#map to get back to EARTH

[unknown-cosmos-and-space]

If you ever get lost in the Milky Way galaxy, this is your map to get back to EARTH.

of P.C. Budassi

[patron-saint-of-lesbeans]

I should meet with Fr. A again. ‘Spiritual Real Estate Agent’ was a phrase I didn’t expect to come out of his mouth when I was crying trying to explain how much I feel called to bring people home to God. It was so odd I mostly stopped crying because. Fr. That’s…not incorrect, BUT -

[bluepallilworld]

14. do you love the smell of earth after it rains?

33. the last adventure you’ve been on?

49. can you skip rocks?

I love petrichor!

I guess last thing I considered an adventure was probably my whole "got lost in the neighbouring woods without my phone because I got very confident in my disastrous sense of direction somehow and only managed to go back home with help from strangers after I saw the sun starting to set and panicked over the night coming 👍".

A tiny bit, like one skip. I never really trained in rock skipping XDc

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 20 - size kink jason todd x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, size kink, tummy bulge

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Oh, look at you go. Being so brave for me."

On the surface the words are soothing, but the tone of Jason's voice fills each syllable with condescension. Not in a bad way. The sickly sweet lilt strikes the perfect chord that has you wetter than any body of water on this earth.

Your hips rise and fall in measure rolls, your cunt embracing his thick cock with every motion. You have to take it slow. Otherwise, you feel like you'll tear yourself in half.

"Jay…" you whimper, lip wobbling and eyes gleaming with the need for him to coddle you, "You're so…"

A sharp whine from your throat cuts off your own words. Your head tilts back and then hangs forward. His tip brushes your sweet spot every time you sink down on him. It makes it nearly impossible to remain coherent. You'd never met somebody who could make you malfunction like this.

"I'm so what?" he coos, prompting you to finish your statement. He already knew the words on the tip of your tongue, but he still wanted to hear them spoken into the drafty air of your apartment.

"You're so big," you choke out.

Another moan falls from your lips before you grit your teeth. Your face scrunches up in tandem with your walls clenching around his length. Vaguely, you hear him chuckle. He then pulls you close and cradles you against his chest.

"And you like that, don't you?" he whispers.

He slumps further down on the couch. His feet press hard against the smooth wooden floor beneath the two of you. The muscles in his thighs flex as he begins to pump his hips up and down. You whine and clutch at his meaty bicep, melting against his warm skin and letting him do all the work right now.

You nearly forget he asked a question at all until he continues speaking.

"I know you do, doll. You like that when you're with me, you're helpless. Don't have to think. Don't have to move. Don't have to do anything but let me use this sweet, little pussy till I'm satisfied," he says.

Your toes curl, your thighs clamping around his own. The pressure doesn't stop him from moving though, not in the slightest. You inhale sharply before nodding against his neck. Of course, you like this. You love it.

You could never get enough of Jason's body. You'd study it forever if he let you. Your pupils felt magnetized whenever they had the chance to drift along his chiseled torso or mentally map the pathways of his scars. Adoration wasn't a strong enough word for how you felt in regards to his figure. Obsession seemed more appropriate.

Fortunately for you, Jason behaved much the same about your body.

In the mornings when he thought sleep still had a strong hold on you, he'd run his fingers over every curve he could find. He'd knead the swell of your ass and press tender kisses between your shoulder blades. As you'd start to wake, he'd wrap his hands around your waist and nearly pop a boner right then and there from how large they looked in comparison.

His favorite thing in the world after a long grueling patrol fast became coming home to you. Not even thirty minutes with your delicate body washed away all the stress caused by hard and rough people he dealt with beyond these walls. Some nights he'd prop your dainty legs over his broad shoulders and dive into your slippery cunt. Other nights he'd get right down to it, shoving his fat cock inside you and watching your belly bulge with the intrusion.

Tonight hadn't been either of those. He'd been home for a change. But having you curled up to his side and pressed against him while he read a book got him worked up pretty fast. It wasn't his fault the two of you just seemed to fit so naturally together.

"My good girl. Soft and sweet all for me," he praises as he continues fucking up into you. His heavy balls lightly slap against your ass with each thrust.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as the repetitive strokes start to build on one another. Small, whimpered expletives drip from your lips like a leaky faucet. He knows you're getting there. All he has to do is ramp up his efforts a little.

His hands lock around your waist like they do on hazy mornings. Just like then, he's obsessed with the way your skin dimples beneath his digits now. He boosts you back and starts bouncing you up and down in addition to his thrusts.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation and you take your bottom lip between your teeth. You don't have to do anything in this position still. He's strong enough to hold you upright all by himself. The only thing you had to do was like he said - stay still and let yourself be used.

"Can never get enough of you, baby, fuck," he grunts. His head falls back against the sagging cushion as he keeps working himself into you over and over. He glances back up at you slightly. "Is it feeling good?"

"Mhm," you whine, "So fuckin' good. So deep. All the way inside."

Your head bobbles around with the way he jerks you up and down on his lap. He smirks at your words and the airy way you say them.

"I know. I can see it," he responds, eyes flitting down to that faint and familiar bump. Evidence of his place inside you.

You only whimper in response. He drops you back down against his chest so one of his hands can slot against your center and rub your clit in fast, tight circles. The flickering feeling draws even more noises of pleasure from you.

The edge sneaks up on the both of you fast. You fall over it first. Your body spasms and seizes between his hands, but his strong grip is enough to keep you in place. For him, it explodes in a muted burst of ecstasy before burning into a brighter one. He wraps his arms around your smaller frame and keeps you flush against his sweaty skin as he fucks his load deep inside.

The both of you stay there while you come down. His chest puffs up and down with deep breaths. Even with all his exertion, his hand rubs soothing stripes along the column of your spine. You lie against him completely motionless, limp against the muscles of his chest. A little pleasure doll all for him to play with.

[aethersea]

another thing fantasy writers should keep track of is how much of their worldbuilding is aesthetic-based. it's not unlike the sci-fi hardness scale, which measures how closely a story holds to known, real principles of science. The Martian is extremely hard sci-fi, with nearly every detail being grounded in realistic fact as we know it; Star Trek is extremely soft sci-fi, with a vaguely plausible "space travel and no resource scarcity" premise used as a foundation for the wildest ideas the writers' room could come up with. and much as Star Trek fuckin rules, there's nothing wrong with aesthetic-based fantasy worldbuilding!

(sidenote we're not calling this 'soft fantasy' bc there's already a hard/soft divide in fantasy: hard magic follows consistent rules, like "earthbenders can always and only bend earth", and soft magic follows vague rules that often just ~feel right~, like the Force. this frankly kinda maps, but I'm not talking about just the magic, I'm talking about the worldbuilding as a whole.

actually for the purposes of this post we're calling it grounded vs airy fantasy, bc that's succinct and sounds cool.)

a great example of grounded fantasy is Dungeon Meshi: the dungeon ecosystem is meticulously thought out, the plot is driven by the very realistic need to eat well while adventuring, the story touches on both social and psychological effects of the whole 'no one dies forever down here' situation, the list goes on. the worldbuilding wants to be engaged with on a mechanical level and it rewards that engagement.

deliberately airy fantasy is less common, because in a funny way it's much harder to do. people tend to like explanations. it takes skill to pull off "the world is this way because I said so." Narnia manages: these kids fall into a magic world through the back of a wardrobe, befriend talking beavers who drink tea, get weapons from Santa Claus, dance with Bacchus and his maenads, and sail to the edge of the world, without ever breaking suspension of disbelief. it works because every new thing that happens fits the vibes. it's all just vibes! engaging with the worldbuilding on a mechanical level wouldn't just be futile, it'd be missing the point entirely.

the reason I started off calling this aesthetic-based is that an airy story will usually lean hard on an existing aesthetic, ideally one that's widely known by the target audience. Lewis was drawing on fables, fairy tales, myths, children's stories, and the vague idea of ~medieval europe~ that is to this day our most generic fantasy setting. when a prince falls in love with a fallen star, when there are giants who welcome lost children warmly and fatten them up for the feast, it all fits because these are things we'd expect to find in this story. none of this jars against what we've already seen.

and the point of it is to be wondrous and whimsical, to set the tone for the story Lewis wants to tell. and it does a great job! the airy worldbuilding serves the purposes of the story, and it's no less elegant than Ryōko Kui's elaborately grounded dungeon. neither kind of worldbuilding is better than the other.

however.

you do have to know which one you're doing.

the whole reason I'm writing this is that I saw yet another long, entertaining post dragging GRRM for absolute filth. asoiaf is a fun one because on some axes it's pretty grounded (political fuck-around-and-find-out, rumors spread farther than fact, fastest way to lose a war is to let your people starve, etc), but on others it's entirely airy (some people have magic Just Cause, the various peoples are each based on an aesthetic/stereotype/cliché with no real thought to how they influence each other as neighbors, the super-long seasons have no effect on ecology, etc).

and again! none of this is actually bad! (well ok some of those stereotypes are quite bigoted. but other than that this isn't bad.) there's nothing wrong with the season thing being there to highlight how the nobles are focused on short-sighted wars for power instead of storing up resources for the extremely dangerous and inevitable winter, that's a nice allegory, and the looming threat of many harsh years set the narrative tone. and you can always mix and match airy and grounded worldbuilding – everyone does it, frankly it's a necessity, because sooner or later the answer to every worldbuilding question is "because the author wanted it to be that way." the only completely grounded writing is nonfiction.

the problem is when you pretend that your entirely airy worldbuilding is actually super duper grounded. like, for instance, claiming that your vibes-based depiction of Medieval Europe (Gritty Edition) is completely historical, and then never even showing anyone spinning. or sniffing dismissively at Tolkien for not detailing Aragorn's tax policy, and then never addressing how a pre-industrial grain-based agricultural society is going years without harvesting any crops. (stored grain goes bad! you can't even mouse-proof your silos, how are you going to deal with mold?) and the list goes on.

the man went up on national television and invited us to engage with his worldbuilding mechanically, and then if you actually do that, it shatters like spun sugar under the pressure. doesn't he realize that's not the part of the story that's load-bearing! he should've directed our focus to the political machinations and extensive trope deconstruction, not the handwavey bit.

point is, as a fantasy writer there will always be some amount of your worldbuilding that boils down to 'because I said so,' and there's nothing wrong with that. nor is there anything wrong with making that your whole thing – airy worldbuilding can be beautiful and inspiring. but you have to be aware of what you're doing, because if you ask your readers to engage with the worldbuilding in gritty mechanical detail, you had better have some actual mechanics to show them.

[psychotrenny]

The thing with 9/11 is that no one cares that much about the death and destruction itself. Buildings fall down and people die all the time, including in the US. Like at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic you had entire 9/11s worth of USamericans dying on a regular basis. If all that damage was caused by an earthquake or faulty building practices or whatever, there wouldn't have been nearly as much fuss about it. It's not as if the insane response from US population was a matter of "two building fall down"

The reason why 9/11 was so upsetting to the US population was their widespread feelings of Imperialist Chauvinism and the subsequent outrage at seeing it so openly and violently defied. The US was at the height of its Imperialist power at the turn of the millennium, a hegemonic superpower that was dominant in some way over more or less the entire world. Whether they'd phrase it in such a way or not, most people in the US were very well aware of this; as far as they were concerned the US was truly the greatest country on the Earth. For some this was a point of pride, for others it was a simple fact of the world. This made them feel secure; bombings and mass killings might happen in those "shithole nations" of the earth but it couldn't happen over there. The US military could wipe entire cities off the map and like maybe that was good, maybe that was unfortunate and maybe it meant nothing at all. Either way that was normal; the violence flowed from the Core to the Periphery.

Until one day it didn't. One day a group of people from that Periphery, from some shithole group of nations, struck back. Now the sorts of destruction they'd seen on TV were happening right outside their window; the US got the smallest taste of the sort of brutality they had long inflicted on the rest of the world. And they did not like that taste at all. The US people as a whole went mad with grief and rage, not at the death of any people but the death of their sense of unquestionable safety and superiority. And the only hope of getting that feeling back was to inflict a revenge so terrible that no one would dare resist or retaliate again.

If bloodshed was how they'd built their empire, only more bloodshed could keep it safe. And this time they didn't even have to feel bad about it. It's not as if the US empire had ever given the world any peace, but now they had the perfect pretense to escalate it to levels not seen in decades. If they talked about this isolated and comparatively limited attack as though it was some great invasion, the US government and its supporters could take all the moral high ground of "self defence" even as they slaughtered impoverished peoples on the other side of the world. So it made sense to treat the 11 September attacks as though they were the greatest tragedy of all time. 9/11 didn't break the US psyche, it just made them express it in a more shameless way. It's not as though genocidal Imperialist violence was anything new to the USA. Afghans were just the new Apaches; the "Middle East" a new "Wild West"

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume one — womb

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: so. this was supposed to be my 1k special but i have no sense of restraint and desperately wanted to release this. enjoy my food. also check out the playlist for the curated mood and for a forehead kiss.

✦ ── word count: 3.9k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - volume two

art by outdmilk on twt

“This was a horrible idea.”

There was a sharp piercing pain in your ankle, due to you brushing it against a shrub, thus prickling it against a rather pointed thorn.

You scowled under your breath, pivoting on the ball of your foot to take a look at the injury just beneath your sock before adjusting the cloth and standing upright.

Your back was miserably sore, sweat clung to you like a second skin, your calves burned as if they were combustible, and worst of all—you were starving.

You felt as if you couldn’t thoroughly enjoy the scenery of the forest anymore—no longer stopping to listen to the throaty croaking of frogs, the wind sliding and slipping between the narrow trees, nor the occasional snap of twigs from skittish wildlife. 

It smelled of sun-warmed rock and wet earth, your heart thrumming and yearning for a connection with Mother Earth after months spent cooped up in the city and at home.

Adjusting your rucksack resting on your back, carrying everything you needed—which was far too much for a day hike—you continued on your trek. 

For a lack of better wording, you were a noob. You lacked any sort of experience with the woodlands but you believed there was no better time to start than now! Especially since life has managed to feel duller more than ever recently.

Fallen branches snapped underfoot, the tickle of overgrown weeds brushing your bottoms. The sun filtered through the leaves, beading down on you. Your only reprieve was your wide-brimmed hat and the somewhat forgiving breeze.

Pulling the now-crinkled sheet of paper with directions from your pocket, you unfurled it and spun it around, glancing at your compass while you did so.

The map you’d found online and ultimately printed was telling you that you still had quite the walk until the nearest exit route, at least a couple of hours ahead of you, and you knew you couldn’t continue on in this condition, sore in every spot you could imagine and more.

You were severely out of shape due to your sedentary lifestyle.

But how much of a choice did you have? You needed to get out of here before nightfall or else you’d be stalking around in the dark.

You wiped the sweat from your furrowed brow line in a harried manner before starting up your pace again, repeating ‘mind over matter’ to yourself like a mantra.

Unexpectedly and commendably, the sound of gentle trickling and splashes broke you from your focused state, your head snapping in that direction.

It was steady, and light. You hoped it was what you needed. It couldn’t be too far from here.

You followed the sound, hastening your pace as the sounds increased in volume, until you stood before a large creek. Birds sploshed and called to each other across the stream, rocks falling and breaking the surface with an audible plop!

You could feel your heart settle to a relieved murmur, a sudden idea popping into your mind that you couldn’t shake off.

You hadn’t seen anyone for miles, the forest around you dulled to its loneliness.

No one would notice if you went for a quick swim, right? Besides, if you were in better condition after a cooldown, you’d make it out of here before nightfall. Possibly. You hoped.

Shivering the thought off, you began to strip, tossing your bag to the floor and marking the stream on your map before resting it atop a pile of fallen leaves.

Your clothing stuck uncomfortably to you, and you contorted your expression in displeasure as you bared yourself to your undergarments. You would’ve preferred if you could scrub your outfit clean in the stream, but you had no place to hang them to dry nearby or any time to do so as this was just a day hike—so you tossed them upon a rock, clad in your cotton set, before stepping into the water.

It was freezing cold and clear, the moss-slicked rocks resting against the bottom catching your eye. There were small minnows making laps to and fro the sides of the creek, dragonflies humming just above the surface, and squirrels stopping to take a sip due to the sweltering heat.

You wrapped your hands around your bare self, slightly shivering, but also grateful for the cooling temperature.

Soon enough, you settled, laying your head back in the water and feeling it soak your roots for a moment, allowing your thrumming headache inflicted by the unforgiving heat come to a rest.

You then curled your arms, swimming deeper until you could see slightly larger fish, slipping against your bare calves and tickling you. You giggled, splashing water upon your face and releasing a sigh of content. Playing like a child.

Until you glanced over at your bag, a flutter of beige catching your attention.

Your map was currently flying in the opposite direction, flipping and turning against the ground and being sent deeper into the woodland.

Fucking great.

You gasped, eyes wide in shock as your pulse picked up, swimming towards the edge of the water frantically.

You crawled and clawed at soil, dirt clinging to your wet skin as you got to your feet, mottled green and brown painting you like a blank canvas.

“No, no, no!”  You yelped in denial, your feet picking up as you raced to it, hopping over branches and rocks that were sure to break some bone if you didn't slow down. But it seemed to only fly away further, impossibly far out of your reach, the breeze actively working against you.

However, your exclaims were picked up by someone else in the forest.

As you raced to the map, you could hear the sound of pressure hitting dirt behind you in a consistent pat! before barking sounded in your ears.

A gasp left your lips as your head spun behind you, a blurry fluff of white hurtling towards you, full-throttle.

Your priorities changed drastically in the moment—a shrill yelp leaving your lips as you sprinted down the forest in just your underwear, a sense of doom sent up your spine.

You were being chased down, probably to your demise. What a pathetic way to go out—flailing in the woods, half-naked, entirely alone besides your attacker.

Your voice caught in your throat, vocal cords frozen in fear, unable to call for help.

Yet, someone heard your silent pleas.

“Uraume, down!” A gruff voice sounded, followed by the click of a tongue and a commanding whistle.

The onslaught stopped instantly, peering past your shoulder to see the white shepherd-dog sitting proudly, tongue flailing and panting as if it hadn’t just tried to eat you.

Okay. Realistically, it probably wouldn’t have eaten you as it is a dog that looks surprisingly domesticated. But how else does someone react when an unfamiliar animal starts sprinting at them?

You craned your head towards the sound of that gruff voice before you saw a tall man emerge from behind a thick sequoia trunk.

He was massive, probably nearing seven feet, towering over you.

His eyes caught yours, ducking his cowboy-styled hat once taking notice of your nude form before quickly turning his back to you. He was clad in a red buffalo-plaid shirt, thick washed-out jeans, a brown and curved hat, and chunky brown and sturdy boots.

“Uh, ‘scuse me, ma’am. You alright?” He questioned, giving you only a sliver of his side-profile to view. You could make out thick, black lines across it making your stomach clench in steadily rising trepidation. You’d never seen anything like it.

Your hands flew to cover yourself, as if the man hadn’t already turned his back to you. “No! I am not as your mutt just chased me,” you spat out, surprised at how unlike yourself you sounded, though your voice was actively quivering in fear. Should you be yelling at this strange man?

“I see,” he exhaled, though you could hear the faintest amusement lingering in his tone at your exasperated state, somehow already starting to piss you off. “I believe you startled them.”

Your nose scrunched as you scowled deeply. “Excuse me? I– Who exactly are you?”

The man huffed, pushing air from his nose. “Sukuna. I’ve got a better question, though—who are you and why are you naked?”

You clenched your teeth, feeling your morals slide against each other before relaying your name. “I am naked because your dog chased me!”

You didn’t care that that didn’t make much sense.

Sukuna adjusted in his stead, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he stared ahead before taking a peep back at you. You gasped, grabbing a nearby twig and throwing it at him.

He directed his gaze away quickly at your outburst, barely able to conceal his pleasure in riling up this strange woman, not even flinching when the branch bounced off of his back. “So you’re saying the real reason you’re flailing naked in the woods is because of my dog…?”

You bit your tongue, holding back a slew of curses before taking a reluctant step back, twigs underfoot digging into your heel. “Well, no but…”

He grunted, shoving his hands into his pocket before nodding. “Alright, then. I’ll be on my way out, ma’am. You have a splendid au naturel evening,” he chuckled, cocking his head at his dog, Uraume, who barked in excitement.

They sprinted towards Sukuna, the large man squatting to ruffle their hair before making his way in the opposite direction of you.

You peered behind you, hands still lazily covering your form, to see your map had finally slowed, maybe the breeze was forgiving.

Hurrying over to it with a grin, you now see why it was motionless.

It was face down in a puddle of mud–drenched and entirely illegible.

Your heart dropped at the sight, blood and smile draining from your face, realizing you needed some sort of plan to get yourself out of this.

But your only plan was brown and soaking wet, save for the rude and burly man you’d encountered moments ago.

Fuck.

You hated that you had to even consider this, but your survival instincts and sense of urgency ultimately won over your ego.

“Wait!” You called out, seeing him a few hundred feet in front of you. His massive legs carried him far with ease.

He paused, not fully turning around but enough to signal that he took notice of your call.

Once you stopped close behind him, chest heaving with either chasing after him or your flooding embarrassment, you bit your lip before speaking. “Are you from around here?”

He paused, eyes narrowing. “These parts? Yeah, I live here.”

You released a small sigh of relief. Alright, that’s a solid start. “Do you think you could, I dunno, give me any directions out of here?”

Sukuna placed a hand against his hip, with the other pulling a box of cigarettes from his pocket and placing one in his mouth, back still facing you. “Mind lighting this for me?”

You could barely conceal your agitation, a sense of urgency tugging at you as you were quite literally naked in a forest with a strange man, night falling soon. “I’m sorry?”

“You need my help, I need yours. So be a darling and help a guy out, my hands have been sore all afternoon.”

He was lying. He was so obviously lying to your face.

You scoffed incredulously, feeling a sudden shiver wrack your body from the wind cooling your skin. Sukuna seemed to be toying with you, for whatever reason you couldn’t understand.

What joy did he get in harassing a helpless, naked lady in the woods?

But he had you stumped. As much as you hated this entire ordeal, you needed his assistance to get the hell out of here and return to your reality.

So you mustered up all of your courage, taking a few reluctant steps towards him. You could see the sleazy grin on his face once he’d realized you had surrendered, the quiet falls of your feet against the leaves evidence of your resignation as he hadn’t glanced at you yet. 

“Hand over the lighter,” you grit out through a clenched jaw.

“My pleasure,” he honeyed out, dipping his head towards you with shut eyes, his massive palm outstretched, a bed for his silver lighter.

You were finally able to get a proper look at his face. 

Tight lines etched his face, littered with a few scars, most likely from years of work of whatever it is he did in the woodlands. You also got a closer view of the tattoos marking his face, a weird juxtaposition to a man living in a forest, making you wonder what the story behind them was.

But what stood out to you the most was his pink-colored hair–something you’d never come across in all of your years. 

“Done gaping?” He smirked, eyes closed despite how assured he sounded knowing you were staring.

“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath, grabbing the lighter from his massive hand that seemed to dwarf yours, rubbing your thumb against the spark wheel.

You watched it light up, holding it up to the butt of the cigarette and watched as it burned, ashes fluttering into the air.

He returned to his full height, snagging the lighter from your hand with ease and shoving his hands into his pockets, turning his back to you once more.

“You’ve got three options,” he ruled, pulling the cigarette from his lips and inhaling sharply, before pushing it out of his nose. “One, stay here and figure your own way out, and probably die. Two, you can listen to the directions I point you in… andddd probably die since you clearly don’t know your way around. The wolves here tend to get real hungry,” he snarled, wanting to get a reaction from you.

You rolled your eyes, bristling at his demeanor and the scent of smoke, fingers drumming impatiently on your biceps as you folded your arms. “Alright, I get it. What’s the last option where I hopefully don’t meet an early demise?”

His head dropped, almost smugly, thinking about something absolutely hilarious. “You can come stay with me.”

You let out a bark of laughter. “Funny. What’s the actual last option?”

He didn’t respond, simply taking another hit from his cigarette, and you could feel your stomach clench.

“Okay. Where’s the nearest inn?”

“An inn in the middle of the woods?” He asked as if that was the stupidest question in the world.

You grit your teeth. “And no one else lives up here?”

He nodded.

You inhaled sharply. “With all due respect, Sukuna,” you started, swallowing the bile rising in your throat. “I don’t spend the night with random and strange men I come across in the woods, unlike most apparently.”

“Well, I gave you your options. I’m not gonna force you to do nothin’,” he coolly spoke, before lowering his voice. “But be warned. This forest ain’t a place a little lady like you wants to poke around at dusk.”

You shivered at his admission, fingernails pressing crescents into your biceps. “...What happens after nightfall?”

He chuckled low, making your skin crawl, and it wasn’t thanks to the breeze. 

“Wanna stay and find out for yourself?”

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

He’d allowed you the space of getting changed in private, back resting against a tree trunk and still facing away from you as he idly flicked the cap of his lighter on and off, the constant sound of metal meeting metal in the nearby distance.

You weren’t quite sure if he was doing it out of habit, or if it was some sort of unspoken signal to ease your worries that he hadn’t decided to ditch you to fend for yourself.

It was most likely the former, you could tell from one look the guy was a heartless brute. Probably why he lived in the woods.

But did he live alone here? Or did he have a docile wife and seven children ready to welcome you with open arms by the time you made your way up the trail?

After getting fully dressed, you shuffled your socks on before you let out a loud hiss—a sudden piercing pressure on your ankle.

Gently setting your sock down, you sat atop a nearby rock and crossed your legs to take a closer look. 

It seemed that the thorn that poked you earlier had done more than just that—the area swelling and red. The spot, previously a microscope hole, had grown and was practically glowing and exuding a heat.

You pressed a finger against it, immediately regretting it when it sent pain spiking through your veins, the skin bulbous.

“You’re not making it out of the forest any time soon in that condition.”

You yelped with a jump, full-body flinching and swinging your head behind you to see Sukuna towering over you, eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed your injury. “Jesus. Warn a woman next time?”

He ignored you, something you’ve noticed he has a habit of doing, as he folded in half, skimming a hand over your puncture wound. A tight whimper left your lips, his calloused finger pad ghosting over it before he straightened out. “Can you walk on it?”

You attempted to pull the sock back over before you winced, heart fluttering in nerves. “I-I can try,” you stammered out, trying to maneuver it carefully before he clicked his tongue.

“Fuck, alright,” he grunted, as if mulling something over before he stepped in front of you. He crouched down on one knee, jeans digging into the mud yet he didn’t seem to care. “Hop on.”

Your maw fell slack at the sight, suddenly feeling incredibly hot at the sight. This crude and ruffish man was offering to carry you all of the sudden.

“Uh, i-it’s alright. I can walk–”

“Quit your rambling and get on.” 

You shut up at his interruption, muttering a ‘rude much?’ he didn’t acknowledge under your breath before standing to a wobble, doing your best not to bump your ankle into anything as the pain began to flare to what felt like your bones.

Oddly enough, he was practically your height on his knees, his massive form slightly intimidating you.

You brought your hands over his shoulders and clasped them in front of him, hoping he couldn’t smell the musk radiating from your sweat-soaked clothing.

As you tried to wrap your legs around his midsection, he suddenly rose, wrapping his massive hands along the underside of your thighs and straightening to his full height.

You did everything to ignore the flip of your stomach as he did so, the touch burning your skin.

Something sizzled in your mind, before you realized how leggy this man actually was. “Could make a joke about the weather up here, but it’s really quite nice,” you snickered, head ducking between his hat, cheek right beside his, as your eyes raked over his bird's eye view.

“Shut it or I��m dropping you.”

Raising your hand around his face, you made a show of zipping your mouth closed to which he huffed at, effectively blocking his vision.

He made rounds picking up the things you’d managed to drop across the creek, stuffing them into your bag and pretending not to see the spare panties you’d brought along as you averted your gaze awkwardly, a heat rising from the back of your neck.

He carried your bag in one hand like it weighed nothing before whistling at his dog who managed to disappear somewhere in the woods some time ago. Moments later, Uraume came panting back, a stick in their mouth and wagging their tail.

“Later, Uraume. Let’s go home.”

The dog let out a whistling whine at the buzzword of ‘home,’ realizing their owner was not going to play fetch with them, before coming to Sukuna’s side.

You found it quite endearing to see the massive and huffy man have a furry friend, biting your lip when you found yourself grinning.

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“Are you going to kill me and bury me where no one can find me?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He clearly was not one for humor.

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

The walk back was oddly comfortable, the two of you trekking up a narrow path as the sun began to set, listening to the ambience of nature—the whooshing of the eolian wind, the groans of the trees, and the calls of wildlife.

You’d attempted to break the silence on a couple of occasions, but was only met with snippy or short replies, effectively shutting you up.

But the silence wasn’t unsettling, it was… easy.

You just hoped that this man was what he let on, wondering how long it’d take authorities to find your corpse if he was a madman considering how far inland you’d made it.

If they found your body.

You shivered at the thought.

“You cold?” He asked, breaking you from your thoughts, voice low and hoarse as he focused ahead of him.

“Oh, no. Actually the opposite. I’m– FUCK!”

You screeched louder than you’d meant to, eyes shutting tight as tears nearly began to flow down your cheeks, a sudden piercing pain in your ankle.

Sukuna froze, glancing down to your injury to see he’d brushed your ankle against a branch that was hanging low, his heart sinking at the sight. “Fuck.”

You bit your lip, holding back any cries as you tried to steady your ragged and shallow breaths, feeling lightheaded from the intense pain.

“I barely saw it…” he trailed off in a whispered tone, eyes wide as his fingers gripped your thighs tighter, feeling an intense wave of regret seeing your ankle swell even more.

“Just watch where you’re fucking going,” you gritted out, teeth clenched as your fingers curled in the leather of his jacket, feeling your eyes nearly roll into the back of your skull and pass out.

“Right.” He curtly spoke, adjusting you on his back by lifting you and continuing on.

Once the pain subsided, something heavy settled in your chest. By Sukuna’s reaction, you realized just how rude you must’ve come off in your state of pain, mouth speaking before you could think.

Something apologetic itched at you, biting your tongue at his stifling silence, still moving forward without a word instead of ditching you like you probably deserved. You should apologize, right? You sounded incredibly ungrateful. He’d gone to so much of an effort to help you, receiving nothing in return.

Unless he was planning to kill you, of course, but you brushed that off.

You drew in air. “Hey, Sukuna. Uh, I just wanna–”

He froze, stopping in his tracks immediately before glancing around. Then he peered up quickly, glancing at how the sun was nearly about to fall.

“...Sukuna?”

“Shut up.”

You knitted your eyebrows immediately, head bouncing back in offense. “Excuse me? Who do you think you’re–”

“Shut the fuck up for five seconds. We’re not alone,” he spat out in a hushed tone, head glancing towards you for emphasis.

You could feel yourself turn defensive in record time, scoffing incredulously with a chuckle. You opened your mouth to fire back something snappy, barely registering what he said, when you, too, heard it.

There was a quiet growl, you easily would’ve missed it had he not said anything, and subtle crunches of leaves near you.

You hadn’t even noticed Uraume, who’d been following you this entire time, began to whine, ears flopping downwards and flanking close to Sukuna.

He was right. You weren’t alone.

[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.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

(main series) - Pt. 1 - Pt. 2

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in. 

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since it dawned on you that Sylus has actually managed to cross the threshold – through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality – just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul from across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment. 

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being. 

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would. 

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are. 

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck. 

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance. 

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips. 

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.  

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling. 

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place. 

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears. 

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement. 

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house. 

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.  

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies. 

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew. 

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing. 

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again. 

Rinse, repeat. 

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant. 

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range. 

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”  

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard. 

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg. 

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need. 

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing. 

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter. 

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine. 

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure. 

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt. 

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy. 

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in. 

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself. 

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow. 

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes. 

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being. 

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender. 

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have. 

… 

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute. 

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.  

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life. 

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way. 

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could. 

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier. 

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here �� tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

[yaut-jaknowit]

I just had a thought that I personally find hilarious. A yautja hunting a human in the woods, actively chasing her. But the human is a botanist who was out there studying plants and keeps calling time out on the chase to prevent him from stepping on different plants. "Don't step there that plant is endangered." "Not there either, it's vital to the local beetle population." "STOP! That one is my favourite!" And it happens enough times that the hunter eventually stops and says the yautja equivalent of "Lady, sort your fucking priorities out."

And maybe he's impressed and slightly smitten by her sheer fucking audacity but that's neither here nor there

Watch Your Step

Pairings: Vic'tao (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1616

Summary: A botanist who is exploring an alien planet when you start to get hunted by an unknown figure. But every time he gets close, she screams at him. Pleading and demanding he doesn't step on this plant or that plant. Vic'tao is confused and wants you figure out your priorities.

Author Note: When I was writing this at work, I kept on smirking and giggling to myself. My coworkers were so confused on why. If only they knew what I wrote. This was adorable to write too! Thank you for the ask.

Masterlist

Ao3

One of your scientists urged you to take him along since it was dangerous out there. This was a lone expedition you were taking though. Nothing out there would harm you. This planet was one you’ve been studying for some time. Sending all of your research back home to earth for others to analyze as well. Here has given you plenty to research about.

After leaving the safety of the small pop up research building, you followed down a path you were well acquainted with. Being on this planet for so long has taught you the surrounding area. It was beautiful and offered plenty to learn. Not only about the plants but the wildlife as well. An opportunity that you wouldn’t give up. A once in a lifetime chance you get to take.

Along the pathway that led to a spot you were meaning to visit, you saw an unlikely plant that had decided to take root. Amazed by its resilience, you took a detour and knelt down in front of the plant. Small but mighty thing. You used the device in hand to take a few photos and marked it’s spot on the map. In the pictures though, you noticed something reflective.

Confused, you lowered down the tablet. Just like in the pictures was an object reflecting sunlight off of it. You go over to the spot carefully and furrowed yours brows together.

A knife?

It was beautifully and expertly crafted. Yet, here it lay. Discarded. A confused noise left you before the weapon was picked. The knife was light despite meant for someone with larger hands. You tossed it from hand to hand, testing out the weight of it. Though it was too big for you, the craftmanship made it worthy to keep. You carefully placed it into your pack before pressing on.

Sharp eyes watched you. The hairs along your neck prickled at the unease feeling growing inside of you with each step you took.

Along the way, you felt obligated to stop right in your tracks. Frozen to the spot, your eyes scanned around you thoroughly; going over every bush and tree. Nothing seemed of visually but clearly your sense were tingling. They knew something was wrong, was amiss. You go to take a step when you felt a towering figure stand before you. A form you couldn’t see beside the distorting air. You screamed only to cry out louder as the figure become reality.

An alien!

The thing was massive. Fear shot straight up your spine to settle in the base of your skull. Smart enough, your first reaction was to turn tail and sprint away from the yellow and blue humanoid like mad man. It barks out some sort of command in what was its native tongue and gave chase.

In your haste, you abandoned the path all together and carved your own randomly. Only to recognize the area were only a special, specific plant could grow. Nowhere else on this whole planted did this plant grow. You glanced over your shoulder and gasped in horror. Your heels dug into the dirt, skidding to a stop. Both of your hands held out as if you were trying to push him back through the air.

“Watch out!” you cried and prayed he could hear you while listening to your plea. “That plant is endangered.” It’s the only one in this are with that kind of mutation. The alien jerked its massive head back with a confused noise. It had stopped in its tracks and looked down towards it feet. Right below his foot was a small, but colorful plant. Slowly, he placed his foot back down next to the plant.

When he went to make chase again, he only got two steps in. “Don’t step. That one is vital to a beetle population!” What in the world was this thing thinking? To step on either of those would greatly hurt the ecosystem. At least it had the mind to listen to you enough not to step on the plants. It stood there with one foot raise, about to take a step yet your plea stopped him. The metal mask on its face blocked out its features but you could read the confusion plain as day.

Then, the creature stepped over the plant and lunged at you. A yelp surged past your lips. Swiftly in a burst of energy, you dove out of the way. Deadly claws swiped at the area you once stood at. It crashed into a pile of rare flowers. That broke your heart. Those were special to you.

Before you had time to mourn the killed flowers, the beast was already getting back to its feet. A squeak left your lips as you turned tail and bolted into the foliage. Heat washed down the nap of your neck.

Your foot caught on a root and sent you flying forwards. Your hands scrapped against the forests floor, cuts slicing through your skin. A hiss left your lips as you cradled them to your chest, rocking back and forth.

A heavy shadow fell over you. All of your muscles tensed, head rising slightly to find the yellow and blue figure advancing towards you. Your eyes snapped wide, bloody palms shoot out to stop it. “No! Stop. That’s my favorite plant,” you cried, begging that it spares that one as well. What is it and it wanting to crush everything that’s pretty and rare?

The humanoid beast snarls and clenched it fists tightly. But it doesn’t step on the plant. It stops in front of your sitting, bruised form and towers over you. Then, it bends at the waist and gets in your face. Fearfully, you flinched away from its metal face but long, lethal fingers gripped your chin and turned you back.

“You are either really brave or extremely stupid,” his voice growls deeply behind his mask. You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “Either way…” he trails off while his other hands snatched the cross body pack you had. You opened your mouth to argue when the knife from before was pulled out. The fear from before came in as the blade glinted dangerously in the forest’s light. “This isn’t yours to take.”

He lets the knife dance between his fingers, show casting his expertise with the weapon. It fits into his larger hands perfectly, making it known this was his.

Your shoulders scrunched up. “I-I didn’t t-take it! I found it on the ground. You must had dropped it.” Oh, why were you pleading your case with an alien hunter that could easily kill you with little remorse. There was something that hung around it that breathed an air of deadliness.

A snort comes from behind the metal mask. “So it is stupidity that drives you,” he laughs and releases his hold on you to stand back up. The pack is deposited back in your lap. You slowly stood back up and put a couple of feet between the two of you. You couldn’t help the wince at the usage of your hands. The palms had countless cuts and a few splinters. Though, the mask covered his features, you could feel his eyes on you.

There was a short, awkward pause until the creature growled then grabbed one of your wrists. You gasped and tried to jerk away from him but his hold was firm. “Quit it!” he grumbled and observed the newly acquired cut son your hands palms. He keeps holding your wrist as he reached over his shoulder and pulled a small metal pack out. You watched as he used the crook of his elbow to balance the pack. The alien opens it up to reveal medicals supplies. Was he going to help you? After he just chased you and scared you to death.

A pair of tweezers were pinched in his hand. It took him some time to carefully go over your palms thoroughly to ensure there wasn’t anything left. Then, with some sort of white paste, he had cleaned and coated the skin carefully. Once he deemed you well enough, he steps back and slips the pack back into its place. The alien grunted then turned to leave, but you reached out and softly gripped his bicep. He stopped and glances down at you, head tilted to the side.

“Wait… I just wanted to ask for your name. Please?” your voice was soft and small. His piercing gaze behind his mask could be felt looking into your soul before he sighed.

“Vic’tao.” He stand there for a few more seconds than takes his leave. You watch him leave and disappear through the foliage. His steps mindful of any plant life.

You returned back to the hub. The other’s find it strange you’ve come back early but you just brush it them off and go to your room. Then, you go online and did your best to figure out what you had just faced.

Only to realize that you should’ve been dead.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Let them see [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 3.3k

summary: you and Bob are forced to attend an event hosted by Valentina, where more is revealed than you would have liked.

masterlist

warnings: established relationship (kinda) mentions of comic characters like Norman Osborn (Green Goblin), Wilson Fisk (Kingpin) and Danny Rand (Iron Fist), some kissing and I think that's it!

Now that you were The heroes who would protect the earth and Valentina held a high position in the government, it was a prerequisite for the team to appear in public. You all knew it was like a huge, manipulative, and fake publicity campaign, but if it saved your ass, you didn't really care much.

Strangely, you had the most experience speaking to the press and with political figures, from whom Miss de Fontaine wanted to profit. So it wasn't a surprise when she said she wanted all of you at a charity dinner, where, at the same time, she would try to convince various businessmen to finance some of your projects.

You had to cover as much ground as possible, so she would arrange for you to be seated at different tables and, in addition, assign you a partner for that. She didn't ask your opinion, she never did, and you knew where you'd be until she handed you a small map with your assigned seats.

"I had to sit down with the owner of Oscorp Industries."

"Wilson Grant Fisk. Sounds important, doesn't it?"

Your friends were arguing and bragging about who they'd been assigned to sit with at dinner. You glanced at the names on your map, realizing none of them really interested you. Only one was familiar.

"Hey, Bob, we'll sit together."

The boy checked his own piece of paper, frowning to read it, and smiled widely when he checked what you said. You two had been trying to be a thing for a few months, though no one knew it yet. While they suspected it, you had been careful enough to make sure there weren't any incidents. So the coincidence made both of you happy.

"Huh, that's right. Valentina told me to tell you that you can't change your partners because every fire has its extinguisher, whatever that means."

“What are you talking about?”

"Every couple has one person who could break political relations if they don't keep their mouth shut, and another who turns out to be more cautious or diplomatic."

"No surprise my partner is Ava," Walker murmured, suddenly "No offense."

"No, it's okay. I'm used to hearing your bullshit, I'll probably know how to help you avoid it."

While they argued, you tried to guess the other combinations. Bucky and Yelena went together, obviously. They were like the team leaders, after all. Only Alexei remained, whom Valentina had probably paired with herself to prevent any mishaps.

"So you're the fire or the extinguisher?"

"Oh, I don't think that applies to us," you laughed, looking softly at Bob. "I think he just put us together so you don't have to interact too much. You know, the shyest one on the team whom I could talk myself into."

Your partner—would boyfriend be the correct term? No, perhaps lover, in any case—and you shared an amused expression, more pleased than the others with the arrangement your boss had made.

Bucky announced that Valentina would send some stylists who would take care of getting you suitable clothes, makeup, and a good hairdo—yes, the event was that important—and then the matter was settled.

At night, you could see that they had done a good job. Yelena was radiant, Ava looked like a supermodel, and the men didn't look ugly at all. Although, of course, for you, the most pretty was Bob. He was wearing a brown suit, with a nice striped tie, and shoes that gleamed in the light. His hair had been trimmed and was slicked back, but it didn't look stiff, just sleek; a wavy lock fell over his forehead, as if it had been intentional.

"I want all of you to rave about this project," Valentina warned you before walking through the door into the living room. "Make friends, chat with businessmen, tell them jokes, just be yourselves! Okay, a little more charming and less psycho, okay? Have fun!"

The entire group looked like a school classroom that had been forced to go on a field trip, but most of them managed to hide it. As you were entering and the camera spotlights began to flash, you took advantage of the chaos to approach Bob and grab his arm.

"You look handsome," you whispered to him. With your heels, it was easier to reach his ear.

"I feel weird. I was never a big fan of formal wear."

"Well, I say it looks great on you, darling."

A shy smile spread across his face, and although you couldn't see it, your eyes radiated tenderness and love; as if you were bewitched by him. Once you found your table, you took your place and were disappointed to see that you were at opposite ends of the circular table. You would have liked to sit next to him, but the seats were already labeled with each name.

You didn't know how the rest of your friends were doing, but apparently at yours, all the businessmen seemed pleased. It was probably because you were pretty—and wore a tight dress—or because their wives were smitten with Bob, pestering him with questions like seagulls around bread crumbs.

At one point in the evening, billionaire Danny Rand demanded your full attention. He wanted to talk to you about other charitable efforts his company was involved in that The New Avengers could join. He didn't seem as flirtatious or pushy as the regular millionaires, but you knew that if he tried to cross a line, you'd have to hold yourself back to avoid dislocating his shoulder or breaking his wrist.

"You know, now that I'm CEO of Rand Enterprises, I want us to be a more… how should I put it? Humanitarian, maybe. I want to help people, just like you."

"You're quite the philanthropist, I see."

"I'm trying to use my family's fortune to do more than build glass towers. Many people don't have a voice. I want Rand Enterprises to amplify it, not drown it out."

"And you repeat that idealistic speech at every gala?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Danny laughed softly, not offended.

"You know," Danny said, turning the glass between his fingers, "all this… the galas, the donations, the campaigns… it's all good. But if people don't reconnect with themselves, it's all a band-aid. You can't heal a broken system if you don't first heal those within it."

You crossed your arms, listening to him with a barely raised eyebrow. He spoke calmly, without a trace of ego. There was something genuine in his voice, though it wasn't exactly the kind of speech you expected to hear from someone with such an obscene bank account.

"Are you telling me that what the world needs is... meditation?"

"I'm saying we need silence. Inner silence. That people are afraid to be alone with themselves because they don't like what they're going to find. And if they don't confront that, no social change will be sustainable."

"Deep," you murmured, taking a short sip from your glass. "Maybe even a little depressing."

"Not if you think of it as an opportunity. The internal work is the most difficult, but also the most necessary. If every entrepreneur in this room took half the time they spend planning tax evasion and took an honest look at themselves, the world would be different."

"You have surprising faith in these people's capacity for introspection," you replied, amused.

Danny smiled at you. Not like someone trying to win you over, but like someone who truly believed what he was saying.

And then you felt it. That look. Subtle but piercing. You barely turned your face and saw him. He didn't do anything, he didn't say anything, but his expression was enough to understand. It wasn't explosive jealousy, but that kind of sad insecurity, as if he were afraid he wasn't in the same league as a man like Daniel Rand.

Without missing a beat or a smile, you looked him in the eye and winked graciously. A quick, playful gesture, like a secret password: I'm in control. This is all for the cause.

Bob looked away, but the tense line around his mouth softened. You tried to ignore the fact that his cheeks had turned red.

"Did I lose your attention for a second?" Danny asked calmly, following your gaze, though without reproach in his tone.

"Just for a moment," you replied with a light smile, settling in naturally. "But don't worry, I'm still listening."

Danny held your gaze for a moment longer... and then followed. His attention slid naturally to the other side of the table, right where Bob Reynolds was pretending to pay attention to an elderly woman chatting. He didn't seem to be looking at you at the moment, but his body betrayed him: his chin tense, his back slightly rigid, his thumb pressing restlessly against the glass of his drink.

"He's part of your team, right?" Danny asked, without malice. It was a simple question, but loaded with insight.

"Yes. It's... complicated," you replied, staying on neutral ground.

Danny nodded slowly, with that calm that always surrounded him.

"He has the look of someone holding something very heavy," she commented, without looking away. "As if he were standing in the middle of a chaos he doesn't know how to calm."

"Your reading is not bad," you murmured, somewhat surprised by the clarity of his perception.

"I don't judge," Danny added, finally looking back at you. "Some have to survive here, amidst the noise of the world”

There was a moment of comfortable silence between the two of you. He didn't press. He didn't probe. He just offered you a sincere, almost compassionate, unpretentious look.

"Sometimes," he added gently, "the true act of spirituality isn't meditating or helping others. Sometimes it's knowing when not to take someone else's place."

You looked at him, this time without pretense. Because in that moment, you understood that Danny wasn't trying to steal attention or gain your sympathy. He was speaking honestly. And he'd also seen more than you expected.

"You are much more perceptive than you seem."

He smiled barely.

"I try"

You remained silent for a few seconds, observing Bob more closely. His shoulders were still somewhat tense, but now he was pretending to be engrossed in a conversation with a woman who was talking more than he seemed to want to listen.

"He doesn't like these places," you commented, your voice barely above a whisper. "He's not exactly a fan of galas. He barely tolerates protocol, and the idea of having to smile for strangers seems like torture. He's… shy. It's hard for him. Much more than people imagine."

Danny nodded gently, without a hint of mockery. Only understanding.

"But he's here," he said. "For you, isn't he?"

"For the team, actually."

"He seems like a nice guy," Danny added honestly. "If you want, I can go talk to him for a while. That way he won't feel so out of place... and I'd have the perfect excuse to stop talking to businessmen who only want photo ops and tax breaks."

You let out a short, grateful laugh as you looked back at Bob. This time, you gave him a clear signal, a gesture with your fingers that said, "Come here."

Bob seemed to hesitate. Not because he didn't want to, but because he seemed unsure about interrupting. But you held his gaze pointedly, and that was enough. He apologized to whoever he was talking to, then walked toward you with a measured stride, as if trying not to inconvenience you.

When he reached your side, you smiled.

"Daniel, meet Robert Reynolds," you said naturally. "He's a fundamental part of our team."

Danny calmly extended his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Robert. I've heard good things."

Bob nodded as he shook hands, a little tense, but polite.

"Nice to meet you"

"How about you two chat for a while? I can sit where you were before and deal with the ladies for you."

Bob tried to stifle a laugh, but he couldn't. He was amused to think that his annoyance had been so obvious.

"Alright"

You took advantage of the moment to lean toward Bob and place a soft kiss on his cheek, taking him by surprise. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing over the top—just a brief, deliberate show of affection. Enough to calm him… and claim him.

"Be nice to him, Mr. Rand. Besides being a key part of the team, I'd say he's also the most handsome male member"

Both men laughed at your joke and then Bob sat down, a little calmer than before.

The gala continued with the calculated elegance of any event funded by millionaires with a socially responsible attitude. The glasses kept refilling, the music became a constant background, and you did what you did best: reading the room, smiling intelligently, leading conversations without seeming to. Bob, after his conversation with Danny, seemed more relaxed. Not extroverted, of course. But at least he wasn't on the verge of collapse anymore.

A couple of hours passed. You exchanged greetings with politicians, activists, and heirs. Until then, amidst the hustle and bustle, you felt a familiar presence at your side. Bob.

"Do you have a moment?"

You nodded at his request and then excused yourself to the guests. Bob took your hand in a gesture so casual it almost seemed unconscious, but there was a restrained urgency in his movements. He gently led you to a secluded corner of the room, a refuge between columns and shadows where the noise and curious glances couldn't reach you.

He stopped and looked at you, his deep, dark eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and a determination that made your pulse race.

"Are you okay? Did something happen?" you asked, trying to soften the moment, searching for a connection that went beyond words.

Bob inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling slowly.

"I'm fine," he replied sincerely. "But I needed a break… a moment away from all of this. Being with you helps me catch my breath."

You smiled, almost without thinking, and reached out to gently straighten his tie. Your fingers brushed the skin of his neck and you felt that invisible electricity that connected you, like a silent magnet that couldn't be avoided.

"Sometimes everything is so overwhelming, right?"

"I've wanted to leave since we got here," he confessed, making you smile.

One of his hands went to your waist, holding you gently and moving his thumb up and down, as if with that he could calm your anxiety.

"Hold on a little longer, just a little bit."

"And you? Are you okay?"

"Wonderful"

"I haven't told you that you look beautiful, have I?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, you look gorgeous."

At his compliment you smiled softly, and caught his gaze slipping to your lips. You knew what he wanted. Or what would make him feel better, anyway.

"Do you think they'll notice we've been gone for a few minutes?" you asked, tilting your head. Bob smiled back, the sweet, mischievous glint in his eyes only deepening what you already felt for him.

"Maybe," he said in a low voice, "but what does it matter?"

Without further warning, Bob brought his face closer to yours with restrained patience, as if he wanted to record every second before giving in. His other hand rested firmly on your cheek, while his lips sought yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

The kiss started slow and uncertain, but within seconds, passion erupted. His lips pressed against yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness that left you speechless. The hand that had previously been on your waist slid purposefully down your back, pulling you closer, melting into that small space that was now yours.

The world disappeared. Nothing mattered more than that burning touch, that electric brush that made you feel alive and yearned for. At some point, he lowered his hand to your thigh, and you lifted your leg, letting him caress your skin.

You continued for a while, and when you finally broke apart, Bob leaned his forehead against yours, breathing heavily, a satisfied smile curling his lips.

"I guess you feel more relaxed now, huh?"

"Definitely," he exclaimed.

His hand gently released your leg until it was back in place, and then you both took a step back. You tried to smooth your dress, and Bob tried to fix his suit, hoping to look as natural as possible. A giggle escaped you when you noticed Bob had traces of your lipstick on, which you tried your best to remove.

To avoid suspicion, you left first, and a few minutes later he did. Just in case.

That was the calm. And then—the storm.

The next morning, well into the day, you woke up intending to find something for breakfast. The sight of all your friends gathered at the bar made you frown, thinking the worst. Most of them looked shocked. Bob, on the other hand, was completely pale.

"Good morning, young lady."

"Is something wrong?"

"Haven't you seen your phone?"

Everyone was focused on you while you tried to remember where you'd left off. You were barely awake yet, and you already had to deal with them.

"It's dead. I couldn't find my charger last night," you explained simply.

Yelena, still in her pajamas, reached out to give you hers. On the screen, there was a conversation, apparently from your group chat.

Mel: Valentina wants to know what this means.

Accompanying the message was a link to a compilation of headlines and photos from various digital media outlets. They all featured the same images: Bob and you arriving at the gala together, walking arm in arm with the ease of a long-established couple. But not only that: someone had captured on camera the fleeting, secret moment when you were secretly kissing in a corner, the intimacy of the moment glimmering in the shadows. The most scandalous outlets had added the obscene moment when you had your leg raised against his side.

"Fuck…"

"At least now we'll talk about the gala, right? That's what Valentina wanted."

"I think that you were more like firewood and fire than an extinguisher and fire."

"Yelena, will you shut the fuck up?"

"What? I'm just saying. Some articles say you look like you were about to take off your clothes…"

Overcome by anger, the embarrassment of the moment, you reached out to push your friend off the stool she was sitting on. There were two problems: you didn't measure your strength, and when she fell, Yelena made sure to grab your arm to pull you with her.

Bob was the first to spring up, approaching you to help you up, worried that either of you had hurt yourselves. You expected her to lunge at you and start hitting you, but that didn't happen. Instead, the loudest laughter you'd ever heard burst from her throat.

"Why did you do that?!"

"Lena, I'm so sorry…"

"You threw me out! What's my fault if you two decided to make out last night?"

"Shut up, for God's sake…"

While Bob tried to lift her, you reached out to cover her mouth, completely in vain. He gave up helping you when he saw you struggling, more out of pride than because you were actually upset.

"Who would have thought it, Bob? You've tamed the beast."

"Shut your mouth, Walker, you're next!"

Walker joined in the chorus of laughter. Soon, everyone else followed suit.

You thought that now that your affair was a matter of public interest, at least you wouldn't have to think about how to tell your friends. Valentina could go to hell.

In a strange, yet pleasant way, the revelation of the secret felt like a weight had been lifted from your chest. When you looked at him, smiling shyly, you suspected it was a shared feeling.

[seongminiz]

proving a point (and kind of failing) – p.sh

. . ? sunghoon gets handcuffed (hell yeah) – smut / minors dni ; 828 words

cw handcuffs , afab reader , handjob , orgasm denial , unprotected sex , a lil bit of dumbification

🗯️ yk the drill , this isnt proof read – it wasn't even supposed to be this long but my pretentious ass got poetic n ended up writing more than expected .. n then i got bored n sleepy so it became kind of ass idk honestly .. not proud of this one but i'll live i need to allow myself to be a mediocre writer bc at the end of the day its not that deep

handcuffing sunghoon to the bed's headrest , restraining him n saying for once you are going to be in charge ,, when really , you both know sunghoon is merely granting you the illusion of power , for his own amusement , his eyes following your every action waiting for the moment you'll cave in n admit defeat , letting him take control again .

it's all a game to sunghoon , n maybe to you too – but it's also a matter of proving yourself .

you straddle sunghoon's hips , stubbornly ignoring his sweet , sweet voice as he plays his part , pleading for you to hurry up and touch him already in a whiny tone that feels almost mocking.

'shut up,' you retort as you drag sunghoon's boxers down his legs , leaving them around his knees without much care . sunghoon is right, in a way : you do have to hurry up , not dwell for too long on the details, take what you want without giving it more than half a thought to not let your resolve crumble and let him take control again .

sunghoon bites back a whine as your fingers wrap around his dick. for a second – it feels like an eternity to him – you just stay there , running your fingertips along the circumference of his cock, tracing its details as if you need to map it out, as if your body, your insides haven't already memorized its every single millimeter , to exhaustion.

'i told you to hurry,' sunghoon lifts his hips, searching for more friction that you don't grant him as you retract your hand with a smirk.

'and i,' you actually wrap your hand around sunghoon's cock now, giving it the smallest squeeze before pumping it once. 'told you to shut up.'

you don't know how your voice doesn't shake , how you manage to meet sunghoon's eyes as you start to slowly , painfully drag your hand up and down his length , to hold his gaze when you pick up the pace and he finally – or at least , for a moment – gives in , tilting his head back and letting you take your time with him .

it's not long before sunghoon feels the incipit of an orgasm building up in him . in his defense , he's been rock hard ever since he got in this predicament, if not before you even told him you wanted to take charge for the night . sunghoon just thinks you're the hottest person to ever walk earth, and anything you do could get him bricked up without you even trying to.

just as sunghoon is about to voice just how close he is , your touch disappears again , a satisfied smile creeping on your face when you hear him groan in disappointment.

'you just have to be a little patient,' you reassure him , your nails lightly scraping the inside of his thighs.

you lift your hips slightly and push your panties to the side , you grind down on sunghoon's cock and let your wetness coat it , your legs shaking when his tip bumps into your clit before you finally align it to your entrance and let yourself sink down on him slowly .

so agonizingly slow sunghoon genuinely feels like he's about to go insane . he uselessly pulls at his restraints , the urge to hold you , grab your hips and pull you down onto his cock all at once almost unbearable as he feels you take him centimeter by centimeter , clenching around him .

you hold back your own moans , trying so hard to mantain the dominant role you've taken up , despite how feeling so full , so close to sunghoon is enough to reduce your brain to mush .

'sunghoon' you call out , bracing yourself on his toned stomach so you can lift yourself up just to immediately slam down – it's too fast , and slightly painful , but you need it , immediately missing the fullness when you raise your hips .

'what is it, baby?' there it is . that tone , the condescension that had been barely shining thigh his words earlier , now clear as day even in your fogged up brain .

your frown, grinding your hips as you try to form a coherent thought. 'it's...' you don't manage to finish the sentence, half trailing off , half interrupted by sunghoon bucking his hips up to distract you . this motherfucker .

sunghoon is now shooting you a smug smile , a raised eyebrow as if he's challenging you . he looks back at the handcuffs for a moment. 'whenever you want, baby.' he reminds you , voice softer .

you decide that fuck it , you can't take it anymore. fuck being in charge, fuck your pride and fuck sunghoon – literally and figuratively.

it's not long before you have freed sunghoon from his restraints , leaving sweet , delicate kisses on the marks that have formed on his wrists before his hands find your hips , moving them for you as he holds you close to his chest , his mouth busy licking and kissing along your neck to muffle his moans as he finally gets to fuck you properly.

[hrrtshape]

never listen to an anti-shifter.

never let them in your ear, never let them sit at your table. it's a losing game, a house always wins situation.

because, ok, anti-shifters don't hate shifting. they hate themselves. they hate that they tried once, twice, a dozen times, and got nothing but the black of their own eyelids, their own breath bouncing back at them. they hate that you have patience they do not. they hate that you see a door and walk through it, and they stand in the threshold muttering something about physics, about logic, about how the world simply does not work that way. anti-shifters are like people who read the first three pages of a novel and declare it unreadable, then sneer when you finish the whole thing and tell them it was brilliant.

it's a bit like sitting in a room with someone who's never been in love and listening to them explain why love doesn't exist. how it's just hormones and habit and a trick of the light. you listen politely, you nod along, and then you go home to the person who sends your heart clawing at your ribs like a dog at the door. the point is....people who don't get it will never get it, and they'd rather pull you down to their level than admit they might be wrong. you ever see a dog bark at its own reflection? it's that. it's resentment dressed as rationality.

so they call you delusional. a dreamer. they say it like it's an insult, like the world wasn't built on delusions. you think the wright brothers weren't called insane? you think galileo didn't get laughed out of rooms? people used to think tomatoes were poison. people used to think the earth was flat. some people still think the earth is flat. you are standing in a lineage of people who believe beyond belief, and some guy with a reddit account is not about to change that.

because here's what they won't say out loud. they are jealous. not just of the shifting....of you. of your ability to see beyond the edge of the map, beyond the exit signs, beyond the way things are. of your ability to step into something larger than yourself without looking back. of the way your mind is elastic and theirs is rigid, locked in place like a rusted hinge. shifting is not just about movement. it's about knowing you were meant for more. and nothing terrifies an anti-shifter more than someone who believes in something bigger than what they have been told.

and so, they scoff. they quote science articles they do not understand, they call you childish. but. the ones who cry the loudest have the most to hide. they want to shift. they just can't admit it. they want it the way people want all impossible things... with their hands behind their backs, pretending not to reach for it. and that? that is their burden to bear. not yours. never yours. you're simply meant for greater things.

[gottalovesae]

Operation: Cupid ✩ Oscar Piastri

Characters: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader, Lando Norris x fem! reader (platonic)

Summary: Lando playing matchmaker and trying to get his two best friends together in the most desperate and dramatic ways that only he could pull off. Oscar just being done with his friends antics and reader who just plays along.

1,750words

Warnings: brief indications showing reader is in the medical field.

Yours Truly: so tell me why I didn't notice until today that I accidentally posted this story unfinished. I woke up to notifications confused. So instead of deleting I'll finish it after my work shift. So full story will be completed by 5pm. Thank you to those who've already liked 🤍

Lando Norris has two goals in life at the moment: win the drivers championship and to get his two best together. Ever since Lando introduced them he could see that they were just perfect for each other.

Oscar Piastri, his teammate, was a brilliant driver, no doubt. Fast and focused, but also painfully oblivious. And Y/N, his best friend since diapers, intelligent, down to earth, and wit sharper than the Monaco hairpin.

And they were both, individually, one of Lando's closest friends. The problem? They were perfect for each other. An undeniable chemistry brewing between them whenever they were in the same room, a series of shared glances, jokes, and banter that Lando quickly noticed.

They always admired each other from afar, never too close, afraid to pass an imaginary line. The pieces were right there. They just needed a little.nudge. A nudge that came in the form of Lando Norris. He calls it Operation: Cupid.

Lando has tried everything, and I truly mean everything.

First, Lando "accidentally" double booked the same fancy restaurant for dinner with both Oscar and Y/N on the same night. He acted surprised when they both showed up and suggested that they all just have dinner instead. He bribed the waiter to give them the romantic corner table with candles and the best view. He pictured romantic glances, whispered conversations, maybe even a shared plate of pasta. In reality, dinner was spent locked in a heated debate about the best types of pizza dough. Both parties failed to notice the work Lando put into the evening. Strike one.

Then Lando tried "forced proximity." On a road trip, he "arranged" for Oscar and Y/N to ride in the same rental car. He expected shared bags of snacks, giggling over inside jokes, and singing along to karaoke, but yet again his hopes were just way too high. Oscar, the ever responsible one, meticulously mapped out a safe route, and Y/N spent the travel catching up on sleep with her her head conveniently (and infuriating so) rested on the window, and not Oscar's shoulder. Lando wanted to pull his hair out. Strike two.

The next attempt Lando came up with was a "team bonding" exercise. He convinced half the paddock (who were unwillingly dragged into this) plus her to go out for a weekend of... paintball. Yes, that's right people paintball. Again, Lando was expecting cutesy couple-ly stuff like them working together taking people down, having each others backs, and celebrating together when they won. Yet again he was wrong. Instead, Y/N with terrifying accuracy, had accidentally shot Oscar in the… well, let's just say it was a sensitive area. Oscar, in retaliation, had unleashed a wave of paintballs upon Y/N with the intensity of a warrior. Honestly Lando should've seen it coming knowing how competitive they both get. By the end of the weekend, both were covered in bruises and barely speaking to each other. This was strike three.

Lando was really desperate now. He truly did try everything. This next idea in his head would have to be the best performance of life. He swears this will work in the name of love.

Lando calls this plan "The Sidewalk Serenade."

The midday sun beat down on the Monaco sidewalk with relentless intensity. Lando Norris, professional racing driver and amateur Cupid, lay dramatically on the pavement limbs sprawled out, feigning unconsciousness with a dedication usually reserved for battling Max Verstappen for the lead on the final laps of a race.

"Ugh...the.the heat..t.o.o..much." he groaned, theatrically flailing his arms. He'd practiced this fall in his head for three days, meticulously calculating the right angle without actually cracking his skull.

A part of him, the small, rational part that hadn't been completely taken over by his determination that Oscar and Y/N were destined for each other, screamed that this was utterly ridiculous. He, Lando Norris, Formula 1 superstar, was pretending to faint on a public sidewalk. But the larger, more persistent part of him, the part fueled by the power of friendship, and a alarming amount of caffeine was completely unashamed. This was "Operation: Cupid," and damn it, he was going so see this through.

Across the street, Oscar Piastri stood frozen in a mixture of disbelief and extreme embarrassment. He'd been on his way to grab a quick lunch when he'd spotted Lando's..performance. His jaw hung, baffled.

"Lando?" he called out, his voice laced with exasperation and genuine concern. "What in the actual hell are you doing?"

Lando, maintaining his commitment to the charade, continued to groan. "Help...me... see...lights.."

Oscar sighed, running a hand through his hair. He considered turning around and pretending he hadn't seen anything. He really did. But the thought of Lando genuinely collapsing from heatstroke, however unwillingly, forced him forward and right into his friends trap.

As Oscar approached, he noticed a figure hurrying towards them from the opposite direction. It was Y/N. And the other half of Lando's audacious matchmaking scheme.

Y/N's brows were furrowed with concern. "What's going on here? Lando! Are you alright?" she asked, kneeling beside him and immediately checking his pulse.

He..he just collapsed," Oscar stammered, slightly reeling back awkwardly suddenly very, very aware of Y/N's proximity. "I don't know what happened."

Lando, internally delighted from the success of his elaborate plan, suppressed a grin and managed a weak, "|..I think I need.. a doctor.

Y/N skillfully assessed him. "His pulse is elevated, but regular. He's breathing normally. Lando, can you hear me? Open your eyes."

Lando fluttered his eyelids open, feigning disorientation reaching for her face. "Y/N? Is that..is that you? Am..I..dead?" 'Oh god,' Oscar thinks.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. "You're not dead, you drama queen. But you are being incredibly troublesome. Oscar, can you help me get him to his feet? He probably just overheated."

Together, Oscar and Y/N helped Lando stand. As he leaned on them, Lando subtly moved, making sure that Oscar and Y/N were practically shoulder-to-shoulder. He even managed to "accidentally" bumped their hands a couple of times.

"Maybe we should get you some water," Oscar suggested, his cheeks slightly flushed.

"And maybe we should check your blood sugar," Y/N added, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless you've been pulling one of your famous stunts, Lando."

Lando chuckled weakly. "Stunts? Me? Never." He then launched into a completely fabricated story about skipping breakfast and pushing himself too hard at the gym (mind you he hadn't even gone to the gym that day), throwing in a few dramatic pauses for effect.

As they walked towards a nearby café, Lando, hanging heavily between his two unsuspecting targets, felt a surge of victory. Now, all he had to do was fan the flames.

Lando, now miraculously recovered from his "heatstroke," was rambling about a near-miss on the track, but his eyes kept darting between Oscar and Y/N, gauging their reactions.

Oscar, still slightly flustered by the events of the past hour, found himself aware of her. He noticed the way her brow furrowed slightly as she listened to Lando's story, the subtle curve of her lips when she smiled, and the way her eyes sparkled. He had always found her attractive, but today, something felt different.

Y/N, for the most part, was trying her best to ignore Lando's antics and focus on Oscar. She'd always admired his quiet presence and his dedication to his craft. He was clearly embarrassed by Lando's behavior, but he handled it with a grace and good humor that she found endearing. Plus, she had to admit, he looked incredibly good in the afternoon sun, his normally meticulous hair slightly ruffled from their impromptu rescue mission from having to physically lift Lando from the pavement.

As Lando's story finished, he paused dramatically, expecting a reaction from Oscar and Y/N, who were lost in their own little bubble, their eyes locked in a moment of unspoken connection.

Lando cleared his throat loudly. "So..what do you guys think? Pretty crazy, right?"

Oscar and Y/N blinked, startled back to reality.

"Uh, yeah, crazy," Oscar mumbled, his cheeks flushing again.

Y/N nodded in agreement. "Definitely..intense."

Lando grinned, sensing an opening. "Well, I'm starving. How about we grab some dinner later? My treat."

Oscar hesitated, glancing at Y/N. "Actually, I was planning on just ordering in tonight. Big day of practice tomorrow."

Y/N chimed in, "I was going to catch up on some reading, but dinner sounds nice. Unless you're too tired, Oscar?"

Oscar's face lit up like a damn Christmas tree, completely disregarding what he said before. "Not at all! Dinner sounds great. Just the three of us?"

Lando, trying to suppress a smirk, feigned disappointment. "Oh, you know, I actually have a thing. Important..racing..stuff. You two should totally go without me." He winked.

Oscar and Y/N exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between them.

"Are you sure, Lando?" Y/N asked, her voice laced with amusement.

'Absolutely! Definitely! You guys have fun. I'll catch you later," Lando said, practically shoving them out of the café.

With no choice, they both walked away together and immediately burst out laughing once they were at least a block away.

He's unbelievable," Oscar said, shaking his head. "I can't believe he actually faked a fainting spell."

"He's a terrible actor," Y/N agreed, "but I have to admit, it was kind of...sweet."

"Sweet?" Oscar raised an eyebrow.

"Well, misguidedly sweet in his own Lando way,' Y/N corrected. "He obviously wants us to get together. He's been trying really hard."

"And do you?" Oscar asked, his voice suddenly serious.

Y/N stopped walking and turned to face him. "Do I what?"

Do you want to get together? With me?"

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then smiled. "I wouldn't mind getting to know you better, Oscar. Without Lando's....interference."

"Me neither," Oscar said, his smile mirroring hers. "How about we ditch the restaurant and just grab some pizza? My place, Netflix, no fainting allowed."

"Sounds perfect," Y/N said, her heart skipping a beat.

Lando, watching from across the street, pumped his fist in the air. Operation: Cupid was a success! He might have been a bit over the top, a bit ridiculous, and maybe a little bit manipulative, but he had brought two amazing people together. And that, he decided, was worth any amount of embarrassment.

A few months later, Oscar and Y/N were happily dating, Lando had calmed down with the constant matchmaking attempts. They were thankful for the nudges that brought them together. After all, sometimes the most unexpected connections come from the most ridiculous schemes.

As for Lando, he was already plotting his next matchmaking adventure. There were plenty more lonely hearts in the paddock, and he was determined to find them their perfect match.

After all, what were friends for?

[kxsagi]

i am back with another request >:3

how would the bllk men try and comfort reader when they tell her that they hate her as a joke but reader believes it because she thinks she’s very easy to hate and no one really likes her. so being in a relationship with them is surprising. can you include the itoshi brothers, kaiser, ness and whoever else you want pls 🙏🏾 tyty

“𝐢'𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰”

a/n: daily reminders that my fine shyt readers are absolutely lovable and worthy of all of the love in the world + more

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, ness alexis, mikage reo, bachira meguru, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro, isagi yoichi

itoshi rin

he says it with a deadpan tone during a teasing moment, like when you steal his fries or call him a loser for using google maps. 

“ugh. i hate you.” it’s dry, automatic, and you laugh, or so he thinks. 

but then he sees the flicker in your eyes. the way your posture drops just slightly. 

“.. .oh,” he blurts, realizing too late. 

rin’s not good with panic, so he short-circuits at first. it’s in his nature to brood and analyze, but now he’s scrambling to fix it. 

“wait, wait no. i don’t hate you. are you serious?” he pulls you close, gripping your waist like he’s grounding both of you. 

he’s quiet, sincere. “i don’t say things i don’t mean. i would never say i hated you if i meant it. you know that, right?” 

when you tell him you’re just surprised anyone could love you, rin’s face changes. 

“... what the hell are you talking about?” his voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “how could you think you’re hard to love? you’re the best thing in my entire life.” 

he doesn’t leave your side the whole day. hand in yours. lips on your forehead. he needs you to feel how much he doesn’t hate you and how much he can’t. 

itoshi sae

he says “i hate you” with a half-smirk when you win a bet or outsmart him. something casual, barely a breath. 

you laugh it off, but he notices you retreat, go quiet. 

he’s not slow, sae’s emotionally perceptive under all that apathy. 

“... you know i didn’t mean that, right?” he asks, eyes flicking to you while he’s scrolling on his phone. 

you brush it off, but he puts the phone down. “look at me.” 

his tone is even, but his eyes are gentle. “you think i’m the type to date someone i don’t actually care about?” 

when you admit it’s just hard to believe someone like him could love someone like you, sae physically flinches. 

“don’t ever say that again,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. 

“you’re kind. you’re funny. you’re smart. i could go on, but i’d rather just keep showing you why you’re everything i want.” 

after that, he doesn’t just say he loves you more. he shows it. kisses on the shoulder. forehead touches. hand on your lower back whenever you pass by. 

kaiser michael

he says it dramatically, mid-argument over something dumb like who left the toothpaste cap off. 

“ugh, i hate you.” paired with the most flamboyant eye-roll. 

you try to laugh, but your voice wavers. and he clocks it instantly. 

“liebling?” he calls, voice dropping all theatrics. 

when you hesitate, he goes from 100 to 0 in two seconds. arms already around you. 

“hey. hey, no. i was joking. i thought we were being dramatic together.” 

and when you say, “it’s fine. i get it. i wouldn’t like me either,” his whole world flips. 

“what the fuck?” he says, not out of anger, but sheer heartbreak. 

“baby, who told you that? who made you believe that?” 

he cups your cheeks and leans in, forehead pressed to yours. 

“you’re literally the only person on this earth who can put up with me. of course i like you. love you.” 

for the next few weeks he’s overly sweet. he sings cheesy songs to you, buys you flowers, tells ness to remind you every hour that kaiser thinks you're amazing. 

ness alexis

he says “i hate you” in a joking whine when you won’t let him pick the movie or steal the last cookie. 

he doesn’t expect it to land. you always laugh. 

but this time, he sees you shrink. 

“noooo, nonono, i’m sorry!! i didn’t mean it!” he throws himself dramatically on top of you. 

you try to laugh it off, but he sits up, real concern on his face. 

“... did that really hurt your feelings?” 

when you nod, even a little, ness pulls you into the biggest hug possible. 

“you’re my favorite person in the entire universe,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “don’t ever think otherwise.” 

when you admit that sometimes it’s just hard to believe someone could like you, he grips your hands. 

“you’re funny, and warm, and thoughtful, and you give the best hugs. i’d be lost without you, okay?” 

you get a whole night of comfort snacks, kisses, and cuddles while he reassures you in five different languages (he googled them). 

mikage reo

says “ugh, i hate you” after you tease him about being rich or wearing expensive moisturizer. 

when you don’t react, he blinks. pauses. “wait. baby?” 

he gets serious fast. drops the playful persona. 

when you confess you thought he might mean it, his expression falters. 

“you know how many people love me for my money or my name?” he says, tone serious. “but you love me for me. that means everything.” 

he’s the type to go all-out in comforting you. he immediately plans a spa day or a surprise picnic to cheer you up. 

but at night, it’s just the two of you and he quietly whispers, “i wish you could see yourself the way i do.” 

bachira meguru

jokes “i hate you” when you prank him or make fun of his monster drawings. 

you laugh, but your face tightens just enough for him to notice. 

“... wait. wait. do you think i meant that?” 

when you shrug, he gets really quiet. 

“hey.” he hugs you so tight, it’s like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “i don’t hate you. i love you. i love you so much it freaks me out sometimes.” 

he pulls you into his lap and holds your face. “you’re not hard to love. you’re the easiest thing i’ve ever loved.” 

he’ll paint you a picture the next day. it says “i love you, silly” with a monster giving you a flower. 

shidou ryusei

says it way too casually, like “ugh i hate you” when you block his goal or steal his protein bar. 

but when you go still, quiet, he feels weird. 

“... wait. you know i was messing around, right?” 

you say, “it’s okay, i get it,” and he freezes. 

“the hell do you mean, ‘you get it’? no, you don’t get to get it.” 

shidou’s comfort is blunt, but honest. he sits you down, grabs your hand, and makes you look at him. 

“you think i’d be dating you if i didn’t think you were the shit?” 

“babe, i don’t do things i don’t want to. and i want you. period.” 

then he wrestles you into a hug and bites your cheek gently like a weirdo. “mine. forever. you hear me?” 

nagi seishiro

he says “i hate you” lazily when you drag him out of bed or interrupt his game. 

it’s not even mean – just groggy, like, “ugh, i hate you for making me move.” 

usually you laugh, but today? your face falls just slightly. 

you try to play it off. he narrows his eyes. 

“... wait. are you mad?” he asks, tilting his head. 

when you finally admit it’s not the first time you’ve believed someone could hate you… nagi just stares. 

and then says, “that’s dumb.” 

not in a mean way — in a “how could anyone think that?” kind of way. 

“you’re the only person i like being awake for,” he mumbles, flopping onto you like a weighted blanket. 

“if you were easy to hate, i’d still be single and gaming in peace. but i’m not. i’m with you. because you make me feel happy in a way no game ever could.” 

he clings tighter, like you’re a giant body pillow. and every few minutes he mumbles, “don’t ever think like that again.” 

you end up staying in bed all day, not because he’s lazy, but because he won’t stop hugging you. 

isagi yoichi

says “i hate you” jokingly when you beat him at a shooting game or call him a nerd for memorizing world cup stats. 

it’s lighthearted… until your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“wait. hey. that was a joke,” he blurts, the second you shift away. 

you tell him it’s fine, that you’re just used to not being liked, so it’s whatever. 

“what?” he sounds like you just punched him. “no. no. you don’t get to say that about yourself.” 

he sits you down, hands on your shoulders, looking frantic. 

“you’re– okay, listen. i love you. i love you so much, and i don’t care if it sounds dramatic. how could you ever think you’re hard to love?” 

his voice gets quieter, a little trembly. “i’ve never felt this way about anyone. you’re sweet and smart and you make me feel like i can breathe even when everything else is stressful.” 

he hugs you for a long time. arms locked tight. 

and for the next week, he texts you things like “i love you more than my right foot” or “if i had to pick between you and soccer… i’d pick you, no hesitation.” 

okay, maybe a little hesitation. but he swears you win. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[ready-to-read7]

Ancient of Space

Based off of this prompt from @theglamorousferal

After Amity Park was transported into space, new rules and divisions were established. Thanks to Danny, the area slowly began to expand, incorporating nearby asteroids and lost pieces of debris that could be drawn in and added to the field. Due to the change in environment—and the exposure to external energy and ectoplasm—the residents of Amity Park began to change. As they became more and more liminal, their ears started to become pointed, and their eyes began to glow.

Not to mention, thanks to frequent interactions with ghosts, most (if not all) of Amity Park now speaks the language of the dead. Lifespans also dramatically increased—what used to be 80 to 90 years now stretches to 200 to 250. And when someone passes away, they automatically become a ghost.

Most of the adults have already turned into ghosts—though not all. Some didn’t become liminal enough, or didn’t live long enough for the transformation to take place. All the students from Casper High are now adults in their early hundreds. They know lifespans have increased because Danny asked Clockwork directly, concerned about the effects that much ectoplasm might have on the human body.

Danny has fully embraced his title as the Ghost King. He even technically made Amity Park part of the Infinite Realms. A large portal now allows travel back and forth, and ghosts frequently pass through to fulfill their obsessions or interact with the living members of their kingdom. Likewise, Amity Park residents often venture into the Realms for various reasons. It’s safe for them, thanks to an inner residential zone Danny set up—an area not meant for living, but stable and protected enough to travel through and interact with the Realms.

Back on Earth, Amity Park has become a legend. All evidence of its existence disappeared along with Danny and the town.

But that’s not the focus right now.

The Young Justice team—Wonder Girl, Impulse, Superboy, and Red Robin—was aboard a spaceship returning from a mission when they detected an unusual energy signature coming from a previously unexplored section of space. No one knew why it was uncharted; as far as they knew, the Lanterns had already mapped every accessible region.

As they approached, they expected to find maybe a destroyed planet, a dead star, or some other anomaly. What they didn’t expect was a massive floating landmass, torn straight from the ground and left suspended in space, surrounded by meteors linked to it via domes.

Suddenly, a young woman approached the ship. She had flowing white hair, Lazarus-green eyes, and pale skin. Most striking of all, she floated through the vacuum of space without a suit—breathing seemed optional.

She hovered in front of the ship's window and blew a cold breath on it, fogging the glass. Then she wrote a message asking if she could come aboard. After a brief discussion, the team decided that the best way to get answers about this strange place was to speak to one of its residents. They nodded in agreement.

Without warning, the girl density-shifted through the glass and gently floated to the ground in front of them. She greeted them in a language they couldn’t understand. Realizing this, she paused, thought for a moment, then switched to English.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Elly. Welcome to Amity. So… what brings you here?”

Impulse, true to his nature, zipped around excitedly before stopping in front of her. “Hello, Elly! It’s great to meet you. I’m Impulse—this is Red Robin, that’s Wonder Girl, and over there is Superboy. We were flying back home and noticed this unexplored zone on our map. We got curious and came to check out the weird energy signal.”

Elly chuckled at Impulse’s boundless energy. She then offered to escort them to the main area of Amity. At first, the team hesitated, but Red Robin accepted the offer, recognizing it as an opportunity to gather valuable information.

They landed in the central district of Amity and exited the ship with caution. The first thing they noticed was the people: not too different from humans—at least, not most of them. But their glowing eyes and pointed ears gave away their altered nature.

Elly offered to give them a tour and answer any questions they had. The group accepted, unaware that the moment they entered Amity’s vicinity, all tracking and monitoring systems were disabled.

To the Justice League, it looked like all four of them had simply vanished.

(I would've made this longer but I lost motivation so I decided to finish it)