clench. caitlyn's moan is dizzying.

"ah—ah.. fuck, sweetheart. you feel almost as good as you did, before."

vi presses up flush against your face, groaning as she rocks, grinding picking up the pace. of course, the tighter she holds, the less you can breathe, and your limbs jerk, fingers fisting into the sheets.

"stop squirming. you're only going to make it worse." caitlyn's pace is leisurely, manicured nails pinching either side of your hips. she rolls her hips forward, teeth biting down at her bottom lip. "it's a shame. you made such a good cocksleeve. all relaxed. pliant." 

it feels wrong to hear words so vulgar rolling off her silken tongue, so casually, so early-in-the-fucking-morning, as if you haven't heard filthier come out of her mouth. the shock of it is wearing, giving way to the blazing warmth that so throbs in your pussy that you can't believe you hadn't noticed. though perhaps, that was the whole point.

"you didn't expect me to wait my turn, did you?" oh, caitlyn is definitely smirking. you can hear the smug undercurrent in her voice; even if you can't see a thing, other than the swollen nub of vi's clit and the hastily-cut bristles of her bush as she gets off, chest rising and falling in shallowing breaths. caitlyn, however, is still only working in idle, languid pumps. like she's savouring your sleep-ridden compliancy; how you are, for once, thoroughly silenced by the clench of vi's pussy and vice of her thighs.

"you—mm—do look pretty when you shut up." vi gasps out, and you can feel her cunt pulsing around you, you want to whine, grumble, protest—anything—but the press of your lips only spurs her on, the hand in your hair yanking you deeper. vi's breaths stutter, tensing. "..shit." vi cums, her weight on your chest shifting, smushing you against the mattress as she squirts, right down your throat. caitlyn barely moves, content to, apparently, continue using you as her personal cocksleeve as vi humps out her orgasm against your face, milky fluid and your own saliva—from having nowhere to go—completely immersed in heat. caitlyn's thrusts are lazy, and vi's grinding vigorous. your chest is tight, thoughts almost nothing in your light-headedness, mindlessly gaping open and simply taking it.

the second vi collapses, thighs finally, finally lifting off your shoulders—caitlyn rams her cock into you. no longer muffled by vi's cunt (though, her cum still dribbling out from your lips), you cry out. you really can't catch a break, can you?

"shh." caitlyn commands, and now, you can see her eyes flicker up at you in annoyance, though beneath the gaze—gleams amusement. she slides herself in, deep, and your own hips rise in instinctive reaction, whimpering, lungs all used up.

you manage to do as caitlyn says, and shut up, chests heaving as you needily gulp in the mercy of fresh air. vi's large hands skim your bare chest, circling your nipples, thumb swiping underneath your breasts. "easy," she husks, voice gravelly, as if you have the energy to go anything but. or perhaps, she's talking to caitlyn. you can't tell, because caitlyn is certainly not going easy—and you are paying the price. in fact, she's begun to jam her hips with vicious force, pace vigorous—pulling out, ever-so-slow, before plunging back in again. there is no longer any restraint; as if she has held herself back, enough, and deserves this. to plow your pussy and drink in each and every broken gasp it elicits.

she thrusts, particularly brutal. you gasp—throat raw—and you unspool all over her cock, body betraying you. caitlyn's pupils dilate, just like that, at the sight of your cum oozing out in thick, creamy bursts around her base, with each slam of her body—has her head falling back, throat baring. her hips falter, before she drives inside you, harsh and hard—one last time—and paints your insides sticky.

[ajax-lightning-zephyr]

Ajax, love? You good? Helios said you’ve been acting weird. Did dying in the void do something to you?

Hi Rondeal.

I'm perfectly fine, been exploring this place.

And I don't get why almost everyone has been mentioning a death like it isn't normal for us

[everyryuujisuguro]

[always-just-red]

A multi-headcanon request please. How the boys react when they discover their s/o has been hiding a wound from them because she had it under control and didn't want to give them something else to worry about

Hi! Thanks so much for the request and all the support! Have written a little fic for each of the guys, starring... - Xavier, Deepspace Hunter extraordinaire ✨ - Linkon's worst best baking partner, Zayne 🍪 - Drama queen Rafayel 👑 - King of self-care, Sylus 💅

Putting On A Brave Face

L&DS Boys x Reader

Summary: Sometimes, a certain hunter likes to say things are fine when they definitely aren't...

Genre: A lil bit of angst, mostly fluff + comfort!

Warnings/Additional tags: female reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, some injury details/blood mentioned, teeeeency bit of suggestion (I'm looking at YOU, Sylus...)

| Word count: 4k (1k each!) | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

This is bad. Not ‘end of everything as we know it’ bad, but definitely ‘an obscene amount of paperwork’ bad.

You clutch one of your pistols to your chest— deep breath— and you listen carefully, your head leant back against the rock you’re using as cover. Your mind latches on to every sound: each growl, each rumble of earth that marks the movements of the Wanderers that have trapped you here.

You’ve fought worse odds, but then again, you don’t usually have to do it with a broken leg.

Or maybe just sprained? You shift a little, trying to move, and the pain that sears through you settles the debate in an instant. Your teeth sink into the back of your hand to keep you from crying out.

You hope Xavier’s okay. You sent him your co-ordinates minutes ago, and the lack of response has worry gnawing away at the deepest parts of you. You check your hunter’s watch.

Still nothing.

Another deep breath, and you readjust your position as much as you can. Balancing on your good leg, you manage to peer over the top of the rock to get a visual of your surroundings.

There’s four, no— five Wanderers. Stupid no-hunt zone; you’re never not outnumbered.

You can see your second pistol, abandoned in the middle of the clearing where you’d dropped it. There’s flickers of movement, too: further in the woods. More Wanderers. Shit.

You duck behind the rock you’re starting to think might be your new home. Then your watch flickers, broadcasting a map of the area, and there’s the co-ordinates of another hunter, closing in fast.

Something flashes in the clearing, lighting the dark of the forest like a stutter of lightning. Then again. Then again. There’s a blood-curdling roar, and it ends— abrupt— with another flash.

Everything goes silent, save for a familiar voice calling your name.

“Xavier!” you call back.

You peek over the rock to see your partner jogging towards you, dead Wanderers littered behind him. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice soft as always, but his sword is still dripping blood.

“I’m okay.” You clamber up, using the rock as a seat when the small effort almost breaks you. “You?”

Xavier draws close— his gloved hands on your face, cupping your cheeks. His thumb grazes over a shallow scrape on your brow. “Yeah,” he answers.

“Did you find that weird Wanderer?”

He shakes his head: no. Steps back to check his watch. “It’s probably moved on to a different zone by now.”

“Then we should look for it,” you say, standing up. All of your weight is on one leg.

“Ah,” Xavier ponders, rubbing his neck, “really? I thought we should maybe head back.”

“No need.” And what’s the plan here, exactly? You can’t walk. You definitely can’t fight. Maybe you can wait here while he— no. He’s never going to leave you. “I told you I’m okay.”

“But you’re not.”

“I am,” you assert. You’re determined to convince him and your own, useless body. It’s just a sprain. It is just a sprain. You take a step forwards and stumble, your bad leg crumpling beneath you.

Xavier catches you, strong and solid, and he's holding you like you’re something delicate. He sets you down on the rock again. The pain is making your vision swim.

“You’re hurt,” he reasons gently, even though the truth of it is a knife that’s twisting in your heart. He seems to sense your reluctance: “There’s no shame in admitting that. It happens. Let’s go back.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m slowing you down, Xavier!” you gush. Your heart is split open and it has to bleed somewhere. “You have no idea what it’s like… being your partner.”

He’s looking at you with so much guilt and gods, you wish that somewhere was anywhere but his hands. “What do you mean?” he asks on a shaky breath.  

“I love working with you.” Soften the blow. “I love being with you, but you don’t need me. You’re this incredible hunter. This figure of legend, of everyone’s stories. You can do so much on your own and I just don’t know how to keep up. I mean, look at me— I can’t.”

You feel sick. Empty. “You shouldn’t have to hang back for me,” you finish limply. “You’re you, Xavier. You can fight like a hundred Wanderers and still come out unscathed.”

The blue of Xavier’s eyes has grown understandably more turbulent, though it settles a little. He seems to relax. “Yeah… about that,” he mumbles hesitantly.

He turns around and your mouth drops. A savage cut drapes like a crimson sash down his back, splitting the white of his uniform. It’s not deep enough to be fatal, but it’s not good, either.

“Wha— Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to surge forwards, but your pain keeps you rooted. “You said you were okay!”

“So did you,” he frowns, bewildered. “Can we get out of—?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You let him take your arm and help you to your feet.

He leads you through the clearing and into the forest, supporting your weight as you hop along beside him. There’s a murmur about how he should carry you, but you’re quick to reassure him he’s doing enough. You’re both hurting; you both just need to survive the short walk out of the no-hunt zone, where a med team can take over.

“You don’t slow me down, you know,” Xavier says quietly, after a minute of silence. “You’re the reason I can keep going.”

You squeeze his arm affectionately, mustering a smile even though you’re nauseous with pain and the idea he’s been dwelling on your speech this whole time. “Well,” you chuckle through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna have to learn how to get by without me.”

“Huh?” He gives you a curious look.

You glance down at your leg. “Zayne’s gonna kill me...”

Zayne ❄

“I’m a doctor.”

You stop what you’re doing to fix Zayne with a questioning stare. “Okay…?”

“I’ve published dozens of research papers. Pioneered new surgical techniques. My work on Evol-based regenerative properties still has lasting implications for my field, and I’ve the accolades to show for it. The Starcatcher Award. The Linde Award, too— I was the youngest ever recipient.”

None of this is news to you, and you can’t help chuckling at this change in your usually-humble physician. You humour him: “The youngest ever recipient, huh?” There’s a crack as you split an egg on the side of the bowl in front of you. “That’s very impressive.”

“Is it?”

Zayne stands from his seat at your kitchen table: you hear the chair draw back. You feel his presence arrive behind you as you continue to stir your soon-to-be cookie dough. “Yeah,” you lilt with a smile.

“Really?” he pushes again, and his arms wrap around you as he bends to speak into your ear. “Because someone seems to think I can’t even recognise a—” he nips at it— “sprained ankle.”

His breath is warm on your neck and you let out a giggle. “Keep speaking to me like that and these cookies are never making it into the oven. Or your stomach.”

The man relents. He releases you, not returning to his seat but opting to lean against the kitchen counter instead. You glance up at him; he stares back, waiting for an actual answer.

“My ankle is fine, Zayne.”

There’s a sigh as he crosses his arms.

“It is,” you insist, even though you did sprain your ankle at work today, it does hurt like hell, and you do just want to sit down. You reach for the flour you’d measured out previously, tipping it into the larger bowl. “If it wasn’t, would I really be here— making you cookies?”

“Yes,” he says plainly.

“You’re delusional.”

“Okay.”  

Well, that was a little too easy. Don’t overthink it, and definitely don’t read into the fact that he’s standing there smugly, like he knows something you don’t. You finish stirring the flour into the mixture, then add the last of the ingredients. Just a pinch of salt, and then…

Where did you put the chocolate chips? You glance about yourself but they’re nowhere in sight. “Hey, Zayne? Have you seen the—”

“This cupboard,” he indicates with an upwards nod of his head. His eyes are relentless. “Top shelf.”

Ah. That’s okay. You’ve totally got this. You move beneath the cupboard, opening it and gazing up into the contents. You can see the pack of chocolate chips. You can get up there somehow, right?

“Would you like me to—?” Zayne starts, but you cut him off:

“Nope.” You put your hands on your hips. “Please— if I can climb the back of an alive, awake, and very angry deluge wyrmlord to put a sword through its skull, I think I can make it onto the kitchen counter in one piece. Lemme just…”

Your knee lifts. You make it about a centimetre from the floor before Zayne’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. “Stop,” he instructs, and it's not a tone that allows for any rebuttal. Satisfied by your silence, he brings the chocolate chips down to you.

“Thanks,” you say quietly as they’re placed on the counter.

“You’re welcome."

Sheepishly, you spill a generous amount of chocolate chips into the cookie mixture. Your throat hurts in the way that keeps you from saying anything more. You already feel like an idiot, and your eyes are watering, threatening to make you look like even more of one.

Zayne’s hand appears in front of you, hovering over the bowl. You laugh in understanding: giving the half-empty bag another shake so chocolate chips fall into his palm.

“You… don’t have to explain yourself,” he says as he lifts them to his mouth. His next words are muffled: “But you can tell me anything, my love. I never want you to feel as though you can’t.”

You chuckle again; you can’t help yourself. Look at him: your oh-so-serious doctor, shovelling chocolate into his mouth. He raises an eyebrow at you, his lips still on his palm.

“I know I can tell you anything,” you smile, the ache in your throat receding, however much the rest of you hurts. “I did sprain my ankle. It’s not that I wanted to hide it from you, it’s just—” you stop stirring the mixture— “it’s just that your whole life is taking care of people at the hospital. You should get a break from it. You should get to be Zayne, here… at home. Just Zayne, not Doctor Zayne.”

Zayne’s hazel eyes have taken on a hue of regret. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, buying himself a few seconds as he contemplates. “Are you a doctor?” he asks after a moment.

“No?”

“And yet, here you are, taking care of me.” He reaches for the abandoned packet of chocolate chips. “Tell me, does it feel like work to you?”

“Yeah,” you tease, drawing the packet away from his stretching fingers in explanation; you’re both grinning.

“Well, it never feels like work to me. Just Zayne likes taking care of you. And right now? He wants to bundle you up on the sofa and finish these cookies for you.”

You purse your lips: that’s some dubious wording. “Zayne, hell will freeze over before I leave you and this cookie dough unsupervised.”

He shushes you, pulling on the cord of your apron until the bow at your back comes loose. Before you can protest, he’s wearing the apron himself.

“Zayne, I’m not kidding. I know what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get rid of me, and then you’ll—”

“Shh,” he coos again, whisking you carefully off your feet, because it’s time for a taste of your own medicine. “You’re delusional.”

Rafayel 🔥

“Mmhmm. Mmhmm.”

“Raf, who are you—?”

He holds out a finger to shush you. “Mmhmm.”

You cross your arms impatiently. Who is he even talking to, anyway? His lilac eyes are locked on you as he continues humming away, apparently very invested in whatever the person on the phone is saying; you’ve never seen him go this long without talking.

He narrows his eyes at you. You narrow your eyes right back.

All around you, guests of the exhibition are milling about, all dressed to the nines and minding their business, however much they want the attention of the man in front of you. A few of them linger as they pass him, like they want to say something, like they’re going to say something…

But they don’t.

It’s a wonder that Rafayel stands out in the crowd as much as he does. You’d seamlessly located him, back from your third trip to the bathroom to check on the bandages you’ve managed to conceal beneath this dress. He’s still holding your purse for you, his phone in his other hand, except—

That’s your phone. That’s your phone! “Rafayel!”

He shushes you again. “I understand,” he says solemnly, notably not to you, “thanks for letting me know.” The call is ended. He takes a deep, collected breath, then looks at you. “I knew it!”

“Knew what? Who was that?”

“Zayne.”

“You called Zayne?”

“Like I had a choice!” Rafayel retaliates. It is true; he’s spent the entire evening trying to get you to admit something was wrong, and you had no intention of giving him that pleasure. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital! What kind of idiot breaks out of the hospital?”

The lack of irony in the question almost breaks you. “Umm… you?! Like every other week?!”

He shrugs. “That’s different.”

“Rafayel, I swear, I’m gonna— ah!” you gasp in pain. You’d stepped forwards too quickly— maybe to strangle him, but that’s neither here nor there— and the wound on your side is clearly on his side. It stings like hell: punishing you, and you know the pain is self-inflicted.

Rafayel frowns in concern, maybe even guilt, and that’s why you didn’t tell him. “C’mon, we should go,” he insists gravely.

“It’s fine, Raf. It doesn’t even—”

“Stop lying! You said you wouldn’t hide stuff like this from me. You promised, remember?”

You’re losing track of all the promises you’ve made to the Lemurian, but you do remember that one. Guilt has its teeth in you, too. “I know,” you grumble, “I’m sorry, okay? I just knew—”

“What?”

“That you’d act like this! You’ve been working on this exhibition for months, Raf. Tonight is supposed to be about you. Not me— you. And I want it to stay that way. Everyone’s here to celebrate you and your work, and that’s how it should be. That’s what I want. To support you. To be here for you.”

Your voice has gone timid. You finish meekly: “Can’t you let me do this for you? Please?”

Rafayel’s eyes are wide and still the prettiest things you’ve ever seen, even in a room full of masterpieces you could never afford. They shine with uncertainty, but soften as he smiles, full of fondness and affection. “That’s sweet. But also? Really dumb.”

“Raf—”

“The only— and I mean only— reason I’m here tonight is because you are. I don’t care about what anyone thinks about me or my paintings. Just you. And you can see this?” He gestures around the gallery. “Anytime. My life’s your private exhibition, cutie. Exclusive access, 24/7, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He steps closer to you: close enough that he can see the tear that’s made it halfway down your cheek. He wipes it away with a chuckle. “Plus,” he adds, “I know you know I’m amazing. You don’t need these old sourpusses to tell you that, do you?”

You laugh tentatively. “No, I don’t.”

Your injury protests as you use the lapels on Rafayel’s blazer to pull him closer; you have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He’s still grinning as he draws away, a light blush on his cheeks, but the sweetness of the moment vanishes as his gaze drifts lower.

“My eyes are up here, Rafayel.”

“Yeah…” he concedes mindlessly, but then he points: “you know you’re like, bleeding, right?”

You glance downwards to where the red of your dress is turning darker. There’s just a small splotch, but it’s growing. Shit. You must have reopened the wound.

“Thomas?” you hear Rafayel call, and then he’s stuffing a silk handkerchief into your hands— helping you apply pressure. “We have to get out of here,” he explains as a figure joins you.

His agent folds his arms; this is not dissimilar to stunts you and Rafayel have pulled before. “Fake blood, guys? Really?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t leave, Rafayel. I can just see the headlines tomorrow…”

“Dashing artist selflessly flees exhibition to save devoted bodyguard,” Rafayel concurs with a nod.

Thomas groans. “That’s not what they’re going to—”

“Help me out with this, cutie?”

“Yes, sir,” you mock salute.

A moment later, Rafayel has scooped you up into his arms. Your hero; he gives you a conspiratorial wink before glancing about frantically. “Quickly!” he cries out. “Everyone out of the way, please!”

“For the love of—” Thomas starts.

“Oh, gods!” you shout in agony. “It hurts. It hurts!”

Heads turn. Cameras flash.

Tomorrow morning, half of Linkon will be talking about one of their favourite celebrities and his long-envied bodyguard. A news article will pop-up on her doctor’s phone, and he’ll see the pictures and sigh.

Sylus 🩸

“It’s not too late to back down, sweetie,” Sylus sneers.

“Aw, but you got all dressed up for the occasion.”

Your eyes rake over the outline of the man’s abs, courtesy of the tank top he’s wearing, and it does take the sting out of the fact that he’ll be trying to hit you. He holds his wrapped hands before him, ready to defend, ready to attack. He’ll probably attack, right?

“Last chance,” he growls.

“Is it, though?” This is the third ‘last chance’ you’ve been given in the five minutes you’ve been teetering on combat. You beckon him with a curl of your fingers. “Come on, Sylus. This is getting old.”

He scoffs: “How do you think I feel?”

“Like you’re about to get your ass kicked?”

“Alright, enough.” His hands drop and it feels like you’re back at the academy, about to be scolded for not taking something seriously. Sylus turns his back on you. Moves to the edge of the boxing ring so he can retrieve a stool from outside of it and sit down in a huff. He starts peeling the wraps from his knuckles, and— wait, is he mad? Like, actually mad?

“What’s wrong, Sy?”

He laughs as though you’re missing something dreadfully obvious. Maybe irony.

“Sylus?”

“You really are heartless, sweetie. You know that?”

The words steal your breath away, if only for a moment. Yours is a relationship of pulled punches, but he won’t meet your gaze and that one was real, wasn’t it? He wanted it to sting. “Why—?”

“I could have hurt you,” he snaps, his dishevelled, snowy hair falling to cover his eyes. His discarded wraps slide from his hands, pooling by his feet like blood. “You were going to let me hurt you.”

He looks at you, finally, but it’s not in the way you want. His gaze is cast low, trailing over your body and making you feel every bruise, every closed cut that wants to reopen and every ache, rooted almost to bone. You’d done your best to hide it, even going so far as to press make-up hastily over your purpled skin.

That Wanderer really did a number on you yesterday.  

“You should have told me,” Sylus says, since you’ve made it onto the same page. “Honestly, kitten. Why would you—?”

“Because Luke and Kieran told me, okay?”

Oh, they’re going to kill you. It was supposed to be a secret, and here you are, spilling like a fresh wound because you can’t stand the thought of Sylus being upset with you. You step closer, scrambling to dissect what you’ve done right in front of his eyes— holding it out to him: this is why. This is why. “They said you had a rough week. Some deals of yours had fallen through or something. And I’ve been too busy. I haven’t called, I haven’t even texted, and…”

You need him to understand, but the truth is a mess in your hands and how do you even start to explain it to him?

“You wanted to do something for me,” he finishes for you, and you don’t have to explain a thing.

“Yeah…” you confirm, bittersweet and still sad. “You do so much for me, Sylus. I just wanted to do what you wanted, for a change.”

Maybe it’s a round of boxing. Maybe it’s a dozen illicit dealings where he needs you to play enforcer— it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s happy.

“Come here,” he orders gently.

You close the rest of the rift between you, letting him reach for you and pull you closer. His knees have spread so you can slot against him, and his arms circle around you— trapping you— as he nuzzles into the warmth of your stomach.

“I’m sorry I called you heartless,” he speaks into you, his voice muffled as he gives you a chaste kiss. He then cranes his head upwards, resting his chin against you so he can profess more clearly: “I do worry about you, kitten.”

“I know—” your hands move to his head— “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”

“Mmm,” he hums in accordance, maybe even forgiveness, and his eyes close as your fingers card through the soft of his hair. “I lied too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confesses on a contented sigh. “I didn’t want to spend today… boxing.”

“What do you want to do today, Sy?”

His eyes flicker open and his hands find your hips. “What I really want…” he contemplates, as his thumbs slip under the hem of your shirt to rub circles on your skin, “is to take care of you.”

There are lifetimes of need in his gaze.

“Won’t you let me take care of you, sweetie?”

…

“If he finds the terms so disagreeable, then he’s more than welcome to take his business elsewhere. Although—” Sylus’s voice is cold— “he might find his other options less… amenable than when he saw them last. Less communicative, too. You can tell him I said so.”

He ends the phone call. Smiles. “Sorry about that, sweetie.”

“Are the boys okay?”

The smile widens, even though you can’t see it. “They’re fine.”

Phone set aside, Sylus carries on with the important business Kieran’s call had distracted him from. You’re half asleep, your head in his lap as he brushes your hair: rose-scented and soft from the bath he’d drawn for you, hours ago. Every bandage is fresh and clean. Every ache has been dulled with a lazy massage and more chaste kisses, for good measure.

“Perfect day,” you mumble blissfully.

“Perfect day,” Sylus agrees.

[magnusmodig]

headcanon/development qs / anon / no longer accepting !

╰┈➤ What’s the lie your character says most often?

||. I've written two mini-meta on his biggest lie (his 2011 facade) before, so I won't go into that one again.... Thor is contrarily a very sincere person. If he doesn't have anything good to say, or if he can't agree to something outright but can't deny it either, or otherwise is in a position where he might need to be dishonest or unkind to someone in good standing with him, Thor doesn't say anything at all.

Or if he does, he'll word it in a way that gives him a loophole out of it, and then proceed to abide by that. Thor doesn't (usually) lie intentionally unless it's for a specific gain, something he can't entirely agree to, and usually to further benefit the lives or plans of his friends and allies.

To my count, he's only ever lied on screen 4 times.

2011 - Only bowing his head to Selvig during the bar scene and not actually giving his word that he'll leave Puente Antiguo and Jane Foster behind)

2013 - Purposefully misdirecting Loki and leaving him out of the "Get Jane out of Asgard" Heist

2013 - The entire "get Jane out of Asgard" Heist and attempting to misdirect Malekith into destroying the Aether (which I'm only counting because it's deliberate treason against his father. which he only did because odin refused to at least attempt to make sure Thor's plan would go off smoothly)

2015 - Electing to not bring up to Steve Rogers that he can lift Mjolnir (though this, they both knew)

I might be missing some small fibs here and there, but Thor is an incredibly honest person, so I doubt it's very much more than 4. (I guess you could also count Thor telling Jane he'll return for her and then not doing that for 2 years, but that's less of a lie and more of a broken promise; he fully intended to return and chose not to after the drama of his family escalated to the point of insanity.)

As far as the lie that Thor believes and will state as if it's truth? That he isn't worthy to be king. Tangentially also: that he would lose himself as king, the same way his father did. It's his "resistance to reality", so to speak.

Thor can talk and believe all he wants that he isn't the king his father would want, and he isn't a worthy steward of the title, that he's afraid he'll drown in the politics of the matter instead of being a good king... never realizing that that heart is exactly what would make him a good king. And a good man at that. He already has the qualities, he already has the skills... the only person who neglects to see this is Thor himself. (and where his character arc should have ended him: finally seeing that he has always been worthy, and not because a hammer (see: his father) told him so.)

╰┈➤ What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?

||. Honestly? Just his name, "Thor". Maybe Tony would call him one of his various on-the-spot nicknames like Point Break but nothing too terribly out of the ordinary.

[aealzx]

As Sonic slammed through the enemy’s weapons Knuckles slid to a stop next to Shadow and threw his body protectively over the black hedgehog’s smaller form, a hand resting on Shadow’s head, and face turning to snarl at the soldiers. Only when significant damage had been done did Sonic skid to a stop, standing between the soldiers and Shadow with his arms spread wide, blue lightning rippling off his form. The quiet that fell over the field wasn’t complete, but it was still numbing. “Stay down, new hedgehog. I’ll keep you safe,” Knuckles spoke quietly to Shadow when he tried to push himself up despite the form over him. He smelled of blood mixed with ash, and Knuckles could hear the slight wheeze in his painfully heavy breaths. It was a simple command, but Knuckles was uncertain if the way Shadow’s form relaxed after a moment was a good thing or not. He seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.

____________

“Mr. Wachowski. Care to enlighten me why you’re here?” Commander Walters returned the greeting. “Well, I live here,” Tom answered with a brief smile. “Green Hills is right over there, in case you weren’t aware. We’d appreciate it if the military wasn’t firing off weapons so close to town.” “A minor incident. We have it under control, and will be leaving shortly.” Sonic snorted and opened his mouth to shoot a bitter reply, but Tom stopped him with a hand. “Great! Well then, I’ll just pick up my kids, and we’ll pretend this never happened. We can tell the town you were cleaning up a rogue Eggman drone?” Tom suggested brightly. That got Commander Walters to crack a fake smile. “Ah. Yes, that should do nicely.” “Cool! Keeping it simple. I like it,” Tom breathed, clapping his hands together and turning slightly. “Honey, is kid number four safe to move?” “Four?” Commander Walters spoke in mildly confused protest. “Uhhhhh yeah. Two right here, and then two over there with Maddie makes four,” Tom returned easily, pointing to Sonic and Tails near him, and then Knuckles and Shadow as Maddie reached them. Commander Walters cleared his throat. “I’m sorry Mr. Wachowski, there seems to be a misunderstanding. Project Shadow is property of G.U.N.. I can’t allow you to take it.” “Huh,” Tom voiced, forcing a pause. “That’s strange. I thought slavery was illegal in the United States.” “You know what I mean.” “No, I actually don’t. Care to enlighten me how kidnapping a lost child and subjecting him to experimentation and indefinite imprisonment is something the government does?” Commander Walters’ expression twitched, and Tom started nodding his head. “Yeah, we figured some things out,” Tom confirmed the unspoken, possible question. It prompted Commander Walters to change tactics, shifting his shoulders and drawing a breath for a new conversation. “We’re simply containing a dangerous weapon. It’s standard procedure.” “Excuse me? The only dangerous weapon we’ve had to deal with recently was that moon slicing cannon your people built. The one that my kids stopped, because some nutcase stole it from you. Remember that?” “Didn’t he almost kill you in the process?” “Because he thought I was you!” Tom snapped. ”And seeing what you've done to him now I can see why his first reaction to seeing you was to fight!” “He's dangerous-” “He is a child!” Tom bellowed. “And if you would treat him as one, as a person, instead of a weapon he may have come to like you instead of wanting to kill you the moment he saw you! Now are you going to take my suggestion and get the hell out of here without a fuss, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

____________________

“I think he passed out.” Maddie faltered for a moment, but then pushed through, somewhat reassured since they were already in the clinic. “Alright. That’s okay, bring him over here,” Maddie directed, pointing to a shallow bathing station. “We need to get him clean. Can you get his gloves and shoes off?” she gave for further instruction before turning to her three boys. “Knuckles, take your brothers to the front room and call Uncle Wade to come help watch you three.” “But I wanna help!” Sonic protested, already having been dancing around their feet staying out of the way but also trying to stay as close as he could. “I know, but this is a little more intense than I’d like you to have to deal with,” Maddie assured, running her hand over his head. “I’ll be good, I’ll listen.” “No, Sonic,” Maddie stressed. “I’m gonna have to do surgery to fix his ribs, and I don’t want any of you to see that. Okay?” Sonic’s eyes went wide, and Maddie raised her hands to steady him if needed. It was a little blunt, but she didn’t have time to keep trying to convince him. “It’ll be okay, boys. I’ll take care of it. So just be good for Wade, alright?” “I’ll watch over them, mother,” Knuckles assured, moving forward with Tails already clinging to him and putting a hand around Sonic. “Come. Let us contact our Uncle, then construct a plan to welcome Shadow home.”

__________________________

__________________________

__________________________

Iiiiiii have a lot of scattered incoherent thoughts about Shadow getting adopted that I cannot figure out how to string together in a straight story, so I'm just doodling and writing the lil bits that pop into my head. 8 |

Something about Shadow trying to find his inhibitor rings again, but he only gets the 2 for his legs and G.U.N. finds the other 2 first, which leads to Shadow trying to steal them back but inevitably getting worn down by them and his own chaos energy beating him up. So he gives in and goes to Green Hills to find Sonic for help because "I thought that...since you wouldn't kill me… even after all I did, all I said, I thought that maybe…. maybe… you could help me"

This all took long enough that the Wachowski fam had enough time to talk things over about everything.

This also might be the 'I may have beat Shadow up a lil too much haha whoops' headspace 'cause he ended up with this list of injuries by the time the fam got him:

2 displaced broken ribs on the right (stabilized by Maddie with pins to be removed later)

broken right arm

broken left leg

injured right lung (causes wheezing mostly)

large laceration on right torso and right thigh

I'm still not sure if I want Walters to be the one there chasing Shadow or if it should be the other military lady and Walters helps stop them and let Tom and Maddie take Shadow 8 |

anyway post is getting way long so * finger guns and leaves ya'll with this *

[onlyforwoosan]

Heat Of The Night—✦

Pairing: Park Seonghwa (Racer!AU) × Female Reader (established relationship)

Wordcount: 5.8k

Synopsis: A brutal rivalry. A high-speed race. And Seonghwa, who’ll stop at nothing to win — including fucking you in the front seat while the world watches.

Genre: Smut, Enemies / rival tension, Dark romance, Racer!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Public sex in a moving vehicle (during a literal race), Semi-exhibitionism (tinted windows), Fighting / violence, Blood mention, Possessive / dominant behavior, Praise & degradation mix

The night smelled like oil, concrete, and something sour—something violent waiting to happen.

The empty parking garage echoed with every footstep, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead stuttering and humming like they might give out at any second. It was the kind of place people pretended didn’t exist, a dead space between the city’s shiny surfaces.

Seonghwa stood under one of the flickering lights, head low, hands curled into tight fists at his sides. His black jacket clung to him, rain still dripping from the hem. He looked calm from a distance, still, controlled.

But up close, the storm in his eyes was undeniable. He was pissed. 

Across from him, His rival, Minjun, leaned lazily against a cracked pillar, a smirk tugging at his mouth. He looked untouched by the cold, by the hour, by the threat that hung thick in the air between them.

"You came," Minjun said, voice carrying easily in the emptiness. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jeans, casual, cocky. Like, this was a joke. Seonghwa wasn't having any of it. 

"You called," Seonghwa answered flatly. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The promise of violence was put into every word.

Minjun chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Man... all this for a girl?" His hair was dripping a little. 

At the mention of you, something shifted behind Seonghwa’s eyes — a barely contained rage, flashing like lightning just before it strikes. You were his. 

"You really think you’re untouchable, don’t you?" Minjun pushed off the pillar, walking a slow circle around him. "Big man behind the wheel. Big man when she’s looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars."

“You don't even know. Shes mine, for fucks sake.” Seonghwa snarled. He was irritated that the younger would even dare to mention you. 

The black haired boy just scoffed. “Probablys a slut for you. A whore if i may add.” He snickered. The taller was this close to killing him. “Chill, dude. She's only hung for you.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before he dropped the real poison:

"But what happens when you can’t get to her fast enough, Hwa?"

Seonghwa moved before the last syllable even hit the air.

He was on Minjun in a breath, fists slamming into him with the brutal precision of someone who wasn’t just angry — someone who was fighting for blood.

The first punch made a crackling sound against Minjun’s jaw, sending him stumbling back, but Seonghwa didn’t let up. A second hit, cleaner, harder, broke across Minjun’s nose with a wet snap.

Minjun cursed, stumbling, blood gushing between his fingers as he clutched his face.

"You touch her," Seonghwa growled, voice rough and lethal, "and I’ll fucking bury you myself."

Minjun spat blood onto the concrete and laughed — a low, ugly sound that scraped at Seonghwa’s ears and made his eye twitch.

"You’re already losing, Seonghwa. You just don’t see it yet."

He lunged then, slashing his nails across Seonghwa’s cheek, drawing a sharp line of red liquid. The sting barely registered.

Seonghwa grabbed him by the jacket, slamming him into the pillar with enough force to rattle the crumbling structure.

"I’m not losing anything," Seonghwa snarled, nose inches from Minjun’s. His hand tightened around Minjun’s throat for just a second — not enough to choke, but enough to make the threat clear.

Minjun coughed, grinning through bloody teeth.

"Keep telling yourself that."

Seonghwa’s fist slammed into his gut once more for good measure before he shoved him down onto the filthy concrete.

Minjun stayed down this time, laughing weakly.

Seonghwa staggered back, breathing hard, the adrenaline crashing through his veins like wildfire. His knuckles were split open, thick warmth dripping down onto the floor in slow, heavy drops.

He glanced down at himself — blood on his hands, blood on his jacket, the thin sting of the scratch across his face starting to throb.

Good. Let him bleed a little.. It was better than letting the rage rot him from the inside out.

Without another word, Seonghwa turned and stalked toward the open side of the garage, the cold rain slicing across his face the second he stepped outside. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to.

Minjun’s words followed him into the night anyway:

"You’ll crash, Seonghwa. And when you do... I'll take everything you love."

The door creaked shut behind him.

Seonghwa shoved his hood over his head, jaw tight, vision tunneling in on one thing — getting to you.

It was nearly 11 PM when you heard the soft click of the front door.

You barely glanced up at first, curled into the far corner of the couch, your phone glowing in your hand, the low hum of the TV playing some forgettable late-night show. You had been waiting for him. You always waited for him.

The second you looked up, though, everything inside you stilled.

Seonghwa stood in the doorway, soaked from the rain, hood falling back to reveal the shock of his dyed white hair — only now, it wasn’t just rain dripping from him. There was blood. On his shirt. Spattered in thin, dark smears across the collar. A few bits in his hair, even a faint smear along the sharp cut of his cheekbone. His fists were still clenched tight, the skin across his knuckles cracked and were scraped.

You dropped your phone immediately, eyes wide open. Oh god.. You thought.

“Hwa—” you gasped, scooting down off the couch. You were only wearing a pair of thin sleep shorts and a tiny cami top, the cold air instantly biting at your skin, but you didn’t even feel it.

You rushed to him, arms half-reaching — but you stopped short just inches away when your eyes caught the state he was in.

Your heart twisted painfully.  "Baby... what the hell happened?" you whispered, eyes scanning every inch of him.

Seonghwa shook his head once, slow, deliberate.  "Nothing," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine, angel."

You frowned deeper, stepping closer despite his warning. He smelled like rain, blood, and concrete. The sharp scent clung to him like a second skin.

"You’re bleeding," you pointed out, voice shaking a little despite your effort to stay calm. "And that—" you reached up, gently brushing a finger against the blood-stained strands of his hair, "—doesn’t happen from 'nothing.'"

He exhaled hard through his nose, body stiff as a wire. "It's over. I handled it."

You crossed your arms over your chest — the movement “accidentally” pressing your breasts together under the thin fabric of your cami top, but you were too worried to even notice the way his eyes flickered down, then quickly away.

"Hwa..." you said more firmly, stepping closer until you could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Please. Just tell me."

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then his shoulders sagged the tiniest bit — like he couldn’t bear the weight anymore.

"Minjun," he muttered, voice rough, bitter.

Your stomach dropped.

"What did he do now?"

Seonghwa’s jaw clenched again, remembering what had happened earlier, the muscle ticking visibly. His fists were still tight at his sides, liquid dripping slowly down the curve of his hand.

"He made it about you," he said tightly. "Threatened you."

A beat of silence. The world tilted slightly around you.

Your hands moved before you even thought about it — gently, carefully, you reached up and cradled his bruised face between your palms. His skin was cold from the rain, but under your touch, you could feel the barely-contained fire.

You leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It wasn’t a fiery kiss, it wasn’t desperate, just a grounding touch. A silent I'm here, you're not alone.

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath against your mouth, and for a second, all the fight drained out of him.

When you pulled back, you caught his hand, cold, bloodied, and laced your fingers through his without hesitation.

"C'mon," you murmured, giving a soft tug. "Let's clean you up."

You led him wordlessly down the short hallway into your shared bedroom, the rain still pattering softly against the windows outside. The room smelled like home, like you. It softened the hard lines of his body just a little as he followed you into the attached bathroom.

You flipped on the light.

The harsh, bright glow revealed every ugly detail — the split across his lip, the faint swelling at his cheekbone, the angry red scratch along his jaw. Blood smeared across the collar of his jacket, staining the fabric dark and rust-colored.

You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the sting of emotion rising in your throat.

Seonghwa sat heavily on the edge of the bathtub, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His head dropped back against the wall, white hair splaying messily across the tile, eyes closing like he was exhausted.

You pulled open the cabinet under the sink, grabbing the first aid kit with shaking hands. When you turned back, he was watching you — eyes dark, hooded, tracking every movement.

Wordlessly, you knelt between his knees.

The first wet cloth you pressed to his split lip made him hiss quietly. His thighs tensed under your hands, his fingers twitching against the edge of the tub.

"You’re such an idiot sometimes," you whispered, voice thick.

He smiled — just a little. That lazy, crooked grin that always made you feel like gravity didn’t work right when he looked at you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But you love me anyway."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already breaking for him.

As you worked — cleaning the blood from his face, wiping the mess from his hair, carefully bandaging his knuckles — the silence between you softened. Seonghwa didn’t protest. Didn’t move away. He just watched you with something raw in his expression, something unguarded.

When you finished, you leaned back on your heels, studying him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Dangerous.

And he was yours.

All yours.

Without a word, he reached forward, threading his fingers through your hair, tugging you gently closer until you were between his knees again, pressed against his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered against your forehead.

You squeezed him tighter, feeling the wild thundering of his heart under your palms.

“Of course, Seong.” You muttered and smiled as you ran your fingers through his semi damp hair. “I love you..”

“I love you more, sweet girl.” He says back.

“Now go take a shower so we can cuddle after.” He chuckled and rolled his eyes at your words.

A few days passed, it was race day. The garage buzzed with noise and energy.

Wrenches clanked against metal, compressors hissed as tires were checked and rechecked, and the heavy scent of gasoline clung to the thick morning air. Seonghwa stood by his car, a sleek, deadly machine of bright pink with the number 3 and a silver star emblazoned across the hood — arms crossed over his chest, black racing suit already half-zipped up.

"Pressure’s running a little high in the front right," one of the mechanics called, crouched down near the tire. "You want it stiffer for the turns or softer for the straightaways?"

Seonghwa crouched down next to him, one knee on the ground, scanning the gauge with a practiced eye. "Softer," he said, tapping the rim of the tire. "She’s light on her feet already. I want her to glide through the pack, not fight it."

The mechanic nodded, grinning.  "You’re the boss, Park. Pink star’s gonna fly today, huh?"

Seonghwa allowed a rare, sharp smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "She always does."

He stood back up, wiping his hands on a rag, glancing over the rest of the crew making the final tweaks to the engine and fins.

He was just starting to mentally settle into race mode when he felt it.. A tap, sharp and deliberate, on his shoulder.

Turning around, his stomach coiled instantly at the sight.

Minjun stood there, fully suited up, helmet tucked under his arm, smirk stretched wide across his face like he was enjoying some private joke.

"Fancy seeing you here, Park," Minjun drawled, voice slick with mockery.

Seonghwa's smile disappeared. His entire body tensed, fists twitching at his sides, the vivid memory of the blood on his hands, the concrete under his boots flashing through his mind like gunfire.

Minjun only laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Relax. Wouldn't want your pretty little girl to see you lose your cool."

Seonghwa snarled low in his throat — a sound barely human — but before he could make a move, Minjun was already slipping away into the maze of racers and cars, his laughter trailing behind him like smoke.

Seonghwa stood still for a second, breathing hard through his nose, forcing the rage back down into his chest where it could simmer.

Not here. Not now.

Focus.

The minutes until the race start ticked by fast.

Seonghwa walked through the maze of engines and bodies, sharp-eyed, searching. And then — like the world sharpened into color — he saw you.

You were standing near the gate leading up to the stands, your hair pulled back loosely, wearing his jacket over your casual clothes. You looked soft and out of place among the metal and fumes, and yet somehow, you fit perfectly.

Before you could slip away toward the stairs, Seonghwa caught up to you, grabbing your hand gently but urgently.

"Ride with me," he said, low and serious.

You blinked, startled. "Hwa... that’s not—" "I know," he cut in quickly. "It’s not allowed. I know."

You glanced nervously around — mechanics, other racers, officials milling nearby. "Someone’s gonna notice."

"They won’t," he said, stepping closer, crowding into your space until your heart stuttered. His hand slid around your waist, tugging you just a little closer, his mouth brushing your ear as he murmured, "Windows are fully tinted. Nobody will see. And the crew—" he glanced over his shoulder briefly, "—they won’t say shit. They’re with me."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he cut you off with a look — that intense, smoldering gaze that made your knees go weak every damn time.

"Please," he said, voice rough, almost desperate now. "I need you with me."

Your heart twisted painfully.

You could see it… The way his hands were tense, the way he wasn’t just asking to be reckless — he needed to anchor himself to 

You swallowed hard. "...Fine," you whispered.

His entire body relaxed for a half-second, pure relief flickering across his face.

Before you could change your mind, he tangled his hand with your hand again and led you back toward his car, weaving between the busy mechanics and racers like a thief sneaking away with stolen treasure.

At the sleek pink car, he threw open the passenger-side door with a flourish, holding it open for you like it was a damn royal carriage.

You bit your lip, nerves sparking under your skin, but you climbed in, the sleek black leather cold against your thighs.

Seonghwa slipped into the driver’s seat a second later, pulling the door shut behind him.

Inside, the car smelled like leather, smoke, and him — dark, electric, dangerous. The tinted windows wrapped you both in a bubble of secrecy.

Seonghwa turned to you, one hand already sliding over your thigh, possessive and grounding at once.

And as the chaos of race day rumbled outside, Seonghwa grinned — slow and wicked — and leaned closer, whispering against your lips:

"You’re mine now. All race long."

The engine purred beneath you, vibrating through the seat, through your body.

Seonghwa rolled the car up to the starting line, the slick pink paint gleaming under the brutal track lights. Beyond the tinted windows, the other racers were lined up, engines snarling and growling in the tense pre-race silence.

Inside the car, it was almost eerily still.

You shifted in your seat, nervous energy buzzing under your skin. Your legs bounced slightly, and you twisted your hands in your lap, trying to settle the storm inside you.

Three minutes to race start.

You glanced over at Seonghwa, only to find him already looking at you.

Something dark and hungry burned in his eyes, his lips twitching like he was barely holding back a grin.

"You’re antsy, Sweetie," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

You swallowed, trying to laugh it off,  but before you could, he leaned a little closer and said:

"Ride me while I drive."

Your head snapped toward him, eyes wide.

"What the fuck—" you blurted, face heating instantly. "You’re fucking crazy, Seonghwa!"

He chuckled — deep, rough, unchanged. Like he had all the time in the world to destroy you.

"Windows are tinted, angel," he reminded you smoothly, reaching out and running his fingers up your bare thigh, his touch making you shiver. "No one will see. No one will know. Just you and me." His hand slipped higher, just barely brushing the edge of your skirt, teasing. "You've thought about it before... haven’t you?" he added, voice dropping a shade darker.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because God help you, he was right.

Some stupid part of you had wondered what it would be like. The rush. The danger. The pure insanity of fucking him at full speed.  But you’d never dreamed he would ask.

"Seonghwa," you stammered, legs pressing together instinctively. "I– I don’t know if—"

He turned fully toward you, eyes black with need. His hand found yours, squeezing tight.

"Trust me," he said, rough and earnest. "I’ll keep you safe."

You hesitated for half a heartbeat. And then you let out the tiniest whimper, nodding once, your body betraying you.

Seonghwa’s grin broke across his face, wicked and victorious. "Good girl," he breathed.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeakers:

"One minute until race start! Racers, get ready!"

Everything sped up.

Seonghwa leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other already tugging down the zipper of his black racing suit, shifting his boxers enough to free himself. You caught a glimpse.. flushed, thick, already hard for you. Your our cheeks burned hotter.

"Hurry, angel," he urged, voice taut with adrenaline. His cock twitched a bit.

Heart hammering, you scrambled out of your seat and straddled his lap, your knees digging into the sleek leather seat on either side of him. Your short skirt bunched up instantly. No modesty left, not here, not now.

Seonghwa growled low in his throat as he slid his hands under the skirt, gripping your hips, rough and possessive. He found your panties, yanked them aside with a quick, practiced move, and paused, just for a second.

"I've got you, baby," he murmured against your lips.

You nodded desperately, clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his suit.

Another second passed, and then Seonghwa lined himself up, his hand firm on your waist.

The announcer started counting down:

"Ten."

Seonghwa thrust up just slightly, the tip brushing against you — so hot and achingly hard that you nearly cried out. “Hngh!-”

"Nine."

He grinned darkly at the way your body shivered, every nerve ending sparking.

"Eight."

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.

"Seven."

Without warning, he pulled you down onto him — hard and deep.

You gasped, a choked sound bursting from your throat, your hands flying to his chest for balance.

Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, his forehead pressing against yours as he filled you completely, the stretch burning and perfect.

"Six."

He revved the engine, the growl of the car masking the broken sounds slipping from your lips.

"Five."

He shifted under you, adjusting his grip on the wheel — and then gave a slow, brutal roll of his hips that made your vision blur.

"Four."

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his suit, desperately clinging to him as you fought the urge to moan his name.

"Three."

He kissed you — messy, teeth clashing, claiming you all over again.

"Two."

The car vibrated harder, the tension unbearable.

"One."

The starting gun fired, and Seonghwa hit the gas. You were already riding him as the car shot forward, the world outside the tinted windows blurring into neon and smoke.

And deep inside the chaos, Seonghwa laughed low against your ear and whispered:

"Hold on tight, baby. We’re just getting started."

The tires screamed as Seonghwa floored the gas, and the car shot forward with brutal force.

You barely managed to choke down a gasp, the speed slamming your body harder against his chest. The harness that should've been holding you down was tangled around your thighs instead, abandoned in your reckless need to have him, to feel him, and every sharp lurch of the car made him shift deeper inside you.

Seonghwa didn’t flinch. One hand clamped firmly on the wheel, cool and in control — The other tight on your hip, grounding you, steering your body like he steered the car.

He didn’t look at you when he growled, voice low and dark:

"Bounce."

Your brain barely processed the word.

You were still dizzy from the feel of him stretching you open, still reeling from the way he'd filled you so deep, so fast. The world outside was a blur — engines roaring, neon lights whipping past — but inside this car, the heat between you could’ve set the whole track on fire.

You hesitated, thighs trembling on either side of him. "Seonghwa, I—"  Your voice cracked.

He squeezed your hip harder, almost bruising, dragging you flush down on him, making you whimper helplessly.

"I said bounce, love."

Rough. Commanding. Unforgiving.

You shivered because you loved that tone.  You loved it when he stripped you down to nothing but instinct.

With a shaky breath, you lifted yourself slowly — thighs burning, your hands clutching at the collar of his suit for leverage — and sank back down onto him.

The friction was blinding. The stretch, the depth, the filthy wet squelch of your body taking him in made heat crawl up your chest.

Seonghwa let out a low groan, head tilting back slightly.

"That's it…" he rasped. "Just like that. Fuck— ride me..  baby. Don't stop."

The car weaved through traffic effortlessly, one hand steering, one hand guiding you ruthlessly on his cock.

You started bouncing properly now — desperate little lifts and drops, every downward motion driving him deeper, harder, hitting spots that made your head spin.

"Fuck, Hwa—" you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "I can't—" Your tits moved with you as you bounced. The man swore this was the hottest fucking sight hes ever seen. 

"You can," he grunted, eyes flashing dangerously as he flicked a glance at you. "You’re my good girl. You’ll take e- everything I give you."

You whimpered, helpless against the intensity in his voice.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, your skin slick against his. The tiny cami you wore clung to your chest, nipples hard and rubbing against the thin fabric, the sensation making you squirm even harder.

“A- ah.. S’deep S- seong..”

Every bounce sent shockwaves through your body — thighs burning, clit throbbing, overstimulated from the roughness and the speed.

The car jerked slightly as Seonghwa pulled a sharp turn, and you cried out, falling forward against him, your forehead pressing against the sweaty line of his throat.

He laughed — low and wicked — and shifted the hand on your hip lower, slipping between your bodies until his fingers found your clit.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles, making you jolt and sob.

"T- that’s it, baby," he growled, voice in a strained pant now. "Make a mess on me."

Your body was a disaster — shaking, leaking, clenching around him desperately with every roll of his hips. You barely realized how hard you were grinding on him now, chasing your release with raw, frantic little bounces that made filthy wet sounds between you every time he bottomed out inside you.

"You hear that?" he whispered in your ear, voice wrecked. "That's you, fucking dripping all over me. Fuckin’ slut.."

You whined brokenly — it was too much. “A- all yours!” You threw your head back, one of your hands gripping your boyfriend's shoulder, the other pinching your hardened nipple.

You were so full, so fucked-out, and it only got worse when Seonghwa slipped two fingers down lower — teasing your stretched entrance while still fucking into you deep.

"Seonghwa—" you choked.

He just laughed darkly again, pulling his fingers back and spreading the wetness up across your clit again, rubbing you even faster, even harder.

He took your other breast in your mouth, sucking harshly like a goddamn baby desperate for its mommys milk. You let out a mewl.

The car shot forward again — faster now — and you realized he wasn’t slowing down at all. 

He was going to win this race while buried inside you. While fucking you raw in front of everyone.

The thought made you tighten around him so hard he cursed under his breath, hips jerking up into you violently.

He let go of your nipple with a pop sound. Spit connecting from his lip to your red bud. "Shit, baby— g- gonna make me cum inside you if you keep doing that," he snarled, voice wrecked.

You moaned helplessly, nodding against him, needing it, needing him. Your thighs trembled violently now, every nerve in your body firing off at once.

Seonghwa leaned in closer, breath hot against your ear:

"C- cum for me again. Now."

The command broke you.

You shuddered around him with a sob, your body locking up, nails raking down his back as your orgasm slammed into you like a punch to the gut.

Seonghwa hissed through his teeth, feeling you milk his cock, squeezing so tight he almost lost it right then.

“H- hngh- Hwa!”

He shifted the car one-handed — cool as ice — and slammed his hips up into you harder, rougher, chasing his own finish line.

"Fuck— fuck, you feel so good," he grunted, his voice getting sloppier now, the control finally cracking.

You whimpered at how deep he was, how thick he felt inside you, how messy you were getting — your inner thighs sticky, his cock slick with both your releases mixing with every brutal thrust.

He grabbed your ass with both hands now, bouncing you on him harder, almost savage, using you to get himself off while the car screamed across the track.

"Take it," he growled. "Fucking take it."

You cried out, legs barely working, body collapsing into him fully, trusting him to do whatever he wanted with you.

He was close — you could feel it. “Sh– shit.. So t– tight.”

The way his breath hitched. The way his hips stuttered up into you. The way his fingers dug even harder into your thighs, bruising, desperate.

"Mine," he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re mine. Gonna fill you up — fuck, gonna make you so messy."

You nodded frantically, moaning into his neck, needing it, needing him to ruin you completely.

With one last brutal thrust up into you, Seonghwa growled brokenly and came — deep, thick, filling you so much you gasped, feeling it leak out around him instantly.

He didn't stop.

He fucked you through it, dragging you down on him again and again, stuffing his cum deeper inside you, not caring about the wet, filthy mess soaking into the leather seat. His hand went back on the steering wheel.

Outside the windows, the checkered flag waved.

Seonghwa let out a shaky, wrecked laugh, his arms still locked around you tightly.

"First place, baby," he whispered against your sweaty neck. "You helped me win."

You could barely breathe.

You were trembling, your muscles spasming, your pussy still fluttering around his softening cock buried deep inside you.

The car coasted into the winner’s circle — And you were still in his lap, stuffed full, a sticky, wrecked mess against him.

Seonghwa pressed a kiss to your temple, so soft compared to the wreckage of your bodies.

"You okay?" he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your damp face.

You nodded weakly, smiling a little, dizzy with aftershocks.

He chuckled again, that low, dangerous sound.

"Good," he said, sliding his hand down to cup between your thighs — feeling the mess he made, feeling you shudder against him.

"Because when we get home…" he murmured darkly,

"I’m not stopping until you’re crying my name."

The crowd’s roar still echoed faintly outside the garage as Seonghwa pulled the pink race car into his designated spot.

You both sat there for a second, catching your breath — the engine ticking hot beneath you, the windows fogged slightly from the heat between your bodies.

Seonghwa gave a low, satisfied chuckle under his breath.

"Fans sound happy," he murmured, reaching across the seat to grab a bundle of towels from the glove box — clearly prepared for chaos like this. You flushed hot, face burning as he tugged your ruined panties back into place and carefully wiped the mess between your trembling thighs. His touch was oddly tender, almost reverent, like he was proud of the disaster he'd made out of you.

"Little messy, baby," he teased, smirking as he swiped the towel over his own lap, tucking himself back into his racing suit without shame. He balled up the towel — now clearly stained with streaks of white — and tossed it casually into the backseat.

You stared at it, mortified.

"Hwa—" you hissed, cheeks flaming. "You can't just—"

He grinned wider, unbothered. "The mechanics'll clean it. They won't care." He reached over, flicking your forehead playfully. "Besides... kinda like knowing my mess is all over this car."

You hid your face in your hands, groaning, and he just laughed again — low, rough, still riding the high of the win and the wickedness.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, dusky purples and blues. The stadium lights cast long shadows across the garage as Seonghwa climbed out of the car, moving around to your side.

You opened the door yourself — or tried to — but your legs buckled immediately, still weak from how hard he'd used you.

Seonghwa caught you easily, one arm hooking under your knees, the other steadying your back.

"Still wobbly, angel?" he teased, voice low near your ear.

You buried your face in his shoulder, too embarrassed to answer.

With no effort at all, he lifted you up into his arms and carried you across the lot toward his other car — a sleek black one parked a little ways off.

He set you carefully into the passenger seat, brushing a kiss across your forehead, then your mouth, soft and grounding.

"I'll be right back," he promised. "Don’t move."

You nodded dumbly, heart thudding as you watched him jog back across the lot toward his pit crew.

The fans were still screaming his name beyond the fence. Seonghwa raised a hand, casually waving at them — that cocky, dangerous smirk still tugging at his mouth.

You could see his crew gathering around, clapping him on the back, handing him a heavy silver trophy.

One of the mechanics — a young guy with grease on his sleeves — caught sight of the towel Seonghwa had tossed into the racecar.

He burst out laughing, nudging one of the others and whispering something that made them all snicker.

Seonghwa just laughed along, completely shameless, grabbing the trophy and slinging it over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

But then A different figure broke away from the shadows near the loading docks.

Minjun.

And he wasn’t alone.. a few of his cronies trailing behind him like a pack of hyenas.

Seonghwa stiffened when he spotted them, but didn’t break stride, just kept walking toward you.

Until Minjun stepped directly into his path.

"Congrats on the win, Park," Minjun drawled, fake-friendly.

Seonghwa didn't answer. His jaw flexed once — dangerously — but he kept walking, eyes locked on you, waiting patiently in the car.

Minjun fell into step beside him, chuckling darkly.

"Tell me," he murmured under his breath, voice dripping with venom. "Did you have little Y/N riding you while you raced?"

Seonghwa stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned to face Minjun fully — body language pure, lethal, calm.

Without a word, he slammed his fist into Minjun’s jaw — a brutal, savage hit that dropped him to the concrete with a satisfying crack.

The crew scattered instantly, a few of them cursing and backing away, clearly wanting no part in it.

Minjun groaned, spitting blood onto the ground.

Seonghwa crouched low, grabbing the front of his jacket and hauling him up to eye level.

Voice low, razor-sharp, he whispered:

"Next time you say her name with that mouth, I'll break your jaw so bad you’ll be sipping through a straw for the rest of your fucking life."

Minjun gurgled something unintelligible, his hands scrambling to push Seonghwa off.

Seonghwa shoved him back down hard, standing tall and dangerous as Minjun's crew scrambled to pull him away.

"Come back, you cowards!" Minjun bellowed as his lackeys bolted toward the lot exit, leaving him cursing and bleeding alone.

Seonghwa didn’t even spare him another glance.

He just turned on his heel, wiped the blood from his knuckles on his jacket, and headed back toward you.

When he slid into the driver’s seat beside you, he was breathing hard — chest rising and falling under the open collar of his jacket.

You blinked, taking in the sweat, the new streak of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"...Hwa," you sighed, exasperated, spotting the crimson stain smudged across the sleeve of his jacket.

He followed your gaze, then just smirked — that same devil-may-care grin he always wore after he wrecked someone for you.

"You should see the other guy," he said casually, buckling his seatbelt with a little grunt of effort.

You rolled your eyes hard, but your heart twisted painfully in your chest — because under all that reckless bravado, you knew why he did it. Why he always did it.

Seonghwa turned the ignition, the engine of the black car purring to life, and threw an arm casually over the back of your seat, looking both ways before pulling out.

"You know," he said after a beat, glancing over at you with a crooked grin, "one day you're gonna realize... I'd tear down the whole goddamn world if it meant keeping you safe."

The night swallowed you both whole as he drove you away — the city lights blurring past, the blood on his hands cooling — But the fire between you never fades.